[b]Lilly Johnson[/b]
Lilly sat on the bleachers, her long legs folded up under her. She resisted the urge to duck back into the locker rooms and hide for another fifteen minutes. She was one of the few kids on deck yet, and the only one of them who actually loved the sport. She glared at the giggling huddle of popular girls, the ones wearing their team suits to practice (Seriously, though, who does that?! They'll get all stretched out!) and gobs of makeup still on their faces, perfectly manicured nails gleaming in the fluorescent light. And then her ears picked up on what they were talking about.
"Look at her, she's so big!"
"And she doesn't even wear makeup!"
"And she's flat-chested, too!"
"I think she's a... [i]boy[/i] in disguise!"
"Oh, how terrible!"
"Well, she's never had a boyfriend yet. I'd have heard if she'd ever kissed anyone."
"No one wants her! The only boy in this school who's taller than her is that Beaver boy, and he'd never ask a girl out!"
"Even if he would, she'd not be able to understand him!"
"Why, because she's stupid, or because he stutters?"
"Both!"
By this point, Lilly had heard enough. She didn't care when they picked on her, but when they picked on other kids...
Inspecting her own jagged nails, crossing her legs in a more fashionable way, she called, "I might be big and clumsy and painfully out of style with my hair and wardrobe, but I still swim faster than any of you could."
The girls as one whirled to face her. "I didn't know you could talk." One of the girls... Rachel, she recalled, said.
"I'm just full of surprises, aren't I?"
One of the other girls, her face red, said, "Shut up!"
"Yeah, like, we're too cool to ever talk to you."
Lilly smiled. “But I can talk to you. And that means you can’t defend yourselves against me.”
The girls twittered among themselves, but didn’t reply. And at that moment, the coach came on deck. “Where on earth is everybody?” He shouted. His voice was pitched so that it would echo around in the locker rooms. Lilly sighed gratefully. She was one of the coach’s favorites, and he wouldn’t stand for anyone picking on her.
[hr]
[b]Aery Thomas[/b]
Aery leaned against the wall outside of the library, absently doodling on her mini whiteboard. As usual her tutoring student had simply vanished. They always did that when they figured out that they were supposed to be tutored by the youngest, smallest girl in the school, one who used written English as her exclusive form of communication. She’d give him five minutes to show up, and then she’d leave and head to the Knowledge Bowl meeting. Then after that band practice.
Or not. She saw a dark-haired boy heading towards her, and a grin broke out on her face. She quickly wrote, “Hi, Luke!” with a little heart as the point on the exclamation mark. A few of the other kids in the hall saw the message and outright laughed. 
As soon as she thought that he’d seen it, she flipped the board over and wrote on the other side, “Are you coming to the Knowledge Bowl practice tonight? We’re all doing a Trivia Crack tournament. And then we’ll be filling out team forms for the upcoming Quiz Bowl tournaments.” She flipped the board up, as she did so swiping her hand across the “hi” message that was on the other side.
[hr]
[b]Miranda Jensen[/b]
Miranda sat behind the piano in the band room, eyes blurry with tears as she looked at her sheet music. How the hell was she supposed to play this at festival in three weeks? A few of the other kids in the room who were waiting for band practice snickered.
“Again.” Mr. Jordan said, standing behind her. “With emotion. You play like a stick, a dead dry stick.”
Miranda sighed. “Yes sir.” She spread her fingers over the keys, took a deep breath, and started the piece again.
“Mind your time!” he snapped, tapping his conducting baton on the top of the piano loudly, pounding out an impossible pace. “You’re dragging, pick it up!”
Miranda gritted her teeth, trying to speed up her fingers. She hit a sharp where there wasn’t supposed to be a sharp and it was all over. She stopped playing instantly, for Mr. Jordan had a no-mistakes policy. When a student made a mistake she had to restart from the beginning. Mr. Jordan quit beating time, in one smooth motion cracking his baton twice across Miranda’s fingers. She winced, but left her fingers on the keys like she was expected to. Don’t flinch, don’t complain, don’t yelp, because it’s all for your own good. “You’re sloppy. Your form is falling apart. Keep a serene face, not all screwed up like you are trying to pass gas.” A laugh from the other students and Miranda’s face turned crimson.
“Again.” Mr. Jordan tapped his baton on the top of the piano again, at an even faster tempo than before.
“Yes sir.” And she started again, barely getting fifteen measures before her fingers slipped and the baton cracked down on her fingers again.
“Enough.” He snapped. “Your progress this week has been unsatisfactory. Be certain that I will be telling your parents of this. You are dismissed.” Mr. Jordan turned to the other assembled students. 
Miranda took the opportunity and gathered her music and backpack and fled. She had a mind to go to the library to relax, but she looked at her hands and at the red, swollen lines on them and cursed at how plainly visible they were. Still, she might as well go read for a few minutes before she had to face the pile of homework and prep school applications and piano sheet music that awaited her at home, and the screaming siblings and shouting parents that she was so accustomed to.
She ducked through the crowd outside the library, sighing in relief as she finally got inside its relative quiet. She picked a random book off of a random shelf and went to find a seat. There was one boy at a table in the far corner. He looked like he could use some company. So she stood across the table from him. “Do you mind if I sit here?” she asked softly.