There was nothing extraordinary about the morning on which this story began.

It was, in fact, almost boring down in the small town of Fizzlebarry. A dull white mist hung over the streets, the minuscule droplets seeming to pull all color and joy from the place. Children who would normally have been out at play, racing on their bicycles or daring each other to climb Fizzle Tower and ring the bell, were instead curled up inside under blankets, hoping the sun would melt away the miserable fog.

Fizzlebarry was one of those postcard towns, the kind that looks good from any angle. Winding little stone roads crisscrossed all over, looking something like spaghetti from the air. Butting up against the streets were little stone-and-wood houses, all neat and tidy and almost all the same. Cheerful over-bright flowerboxes beamed beneath the front windows, trimmed to blinding perfection. In the center of Fizzlebarry Square stood a large tree bursting with pink blossoms; some of these blossoms were strewn over the stone paving, but even this looked perfect and planned, almost unnatural.

But the mist swallowed this beauty and color, even the vibrant flowerbeds. At heart, the townspeople knew why this one morning was shrouded in this all-consuming fog; they knew but did not want to admit it. Until the sun failed to burn it off, they would cling to the hope that they were mistaken. And when the fog remained, the citizens of Fizzlebarry would rouse themselves with a sigh and make the trip to Middle Valley.

This trip happened every year on July 2nd, the exact middle of the year. Once upon a time it was looked forward to, but after one nightmare-inducing event, it was more like a mandatory evil.

The atmosphere in the mountains, however, couldn’t be more different.

Upon Mount North, Madam Chickadee’s School for Gifted Children was built. Impossible though it seemed, the school was even grander than the picturesque town of Fizzlebarry. It was an ivory castle with three towers, their roofs tiled with pale umber clay. Two of these towers stabbed skyward like arrows, one even clearing the mountain’s crest. The third was dwarfed in comparison, standing at about sixty feet. Lush vines adorned with pink flowers climbed these towers, their leafy fingers digging into the cracks between the stones. Beneath the castle lay an immaculate garden and courtyard, every bit as neat as Fizzlebarry’s flowerbeds but softer on the eyes. The sound of birdsong never ceased here.

The school built on the slopes of Mount South was quite the opposite of Madam Chickadee’s. The structures were similar, but that was where their likeness ended.

This school was called Miss Malkin’s School for Troubled Children. As the rival of Madam Chickadee’s school, its towers were dark grey-brown, topped with black tiles. Half of the castle was buried in forest, the rest almost covered in sprawling vines. One could pretend it was nothing more than a ruin.

Unless, of course, you were a student there.

Down in the gardens on this dismal morning sat one of Miss Malkin’s students, watching a rose curl and uncurl in time with her own fist.

This girl’s name was Angelina Thornton, though everyone knew her by her middle name, Rose. Although her name was pleasant, she was anything but that. She was beautiful, in the way that a venomous snake is—gorgeous but deadly. She reminded everyone she met, without fail, of the saying “every rose has its thorn”.

Today she sat in the garden not just for solitude but in an attempt to avoid being picked as one of her school’s contestants. She was sure the selection was rigged—the strongest students got chosen every year. She was just hoping some other students happened to be stronger than her this year. She wanted nothing more than to see the school defeated this time around.

Meanwhile, at this same moment in the white castle, Peter Archibald Newman threw open his window and pulled the fresh air deep into his lungs, calmed by the scent of the blooming vines.

He had been dreading this day all week; some part of him knew the fear was irrational, but the worry tugged at him all the same. Today the contestants for Madam Chickadee’s School for Gifted Children would be selected at random, and Peter was terrified he’d be one of them.

He knew the chances were slim to none, with over two thousand students in his school, but his name was still on the list. If he weren’t so ordinary, he wouldn’t have been so scared. But he was ordinary, and ordinary wasn’t going to win the contest. Ordinary wasn’t going to uphold his school’s honor.

Ordinary wouldn’t make his brother proud.

He took one more breath of the petal-scented air and turned back to his room, walking over to the mirror. He couldn’t spot anything wrong with his uniform, except maybe the fact that he didn’t look very grown-up—more like a little boy wearing his dad’s work boots, trying to walk in them. Peter thought his face was too round, his body too short. He supposed it could be worse, but he undeniably wasn’t going to be getting any compliments.

His gaze was pulled to the open window when the sound of the Fizzle Tower bell reverberated in the distance, signaling that it was time to join the rest of the students for the choosing of Madam Chickadee’s contestants for the year.

Casting one more glance at the mirror, Peter exited his room and went down to the main hall, heart racing with apprehension.

The main hall had been transformed today, as it had been the previous two years. The tables and chairs had disappeared, leaving an ample space now occupied by the student body. The west-facing end of the hall held a raised platform, upon which stood the school’s staff, including Madam Chickadee herself. Before her was a large glass ball filled with paper slips. With a sickening twist of his gut, Peter thought, My name is on one of those.

“Welcome, my prodigies!” Madam Chickadee said when all the students had gathered. “As I’m sure you all know by now, I will select our school’s contestants for the Middle Valley Challenge in a few moments. For our new students, the Middle Valley Challenge is a competition we hold with our rivaling school, Miss Malkin’s School for Troubled Children. It’s different each year, designed by the architects of Fizzlebarry. Each year five students are chosen to participate at random—this year, our school chooses three and Miss Malkin’s chooses two. Before I draw the slips, I’d like to say the Pledge of Honor. . .everyone with me, now. . .”

Together, the students and teachers chanted the Pledge of Honor: “I swear to uphold my school’s honor,” so on and so forth. . .Peter was too distracted to really pay attention.

Madam Chickadee stepped forward. “Okay, it’s time!”

She reached in, digging around for three bits of paper. When she’d picked all of them out, she opened one and read, “Jimmie Richard Montesa. Please join me here on the stage. . .”

A tall, gangly boy mounted the stage. Peter thought he looked a lot like a living scarecrow.

“Aibleen X Earnhardt,” Madam Chickadee said.

Peter recognized the student who climbed the stage this time. She had pale skin and dark hair. In his first week of school, she’d helped him a lot. Over the last year, though, they hadn’t spoken much.

Peter’s nerves were higher now than ever as Madam Chickadee opened the last slip.

“And last but not least, we have. . .”

Please, please, please don’t be me, Peter thought, heart pounding once more.

What happened next seemed so impossible and so comical, it was more like something right out of Peter’s favorite books—except he was anything but delighted by it.

“Peter Archibald Newman,” Madam Chickadee called. “Join us on the stage.”

For a horrible second, Peter could barely move his feet. But they began working, carrying him as if by their own volition up to the platform until he stood by Jimmie and Aibleen. He stared at the people filling up the hall, feeling dazed. . .

Among the crowd, he caught his brother Samuel’s eye. Sam grinned and gave him two thumbs-up. Peter tried to smile back, hoping it wouldn’t betray how he felt.

“Well, these are our three champions,” Madam Chickadee said. “Today they will compete to defend our school’s honor and show their own strengths, even against high odds and unexpected circumstances. I expect you all to show them your full support during the contest. Hail!”

This last word was echoed back by the rest of the staff and students.