Nightingale (2012)
Genre: Mystery, Epic Tragedy, AU
Rating: pg-13 for bullies and cursing
Word Count: ~5, 300+
Summary: Bomi Evans, (A.K.A. ‘Bea’), is a troublemaker in high school. Or so they call her. 

A/N: Hugs to those who spot the Harry Potter references. God, best ten years of my life. Refs to fairytales, films, songs,. . .I like mixing in a lot of culture. Cameo spots belong to Miss A, Girls Day, and A Pink. (Leave me more idols in comments!)

Chapter I

Thud.

“Oomph.”

A girl. She landed on the pavement after having jumped from the creative escape route growing next to the building. The robust oak tree still had enough multi-coloured leaves to camouflage her maroon blazer and navy skirt; the uniform of her current high school is drastically traditional with a skirt almost long enough to cover her knees--it could be sold as a dress during the summer. She reached up to snap the branch that held her schoolbag, swinging it over her shoulder appropriately and winced.

“Ow.” A splinter in her left thumb. She hadn’t noticed it in the midst of escaping from the authorities. It stuck out a tiny bit, she raised the digit to and concentrated on the miniscule piece of raised skin till it tore, spitting out the layer of flesh. It’ll heal over itself in a couple of hours, that’s what cells do.

She analysed the small pink slit. At least no blood came out, like the result of a paper cut--how those flimsy sheets manage to cut skin so deep no one will ever know bother to Google. She shivered at the thought of slicing her thumb and tucked her hands in her blazer pockets. It’s going to be a long day.

The dolphin-like squeal of sirens and heavy footsteps still rung in her ears, she took a deep breath of the crisp Autumn air and walked on auto-pilot, letting her mind wander to earlier events. This was the closest she’s ever come to actually being caught on scene; it’s a reality check to backtrack on what went wrong.

Let’s see…she went back in time to Physical Education the month before, back where the authorities first began to suspect her.

The school she attends is neither big nor small, somewhere in the middle that causes extracurricular classes to often be merged with lower and upper classmen; correction, women. The entire student body consists of females--and maybe closet transgenders or really convincing crossdressers--which means popularity and PMS are a mix.

It’s during P.E. that for some uncanny reason--in the past couple of weeks--those ugly worn out dodgeballs have taken a fondness to soaring in her direction. She can dodge girl-throws well enough, it was the amount of rubber flying her way that pissed her off. She couldn’t possibly avoid all of them and expect to leave without being hit once.

She’s been hit a large number of times today and after a satisfying throw to one of the girls heads, the out-of-shape coach called ‘Gameover’. It was by chance when, being last in the locker-room, she overheard the culprits talk about their little game to target first-years during class. One of particular annoyance to them, her.

“We’ll get her next time.” A noob obviously tried to reassure their leader. “She shouldn’t have thrown that ball at you. That was wrong-”

“No , . Find out that in’ s name.” How many times can you curse in a sentence?

Another soldier spoke to cover up the noobs’ cowering. “I think it’s ‘Bom’ or somethin’. She’s the weird emo kid. A complete loner. Coach really likes her though; she’s like, the best athlete or somethin’.” Or something.

“I know who she is, tard.” Wow, everyone has their own insulting nicknames.

“But you just asked…whatever.”

“That has to learn to respect her superiors.”

‘Tsk, I hope you don’t mean yourself.’ She thought bitterly.

A locker door slammed shut, followed by flipflops flapping on the tiles; the trio was heading to the showers. Run, fools, while you still can. A quick idea formed in her head as she rounded the lockers and followed the towelled third years with her dark eyes. When their voices echoed in irritating gossip--about some university guy that the leader was seeing--and steam started to emerge, she opened the flap of her bag and snatched out an unmarked combination lock (though they are not allowed on campus, how else was she supposed to make sure no one else touched her stuff?).

The trio always used the same three lockers closest to the showers. She opened them, took out the contents of two, and stuffed everything in the first locker. Then locked it. She let the lock fall so it clattered loudly and secured the strap of her bag. The talking suddenly subsided and poked her head halfway inside the shower room.

“First of all,” she began loudly, catching all the girls’ surprised attention. “I’m not emotionally unstable nor a , so find a new insult.” ‘Cause I’m not the one getting screwed by an oppar e. “Second, yeah I’m a great athlete, be jealous. And lastly, the names’ Bea. Remember it.”

Now, Bea isn’t stupid. She knows well enough that giving them her self-made nickname could trail back to her real name--Bomi. And she knows better than to physically injure a jerkette with her own two hands or do anything rash in plain view, (instructors have eagle vision and all).

She is however, impulsive. At times dangerously impulsive.

The girls didn’t even have time for a riposte before she disappeared. Scurrying out of the locker room at a speed that’s never been matched, Bea ran down the hall to a very expedient metal door and hauled it open. Ignoring the ‘No Students Allowed Beyond This Point!’ sign, she surveyed the engineering room and headed for the boilers installed on the far right. The rumbling tanks and thick pipes are basically the heart of the entire building; the ‘no entry’ room controls electricity, air and water temperature, and conveniently has specifically labelled regulators just waiting to be tampered with.

Ah, lovely.Her palms itched and her stomach tickled with excitement as her fingers adjusted the valves to exclude hot water. Cold temperatures are all that the locker room has to offer in about six seconds. She tightened her grip on the bag strap and snatched a handy wrench that hung from the wall with other tools, and ran back down to the locker room, fitting the wrench horizontally between the two door handles.

