Page 12 of The Other Side
5
Iwatched the campus buzzing with activity from the attic of the faculty dorms, or what I affectionately referred to as my lounge.
During winter break the previous year, I had discovered the long-abandoned room. I had access through a trapdoor in my bathroom, which could be a bit precarious at times, but was always worth the risk to have such a large, cozy space to myself.
The high vantage point made for an excellent bird’s-eye view of the myriad of students being dropped off, some by their parents, some by their staff, and some by nobody at all, to get situated in the dorms.
I had found the students at Montgomery to be such a mixed bag during my first year. Some seemed like normal teenagers, some were quiet and much too mature for their young age, but others were absolute terrors. I shivered at the memory of Claire DeLongpre, one of the queen bees of the school.
And as if summoned by my thoughts, I watched as she marched across the courtyard, her long blonde hair trailing behind her in waves, with two people, likely family staff,struggling to follow in her wake as they carted her belongings toward the dorm building on the west side of campus.
She screamed parental neglect and insecurity, but so many of the teens at the school did, as their wealthy parents shipped them off to boarding school, neatly tucking them away. Out of sight, out of mind.
But the kids knew. They felt it. How could they not? And their character was often showcased by how they projected the disappointment of being abandoned.
I knew all too well how it felt to be discarded by people you thought you loved, even by people who still loved you but didn’t know how to do so in the way you needed. I sympathized with so many of the students at Montgomery, but they didn’t often make it easy.
My stomach grumbled. The coffee I’d had that morning had worn off, and it was, after all, close to lunchtime, so I knew I’d have to vacate my sanctuary, at least for a little while, to go get something to eat. The ramen noodles I’d survived on over the summer, while the school’s kitchens were closed, had more than outworn their welcome. But I hadn’t had much of an option, needing to stretch my measly budget as far as I could get.
I donned the same slacks and Montgomery polo I’d worn the day before as I snuck across campus, trying to avoid being pulled in to help the students by one of the dorm monitors. Thankfully, I made it to the administrative offices without incident.
“Jolene?” I called out. I wanted to confirm her lunch order before grabbing food from the kitchen.
But again, I found the offices oddly quiet and empty.
Everyone must be upstairs helping.
I startled as the sound of a door closing caught me off guard.
“Miss Price, can I help you?”
Headmaster Winston’s tall and imposing figure made its way down the hallway toward me in the lobby area. With a fullhead of light grey hair, big bushy eyebrows, and a stern jaw, Winston was easily intimidating, and he knew it. Maybe it was the years of reprimanding students, but anytime he spoke to me, no matter how friendly his tone, I always felt as though I was in trouble for something.
“I was going to bring lunch to Jolene,” I squeaked.
“I sent her out on some errands; she won’t be back until right before the mixer.” He shuffled behind her desk, picking at the messages left for him on the notepad next to her phone. Even in the warm weather, he still donned his signature three-piece suit. His appearance and authority were always the most important things to him, especially when parents and board members were about.
“The mixer?” I swallowed, taking a step back from her desk without realizing what I was doing until his gaze snapped up to meet mine.
“Oh that’s right, you weren’t here last year at the start of the fall semester.” He smiled, but it felt more predatory than genuine. “There’s a faculty mixer in the great room.”
The great room was a large lounge space just off the main dining hall. During the school year, it was where most students preferred to socialize between classes and on the weekends. Full of comfortable sofas and study tables, it was like my secret lounge, just on a much grander scale.
“I’m sorry nobody told you. It starts at six sharp. We serve drinks and appetizers,” he offered. “Cocktail attire,” Winston added. “Nothing too short; don’t want anyone thinking you’re loose.”
I pursed my lips, willing every fiber in my body not to react to his obvious sexist bait. I could feel his gaze on me, waiting to argue. But he’d get nothing from me. “Thank you, sir. I’ll see you at six then.”
“Have a nice afternoon, Miss Price,” he called after me as I ascended the stone stairs back to the main level, taking deep breaths to calm me as I went.
“Asshole,” I muttered under my breath when I was sure I was well out of earshot.
I wound my way through the maze of service halls to enter the kitchen from the back, hoping I’d be able to grab some food and go undetected. But fate was not on my side.
“Violet Price. I know you aren’t planning on taking food out of my kitchen without at least saying hello,” a deep voice with an unmistakable Southern accent called across the din of the kitchen staff scurrying around.
I turned toward the voice. “Chef Lenny.” I gave him a hard salute, my flat hand perpendicular to my forehead.
The grumpy old school cook and former Navy officer broke his eye contact with me to scold one of his assistants for chopping carrots inefficiently.
