My normal route through the campus is usually delightfully uncrowded, save the occasional Three-Eyed Snake wranglers. Since I've been back, however, it has been a nightmare to walk through. There have been students running every which way with bits of paper in their hand chronicling which building is where and how often it pops up there. I can barely get through the thick mass of students (I didn't even know that many people were enrolled here), but there are no alternate routes that I know of.
I approached @Hector Penman, hoping to strike up a deal.

"Hey, Hector."
"Uh. Hey... um-" He squinted his eyes as though he thought he recognized me.
"It's Carlysle." I extended my hand, and he shook it, smudged ink rubbing off from his palm.
"How may I help you? Looking to join the cause?"
I wiped my hand on my jeans. "I suppose in a loose sense."
"What- what does that mean?"
"Listen. I like to research. And the nature of my research means I have to visit almost every library on campus. Because they have a tendency to jump around in a pattern, I have notes about the locations of every library on any given day of the week."
"Well, that's great!"
"I will give you the notebook where I have written these notes- on one condition."
He hesitated. "And what's that?"
"Help me map a good route that gets me through an average school day while also avoiding heavy foot traffic."
He smiled and offered his hand again. "Consider it done."

I talked to my counselor today. She said that my "feeling" was common among young ladies my age. For protection, she gave me a necklace with a pendant on it.
"It's made of malachite," she told me as I ran my fingers over the peacock-blue disk. "Maybe it'll help you access that 'feeling' again."

It's been a while. I was on holiday, visiting my parents, going across the continent. Our small town in the Midwest never really accepted me.
"Weirdo city girl," they muttered when I cut my hair short.
"Psycho clown."
They were no less hostile when I dyed my hair indigo.

I visited distant family in Puerto Rico, some I hadn't even met before. There, surrounded by cats, moonlight and the soft melody of tiny frogs, I got a feeling.
I remember that feeling from long before, the first time I had it.
And then the feeling was gone.

I returned from Canada yesterday. Anybody have 7th Period Psychic Literature?

It's strangely wonderful that I'm making friends through ghosts.
@Crystal Rosethorn, who has the most beautiful name I've ever heard, met up with me today in Library 39, which I've been informed is actually the Library of Records.
Surrounded by NUFORC reports, grade reports, and most importantly, ghost reports, we traded books and began reading.
As she warned me, if the more "aggravated" goats-- I mean ghosts-- don't touch or interact with their humans, then they should be fine.
Something she didn't mention to me was a spell, written in what she told me was moon ink in the margin of page 153.
I asked her about it, and she said she had just ignored it. She thought it was a prank. I told her it looks like a spell.
"A spell for banishing ghosts?" I speculated.
"The book says there is no way to get rid of them."
"Haven't you ever read the Half Blood Prince?"
"What's that supposed to mean?" She raised her eyebrow.
"Maybe the book doesn't know everything. I mean, this was written, like, 100 years ago."
"That's a fair point, but I don't think we should be reciting shady incantations written in moon ink."
"Let's try it anyway. Contact @Julissa Uitvlugt. Maybe we can get rid of your Joseph while we're at it."

So a date was set. We're to meet in the forest exactly 24 hours from now, one hour after classes are over.
I hope the anonymous vandal has the right spell.

I've been doing some research in Library 53.
(Is that its name? I've just been counting and numbering as I go.)
As I was wandering in the "Care and Keeping of Goats" section, a leather-bound book with no title intrigued me. Here's an excerpt.
"Hauntings are fairly normal. One might find that in certain Communities, one's own Energy, as well as that of the People around, has a higher Chance of attracting Ghosts. Many are quite docile Fellows, but there are some that are more aggravated in their Actions."

@Julissa Uitvlugt seems to be experiencing the more aggravated type. However, the book, which I later found out to be a very early textbook on ghosts (I am keeping it until I can find the "Afterlife" section), makes no reference as to how to deal with aggravated ghosts, much less how to meet them. If I could add a chapter I would write, "Tread lightly, and carry a big stick, for defense."

I could try to find a book on aggravated goats, but I don't think I'd need that right now.

This new moon is refreshing. Her cycle has begun again in my sun sign, a rare occurrence.
On days like these, I like to see where my feet take me. Today, they took me to a garden. I'm not sure which one (there are no maps here due to the quantum nature of the campus, I'm told).
Today would be a wonderful day to meet some new friends. They have given me a five day adjustment period while they sort out my schedule, so I haven't seen many people.
As I was picking sage and lavender to make a smudge, I felt someone looking at me.
I saw a cat, staring at me with an inquisitive nature. She had dark, glassy, jade eyes and a marvelous coat.
I pocketed my plants for later and walked up to her.
She was sitting by the lilacs.
Lilac, I thought to myself as I ran my hands over her smooth head.
She "mrr-"ed quietly, and followed me home.

I turned sixteen on Earth Day. April the twenty-second, two thousand and one.
A meteor shower occurred that night, sixteen years ago.
A snowfall occurred that day, twelve years ago.
And on that day, five days ago, I made the journey with my mom to visit this school.
(Teleportation was optional. Because of my mother, I declined.)
God, it's beautiful here. I've never seen such marvelous buildings, nor have I ever been in the chaparral and the tundra at the same time.
My mom, always reluctant to let go of her babies, hated it. She knew immediately that it was right for me, though.
Arrangements were made. A new room in the oldest building was made for me in a matter of minutes. My things were packed and sent.
In a flurry of blurred tears, I hugged my mom and promised to write her at least every month before she was whisked away.
A bittersweet beginning, but I'll take it.
I'm ready to start.

My name is Carlysle. I am a transfer from the Midwest.
(It's not that hard to pronounce. It rhymes with "bar aisle.")
The Midwest is abhorrent. I grew up in a religious family. My mother was confirmed Protestant, the first in her family. My father was confirmed Catholic, the last in his family. They raised me as atheist.
The Midwest is nothing but miles of suburbs and fields for planting starchy plants. The skies are grey. They seem to scream from afar, "YOU WILL NEVER DO ANYTHING WITH YOUR LIFE."
The Midwest is a jail cell. The Midwest is hell. The Midwest is the Hotel California. I had to get away.

My family knew I was different from the moment I opened my big blue eyes, the moment I began to grasp a pencil firmly in my left hand, the moment I began turning around and around in my yard, tracing the path from my dad's house to my mom's.
Doctors attributed my innate sense of direction and excess of thought to synesthesia, to ADD/ADHD, to anxiety, to any ailment they could conjure up from their memories of graduate school. They could find no cure for the endless train of thought that plagued my mind.

My mother stared into my big blue eyes with equal parts admiration and fear. My grandpa told me to write with my right hand. My father told me to come inside, it's getting late, even though the sun shone down on my creamy caramel skin.

Then my eyes started to change color.
Blue to green to grey to brown, then blue again.

At school they called me "gifted." Later, letters started floating in from colleges in California, in New York, in DC.

Among those letters was one grey envelope.
"It's a blank piece of paper!"
"Who would send you a blank piece of paper?"
Somehow, I knew who would send me a blank piece of paper. And more importantly, I knew that blank piece of paper was a one way ticket straight out of hell.