Thomas Fell was a stern man, with thin lips permanently settled in a long firm line, his milk-bottle specs falling down his beak-like nose only for a long wrinkled finger to push them back up again. The thick black rimmed glasses magnified his beady eyes, but even that couldn't mask how abnormally small they were in comparison to the rest of his overly generous features. His widows peak was all the more noticeable with his receding hairline, combed back in a desperate attempt to hide his shiny bald patch nearing the crown of his head, wisps of straw-like grey hair growing in tufts, some of were which sprouting from his ears. This long, wiry man was the Principal of Mystic Fall's local elementary school, in fact, it was the only elementary in the entirety of the town, of which he ruled with an iron fist. The rules, Miss. Gilbert, are set in place for a reason, he would say in that monotonous drawl she hated with a passion, those beady eyes peering out at her from beneath those inch-thick lenses.

"Tinkerbell," He began, his eyes flicking to hers for just a moment, long enough for that tedious voice of his to become patronising.

"Jamie." She corrected stubbornly, and if looks could kill she had no doubts that she would have kicked the bucket at any given moment. Her Mom giving her a knowing look that spoke volumes to her. Behave, Jamie, it said, you're in enough trouble as it is. She knew that it was true, she really was in for it this time round, and by speaking out loud she had only made matters worse.

Tinkerbell Jamie Gilbert- A dumb name for a tongue-tied idiot, she thought bitterly. On many occasions she couldn't help but wonder as to what the hell her Mom had been thinking that day, Elena and Tinkerbell, a fairy for goodness sakes! It made her blood boil just thinking about the whole damn thing. And it was pointless anyway, because anyone with an ounce of common sense wouldn't dare to call her that to her face. Her name was Jamie Gilbert, a normal name for a normal kid. But it seemed as if Thomas Fell lived to make her life a living hell.

He cleared his throat, and for a moment she hoped that he would choke on whatever it is that had managed to lodge in his esophagus. To her chagrin he, in fact, wasn't suffering from a blockage in his air passage. Instead it almost seemed as if he were pleased with himself, as he sat there smugly in his shiny leather chair with an air of poorly misinformed self-grandiose and a condescending way about him.

"As I was saying-" That was his way of dismissing what she had just said, she knew, despite it being a perfectly valid point. "Your daughter was caught fighting again in the play yard, with a group of older boys might I add."

Thomas Fell was an old-fashioned man, he believed in traditional values and the such, which included the strict gender scripts that divided the sexes right down the middle. In his day and age such tom foolery would never have arised, because girls especially knew their place in society, and in his mind it should stay that way. Boys will be boys, it seems, but for a little girl to scrap around in the mud it was far from proper. And Thomas Fell ran his life with the utmost kosher, and by proxy, his school too. It just wouldn't do to have a little scoundrel such as herself run amok, under the illusion that she was a boy, or god forbid, equal to the male species in any way, shape or form.

In other words; he had a ruler stuck so far up his arse that he couldn't help but talk pure and utter shite. And that's all that came out of his mouth, Jamie mused, in fact, it was the only thing proper about him.

"This behaviour simply cannot carry on, Mrs. Gilbert, I won't allow it. Your daughter refuses to cooperate, and if she does not put a stop to her ways then I will have no other option than to force my hand."

She wanted to scream, to lash out and tell the stupid old fool exactly what she thought of him and this goddamn school, but then she saw just how tired her Mom looked at that moment.

There was a small frown etched on Miranda Gilbert's pretty face, a face that was beginning to age. She could have sworn that her Mom hadn't looked so worn down and weary this morning, that she didn't have laugh lines or crow's feet at her eyes. But she did, because Miranda Gilbert wasn't getting any younger, and despite how well she was aging she couldn't hide how drained she felt at that moment. The worry in her eyes betrayed the reassuring smile she had put on, and in that moment Jamie knew that her Mom didn't have a clue what to do with her anymore.