She passed the remainder of the day in a delighted daze. Her P.E. class was the last one on the school’s schedule, which meant no one will be on the gymnasium side of campus for a while, in exception to a lazy janitor (who was probably napping or cleaning up someone’s vomit). She tried not to laugh when an instructor called out absent names.

They shouldn’t have provoked me. She deluded.

~o~

The next day at school was filled with rumours. Blabbermouths, she scrunched her nose when a group of girls spoke excitedly about an unknown heroine named ‘Bea’, antis badmouthed her for trapping the popular clique like rats.

As it turns out, the group had been locked-in for hours until the janitor heard their screams and let them out. Poor old man is probably scared for the rest of his life. girls, Ooh la la. Bea had to stifle a chortle into her hand. The three stuck-up’s complained about coming out with humiliation, congested stomachs and that their teeth have been chattered off. Ridiculous as that may sound, the school’s director took the prank seriously since the girls emitted themselves to a hospital and cried about hate from a fellow classmate, ‘Bea’. They over exaggerated, in her opinion, claiming that she was trying to kill them.

‘To kill or not to kill, that is the question’. Tch, Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Her literary instructor would be pleased. What she’d give to be in that class right at this moment, Bea sighed. Science is only interesting when it’s about evolution, infusing arithmetic and chemicals for the sake of ‘teaching’ is just tiresome.

She closed her eyes as the presentation on physic formulas changed to a new slide. Her other senses heightened, noise from the open windows reached her ears. Vehicles drove by, pencils scratched, and someone was about to pass by the classroom, whoever it was stopped in front of the door and knocked. The instructor paused in his Beuller speech (thank God) and went to answer; the entire class actually exhaled in relief. Tch. Mumbled words were exchanged and Bea didn’t care too much to eavesdrop till she heard--

“--talk to Evans.”

Her eyes opened narrowly into slits, the vehicles diving past the school are suddenly very interesting. Even more interesting then the arrogant tone of voice that the instructor used to call her out in front of the class. What is it with educators and sadistically putting a spotlight on students? It’s like they earn a salary or some type of contentment from it. Isn’t it enough that instructors can already speak all they want and students have to abide by their rules?

I should lock him in a tube. If that were possible, she would.

“Evans,” the professional aspect of his tone made her turn her head in his direction, complete attention depicted on her face. “Please gather your things and step out of the classroom.”

“OoOoh~ Bomi’s in trouble.” One big-boned classmate took the courtesy for arousing the ‘oohs and ahhs’ and ‘glad, it wasn’t me’ from the classroom. The same girl even questioned, “Whatcha do, Evans?”

Another--a friend--vouched for her by hitting the loud-mouth with the end of her pencil. “Shut it, ‘tard.”

Bea suppressed a smirk as she quickly dumped her notes and pen into her schoolbag and cat-walked--yes strutted, being the centre of attention called for it--under the instructors raised nose and out the classroom.

The steps she had heard moments ago were soft, she could have placed it to the old receptionist in the main office--the woman is the only thing keeping students and angry parents from barging into the director’s office--but even that balding man couldn’t convince that withering hag to leave her rolling seat and walk from the first floor to the classroom to retrieve a student. Then again, what was the point of having intercoms in every classroom if the office wasn’t going to use them?

The first thing Bea sees past the worn-out loafers and unoriginally quirky tie--which looks like it fell off the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. Yeah, that cliché--was none other than the director himself. He looked like a cross between confused and constipated. It was an amusing view until he started speaking.

“How are you today?” he’s the type to clear his throat obnoxiously and speak with his hands, it’s very distracting.

“I’m fine, sir.” She offered a calm smile--the kind you give to strangers on the bus when your eyes accidently meet.

“Good, good. Now, I called you out here because it has come to my attention that you were involved in a...” he actually paused to look for the right word; it’s more of an awkward pause like he practiced this spiel before coming. “...mishap with other students yesterday on school-grounds.”

And he paused again for emphasis or maybe to see her reaction. Bea simply blinked like she was puzzled. Tattletales. He continued looking slightly unconvinced.

“Is there something bothering you here at school? Bullying?”

“Bullies?” She let her jaw drop in awe, as if she was shocked. “No, sir. I think you’re mistaken. I’m not a bully victim and I don’t know what mishap you’re talking about. I was in all my classes yesterday.”

“Yes, yes, that’s good to hear. Why don’t we take a trip to my office? There are people who want to discuss recent events. Come along now.” He says indifferently. That could only mean that the three ‘bullies’ had already thrown the first punch. Those twerps are asking for it.

It’s not a choice whether to listen to the director or not. Bea held her school bag in front of her so it bounced off each knee when she walked. The dull thunks made her want to laugh when the director shot a not-so-sneaky side-eye in her direction halfway to the main office. When they finally did reach the first floor she gave a smile that was supposed to mean ‘I’m innocent & the director just wants to talk’ to the old receptionist, but the hag wasn’t even paying attention.

Her good gesture went to waste as it dropped tenfold into a scowl at the sight of three bothersome snobs sitting inside the office. The leader lowered her head to hide a smirk, tch. The posse huddled closer on the bench, instigating stares and a glare from her. The director over-looked their silent exchange and opened the door to his office. She’s fine with talking privately, it’s a chance to play victim about what goes on during P.E.; but she wasn’t expecting the trio to go this low.

Bea all but ran in the opposite direction when a familiar uniform came into her vision, and the three trolls behind her began to whisper noticeably.  Assumedly, it’s the officer that they hoped would lock her up. You gotta be ting me. These es...She bit her tongue t