The Boy Behind The Glass • Stydia

7. ground control

Lydia smiles. "Well, hello, Tracy. I see you like to read," she says, nodding to the books Tracy had been hugging when she was slouched over her desk. "I like reading too. History books, mostly. I like facts."

Tracy blinks, and then she smiles. "I like reading fantasy," she replies. "Like...vampires and werewolves and stuff."

"That sounds cool," Lydia comments. "What's your favourite book?"

"Either Twilight or Private Peaceful," Tracy replies.

"Private Peaceful...the war book?" Lydia questions, and Tracy nods. "Do you like history then?"

"Mostly in fiction," Tracy replies. "I'm not very good at remembering facts."

Lydia beams. "I love factual reading. My favourite historian is Florence Nightingale!"

"I gathered," Tracy replies. She motions to Lydia's stack of books on her desk. "I can see your Mosbey Dictionary."

Lydia smiles, and she doesn't know how long her and Tracy talk about books, but it's a long damn time. The end of the lesson appears before she realises and the class is packing up.

At lunch, Lydia and Heather stick together to brace the cafeteria. They're not stupid, and they know they need to find a bigger group to find a place to sit at the tables. The question was, which group?

Lydia found her pray the moment she entered the lunch hall. In the centre of the canteen was a large table, overflowing with older pupils. They must have been a year or two older, possibly in their last year. They were laughing, looking cool and popular in their small glowing bubble of superiority.

"Them," Lydia says, nodding towards the table.

Heather stiffens at her side. "Uh, Lydia...I don't think they are-"

"Let's go," Lydia cuts her off and is walking before Heather can stop her. She marches through the canteen, books hugged to her chest and chin high. Her long hair flew behind her in a long wave from the momentum of her strides.

As she approaches the table, none of them seem to notice her presence. She stands, suddenly feeling awkward but pushing down the compelling feeling. This was her only gate way into the schools hierarchy.

"Uh, hi!" She blurts, but the table doesn't silence. They continue to talk and laugh as if she wasn't there, as if she hadn't spoken. She frowns, trying again, "excuse me!"

The two words come out far louder than she intended, and it has the effect she wasn't necessarily wanting. The table plunges into a startled silence, every head turning towards her with glares and gazes of scrutiny.

Lydia audibly swallows.

"What do you want?" One girl asks. She's sitting in the core of the group, clearly the leader. She has long blonde hair, almost white. Her skin is smooth and pale, makeup subtle but effective. She has large blue eyes, glare as icy as the colour. She sits up in her chair like an interrogator.

"My name is Lydia," Lydia replies, trying to hide the nerves shaking her tone.

The girl scoffs. "So?"