A/N:
Well... So this is a new story of mine. It's a Mediator-well, not exactly Mediator, I guess, because it does include other characters from Meg's books- parody, and would involve quite a few real life characters in the plot. Umm... I wouldn't include a summary here, because it's a little confusing to explain. But anyway, just bear with me and read; and also, if you have the time, gimme comments on how to improve it! Yeah, well...
Thanks to James (Boothy), Adel, Jess, Cassy, Lauren, Stella (Starry), Sarah, Alex (Claves) and Hayley for letting me use your names! You darlings will come in the second chappie, I promise.
And Adel, thanks again for being me beta! -snoggles-
And well, that's it. Do review!
CABOT ACADEMY
Chapter 1
Suze ran a finger over her immaculately manicured nails as she lifted her gaze to the man who was standing in the middle of her pink, colonial-styled bedroom. She was wearing a ripped T-shirt that said C'mere Lover, and a black Calvin Klein miniskirt. Sighing in boredom, she leant back and crossed her legs. "What.
"Susannah, I-I" He sputtered in frustration and raked his hand over his tousled dark curls, some of it falling over his eyes. He was wearing black from head to toe; a silk black shirt coupled with leather pants. "Do you really not care about me!"
"What're you saying, Jesse?" She drawled as she lounged on her bed. "Your GAY. How am I gonna continue a real relationship with you."
"But Susannah--"
He said, wringing his hands together. "Querida, if you refuse to get back together with me, I will be ruined. RUINED. Your not so heartless, I think to fling me ot the dogs." She snorted.
"Your a doctor, Jesse. How can being GAY interfere with being a doctor? It's not the 1850s anymore people are really open nowadays."
"But I—"
"Jesse I have to be with a real man. Someone who doesn't dream of going out with a guy when hes going out with me. Someone like.. Paul."
"THAT BASTARDO? SUSANNAH HOW COULD YOU. HE'S A MURDERER." Jesse screamed at her—
Seventeen-year-old Evanne Remington paused in the midst of typing her new piece of Meg Cabot's Mediator fanon novel Not What He Is, which seemed to have become rather popular on FanFiction. Net, as it had garnered exactly three hundred and forty-eight reviews for eighteen chapters. Not a bad feat considering that she was a first timer. Granted, there were flames as well as reviews, but mostly the flames' numbers were insignificant compared to the amount of people who urge her to update...and update and update.
She grinned at the monitor; feeling supremely pleased with herself as she tapped her left hand's fingers against the keyboard, and pushed up her spectacles –which had slipped down— with the other. Hmm, should she let Suze take pity on Jesse and get back together with him? Or should she... make Suze cast him aside callously and pursue Paul?
Hmm... Decisions, decisions. Tap, tap, tap, went her fingers on the keyboard.
Tappity tap! Wait a minute. Her fingers stilled on the keyboard. That wasn't the rhythm of her fingers. Someone...something else was tapping!
Tap tap tappity tap TAP! A short scream burst out of her throat involuntarily as she jumped slightly in her chair. It's just a branch outside the window, is all, she consoled herself. Sure, it might have been three in the morning, and her room was dark save her glow of her monitor and her desk lamp, but... she shouldn't be so stupid as to be frightened by silly old branch, right?
Nevertheless, she grabbed her baseball bat and pull out her pepper spray from underneath a pile of dirty clothes lying on the floor before turning around warily...
...Only to shriek like a banshee at a ghostly lump of white sitting outside on the ledge of her window sill.
Which happened to be an owl, actually.
"Jesus," she breathed. "Jesus. Bloody Hell. You scared the stuffing out of me." Abandoning her bat and spray on her desk, she headed over to the window and opened it slightly. The owl flapped its wings slightly to maintain its balance as the window pushed it off it's already precarious perch.
"Um... Hi. What do you want, er... Mr. Owl?" Evanne said cautiously as it hopped dignifiedly –when, as dignified as an owl would look— onto her bedpost and hooted softly. It pecked her fingers gently as answer and held out its right claw. There was... There was a scroll tied to it.
