Prologue
The Child of Omens
By Amy Sadler © 2026
Prologue
The Slater’s were in the middle of packing up boxes, ready for their move from London to Florida. They will be moving to a place in Florida called Sommerville that was just off by the Florida coast. The Slater’s were a small family that were the mother, Martha, who was in her late 30′s with a mop of curly blonde hair and with blue eyes. She was stood at 5ft 6in tall with a medium build. Then there was her son, Andrew who was 15 years old with long blonde hair and blue eyes. He was 5ft 4in tall with a slim build. The father sadly had divorced Martha when he had only been just 14, who happily moved on with his life.
“You’ll love Florida,” Martha said, adjusting the rearview mirror as their rental car merged onto the I-75. “Sunshine, beaches—it’s practically paradise.”
Andrew slouched deeper into the passenger seat, arms crossed. His reflection in the window showed messy blonde hair falling past his shoulders, the same length he’d kept it since he was twelve. “Paradise doesn’t have Darren Hardy,” he muttered. Darren Hardy was an old-time school bully who moved to Florida many years ago.
His mother sighed but didn’t press further. She knew the move wasn’t easy—new country, new school, new everything. But the curator position at Sommerville Museum was too good to pass up, and after the divorce, they needed the fresh start. The GPS chirped, guiding them toward their temporary apartment.
The first day of school arrived with merciless humidity. Andrew tugged at his collar as he stood outside Sommerville High, watching clusters of students laugh and chat like they hadn’t spent the entire summer apart. A passing jock bumped his shoulder without apology. Great.
The bell rang with a shrill finality, and Andrew slid into the last empty desk in Mr. Hendricks’ history class. He kept his gaze fixed on the scratched laminate surface, willing himself invisible. It didn’t work.
“New kid,” Hendricks boomed, adjusting his wire-framed glasses. “What’s with the Rapunzel routine? School dress code says hair past the collar’s a distraction.” A few snickers erupted from the back row. Andrew’s fingers instinctively twitched toward his hair—his one vanity, the only thing about his body he’d ever liked.
Before he could answer, a melodic voice cut through the laughter. “Oh, but Mr. Hendricks, long hair’s *traditional* for ballet.” Shelly Blonde the head ballet girl of the ballet class, leaned forward in her seat, golden ponytail swinging. The other ballet girls—Lisa, Helen, Daisy—giggled in perfect unison behind her. “Maybe he’s just… expressing himself.” Her smile was all teeth.
Andrew’s stomach dropped. He knew that tone. The same one Darren used right before shoving him into lockers.
Shelly’s grin widened as Hendricks huffed, adjusting his tie. “Well, *expressing yourself* doesn’t trump school policy. Get it trimmed by Friday or—”
“Or what?” Andrew dared, regretting it instantly when Shelly’s eyes lit up.
“Or we’ll help you *accessorize*,” she sing-songed, twirling a pink ribbon between her fingers. The ballet girls erupted into whispers, their gazes sharp as scalpels.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of sidelong glances and stifled laughter. Andrew ducked into empty hallways between classes, but by third period, a folded note landed on his desk: *Sunshine Courtyard. After school. Don’t be late. * The handwriting was looping, feminine. A trap.
Andrew crumpled the note in his fist, his pulse hammering in his throat. He should’ve gone straight to the office, should’ve feigned illness, *anything*—but pride was a stupid thing. He found himself standing in the courtyard’s dappled sunlight at 3:07 PM, fists clenched at his sides. He was ready for anything, or so he thought.
Shelly leaned against the bleachers, flanked by her squadron of ballet girls. Pink ribbons dangled from her fingers like trophies. “It took you long enough,” she said, twirling one around her index finger. “We were starting to think you had chickened out.” Her voice was all syrupy.
A cold sweat prickled Andrew’s neck. He took a step back—too late. Lisa and Helen materialized behind him, their grips vise-tight on his elbows. “Let’s make you *pretty*,” Daisy cooed, yanking his hair into a rough ponytail.
The changing room smelled like sweat and strawberry body spray. Andrew thrashed, but four against one wasn’t a fight—it was a ritual. Shelly’s laughter rang off the lockers as she wrestled a pink tutu over his hips, the tights, pink, were sheer enough to make his skin crawl. “Look at you,” she breathed, adjusting pink satin ribbons around his long blonde hair, tying it into pigtails. “You’re a *Natural. *” Shelly shrilled with laughter. The last item to be put on him, was a pair of pink ballet shoes that matched the rest of his attire.
Andrew’s reflection in the full-length mirror made his stomach twist. The pink tutu flared around his waist, the tights clinging to his legs like a second skin, and the ballet shoes pinched his toes in a way that felt horribly intentional. Shelly stepped back, surveying her handiwork with the satisfied smirk of a sculptor stepping away from wet clay. “Perfect,” she declared, snapping a photo with her phone before he could flinch away. “Now, let’s show everyone Sommerville High’s newest *star*.” Said Shelly with an evil chuckle.
A sharp tug on one of his pigtails propelled him forward. The hallway lights buzzed overhead as the ballet girls formed a phalanx around him, herding him toward the main quad. Whispers erupted like bushfire—*Oh my god, is that—? * *No way. * *Look at his—* Laughter followed, jagged and bright as broken glass. Andrew’s vision tunnelled, his pulse roaring in his ears. He focused on the scuff marks on his borrowed ballet flats, counting them like prayer beads.
(Andrew Slater In a Tutu. Concept Art)
“Andrew Slater, Principal Alvera wants to see you,” a voice announced. The crowd parted and Mrs Greely, one of the schoolteacher’s had come to collect Andrew. “You’re in serious trouble; do you know that?” She snapped. “This wasn’t my doing Mrs Greely, Shelly and her friends forced me to be like this.” Andrew protested, pointing to the tutu. But his protest fell on death ears, as Mrs Greely took him straight to Principal Alvera office. Mrs Greely knocked on the office door. “Come in.” Came a well measured female voice. Mrs. Greely shoved Andrew forward.
“This is the boy, Andrew Slater, that you wanted to see Principal Alvera.” Remarked Mrs Greely with her hands squarely upon Andrew’s shoulders, griping them tightly. Principal Alvera wore a crisp 3-piece suit, and her hair was kept in a tight bun and she wore glasses. She looked up but not entirely taking in Andrew’s appearance. “Thank you Mrs Greely, that will be all.” Said Principal Alvera dismissively. Mrs Greely turned on her heals and left. Then Principal Alvera took in Andrew’s appearance. her mouth pressed into a thin line. For one delirious moment, Andrew thought he was saved—until she added, “About your *attire*-”
The office smelled like lemon disinfectant and stale coffee. Principal Alvera leaned back in her chair, steepling her fingers. “-Mr. Slater,” she said, “while I don’t condone Shelly’s methods, she’s correct about the dress code.” Andrew opened his mouth, but she held up a hand. “You’ll keep the uniform on until you comply. Consider it as motivation.” Said Principal Alvera quite coldly and then she waved him off.
Andrew stood frozen outside the principal’s office, the pink tutu rustling with every shallow breath. The hallway was mercifully empty now, but the echoes of laughter still clung to the walls like graffiti. His fingers twitched toward the ribbons in his hair—then stopped. “What was the point? They’d just tie them back tighter.” Said Andrew to himself.
The weight of the ballet flats made each step feel like wading through tar. He pushed through the school’s double doors, the afternoon sun hitting him like a slap. No bus. No ride. His mother, Martha had the keys to the house, and she had not given him a spare pair. Andrew gritted his teeth and started walking, the satin straps of the tutu chafing his thighs with every stride, as he made his way to where his mom worked.
