History of Magic was the dullest, most tedious waste of time. Gigi loved it. She could relax in her chair and do absolutely pineappling anything she liked and Boot wouldn’t give a flying goblin crap. She’d brought three colours of nail polish with her today, and set the small bottles out on the sliding desk in front of her. The base layer would be shocking pink, on all except her ring fingers, because they’d be Cadbury purple, and then she’d do a black streak up the middle of each of them. Her nails would coordinate with her outfit, which today was black denim shorts over dark pink tights, a purple short-sleeved t-shirt and a black waistcoat. Her hair was casually trying to take over the planet, and Gigi didn’t have the determination to stop it, so her dark curls were exploding from her scalp like a Devil’s Snare that had been nourished everyday with caffeine.
Along with nail polish, Gigi got out her coolest quill (the feather was jet black, and so was the nib) and some green ink. Some of the stricter professors didn’t like her to use funky ink, but Boot was a pushover. The third year had also discovered that she could talk Boot into believing that he’d said, or not said, pretty much anything. “Oh, sorry, professor, that’s the first time you’ve told me. It won’t happen again,” and “You said it was okay for me to turn my homework in next week because of my extenuating circumstances,” had both proved successful this year. Doing Boot’s homework was always a drag, so Gigi was content to set her mind to getting out of it, rather than having to actually do the pointless assignments. In class she strived to do as little as possible, and Boot made it so easy for her. He seemed to care as little about teaching as Gigi did about learning. Today, however, there was a worksheet on her desk, which was unfortunate, because it implied Boot wanted her to write something on it. Lame.
On the positive side, it looked like she only had to add her name as a first step, and that was simple enough to manage. While the professor jibbered on about ‘history of people’, Georgina wrote her name in uneven cursive in emerald green ink. No sooner had she crossed the t’s on the end of Philpott, two more boxes appeared. It’s a trap! Still, knowing that she could only fill in two more names, anyway, Gigi diligently added ‘Christian Philpott’ and ‘Angela Wirral’ and then laid down her quill to paint her nails. Obviously her parents had also had parents too, at some stage, but her Dad’s folks had died when he was still in school. Gigi didn’t know anything about them. Her Mum had grown up in a series of foster homes, knowing only that her biological mother was Romany and her father possibly came from New Zealand but nobody knew for sure.
Family trees were only worth something to people who cared where they came from. Gigi was far more interested in where she was going.