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“Shut the fuck up, assholes.”
They do not shut the fuck up.
I quickly discover that I have an en suite bathroom, which is absolutely beautiful, all rose quartz, Italian marble and mirrors. Completely over the top. At Falcon House, I’d be lucky to make it to the very basic, very chipped, very run-down shower stalls before the hot water ran out in the mornings. Here, I have access to my own sunken tub? Ridiculous.
My bedroom is large enough to easily fit the hateful, extremely comfy king bed, as well as a nightstand and a chest of drawers on the other side of the space by the door. An antique-looking desk sits beneath a second window, with a plush wing-backed chair tucked underneath it. Shelves line the walls, ready and waiting for my books and all of the unnecessary accouterment Gaynor fabricated for me, that I might look like a normal student coming to finish out her final year of high school, away from her old friends and family.
It's absolutely beautiful, and I absolutely hate it.
I shower, gritting my teeth through a wave of nerves that show up out of nowhere, uninvited. They haven’t dissipated by the time I dry my hair; they’re still hanging around after I finish applying some mascara and lip gloss. They persist in harassing me as I get dressed.
Thank fuck this godforsaken place doesn’t make its students wear a uniform.
I’ve never had to wear one before. Not at any of the elementary schools I was shuttled between as a child, when I bounced from one foster home to the next. Nor at the public middle school I attended for two years, before Ruth and Gaynor came and collected me one day, out of the blue, from the school gates when I was thirteen. The closest thing I’ve ever come to a uniform has been the black clothing Ruth demands be worn at Falcon House. Black shirt, black tank, black skirt, black pants, black underwear. Whatever. I’m given a clothing allowance once a month and permitted to buy anything I want, on the proviso that it’s black and I don’t claim more than a passing ownership over it.
This makes life easier for the few staff members hired to do the laundry and clean Falcon House. With fifteen young girls in residence, all ranging between thirteen and eighteen, making sure everyone’s clothing is black ensures that everyone’s wardrobe is easy to wash and no one fights over whose t-shirts or jeans are being picked out of the folded laundry hampers after wash day.
Of course, teenaged girls are bound to fight over that kind of thing anyway, but the residents of the house learn that arguing over petty shit is frowned upon and punished immediately. Scrap with another girl over an outfit and you’ll quickly find yourself assigned a single pair of holey sweats and one faded t-shirt to last you the entire week. You’ll have to wash those items yourself every night after training if you didn’t want to stink to high heaven.
I’ve never really had clothes of my own before, so I’ve never minded accepting whatever is left in the bins after everyone else has staked their claim. All I’ve ever cared about is having stuff that fits well and is comfortable to train in.
So, this…?
I stare at my reflection in the mirror of my new room, feeling a little out of sorts. My jeans are blue. My shirt is white. It’s all new and good quality. I look… I think I lookgood?I didn’t even think to inspect the clothes Gaynor placed in my bags for me. I’ve cared so little about that kind of thing that it just didn’t matter. But now, I don’t even recognize myself. My features are the same as ever. My mismatched eyes—one blue, the other green—always have and always will be the most striking thing about me. My skin is pale as hell. The bridge of my nose is smattered with a dusting of freckles, though—proof I did seesomesun this summer. My hair is midnight black (the color of a raven’s wing according to Ruth), straight as an arrow and almost down to my waist. My lips, a natural flushed red, look a little too big for my face, I’ve always thought. The black clothes I’ve worn for years have hidden the shape of my figure, but now, assessing myself in the mirror in my room, I have curves on show. Curves I haven’t cared to notice before.
Aside from all of that…what do I look like? Do I look like a girl on a mission for vengeance? A girl desperately missing her best friend?
No.
I see a normal, soon-to-be-eighteen-year-old girl, wearing normal clothes, about to embark upon her first day at a new school.
What thefuck?
“Five-minute call! We need to be down at Rosewood by eight. Get these doors open and your asses downstairs, ladies!”
The voice on the other side of my new bedroom door is pleasant enough. Singsong and bright. The loud slap against the door is something else entirely, though. It brooks no argument. No matter how pampered and spoiled the people that I will be surrounding myself with over these coming weeks will be, I still find myself in a prison. I can’t allow myself to forget that.
“Myra! Oh my god! Stop growing!. Did no one ever tell you that it’s gross to be so tall?”
“Karla! Oh. My. GOD. Did you get your boobs done? You definitely got your boobs done. I fuckinghateyou, girl. My parents won’t let me get mine until I’m twenty-one.”
“Watch it! These are Minolos! Fuck, Leo. How did you get clumsier over break?”
I imagine this is exactly what it’s like to show up for roll call as a prison inmate. The halls are shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers; I navigate my way through them, gritting my teeth. My heart’s pounding, my palms slicked with a cold sweat as I forge a pathway through the sea of girls who all seem to know each other, meeting a series of blank gazes as their eyes skim over me. There are other girls my age hovering on the peripheries, standing in their bedroom doorways, nervously smoothing down their dresses and skirts like they feel hideously uncomfortable in their new clothes, too.
Two. Three. Four. I stop counting their nervous faces and keep my head down, mumbling quietly every time I nearly collide with someone who stops short in front of me.
I knew I wasn’t going to be the only new girl at Toussaint. Sarai did some digging before she and Ruth decided that it would be smart to enroll me at the institute. They didn’t want me to stick out like a sore thumb. Who are the school board and parents likely to look to when bad things start to happen within the walls of their precious school? Folks get suspicious of interlopers. But bizarrely there are twenty new students starting at Toussaint this year. Twenty new faces, with different stories, both guys and girls. Ruth figured that so many other fresh students would be an appropriate camouflage.
“Jesus. Looks like they took applications from the circus this year.” The snide comment comes from a girl with bright red hair, loitering with three other girls at the mouth of the hallway that leads to the stairs. Her nose wrinkles as she looks me up and down. “I mean, wow. Her eyes are freaky as fuck.”
Ahh, yes. The eyes. I’ve been expecting this. One of them is green, the other is blue. Big fucking deal. High schoolers will always find something to pick on their peers for though. I laugh derisively down my nose at the pettiness of this bitch’s comment, mostly because I’ve seen myself in the mirror a million times and I know for a fact that my mismatched eyes are awesome. She can bag on them all she wants, but her bitterness won’t make me look any less cool.
“She’s probably a witch,” the girl sneers.
“Oh yeah?” This comment is justtoogood. I can’t pass up the opportunity to fire a retort back at her; she’s left herself wide open. “I heard that most witches are actuallyredheads. You’d have been burnt at the stake for having hair that color three hundred years ago.”
Their little group titters spitefully as I hit the stairs—I can’t tell if the group is laughing at me or at the redhead now, but whatever. I don’t give a fuck either way. I just can’t wait to get out of here. My shoes ring out on the steps, my echoing footfall keeping time with the gallop of my heart.
