"Get outta the way, shrimp."

Helene was shoved to the ground, books spilling out of her arms, and she grumbled, kneeling down and picking them up. She felt her head get shoved down, straight into the corner of her book, her forehead cut open.

"Fuck!" She looked up, furious—of course. It was fucking Rick, smirking at her like he owned her. Not today. She pushed the books aside and stood slowly, never breaking eye contact.

"What do you want, Bryson?" Her hands curled into loose fists, but she didn't raise them, waiting for him to make the first move.

"You back on your knees, Shepard." He ground his hips lewdly in her direction, throwing his head back and laughing, screaming in pain when her foot slammed into his groin. He crumpled, clutching his balls—then screamed again as her foot swung across his face, everyone stopping in the school halls as they heard the crack—she'd broken his jaw. She picked up her books and walked off, allowing him to lie there, bleeding and in pain. She'd deal with the trouble later.

For a twelve year old, she sure got in a lot of trouble.

Miranda swung her feet as her nanny brushed her hair back, getting her ready for bed. She was dressed in a pink nightgown (her favourite colour,) smiling up at Miss Ginger, who tied her hair back with a pink ribbon.

"Go say good night to your father, love," she murmured, gesturing to the door.

"Yes ma'am," the little girl said prettily, sliding off the seat and grabbing her stuffed kitten (Duchess, she had named her,) and walked down the long hall to her father's study—the door was closed, so she knocked politely and awaited the order to enter.

"Come in, Miranda." Henry Lawson's voice was sharp and cold, instead of warm and inviting as it had been previously. Miri felt a chill go down her spin as she entered, noticing how her father's chair faced away from the door, instead of towards it; he had seen her report card. No wonder he hadn't been down to dinner.

"Come here." The little girl fearfully ventured forth, sticking a lock of hair in her mouth to chew on, a nervous habit she'd developed. He turned in his chair and gave her a look of disgust. "Take your hair out of your mouth, that's a despicable habit to have."

She spit it out immediately, looking miserable. "I'm sorry, Father," she said softly.

"What is this?" He tossed the report card on the desk, and she timidly approached, picking up the slip.

"It is my report card, Father." Her stomach clenched and unclenched.

"And what, Miranda, is the grade next to mathematics?"

Miranda's jaw worked, trying to keep in the number.

"Miranda. I asked you a question. What is the grade?"

"…A ninety-five, sir…"

He stood, walking over to the fire crackling in the fireplace. It was a chilly night, and the room was warm, but there was a frost in this room that encased Miranda, and she shivered, clutching Duchess to her tightly, wanting to disappear into the floor.

"A ninety-five. Good, /but not good enough./ I expect nothing but perfection from you, Miranda, and this is less than perfection." He turned and leveled a frigid glare at her. "You are a disappointment." He waved his hand at her and turned back to the fire. She was dismissed.

Miranda stood, rooted to the floor, tears filling her big blue eyes. She dragged her feet as she walked out, whispering, "Good night, Father," as she closed the door, the tears spilling out as she fled to her room, tripping over the hem of her gown a few times. She threw herself onto her bed, sobbing her little heart. She was a disappointment. She had made a mistake.

She was a mistake.