The Unforgettable Alexandra Shaw

The Unforgettable Alexandra Shaw Copyright © 2023 by 25TUD10 Press All rights reserved. This book or any portion may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, with the exception of the use of brief quotations in book reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Edited by Feral Girl BooksCopy Edited by EJL Editing Cover Design by Qamber Designs & Media Paperback ISBN # 978-1-7386857-1-4eBook ISBN # 978-1-7386857-0-7 Content Warning: Light suicidal ideation, emotional manipulation of a teen, mental health/trauma, off-page accidental death of an animal (not pet), underage drinking/drugs, mature language www.alloydspanton.ca First Edition, 2023 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 The Forgotten Academy Duology The Unforgettable Alexandra Shaw The Forgotten Academy (Fall, 2023) Contents ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN FOURTEEN FIFTEEN SIXTEEN SEVENTEEN EIGHTEEN NINETEEN TWENTY TWENTY-ONE TWENTY-TWO TWENTY-THREE TWENTY-FOUR TWENTY-FIVE TWENTY-SIX TWENTY-SEVEN TWENTY-EIGHT TWENTY-NINE THIRTY THIRTY-ONE THIRTY-TWO THIRTY-THREE Authors Note Acknowledgements About the Author For Mom and Dad, who inspire many things in my life except the parents in this book. ONE THE IDEA THAT I have no control over who I am makes me want to puke. No, it makes me want to punch her first, for making us sit through this insufferable speech. Then I’ll puke. The way she’s standing at the front of our class with her perfectly coiffed hair. Uniform pressed just right. Skirt exactly one inch below her knees. It makes my skin itch. She’s the walking poster child for Pine Cliff Academy. She’s perfection personified. I gag. “In conclusion, scientists believe that both nature and nurture affect a person’s character. That nurture expounds on what nature endows. Who we are, our personalities and individual identities, not to mention our future, are an accumulation of other people’s influences and genetics and not, as many would like to believe, our own choice. Thank you.” The classroom erupts into applause as the tiny know-it-all frame of Kimberly Marshall steps out from behind the podium. All our eyes are on her and she’s basking in the attention, something she clearly doesn’t get much of outside the classroom. She’s bursting with words and opinions she can’t wait to share with anyone who will listen. Usually no one does, but today we have no choice but to listen. Held captive at our desks until the bell rings as student after student wax poetically about some preordained topic. A topic that our English teacher, Ms. Walker, assigned, proving Kimberly’s point that we don’t have any choice in anything whatsoever. When the applause dies down, Kimberly returns to her seat in front of me. Her perky ponytail swings in my face and my stomach drops. My palms are slick with sweat. Any minute now, Ms. Walker will call my name, expecting me to take my place behind that podium with my rebuttal. An argument that we do have some sense of control over our fates, our identities, our personalities. I believe this, I have to believe this. But it’s hard enough to prove on the best of days. Even more so in front of a class of reform school kids who all wear the same iron-crisp uniforms, have the same haircuts, and listen to the same terrible music. “Alexandra? Care to share your response on the Nature vs Nurture debate?” Ms. Walker’s voice sounds distant, as if she’s speaking to me from another plane, because I’ve left my body on the floor in a puddle of social anxiety. Slipped right out of myself, my world tipping one way, then the other. I stand on wobbly legs, rub my palms on my tights. I force one foot in front of the other as I drag myself to the front of the class. Everything is muted, a sea of distorted faces, one blurring into the next. They are my peers, but I am still getting to know these faces. I’m still the new kid, thrown into the awkward hierarchy of a new school six months ago. They are my peers, but they aren’t exactly my friends. I take a deep breath to try to push my body’s natural responses away and nurture a calmer and collected presence. My argument, after all, is that we are in control of our own fate. Something I’ll have already failed to prove if I can’t even control my anxiety enough to get the words to leave my mouth. “I, uh... Hi,” I stammer, sweat starting to pool under my arms. My face flushes from the eyes pointed in my direction. “I’m Alexandra, and today I will be speaking to you about, uh, how humans have the capacity to defy both nature and nurture to write their own future?” The words are out, but I’ve lingered on the last one, my voice raised, turning my stance into a question. Mom would say I sound like there’s nothing but empty space between my ears. Which are as hot as a stove burner, and likely just as red. I glance desperately at Ms. Walker for help. She oozes cool; a short black bob, thick framed glasses that match the matte of the nose ring she wears with rebellious pride. She can’t be much older than us. She has to know that she’s putting us through hell, making us stand up here and defend our existence in the hierarchy of high school. Especially in a high school that’s more of a reform school, full of troubled students who will do anything to rebel against the structure forced upon them. Because that’s what it all boils down to, doesn’t it? It’s not nature vs nurture; it’s survival of the fittest. Those at the top always reign, while the rest of the outcasts are left to flail in their wake. Somehow, I managed to find my way to the top. I don’t belong there, but