Black Sheep

Seraph

"And this, hun", Stella places a box on my floor with a loud thud. "Is the last one."

She dusts her hands before plopping herself on my four-poster canopy bed. The dorms are more like mini flats. Trust me, there's even a kitchen and living room. My room is massive, there's a huge bed, two side tables, a dresser, a wardrobe, a shelf, and a desk. From what the secretary told me, students are allowed to re-design their own dorms. Perks of being on top of the food chain, I guess. 

"Dorm mate?" Stella asks, leaning on her elbows. She's clad in warm blue corduroy overall dress, her blond hair is spilling out of her messy bun and there's a silver chain dangling from her neck. 

I shrug. "Never showed up as yet." At A-List Academy we weren't given our own dorms, we had to share however dorm mates were given their own privacy by the school creating two rooms inside each dorm. "I'm sharing with Victoria Hemingsway and she's MIA. Who are you sharing with?"

I shrug, opening a box of my books and arranging them on the shelf. I gotta give my OCD credit for cleaning up this mess. It looks as if I've just moved continents with the number of boxes littering my room. 

The good part: they're mostly books. 

The bad part: I don't have enough space. 

Is it just me or does every bookworm have storage space problems? And don't even suggest buying ebooks, I love my paperbacks. They're ideal to chuck against the wall when you're beginning to hate the protagonist. I mean, if I chucked my iPad around because I'm mad at the author for writing such intriguing, enraging conflicts, I'd have to buy a new iPad every day. 

"What's this?" Stella asks as she begins to examine one of my notebooks. She flips through the pages, sometimes her eyes crinkle as she smiles, other times her mouth widens in shock. (I'm hoping it's the good kind.) 

"This is amazing B", she yells, dangling the notebook in my face. It's my fashion designing sketches. Just random clothes I doodle on croquis. "Thanks", I tuck a loose strand of my hair behind my ear, flustered. 

"No! This phenomenal!" She shrieks, entwining our hands as she jumps in glee. "This town needs a boutique. Those crappy branded clothing stores at the mall and tacky thrift stores are stale!"

"Okay...", I trail off. "When did you start drawing? Like OMG, do you know how to stitch? Can you design our prom dresses, please!? When I become a news anchor, journalist, and reporter, you hun will be styling all my clothes!!"

I nod as she continues attacking me with questions. Fashion designing has always been my hobby. Ever since my accident, the minute I put pen to paper, my mind wanders off and I end up drawing unimaginable things, creative, beautiful things. It's like Pablo Picasso decided to inhabit my body for that period. Naturally, I assumed that before I lost my memory, drawing was my hobby therefore I sketch as much as I can, and God! Do I love drawing clothes? My aunt taught me how to stitch and I even got to intern at her friend's boutique when I stayed at her place with Aussie. Ever since I've designed, stitched, buttoned, and knitted nearly half my closet. 

"Yes, I do know how to stitch and yes, I'd love to design our prom outfits", I affirm, before getting back to unpacking. 

She throws her arm around my neck, squealing. "I love you!!!" 

~*~

I stretch my limbs, throwing away the last empty cardboard box. After an hour and a half of tedious unpacking, I am finally done! Stella is long gone, something in between the lines of 'Preventing-Sammy-from-burning-down-the-school'. I stop at the vending machine, paying for a ginger-ale.