Chapter One

Chapter One

Three Weeks Later

“Natalie, are you coming?”

The voice drifted up to me urgently from somewhere downstairs. It sounded like it was coming from a tunnel and misted with fog. It may as well have been, because I truly didn't care. All I wanted to do was curl up in my cocoon of warmth beneath my covers.

I moaned and pulled the sheets over my head, hoping the voice would go away.

“Natalie!”

Apparently not. I heard footsteps creaking on the stairs, coming towards my room. And then my aunt Donna was standing beside me.

“Hey, sleepyhead, come on.” She shook my shoulder urgently. “It's time for school. You've got to get up.”

“Says who?” I snapped.

“Says me. We talked about this.” Her voice may have been attempting to be sympathetic, but I couldn't see her face to know for sure. “You can't do this forever. It's been three weeks.”

“Three weeks isn't enough.”

“It's enough to hold you back from school.”

“I don't care about school,” I growled. “I don't care about anything.”

Donna sighed heavily, then moved a step closer and came to sit beside me on my bed. In a way that translated in areas of my life other than this one, I could feel the weight shift from my side to hers.

“So you've told me,” she said quietly. I heard nothing but silence for a minute or two, as she composed the right words to say to me. “This isn't easy for me either, you know. We’re both grieving. But I think the best thing we can do right now is pick ourselves up and move on.”

“You move on, then. You've done a good job of it so far.”

Donna bristled at my low-blow comment, but she ignored it. “West Point is a good school,” she stated, “despite what you may think. With the grades you made back home, you’ll catch up quickly. And it’ll look good on your college applications later on.”

I scoffed. “Now it’s college?”

“If you want it to be. The choice is yours.” She let out a breath. “But it’s only going to be an option if you finish your last year of high school.”

“So I’ll just take another week off.”

“And have to catch up on even more material? You'll have to repeat the year when everyone else gets to graduate on time.” She clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “I don’t think you want to do that.”

Despite my fuming anger, my aunt made a good point. I hated everything about this situation as it was already; having to repeat the school component would only make it worse. Clearly this argument was going to get me nowhere.

I shook my head in disgust. “Whatever.”

“Great.” Donna's voice sounded annoyingly triumphant. “Your uniform’s on your closet door. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

I didn't say anything. I just lay there and let my blood boil in silence until she’d risen from my bed and left the room. When she was gone, I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling for a moment, tracing the lines that the textured pattern created when I really concentrated. Usually it worked, helped me to zone out from life, but today it just made me feel pathetic. With a heavy sigh, I forced myself into an upright position and swung my legs over my bed, leaning against its edge. I didn't have to raise my eyes to look around at my changed life.

Boxes were everywhere - on the floor, under my bed, in the closet. The only available floor space was a walkway inches in width from my feet to the door. It wasn't ideal, but I had absolutely no desire to move the boxes. That would mean I'd made myself at home here, and this wasn't home. It never would be. The outfit hanging condescendingly on my closet door made that perfectly clear.

God, I scoffed inwardly.

The uniform.

It looked as perfect as if someone had been planning to photograph it. Blue sweater vest, white blouse, plaid skirt, stockings, and black shoes. It wasn't as if it was out of a Dolce catalogue. But it was no less intimidating. The vest contained a symbol above the left breast: an old-English style banner with a fancy WP scrawled inside. Those were the initials for West Point, the school I would be attending. Except for Donna's praises, I hadn't heard anything about it. But I had already made my conclusions. West Point was a prep school " a place where everyone wore uniforms and talked about their enormous bank accounts and how many creative, risqué ways they would waste their money. The uniforms were supposed to be equalizers, but it was a known fact that they didn't work. There would always be cliques and divisions, separated by the invisible line that none of the students had drawn, but everyone understood. Geeks here, jocks there. Loners in the back, rich snobs up close and personal. It was enough to make me sick to my stomach. And now I was going to be one of them.

I rose slowly from my bed and took several steps, stumbling over boxes on the way. I snatched the uniform off its hanger without looking at it. Since there was barely a place to stand in my room, let alone get dressed, I went down the hall to Donna's small bathroom and reluctantly stripped off my comfort clothes in exchange for the unfamiliar material. I was glad the mirror was small; it reflected only my head and bare shoulders, hiding the uniform.

But it didn't hide everything. When I raised my hand and pushed my hair aside, there it was. A five-inch scar ran in a jagged line from my forehead to my temple. The stitches were gone now, but it was still very noticeable. I felt my heartbeat involuntarily speed up.