So Jamie sat in silence, listening patiently as the adults talked, because she had done enough damage for one day.

They walked in silence, her red chuck taylors beating against the pavement as she tried to keep up with her Mother's long strides. Every now and then Jamie would skip, leaping over the cracks in the cement. Step on a crack break your Mother's back. Neither of them had said a word since they left the office, and Jamie didn't know wether to be bashful or angry given the circumstances.

Because at this very moment Randall Harrison was stuck in hospital with a broken nose, and it was all her fault.

Randall Harrison was in the fourth grade, a tall, lanky boy whose body had yet to catch up with his growth. He reminded her of a bean stalk, or maybe a lima bean with his stringy arms and legs and watered down features. There was nothing remarkable about the boy, or particularly notable by any standards, everything about him was extremely plain, from his dull brown hair to his walmart-bought clothes, and completely forgettable in every given way. Everything but his increasingly violent temper tantrums, that is. Just last week he had lost a game of baseball to Tyler Lockwood, and apparently that was reason enough to give the kid a bloody nose and a shiner he'd have to carry around for weeks, despite the two year age gap.

So Miranda Gilbert had received a call requesting her presence in Principal Fell's office, on the grounds of her daughter breaking the school's strict terms in the 'code of conduct' with her 'boisterous behaviour', all because she had hit Randall Harrison in the face with a baseball bat. She could still feel the way the bat felt in her hands, the weight of it as she adjusted her grip, how it broke through the air as she took a swing, and the magnificent thump! that followed as it hit Randall square in the face. And she'd be lying if she said she hadn't been satisfied with her work, the sickening crunch that rang out as the bat came into contact with his face. So no, she wasn't sorry for it. If Jamie could, she'd go back, and this time she'd pick an aluminium bat.

Because Randall Harrison gave Tyler a bloody nose, so Jamie broke his.

She sat in the front seat, safely buckled up and waiting for the impending roar of the engine sparking to life. Only, her Mom never reached to put the keys in the ignition, instead she simply stared ahead with a distant look in her eyes that Jamie knew all too well. It wasn't that her Mom was staring at the brick wall the car faced, sitting in stationary with no signs of movement, but rather she wasn't looking at the wall at all. Lost in her own world, with a thoughtful frown on her face that indicated that whatever had her so immobilised was far from pleasant, Jamie knew that it was her who plagued those thoughts. Every other aspect of the Gilbert's family was nothing less than perfect, so it was none other than the unruly black sheep of the family that could possibly elicit such a reaction.

"Mom-" She tried, but it was a futile attempt as she struggled with her own words. With a sigh and only a slight pause, "I'm sorry."

It was the truth, Jamie was sorry. Just not for breaking Randall's nose. She was sorry for being so troublesome, never giving her Mother a moment's peace. Because God knows it couldn't be easy to have a child like Tinkerbell Jamie Gilbert, the local ragamuffin who threw all founder family prospects and ideals to the wind.

"I don't mean to be bad, honest." She said sadly, staring down at her hands as they clenched. Nails bit into clammy skin, and she could feel the sting of crescent-shaped marks as they punctured her palms, droplets of blood rising, sticky and warm.

"I know, Jamie… I know."

That night Jamie was perched on the stairs, staring off into nothing as her parents argued in the next room. Elena and Jeremy had went to bed hours ago, and they had assumed that sometime during those hours Jamie had retreated to her own room. They were wrong, and Jamie sat as still as stone as she had done since she got home, the hours passing by at an alarming pace as he soft tick tock of the clock seemingly went on forever. Voices were muffled by the walls, soaking in the sound of hushed voices and bitter words, and yet Jamie could hear it all crystal clear. Sometimes, when nights like these occurred, she wished that they would just shout at one another, forget all the pretenses and lies they told themselves and finally hash it all out. Because it was her fault that they were fighting, why bother denying it, and by pacifying their emotions, which was supposedly the 'adult' thing to do, they were really just pretending that everything was fine. And if it were such, then they wouldn't need these whispered conversations at the dead of night.