Evanne blinked in confusion, and pulled the scroll off its feet while muttering "What is this, Harry Potter?" Rolling it open –which was no easy feat, as the scroll was secure shut with a long length of velvety twine and many dead knots, she stared in astonishment at the message on it.
Dear Ms. Remington,
We're pleased to announce that you have earned yourself a place at the Cabot Academy of Prose and Fiction. This is an institution set up for young, aspiring writers of The Great Authoress, Meg Cabot's fiction, and who, have been selected from all over the world to enroll into the prestigious liceum, where they would be taught to rein in their more creative impulses and produce realistic , as well as moving prose.
The faculty extends their congratulations and would also like to welcome you to an exciting, fulfilling and fruitful year with them. Term begins in six hours, and we await your letter of confirmation till no later than six hundred hours. Enclosed is also the schedule for your classes. An escort will also be arriving briefly to lead the way for you.
Sincerely,
Mr. Bloomington
The Assistant Headmaster of the Cabot Academy of Prose and Fiction
Postscript: No, we are not emulating Rowling's Harry Potter. Please. The Cabot Academy has been established since January 1998, whilst the Potter books only came out during the year of 1999. This has been our custom ever since the opening of the school.
"Okay..." Evanne murmured in confusion as she looked up from the cryptic letter to the hooting owl. What was she supposed to do? Was this a joke? She had never heard of the Cabot Academy of Prose and Fiction before. Should she write an acceptance letter and send it back on the owl, like what she read in Harry Potter? Or dismiss it as a stupid prank –which was the more likely of the two choices.
Yeah, that's it. Some stupid prankster must be getting his kicks somewhere over how Evanne was puzzling over his ludicrous idea of a joke. Like hell she was going to believe this. Ambling across her room, she started to crumple the piece of paper –vellum, actually, with a coat-of-arms that had to be the school crest set as a watermark in the paper— when a voice resonated behind her.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Another shriek, slightly loud than the one Evanne had uttered when the owl tapped on her window, burst forth from her lips. She grabbed her baseball bat and swung around, but there was...nothing. Her eyes darted to all corners of her room, but again, there wasn't anything at all. Nor anyone. Was she hallucinating? Damn, she should have ignored the itch to continue her piece of fanfic and gone to bed. She must be sleep-deprived, which was no wonder, seeing how the hour hand on her clock was inching to four. Shaking her head, she moved to put the bat onto her desk when—
"Yeah, I agree. Anyway, sleep deprivation not only cause hallucination, y'know. You'll have huge eye bags and quite a few zits in the morning, I bet." The disembodied voice commented rather cheerfully, considering the circumstances.
Evanne tightened her grip on her bat until her fingertips were white from the pressure and asked the room in general shakily, "W-Who's there?"
"God, you're actually scared of me. Me." Now The Voice was amused. It was a masculine voice; deep, smooth and well... a little sexy, to be honest. Evanne just wished that it had a body. "No one, girls in particular, has ever been scared of me, y'know," The Voice continued, the amusement that was evident in it a moment ago vanishing and taking on a bitter edge instead. "No one except her, that is. She thinks I'm a fricking psychopath."
"I-I really well, um, enjoyed this er—conversation, b-but do you think, erm, whoever o-or whatever you are... D-do you think you c-come come o-out now?" Evanne stammered as she spun first this way and that way, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever that was talking to her.
"Come out? Oh, yeah, I nearly forgot." The Voice murmured absently. Sinking down onto her bed, she placed the baseball bat across her lap and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
"H-Hello?" Evanne said uncertainly when what that felt like an hour had passed. There was no sign of the owner of The Voice. Was she... Had she hallucinate about that, too?
"Nah, you didn't hallucinate about me. I just—Hold on for a minute."
Evanne jumped slightly, but managed to suppressed her shriek of terror this time. Strange, The Voice sounded...strained. "Um... where are you? I—Arggggh!"
