A plump guy with red hair, one of those guys who looks 30 even though they’re 16, shuffles up to me as I exit.

“Q-quinn, right?” he stammers. He has spots all over his skin.
I smile a Mother Theresa smile, the picture of welcoming chillness.

“That’s me!”

My voice is a pleasing alto, meaning it’s not high, not low, but at a lovely meeting place of the two.
He glances nervously behind him, to where I spot Kyle, leaning against a wall, half-talking to a girl, but obviously checking me out.

“Kyle wanted me to give you this.”
He hands me a flyer. I can sense it has become somewhat moist from being in his clammy hands, but I receive it with grace.
I make a note to metamorph more often. I haven’t had this much fun in ages.

It’s a flyer for a party tonight.
It’s printed on pink paper, probably on a photocopier.

‘ANGELS AND DEMONS: SAM’S 18th.’ There are some really tacky images of underwear models wearing either devil’s horns or wings. As Saskia I’d never in a million years be invited to a ‘popular’ girl’s party. I don’t even think I know who Sam is.

“I don’t think I’ve met Sam.”

“She’s right over there,” he says, gesturing to a pretty girl at the bottom of the stairs, chatting to another girl.

They’re the kind of girl Saskia doesn’t hang out with:
Pretty girls who seem to drift through high-school life with little to no effort.
You know the type.
Plays hockey.
Has good grades, but not TOO good, because she doesn’t want to make her boyfriend feel insecure.
Has a group of besties with similar names and similar faces, pretend to love one another but are all totally stabbing each other in the back constantly.
I suddenly remember why I don’t like these people.
They think they are relevant and they’re not. They’re Instagram people: everything is for show, nothing has depth.

“I’d love to come,” I say demurely, turning three-quarter, shyly.
Quinn is so alluring! Driving her is like driving a Ferrari.

“You will?” The ginger bozo looks excited but also surprised.
He turns round to where is Kyle is standing further down the corridor.
Kyle smiles at me uncertainly.
I wink at him.
Done deal.

I think it’s so funny how Kyle asked a friend to give me the flyer. He couldn’t be more adolescent if he tried. God, boys are so teenagery, I’m just like LOOOOOL.

***

I take a smoke break in my usual spot.
It’s second break and I’m glad I’m alone.
I roll the tobacco into a Rizla and pop in the filter.
Quinn doesn’t smoke, but weirdly, my Saskia mind still craves nicotine, go figure.
Suddenly I feel a prickle on the back of my neck.

“I know who you are.”

I turn: I had been gazing over the field, mentally working out my plan.
Pearl.

A second of panic makes me pause:
Unfortunately, the good little witch has a quick little mind.

“Why have you done a metamorphosis?”
Her eyes meet mine.
I’ve been caught.
I hate getting caught.

“None of your business, sweetheart,” I say dismissively, throwing my cigarette butt to the tarmac and crushing it with a satisfying crunch.
I walk away.

“Stop.”
This is her voice, except its sounds as if it’s in my head.
I thought I had blocked all the Lightworkers against mind penetration.
How did Pearl find out?

I whip round.

“Leave me the f–k alone, Pearl,” I say, my voice like gravel.
She looks frightened, then composes herself.

“I know you’re up to something,” she says. “And whatever it is; I’m watching. We’re all watching.”

I look at her blankly.
I feel my face form a sneer.

“Enjoy the show,” I say darkly, savouring the acidity of my voice, her widening eyes as I turn and stride off.

Tell us: Out of all the Spellcaster, who is your favourite? Why?