‘The Hallows don’t go to Hell… they own it.’

  -Patriarch of the Lin Family

  Charter Academy

  Manhattan, NY

  “Jain Hallow, report to the Principal’s office.”

  When the PA system blared out my name for the entire school to hear, I was in the middle of eating my lunch. I carefully set the burger down on my tray, torn between taking another nauseating bite or just dumping the whole thing. It wasn’t a matter of taste, more a problem of locale.

  Welp, guess it’s time to introduce myself.

  My name is Jain Shin Hallow, and I eat lunch in the school bathroom.

  In the end, I decided to be a good boy and finish my food. I scarfed down the burger, washing it down with a mouthful of milk, and finished up by mopping up the grease with fries. I closed my eyes, trying my best to convince myself that this wasn’t a restroom where people frequented to do their business.

  The bathroom smelled like shit more than usual. Still, it was better than eating in the cafeteria. There were too many stares out there. Too many whispers that sounded like 'the poor kid’ or ‘the token scholarship student’, and one too many stifled laughter just loud enough for me to hear.

  Every single one of those Manhattan skyrise trust fund babies knew who I was: Charter Academy’s latest charity case. An alien invader wreaking havoc in their classrooms, taking the same classes, listening to the same lectures, yada yada yada; with much cheaper clothing and much much cheaper stationary.

  The PA went off again. “Jain Hallow, report to the Principal’s office.”

  “Crap.” No pun intended of course. I left the stall and looked in the mirror to see if I was presentable.

  Jesus, I definitely was not.

  My mirror-self had these gaunt sunken cheeks. Not the chiseled supermodel-kind, but the type that came from a combination of too much fast food with long periods of fasting in between. My pupils were NPC black at the best of days. Today, they were simply lifeless, the dark circles desperately hanging on. My skin? Pale and chapped, badly in need of moisturizer.

  Honestly, that’s not even the worst part. I have gray hair, which draws a lot of attention and definitely not the flattering kind. My mom used to call it ‘charcoal gray’, that it reminded her of ashes of a warm winter fire. I personally think it’s ‘elderly gray’. Or maybe ‘poverty gray’. But each to their own.

  The color wasn’t the only problem though. Living in New York, teachers come to expect all different sorts of colors. But every end hanging down in stringy bits, while the top part still managed to defy gravity and stick out at off ends? Some kids rocked that look, making it look fashionable. I just looked unwashed. Even the most lax teachers care about hygiene.

  In the end, I gave up on taming my hair, and went to work on my uniform instead. I wet my hands and attacked them, trying my best to smooth out wrinkles and hide yellowed collars and sleeves.

  “Jain Hallow, report to the Principal’s office.” The intercom repeated.

  “I’m going, I’m going.” I slung my pink backpack with the words ‘Girl Power!’ pasted with green glitter (don’t ask) over one shoulder and headed out to return my tray to the cafeteria.

  There’s few times in one’s life that being called to the Principal’s office is a good thing. In my case, it’s never a good thing. It’s just that this time, I was pretty sure I was on the downlow for the last few weeks.

  I stuck near the walls, hiding the lunch tray as humanly possible. At the same time, I tried to look casual about it, like I didn’t just have lunch in the bathroom. It’s one thing if everyone knows and is hush-hush about it. Another to make it open knowledge like I didn’t have the decency to try and hide it.

  The plan was simple. Put the lunch tray back and get to the principal’s office without incident. Simple enough, judging by the lack of general clamor in the cafeteria.

  Entering the cafeteria, I saw them and they saw me.

  Who are they? They’re usually good-looking, infuriatingly so. Even the ugly ones are good-looking, or good-looking in a ugly sort of way. Their social media profiles are dominated with bikini pics and quarter zips. Sports like tennis, football, and basketball are the norm.

  And none of them, and I do mean none of them, are never ever anything less than fashionable.

  You know the type. You know exactly what I’m talking about.

  And their favorite past-time activity? Flocking together like crows and pecking at the fringe members of the student body.

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  And guess who’s a fringe member? Me.

  They were all seated around the table, a couple of the more outgoing guys sitting on it instead. One of the guys pointed at me and said something that was no doubt clever for someone with only two brain cells. Of course, the others all laughed.

  Then to my dismay, Kevin Sloan jumped off the table, gathered all the trays and started walking towards me.

  I never stopped. Hell, I barely even glanced at them.

  “Yo, you mind putting these back?”

  Fucking hell. Really?

  I sped up. But I’m 5’9 and skinny. Kevin Sloane is six feet tall with blonde hair, blue eyes, and does tennis, golf, along with every other sports that blonde blue-eyed teenagers with wealthy parents do.

  “Come on man,” He caught up easily, blocking my way.

  “I don’t have time for this, Sloan.” I growled.

  “Yeah, well, I just wanted to say hi to a familiar face.”

  “Your mom showed you the video?” I shouldn’t have. But my mouth has a mind of its own sometimes.