A something was trying to escape from her computer. It was pulsing and pushing and—and—
"Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God," Evanne chanted half-hysterically as she shrank further back onto her bed. What was that? She didn't want to look, she didn't need to—
She looked.
It was well...disgusting, for want of a better work. Her poor laptop was bulging all over as though something was locked inside and was trying its very best to break free; and there was the shape of that— thing and it appeared to be— Oh, she didn't know how to describe it; it was just... It look as though that— that thing was a baby, and her poor, innocent laptop was its water bag and— The whole situation reminded her of the movie The Ring.
Suddenly, that thing broke free and crawled out of her laptop a la Samara or Sadako, depending on it being the American or Japanese version that you watched. And as it landed with a thud on the tiled floor– seeing how the distance from her laptop to the floor was rather great; courtesy of her desk— she saw that it wasn't a thing at all.
The glow from her computer and her desktop light showed it to be a him, actually. And the him was actually a rather attractive young bloke with brown, curly hair, and eyes of an indeterminate light—It wasn't that bright until she could see his eye colour—and looked to be about her age.
And he was currently lying on the floor, clutching his ribs and screwing his face up in pain.
"Um. Er, whoever you are, a-are you okay?" Evanne said, kneeling on her bed and peering over the side to get a better look at him. A groan was heard, then a grunt, and he was...still.
"Hello?" Evanne asked warily as she inched forward until her knees were the only part of her that remained on her bed, and the rest of her was bent over well, whoever he was. She tapped him gently on the shoulder and emitted another "Hello?"
No response.
She poked him in the ribs.
"Yeargh!" The bloke sat up faster than you could have said "Playing Dead" and glared at her. "Could you not" he grumbled, both hands gripping his ribs, and looking a little worse for wear after his tumble from her erm, computer, "be just a little bit more gentle? God."
"I'm sorry for that, but well... I had to ascertain that you weren't dead. It was because well, you were so still and... " She trailed off as something clicked into place in her mind. "Bloody hell, you're The Voice! I was so certain that you were just a, well... apparition."
He shot her an amused look. "Is it just you, or do all British people sound like they'd swallowed a dictionary? But anyway, could ya stop that? I prefer to talk to a person than a book." He got up gingerly, placing a hand onto his ribs and stretching the other out for her to shake. "Anyway, I'm Paul. The escort that's mentioned in your letter."
"Paul?" She said absently as she reached over to switch on the lights in her room. It was then that she got a good look at her unexpected "visitor", if one could call him that. Evanne was half-certain that she was dreaming. "Jesus, you're Paul!"
"I thought I'd just introduced myself as that," he said wryly.
"No, I mean... You're Paul. Paul Slater." She stared at him curiously, with her jaw slack and open. He... well, he look like what she would have imagined him. Brown, curly hair; light, light blue eyes; a roguish grin; rather tanned and dressed in khakis and a black polo T-shirt. "Hell. I'm dreaming. I really am. There is absolutely no bleeding way that this is true. No sirree. Yeah, that's it. I'm going to wake up tomorrow"
He reached over and pinched her on the arm with the hand that was extended to hers for a handshake a moment ago.
"Effing shit! That hurt!" She half-yelped, half-whispered as she remembered that her sleeping parents were somewhere in their house, and that she needed to keep her voice down, lest they come popping by to investigate. Her mother would not be pleased to discover that she had a strange man—or boy?—in her room. But strange, she didn't feel as frightened as she did a minute ago, when he was trying to worm his way literally out of her computer. Rubbing her arm in an attempt to assuage the pain, she glared at him and demanded, "What the hell was that for?"
"You said that you were under the impression that you were dreaming. Thought I'd help ya out with that," He said, trying and failing to hide his grin. "But anyway," he continued, his features wiped clean of any mirth and looking rather serious, "I'm here as an escort to guide you to the Academy. Are you—"
Evanne interrupted him. "Do you mean to say that it's true?" She said in a fascinated manner, staring at him as though he was a new, previously undiscovered animal in a cage at the London Zoo. "That the letter is real? There is a Cabot Academy? Really? Truly? And...and... Bloody Hell. That means... all of you—You're real!"