"She hit that boy in the face with a baseball bat- a baseball bat, Grayson!" She cried, and the sound of her heart wrenching sobs seemingly echoing through the barren hallway, where Jamie hung her head down low.

"I know, but maybe she had a reason-"

"A reason? She broke his nose! Our baby broke some poor boy's nose."

All was quiet at that moment, just a moment, and then she heard her Mother sigh.

"Why can't she be more like Elena?"

Jamie winced, as if she had been physically struck. They were twins, but they couldn't be more unalike, and by comparing them in such a way, placing Elena on a pedestal, they were only making the rift between the two girls widen. Tired, and feeling more alone than ever, Jamie finally went to bed, praying that tomorrow would come with the promise of something better. God knows she needed it.

There were three days left of school, of which Jamie was unable to attend due to suspension. Her Mom had gone to the trouble of banning her from all extracurricular activities and any other clubs she had partaken in for the last few months. No soccer, baseball, cross country, basketball, or anything remotely interesting. And worst of all, no Tyler Lockwood. So Jamie was sat on the doorstep, waiting patiently for summer vacation to come around so that she and Jeremy could play. For the last few hours she had been going over an array of medical books and journals, having already read over half of the contents of her father's library it was a considerably good find. Science was interesting, and she had already indulged in anatomy, astronomy (as a byproduct of astrology), the solar system and space in general, the earth and it's atmosphere, addiction, interdependence and adaption, genetic variation, electricity, inheritance and genetics, evolution, the origin of chemical elements and so much more.

She also had her battered copy of Perfume: the story of a murderer (Das Parfum), by Patrick Süskind- Of which she had used to learn what little German she knew. Years of use wore her beloved books down, the spine delightfully cracked with the telltale signs of a much loved novel, with her name, along with an array of annotations, neatly printed at the front. She had also brought out her sketchbook, and she enjoyed copying the copiously detailed diagrams of the human figure, writing a few notes on how it worked- because that was a fundamental piece as to how one replicates the human figure accurately in their artwork. Leonardo Da Vinci was a superb example, in the prime of the Renaissance period, undoubtedly Jamie's favourite period for rich artwork and even books. In fact, she owned a book on the work of Vesalius, De humani corporis fabrica, better known as On the Fabric of the Human Body. Andreas Vesalius was renown for the foundation that was modern anatomy, and Jamie revelled in the fine art based on human dissection in allegorical poses. Her sketchbook was also filled with studies of the architectural work by Vitruvius, of which stemmed Da Vinci's Vitruvian Man; from Vitruvius' notes.

And that's how she spent her last few days, reading, re-reading, sketching and indulging her curiosity. Staying at home proved to be far more productive than sitting at school all day, though she wouldn't tell her parents that.

Sometime during noon, Mr. Richardson, an elderly neighbour who didn't have a nice word to say to anyone (Mrs. Richardson being the only exception), began mowing his lawn. Jamie watched the man with a crooked back struggle with the power cords, his frail hands too daft and hefty to untangle the thick wires. Without missing a beat, Jamie made her way across the lawn, ignoring the less-than-friendly look she received from old man Richardson. With small hands and nimble fingers she fed the cable through tangles and loops effortlessly, not bothering to say a word. It was like a puzzle in a way, and Jamie loved puzzles, moreover she was good at them. In a few minutes she had successfully sorted the wire into an orderly fashion, and when she looked up from her task she found that Mr. Richardson's eyes had softened just a tad.

"Can I help?" She murmured thoughtfully, tilting her head ever so slightly with a slight smile playing at her lips.

With a gruff nod he thrust a pair of bush trimmers into her hands, motioning towards the bushes impatiently.