  His eyes narrowed, and I regretted it immediately. Instead of responding, he took a step towards me, promptly dumping all the trays on top of mine.

  “Goddamit,” I juggled my tray, his stack of trays, as well as my bookbag which only had one strap. A few of the trays must have had milk in them, which sloshed over and dripped over my shoes.

  “Ah, that’s unfortunate.” He managed to make it sound genuine.

  Fucker.

  I glared at Kevin and he flashed a smile which belonged on the cover of a magazine in a dentist's office.

  “You done, Sloan?” I had to fight not to clench my teeth, “I have to get to Beckit’s office now.”

  He punched me on the shoulder, a little too hard to be good natured. More liquids spilled out from the trays, onto my shirt this time. Spaghetti and Milk.

  “Oh, you’re seeing Beckit? He’ll understand. He knows about your,” Kevin paused, no doubt trying to add a little dramatic flair, and stared pointedly at the stains, stopping at each one. He even did the once over, from toe to head, then squeezed every ounce of sympathy into the words, “Situation.”

  “Besides,” He lowered his voice, only so that I could hear, “This way, he won’t notice the toilet smell.”

  “That’s me?” I snapped back, “I thought it was your dad's cologne.”

  Kevin leaned over, pretending to sniff. “Nah, definitely you, Jain. Definitely you.”

  I didn’t want to make more of a scene. But I also didn’t want to just take it laying down either. I settled for, “Bite me, Sloan.”

  “I’d rather not.” He flashed a smile, turning around. “Break a leg, man.”

  I dumped all the trays and grabbed a few napkins on the way out. I heard someone say, ‘welfare rat’ and multiple tables exploded in laughter behind me. I left the cafeteria as quickly as I could, trying to dab at the stains.

  Jesus. Welfare rat. Never heard that one before.

  After seeing that, you might ask why I don’t just fight back. Well, let me tell you something.

  The world doesn’t work like that. In the 21st century NYC education system, the biggest divider isn’t race. It’s what clothes you wear, what your parents do, how many summer homes they have, and who you know. Especially in the heart of Manhattan, where status is power, and power is status.

  The more stink I caused, the more risk I was posing to myself. I was at Charter Academy on a government-based program which ‘opened doors for high-performing underprivileged youth’. Worst case scenario, I’d lose the scholarship and be forced to transfer. There was no other way I could afford the textbooks and the uniform.

  The thing was, everyone else knew it too.

  I was different. The hair color, being half-asian, half-white, coming from a single parent household with a tiny one-bedroom apartment in the poor part of Manhattan… The moment I stepped foot in the building, I stuck out like a NYC subway rat in a cage full of lab mice.

  Let me tell you something, uniforms don’t mean crap if some can afford to get theirs tailored while others can’t. Add on fashion trends like necktie pins, pocket squares, gold-threaded ties– you get the point. I had to be hammered in until I knew my place. Kevin Sloan and his friends made it their personal mission to do that.

  They never jumped me or anything. That’d be too simple. High schoolers are much smarter than that. Kids who grew up listening to their parents talk about stocks and politics at the dinner table? even more so.

  They exercise their power in petty ways that teachers can’t intervene. Like asking the teacher ‘Doesn’t something smell?’ with a pointed look my way, or snickering with inside jokes about my non-existent accent when I have to read out loud in class. They whisper demeaning remarks that were designed to chip away at my confidence, until I couldn’t take it anymore and retaliated.

  Except I never did.

  You see, Kevin’s mom was on the PTA, and his dad was a big-shot lawyer. Girls like Lucy Montgomery and Ashley Marin could destroy me with a single crocodile tear, bringing down the entire wrath of the school staff and holy PTA.

  It’s not like this was anything new. I’ve been the subject to the torment of cruel and petty children my entire life, even before Charter. Believe it or not, rich kids attend public schools too; especially in a city like Manhattan where the economic disparity was a stronger discrimination factor than skin color.

  That’s why I never did anything. I could be expelled.

  My dad had been ecstatic when I got accepted. I’d never seen my dad that excited about something before, not since mom disappeared. So I kept my mouth shut, put my head down, and survived for the last three years.

  Before I knew it, I stood in front of the principal’s office. I looked down at the stains, forcing down the annoyance that ballooned from within.

  Two more days and it’s Christmas break. Then New Years. Then five more months till graduation and you never have to deal with this ever again.

  Five months never seemed so long.

  Suppressing a sigh, I knocked on the Principal’s door.

  I'm wkrrk, which spells out 'Writer (??)' in Korean. Some of you guys know me better from my Slave Origin Playthrough series. For those of you guys returning... thank you.

  Regardless, I've spent months of articulated research, bringing together every little odd occult fact, fable, folklore, myth I've picked up over the years into a single piece.

  And what best way to introduce them as they are in an Urban Occult Fantasy?

  I hope you guys all enjoy this as much as I did writing it.

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  Enough talking from me.

  -wkrrk