Star Flies

Chapter 1

Alina hummed to an old classic blasting through her headphones. Her eyes were trained on a lady clad in black gloves and a dark grey coat that looked like the skin of a carcass, as if the sun wasn't hot enough. Her mother, Mrs. Cunningham. Her hair was pulled up in a stiff bun and her forehead reflected sunlight. She had the faintest trace of a smile on her face. Alina rolled her eyes.

Mrs. Cunningham conversed with the school mistress, a gentlewoman so tall she dwarfed Alina's mother. The mistress didn't seem so much older, but her straw, blonde hair had begun greying around the edges. Their conversation soon bored Alina, as did many things. She turned around and made a sweeping search. Students filed in and out of a sprawling three-story building, looking all prim and proper. Some hung around a water fountain, taking in the splendid view of gurgling water, while others just strolled in the garden.

Although it was the last place she wanted to be, this would be her life for eternity. Alina heaved a sigh, with tears wetting the corner of her eyes. She furiously wiped it away and her lips stretched into a thin smile. Her mother waved, calling for her attention, so Alina removed her headphones from her ears and hung it around her neck. The mistress held out a hand. Alina looked at the hand stretched out to her, and back up at the Mistress's straight face, before shaking her head. Anything to get the ball rolling.

"Come on, Alie. This is going to be your new home. You can't afford to start making enemies with the owner." Her mother's voice was stern, making Alina scrunch her face. She hated the voice, like a crawling on her skin—just like she hated the nickname she had been given. Alie.

"It's okay, miss. You've done a great job bringing her. I'll take it from here." The mistress tried to smother the hurt. She touched Alina's shoulder. "I'm Mrs. Poll by the way."

Alina shrugged her hand off but didn't say a word. There were a couple of jokes she could make about it, like how the mistress's name was fitting because she was slender and tall. Like a pole. But she swallowed them. It was such "bad behaviour" that got her there in the first place.

"Alright. I beg to take my leave," her mother said, pulling her bag up her arm. "I've got some work to do. I can only hope your methods are as effective as they say." Mrs. Cunningham shook hands with Mrs. Poll—the handshake lasted longer than it should, and for a moment it seemed like they exchanged a smile too—then she turned to smile at her daughter, lean and kiss her forehead.

"Be a good girl," Alina's mother muttered, smoothening the collar of her dress. Her statement was supposed to be a bit assuring, however, it sounded more like a threat. Alina stared with glazed eyes, just waiting for the day to be over, and then, many more days after that.

"Of course, I assure you. She'll be better in no time," Mrs. Poll said the minute she stepped away from her. Her fingers were entwined at her back, like a teacher would when scolding a kid.

Soon, Mrs. Cunningham waved one last time and walked away to a limousine waiting outside the school gate. Mrs. Poll's brittle smile vanished and her cheeks now looked sunken. Alina released her clenched fingers, trying to keep her heartbeat steady. Just get through this, her mind echoed.

"Shall we? I'll be your tour guide for today." Mrs. Poll nodded at polished steel doors, leading into the building. "Tomorrow, I'll send someone in." Her tone was icy, bearing no emotion. She grabbed a wooden cane that had been leaning on the door.

Alina simply gave a curt nod. Her throat was clogged, making it difficult to talk.

Mrs. Poll led Alina through so many hallways, Alina didn't think she could find her way out anymore if she wanted to flee. There was really no backing out now. The hallways were narrow, but wide enough for two slender people to walk side by side. Mrs. Poll's heeled shoes knocked the floors, while Alina's slippers slapped behind her, and those were the only sounds that filled the hallways. Sometimes, Mrs. Poll tapped her cane on the wall. The walls were newly painted, with fine burgundy and faint splatters of red blended in. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, sparkling like electricity, reflecting sunlight that poured in through the arched windows. Sometimes, the light got in her eyes and she would have to look away.