Arlo Sarsons - Wrath of Amaterasu

2) The enchilada duel

St. Clare's Institution for Poorly Behaved Teens was way bigger than I expected. When I say big, I mean the kind of big where you feel like an ant staring up at a skyscraper. As I stepped off the bus—still reeking of that mysterious rotten-tomato scent—I got my first real look at the place.

It was shaped like two giant L's mashed together, towering at least five stories high. There was a gate out front, all fancy and royal-looking, like something straight out of a medieval movie. At the top of the gate was an emblem—an eagle with wings spread wide, trimmed in gold. I swear, it was practically daring me to walk in, like it knew I was the kind of person who could never resist a challenge.

Walking through the iron railings, I spotted a huge fountain in the courtyard. Water shot up in perfect arcs, creating a hollowed-out center that seemed to whisper, secrets in here. Pennies and pound coins glinted at the bottom, like mini treasure hoards. Behind me, I heard some of the other kids whispering.

"How much you reckon's in there?"

"Only one way to find out..."

Thankfully, before anyone got any stupid ideas (and trust me, they would), a man appeared in the massive doorway of the school. He looked like he was trying to pose as someone barely older than twenty, with sandy blonde hair and a grin so wide it was borderline creepy.

"Hello, my new students!" he chirped, like this was some kind of field trip to Disneyland. "Welcome to St. Clare's!"

A couple of kids snickered at his enthusiasm, but he just powered through.

"Now, I know what you're all thinking," he continued, "Why such a warm welcome for a bunch of troublemakers?"

"Because it's what you're paid to do!" someone shouted from the back.

The man—Mr. Flockard, judging by his nametag—chuckled. "Not wrong, but no. Here at St. Clare's, we don't believe in 'troubled' kids. We think you're kids the system has failed, and we're here to give you a safe space to grow into the fine young adults we know you can be."

Cue more snickering.

"What a load of preppy bullcrap," someone muttered.

Mr. Flockard scratched the back of his neck, clearly picking up on the less-than-enthused vibe. "Right, well, if you'll follow me, I'll show you to your dorms. You'll find your class schedules there, and classes start tomorrow. If you need anything, don't hesitate to come see me—my office is on the second floor, left-hand side."

With that, he turned and pushed open the enormous double doors, leading us inside. And when I say "enormous," I mean enormous. I half expected to find a dragon lounging on the other side.

My new room wasn't exactly what you'd call cozy. The walls were this dull gray color, and the bunk bed in the corner looked like it had seen better days. To top it off, I had a roommate. Awesome. And as luck would have it, he hadn't even shown up yet—he'd missed the morning bus and was arriving late. Great start.

I flopped onto the lower bunk, staring at the cracked ceiling. A desk sat awkwardly shoved into the corner, and the only window in the room overlooked a pristine sports field that confirmed what I had already suspected—this school catered to rich kids. Which, of course, begged the question: how on earth did my mom, who works at a nursery for minimum wage, afford to send me here? That thought stuck in my brain like gum on the bottom of a shoe until, finally, I heard the door creak open.

Sitting up, I got my first look at my new roomie.

"Uh, hi, I'm Jayce," he said, looking a little out of breath, as if he'd sprinted here. He had choppy, bright blonde hair that stuck out in random directions, like a bird had made a nest on his head. His eyes were shockingly blue, the kind of blue that made you wonder if you'd see waves crashing if you stared long enough. He was small and a bit scrawny. Perfect bully material.