Can't let the prep school kids see this, I thought to myself. As if I wasn't going to be the center of everyone's attention simply by walking into the building. Thankfully, I knew just what to do about that.

I pulled a thick black hair band from the pocket of my sweats, laying it across my hairline and pulling the ends into a secure knot at the base of my skull. To my satisfaction, the scar disappeared in front of my eyes.

I marvelled at the simplicity of it.

So easy.

If only everything else were.

I felt a fresh wave of tears and self-pity coming on, but I blinked furiously and rubbed them out of my eyes. If I was to get through the day, and the next few months, I'd have to do exactly what Donna said. I'd have to start fresh, go forward. Cage the memories and shove them to the back of my head. No thinking about the past.

I turned away from the stranger in the mirror and headed downstairs. Donna was waiting for me by the back door " her curly brown hair styled to perfection, her purse slung over her shoulder, keys in her hand. She tapped the keys against the countertop as if imitating a metronome, but straightened instantly when she saw me.

“There you are!” She threw her hands up in exasperation, standing up straight. “What took you so long?”

“This is a little new for me,” I snapped sarcastically. “I don’t usually have to put on ten pieces of clothing to go to school.”

“You’re being dramatic. It’s not so bad.” She looked me up and down critically, assessing my appearance. “The uniform looks good on you.”

“Thanks.” My voice was a monotone response.

“What’s with the headband?”

“I just wanted to wear it.”

Donna grimaced. “It doesn’t really go with the outfit.”

I glared. “Neither does this.”

I ripped it off furiously, revealing the jagged scar.

My aunt’s face froze in shock, just like I wanted. At least there was some sense of emotion behind her current façade.

“Oh…okay.” She swallowed nervously. “Well....wear it, then. If that’s what you want.”

“It is.” I untied the knotted fabric and put it back over my forehead, making it loud and clear that that was exactly what I wanted.

“Will you be okay getting there?”

I responded a casual, but affirmative yes. We had discussed this a while ago. I wasn't really paying attention at the time, but the details were simple enough. A bus came by the house around eight o'clock every day. The run to West Point was half an hour long. As far as transportation was concerned, that was my only option.

“Good. I'll trust you to get there, then. I left my cell number on the fridge.” She looked at me uncomfortably. “Just....give me a call if you need anything. Okay?”

I nodded wordlessly, although I couldn't imagine what kind of help she could offer when she would be a half an hour's drive away from me. It was like I was being shipped away to some far-off place " Alcatraz; the Château d'If from the Count of Monté Cristo, maybe. Or a military academy. Wasn't there a West Point Military Academy somewhere in the States?

I kept my comments to myself so that Donna would finally leave me alone. When she hurried out the door, I stood rooted to the middle of the floor and glanced uncertainly around the house. The kitchen was small but cozy; a small round table with two chairs sat in the corner. On my left was a bar-style counter that contained the sink and Donna’s breakfast dishes from this morning. I hadn’t eaten any breakfast yet. Behind me was a hallway that continued into the living room, with a curving staircase on the right that led to two bedrooms and the bathroom I would share with my aunt.

It was a nice setup, I had to admit. And it was nicely furnished. But as far as I was concerned, the entire house was no different than my stomach. Rumbling…and completely empty.

The clock chimed once, startling me. I glanced up and realized that it was time to leave. The bright yellow monstrosity would be picking me up in five minutes.

Great. I was beginning to feel sick to my stomach again. As I looked at the front door, I realized what a mistake I’d made in criticizing Aunt Donna’s house. Compared to this new prep school, I had a feeling it was going to be the lesser of two very significant evils.

“Lord, help me,” I muttered to myself.

I heaved my backpack onto my shoulder and walked out the door.

Reviews

[Belator Books]

While I felt acute chagrin envelope me at seeing 'first person perspective', your dialog is good, snappy and you don't overdo it. Huzzah!

I do suggest that you re-write at least one chapter in second or third person, and then read it aloud to yourself. I am willing to bet good money that if you do so, you'll find the prose sounds more like a story, even a novel, instead of a page from a young girl's diary. While this is admittedly a bit more difficult in penning the expressions of the character and relaying their thoughts through body language and the choice of words, this particular ability divides the hobbyists from the serious writers. Third person perspective might suit you better than second, as you are able to convey more of the character's thoughts. I wrote 'Draw Me a Picture' in third person, simply for that reason.