The Disaffected

CHAPTER I

I arrived at Brooks University during the particularly cold fall of 2014. It was not my first choice, but the ivy leagues had turned me down and I did not wish to attend any of the Southern universities that had accepted me, so I drove four hours up from my home in San Francisco to the modest, rural community of Brooks. Nothing besides a simple process of elimination had guided my decision, I hadn't even passed through this part of California before. Though today, I learned all I was missing was a handful of battered strip malls and water-starved, golden yellow pastures. When I turned the corner and saw a cow pen on my left, and a precarious, shingled building resembling a large barn to my right, I knew that I had made a tremendous mistake.

I pulled my car into the parking lot and sat for a moment with the engine running. My visions of university had always included ivy covered gothic buildings and deferential, green-bronze statues of forgotten university presidents. Another glance at the brown building purported to be my dorm caused my stomach to buck and churn. It was on this day that I should have listened to the whispering subconscious voice in the back of my head. She warned me that this was not a virtuous place, that something not quite right dwelled within the ill-maintained walls of Brooks. If I had listened to my own warnings, I am sure that my story would have had a much different ending.

I stepped out of the car and opened the trunk. Inside were three aluminum suitcases. They rested like a set of Russian nesting dolls, each one larger than the last. I had lined them up perfectly in the trunk like I had seen done so in an ad I once came across in a magazine.

"Nice car."

I turned around, trying to locate the voice, until my eyes fell upon a tall, lanky, chocolate haired boy. He was dressed entirely in black, and his long legs in his black jeans made him look stretched out somehow, as if he were someone's shadow and not capable of casting his own.

The shadow stepped closer to me. "You don't see too many 230SL's in this great condition."

I remained silent, I hated talking cars, especially when it was about mine.

"1967?" he continued, inching closer to the car, "Love the color, Mercedes always look great in green,"

"1966," I corrected him and stepped back, letting him run his hand over the dark green body. It was a very particular green, British Racing Green. I don't remember where I had heard of this color, but I knew that it was the only one I wanted on a car. I had hinted this to my parents a few years ago and next Christmas, my car was waiting for me in the driveway with a matching, oversized ribbon on top.

"I'm Seb," he held out his right hand.

"Freya," I replied. He gave my hand a firm, friendly shake.

"Which dorm are you in?"

"Riordan Hall, I think I'm room 336."

"Oh great, I'm on the same floor," he looked at my lined up suitcases, "need any help?"

I paused for a second, evaluating if this was a good idea or not. After a moment of deciphering his clear, well intentioned eyes, I nodded and followed the shadow towards the dorms as he carried my bags.

"Did you drive up by yourself?" Seb asked.

"Yea, I'm only a few hours away so it wasn't that bad," I was hoping he would steer the conversation elsewhere. I had no desire to explain why my parents weren't accompanying me on my first day of university. My mind began to go to that unfortunate conversation four months ago when I told my parents that I would be attending Brooks.

We were all in the big marble kitchen back home, eating croissants from Arsicault and making large, steaming pots of dark roast Peet's coffee in the Chemex like we did every Sunday. I wiped the flakey remnants of croissant off my mouth with the back of my hand and looked up at my parents; my father was mindlessly staring at his iPad, and my mother was filling the blender with a variety of strange green and blue powders, like some healthy chemistry experiment.