We had arrived at classroom 1-A in the vocal department. Just as I had imagined, this school was enormous—not only did it nurture vocal talents, but also musicians, painters, dancers, composers, fashion designers, sculptors, actors, film students… The list seemed endless, covering every form of art imaginable.
We sat in the back row, in a corner, side by side—one desk to the right, the other to the left. That man had already arranged paired seats for us in advance.
In the corner, like some plant growing in a damp crevice.
Little by little, we camouflaged ourselves, blending into the surroundings. We were no different from the chairs or desks that stood as mere fixtures in the classroom landscape.
"Look at those kids…"
Yeah, that didn't work at all.
"Seems like the high school's standards have dropped enough to let people like them in."
"...Their clothes are—"
"...Did you see the girl?"
Fine, I don't care if they talk about me—but if they talk about my sister, that's a different story. These people have no idea what I've had to sacrifice just to keep this brat alive.
If we're going to spend the next three years here, we need respect. And this is exactly how it starts.
I was about to stand up and confront those students when the teacher walked in.
Okay, plan failed.
She was a petite woman, about the same height as my sister, with short copper-brown hair and a stern face marked by faint wrinkles on her forehead. She had high cheekbones, an elongated face, slanted eyes, and a mole on her neck.
Neither young nor old, but she exuded expertise.
"I'll be your homeroom teacher this year. I'm Ibone Marlin. Pleased to meet you." She sounded irritated—or maybe that was just her natural tone.
"Since it's the first day, there isn't much to do, so I have a few things to take care of in the faculty room. There was an… unexpected issue."
An unforeseen complication.
"Get to know each other—and I hope you don't cause any trouble."
With that, the woman left, and the classroom fell into momentary silence.
Then, a boy from the opposite corner took the initiative, standing up to talk to another guy he'd probably met during Russo's speech in the auditorium.
Like a chain reaction, everyone else started doing the same.
And once again, we were left isolated.
No, it's too soon. Only five minutes have passed since the start of our school life—it's not a crime that we haven't talked to anyone yet. If anything, it's society that forces us to speak. Why can't we be happy just talking to ourselves? They force us to socialize.
"Hey."
It was the girl sitting in front of me.
"Stop muttering to yourself."
"Oh, sorry." I apologized instinctively.
But…
Who did this girl think she was, silencing me—someone obviously older?
"Looks like nobody's coming to talk to you either," I retorted, seeing a chance to strike back. "What a shame. Welcome to the misfits' club."
"What? I'm just patiently observing who's worth talking to."
So, a calculating social climber.
"For example, that girl over there." She pointed discreetly at a girl I'd noticed earlier, speaking in a hushed tone so only we could hear.
Her seat was positioned right in the center of the classroom.
Anyone's first impression of her could only be summed up in one word: queen.
"That's Ana Abantino—a singing prodigy with Italian parents. They say she's the most talented person in this entire school."
"How do you know that if it's only the first day?"
"You're an idiot. She's been famous since she was little."
"I don't watch much TV."
"Her father's an opera director, and her mother's a violinist. She's been on children's singing shows since she was little, and rumor has it she'll debut as a soloist soon under a major label."
"Hmm, I see."
"You don't seem impressed. Probably because you haven't heard her sing. But it's no exaggeration to say that she could be the most talented here. She's had training since childhood, the perfect mix of talent and discipline."
A hint of admiration slipped through her lips, barely concealed. Not envy—just a genuine desire to connect with her.
"If I want to make a name for myself, I have to befriend her."
"That's a pretty shallow way to look at life."
"But it's the truth."
"Yeah, whatever you say." That wasn't real friendship—just self-interest.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"I'm Lucas Vilcanoba—"
"—I'm Maria," my sister suddenly chimed in.
"Ah, right. This is my younger sister, Maria."
"Nice to meet you," Maria said in her usual flat tone, which visibly threw off the mysterious girl.
I thought that would be the end of it, that she'd just turn away.
"I'm Emilia Taboada. Nice to meet you."
At that moment, none of us could have anticipated that this conversation would mark the beginning of what would later be known as the group of geniuses who shattered every expectation Ricardo Bregona High School had of its students. Years beyond that, they would dominate the pinnacle of the arts industry, their names and songs becoming cultural icons.
That group didn't exist yet—its members were still scattered across Ricardo Bregona's various departments, along with some hidden talents still wandering aimlessly through the streets.
It was said that this group was made up of a person who could master any instrument with unparalleled skill; a singer with a vocal range never before seen; a painter said to be the reincarnation of Picasso; a man who dressed as a woman and designed clothing that seemed to come from a world beyond the living; and countless others.
In later interviews, they all agreed on one thing—their leader was a certain Lucas Vilcanoba, who, curiously, shared a last name with the greatest singer-songwriter in history: Maria Vilcanoba, a person whose ears could hear a world beyond the obvious.