Page 15 of A Dead Man's B-Side
It didn’t take long to settle in, what with how little I had to begin with.
I could smell the perfectly manicured wet lawn from my open window, but I ignored it and slid my sneakers on before grabbing the bag I found sitting with my attires.
The strap sat across my chest comfortably, and the pouch felt almost attached to my back.
The uniform I’d found was pressed and hung in my closet before I arrived, and I found fresh toiletries and sheets in different cabinets.
The uniform fit, thankfully, and didn’t resemble that of August.
My eyes drifted to the clock hanging above the empty desk provided for my learning, and I waited until the long hand struck twelve before I made the short walk to my door.
I made sure to keep my head down on my way out, avoiding eye contact and any form of introductions.
It was the first week of September, and the dorm halls were littered with students reuniting and chatting about their elaborate vacations. In a silent competition of their own making, I realized.
It didn’t help that my window faced the campus, and I spent an embarrassing amount of time last night and this morning watching people come and go. Like an old and lonely woman perched to watch her neighbours.
Stepping out, two students walked past me, and I shifted away to give them space. I could hear their scoffs of arrogance as they continued in, mistaking my desire to remain unnoticeable for fear.
I ignored the desire to roll my eyes, and made my way down the vaguely familiar path, still reeling at the reality that I’d gotten a chance to study here.
According to the letter I’d gotten, the board deemed me fit for their personal projects and offered to sponsor my studies.
I was well aware of scholarship students, and although it didn’t matter to me how I’d gotten my admittance, I know what a hard time I’d be getting if Iwerelabelled a scholarship student.
In either path, all I needed to do was keep my grades up and keep my head down.
At last, I reached Fenlon Hall, eyeing the chrysanthemums along the railing up to the door.
The memories of different buses along the highway washed over me at the white petals. From state to state, I’d see flowers along the road to commemorate a loved one who’d died in an accident at that very spot.
I continued up the steps and entered the building, which held my first class of the day. September in Scotland was warmer than I’d expected but still chilly enough to make me shiver.
The sounds of bustling students filled my ears as I walked down the crowded hallway, but I didn’t let it bother me, only a little.
They moved in sure steps in the directions of their morningclasses, and if I knew where to go, I’d have done the same.
An itch grew under the skin of my wrist, letting the sleeve of my uniform scuff against it.
Fenlon Hall soared up into the ceiling in gothic grandeur. I watched as the pale stone wall stacked heavenward. The ceiling was high and carved intricately. Columns flanked arched balconies above, and I looked to the students showcased on the second floor, walking in groups, conversing in a manner meant to showcase their wealth. One girl slid her hair over her shoulder as she spoke, in a calculated attempt to draw attention to the frosted diamond necklace around her neck. Another student, a boy, talked with his hands perfectly angled, the sleeve of his uniform jacket sliding back with purpose; to showcase the flashing watch around his wrist.
A burning thrill cut through the blood running into my fingers.
I shuffled into the open space in the middle, wanting to turn in a circle and admire it all, but forced myself to keep moving, ducking under an arched stone threshold and managing to make it to class with only a few minutes before the first bell, snagging a seat in the back. It was only the first day of the year, but I hoped there wasn’t already an assigned seating plan set up.
I wasn’t a stellar student, I’ll admit, but the academic scene Castle Hill provided its students with was a strong factor that would contribute to my consideration of the role.
It smelled of chalk and old books, but of the distinct sort. The ones you find in a French archives library that housed only the most influential titles.
Tall windows let in weak morning light that fell over dark wooden desks like a soft veil. And something about the scene before me made me want to ponder over simple poetry and write snippets of my thoughts with a quill.
Students trickled in, but none paid me any mind, something I was grateful for. A pair of girls came in giggling, a group of boys close behind them, roughhousing and having a laugh. From afar, this felt like your picturesque high school.
However, everyone seemed to settle in, falling silent, when the professor walked in.
“Alright, everyone!”
He was too jumpy for eight o’clock in the morning.