Paul rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Why else would I be here if I'm not real? C'mon." He reached down and pulled her off the bed with one tug. "You need to pack. Have you packed?"
Evanne sank back onto the bed again, staring at Paul in a mixture of rapture and suspicion. "B-But it's inconceivable! Whoever has heard of fictional characters, for God's Sake, coming alive? And teaching at a school too? Hell. Hell. I don't believe it." She shook her head again, as though the act alone would send Paul back to the pages of the Mediator series.
Paul heaved an impatient sigh as he pulled Evanne up again and shove her none-too-gently in the direction of her walk-in wardrobe. "Could you start packing now? Term starts in about four hours, and I'm sure you don't want to be late for the first day."
"Pack? Why pack?" Evanne blinked at him in confusion. "And pack what?"
Paul sighed again, and said in a world-weary tone, "Because you're going to stay at the C.A. for at least a year. Don't you think you need clothes?"
"But... what about uniforms?" Evanne asked while lugging her huge duffel bag out of the bottom of her wardrobe. "Uniforms aren't necessary," Paul began long-sufferingly as he leant against the wall and stuff his hands in his pockets. "Because Cabot Academy is an American school. We aren't as weird in the head as you people on the other side of the pond. We actually allow our students some freedom, y'know."
"Oh." Evanne processed the information, nodded, and finally started throwing clothing and other essential items into her duffel bag. Paul watched her for a moment with an amused look on his face and flicked his gaze about the room in bored interest. He could see from the corner of his eyes that she was throwing glances at him just every other second, and after a few moments of that, he finally gave in to his curiosity and asked, "What?"
She jumped a foot into the air.
"Jeez. Wouldja stop being so jumpy?" Paul arched an eyebrow at her in merriment. "What is it?"
"I just... I just can't believe that you're real. And if you're real, it means that Suze, Jesse, Father D, Helen, Andy, Kelly... they're all real too. It's just so...well, surreal. I mean, I'm not sure whether to accept this fact or to run to the phone to book me a room in the nearest mental institute. It's well... If you tell me that I'll be conversing with one of my favourite book characters one day, I'll probably tell you that you've gone mental. But I don't know; now it's really happening, and I find that the idea isn't really that barmy anymore. I'm kind of scared by the fact that I'm so quick to accept it as reality." Evanne rubbed the back of her neck with one hand as she continued to stuff her clothes into her bag with the other.
He was silent for a while, and then: "Well... I don't know what to say. You'll get used to it as time goes on, I guess. Anyway, are you all set?" She stuffed her comb and spectacles case into the side of the duffel bag, made sure her laptop was secure before zipping it and hoisting it over her shoulder. "Yeah, I'm finished. But wait!"
He pushed away from the wall and cocked his head. "What is it?"
"My parents. Should I leave them a note?" Evanne asked, her brow furrowing with anxiety. Paul directed his famous smirk towards her and answered, "There's no need for that. During the time when you're enrolled in the Academy, your existence here is forgotten temporarily, and her parents go on for the duration of your stay with no memories of you. When it's time for you to return, false memories are planted in their head, so that they would never realise you were gone." Catching the look of amazed incredulity on her face, Paul added, "It's just a bit of us shifters' powers."
"You mean... They'll just—just forget that there's a me? I won't be remembered? But it's temporary?" Evanne blinked in bewilderment as she tried to process that piece of incredible information in her disbelieving brain. Paul inclined his nod and arched his eyebrow, asking with a tinge of impatience, "Well? Are you ready to go?"
At her uncertain nod, he rolled his eyes and grinned as he grabbed her hand tight and closed his eyes. Seconds later, they dematerialised together with a shower of little multicoloured light sparkles and Evanne's terrified scream. The owl took off from the window sill with a powerful flap of his wings at the high-pitched sound.
Leaving an empty space in the midst of a clean and impersonal-looking bedroom, with the sheets on the bed made behind.
A/N: Wotcher think of it? Review and tell me!