Page 49 of Sinister

Today, I’m more preoccupied, so I pay less attention to any whispers or pointed glances directed at me. Or perhaps I ignore any sly gossipers because, in my absent-mindedness, my feet have brought me to the registration office.

There still remains the matter of finalizing my schedule for this semester.

I wait for a few minutes before entering.

The loss of a coveted seat in the art history class has left me feeling even more raw, so I need to gather myself before facing the impassive woman at the desk. I don’t want to start sobbing before her like a big pile of mush, so I steel myself before stepping inside.

“Hello,” I say briefly, offering a small smile to Ms. Stoneface (her name is written on her desk, but I don’t want to learn it).

“Yes, how can I help you today?” she responds with the sunny disposition of a prison warden.

“Just checking if there’s any update on my schedule,” I ask, trying my hardest to steady my voice and look unfazed while she clicks around on her computer with a perfunctory nod.

My air of forced nonchalance vanishes when her eyes widen.

“Looks like you’re in luck,” she says, and for once, the monotone of her voice is flecked with notes of surprise. “That art history class you wanted? A spot just opened up.”

“Really?” is all I can gasp out at first.

When she keeps looking at me without any response, I manage to stammer something more. “Ho-how did that happen?”

She shrugs. “What always happens: Some other kid dropped out. Now I have to reenter their files.”

Even if I actually liked her, I would have thanked the gods in heaven for putting more work on her plate if it meant I got a seat in Art History!

No other words occur to me on the spot, so I mumble a weak, “Thank you,” before filling up my forms, handing them over, and exiting the office with my updated schedule.

For the first time in months, my heart sings with joy as I almost glide through the buzzing corridors of St. Anselm Hall.

The art history classes are typically scheduled for the afternoon, and I can barely pay attention in English, Economics, and Biology before the lunch bell rings.

I think of stealing away to the gardener’s shed and catching up on my portfolio. But the memory of my encounter with Sin yesterday is still too fresh; that place could not possibly help me relax today.

Besides, the cafeteria is usually too packed for me to be a discernible target for any lowlife trolls.

. . . So that last assumption was incorrect, I think when I catch sight of Daphne and François just as I turn around after collecting my lunch tray.

“Cute eyeliner, Petra!” Daphne calls out while I can muster nothing more than a sigh. “Let me guess, you had ‘wannabe Euphoria extra’ on your Pinterest vision board when you put that look together?”

“Ugh, Daphne, just get a life,” I respond, unwilling to even dignify such a cheap jab with anything more eloquent.

“You almost lost yours in that pool, didn’t you?” François chimes in next, and I stop in my tracks. “You know you literally don’t have to kill yourself for Sin’s attention.”

“What did you say?” My voice could have chilled hot tea in a second.

“Not that we are sorry to see you unhurt,” Daphne says hurriedly. “We were really shocked when that happened, you know.”

“So sorry,” François repeats with a smirk.

“Daphne, I swear to God I couldn’t care less about your pedestrian, everyday taunts,” I begin, not caring a rat’s ass about who can hear me. “But if I find out that it was you lot who pushed me into that pool, I will destroy you. I will make you terribly, horribly sorry you ever crossed my path.”

Thankfully, my voice doesn’t flinch as the heat of the sun seems to power the rage coursing through my veins.

“Ladies, ladies! Relax!” François exclaims in an annoying, piping tone, and both of us take a step back. “We didn’t push you into the pool, Petra. We would never do that.”

“Yeah, right!” I snap back at him, though my eyes never leave Daphne’s face. C’mon, you little moron, slip up and admit it was you! Give me something to pummel with my bare hands!

“Really, Petra,” Daphne says with an emphatic nod. “It wasn’t us.”