Together they spent the afternoon sorting out his garden, she tidied the shrubs and bushes while he mowed the lawn, they then proceeded to caring for Mrs. Richardson's rose garden, her pride and joy, and even planted a few more seeds in the process of weeding. Jamie got a real kick out of the manure, and she couldn't help but wonder if he'd let her 'borrow' some for the… garden. Yeah, the garden, because if you thought about it children were sort of like plants, always growing, and if she could convince Elena that dung would make her grow faster…

When she worded it like that Mr. Richardson almost found himself smiling, god forbid, but he let her take what she wanted nonetheless. He wouldn't admit it, but he quite liked the enigmatic Gilbert and her chaotic ideas.

Mrs. Richardson, upon seeing little Jamie Gilbert helping her husband work in the garden, came out with an icy jug of homemade lemonade. By the time the garden was finished she had somehow convinced Jamie to help her make baked goods; cupcakes, cookies, brownies and macarons. A good selection was boxed and handed to the girl, and with a wink Mrs. Richardson beckoned her out of the house good-naturedly.

"Come back anytime, Jamie, anytime!" She crooned happily, and Jamie found herself taking a liking to the eccentric Mrs. Richardson- "Call me Ruthie, doll, everyone does." - or rather, Ruthie, whom had a bigger sweet tooth than anyone Jamie had ever met, including her Mom who was a renown sugar fiend. She even liked Mr. Richardson, his snarky comments and rude remarks were amusing to say the least, and he never really said anything negative about Jamie herself, just everyone else in Mystic Falls. He was a man after her own heart, she thought fondly, walking across the yard with a little skip to her step and a bundle of goodies to share.

Miranda Gilbert had repeatedly been struck speechless by her bigger-than-life-itself daughter over the years, but when she waltzed through the backdoor with a box full to the brim with sugary treats, she found herself at a loss for words yet again. Sometimes, she couldn't help but think that maybe there was hope for little Jamie Gilbert yet. And learning that her daughter had been respectful and moreover helpful to the elderly couple next door was nearly enough for her to lift the ban on sports- almost. The home baked goods didn't go amiss either.

The next day Jamie helped Mr. Richardson carry his groceries, only for Ruthie to commandeer her for afternoon tea.

"So, dear, why aren't you at school?" Ruthie commented idly, the tray sitting on the coffee table was full to the brim with sweets and sugary tea.

Jamie peered at the old woman bashfully, "I… I broke Randall Harrisons nose with a baseball bat."

"Oh? And why is that?" She asked carelessly, her nose crinkled in distaste, setting her tea on the table and pouring a generous amount of sugar in, taking a small sip, her features smoothing out again.

Jamie watched it all happen in awe. No one, not even her own parents, had bothered to ask her why she did it. No one else had cared enough for the answers. Until now, that is.

"What are you two talking about?" Mr. Richardson muttered, seemingly annoyed, but Jamie knew that wasn't the case. He loved his wife, and no matter how rough around the edges he may seem he had taken a liking to Jamie.

Ruthie, content with her watered down sugar under the pretense of tea, waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, Jamie here was just telling me about the broken nose she gave some boy- oh, what was his name again, Rolan or something like that."

"Randall." Jamie corrected.

Careless as ever, Ruthie simply nodded. "Yes, yes, now I remember."

"Well, what'd you do it for, tyke?" Mr. Richardson asked roughly, leaning forward just a tad as if already enamored by the promise of violence and blood. 'Tyke' was what he had taken to calling her as of yesterday, when his wife stole her away. It turned out that Jamie Gilbert was of the likeable sort, a rare breed, though William Richardson would never say so aloud.

"What makes you so sure that there's a reason?" Jamie asked curiously, but she couldn't help the small spark of hope that had ignited at their words. They hadn't simply assumed, written her off as a lost cause or declared her hopeless like the rest of them. No, the Richardson's were something else entirely.

Ruthie just laughed, "Get on with the story, doll."