Lunette by Jacopo Fabbri

Luna perched regally on a plastic chair along the wide deck of the school, looking over the schoolyard. She saw her subjects picking their noses and throwing stones onto the hopscotch grid etched out in chalk. She heard a kindergartener wailing and a teacher scolding two rebellious teenagers.

She heard . . . a pattering of feet and a tinkling of giggles behind her.

Luna turned around to a pair of girls. There were only six of them, but they radiated a familiar air of superiority. Luna shrank back in her chair. All feelings of royalty had evaporated.

“That’s a . . . lovely dress, Luna,” the pack leader, Tory (or as I liked to call her ‘The Torivor’, which I personally found quite clever) said. She applied another layer of lip gloss and fixed her luscious chestnut locks. Luna grimaced as her cheeks flushed crimson. The words were obviously not meant as a compliment towards her dress. It had pea green checkers and the most awful shade of maroon; she had only worn it because her sweet, loving, colour-blind grandmother had spent months sewing it for her.

“Say, Leah,” Tory continued, “do you remember the new word we learned in French this morning?”

A stalky ginger-headed girl from the back stepped up. “Why yes, Tory, I do. Lunette. It means glasses. How fitting for four-eyes here.”

Just then, a scrawny boy with a black polo and ginger hair that stuck in all directions popped out of nowhere and stood right in front of Leah. “Pot calling the kettle black, Ophelia.” Leah turned a shade curiously similar to the colour of Luna’s dress.

“Shut your cakehole, Ham!” Leah said to her younger brother. Tinkling laughter arose from the pack of girls. Leah was glowering in silent fury when the bell rang. Tory flipped her hair.

“Later, Lunatic,” she said as she led the pack of girls into the school. The boy and Luna were left alone. The boy stuck out a hand fervently.

“Hamlet Winchester.” Luna smiled a bit. She shook his hand.

“Lunette Woodson.” And with that, the two kids walked into the school.