𝓦𝓲𝓵𝓵 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓫𝓮 𝓶𝓲𝓷𝓮 • 𝓐 𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓼𝓮 𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓻𝔂

Chapter 2 - Cornwall

Shutting the door to the car for probably the last time in what would feel like a century, I gazed over the elaborate building before me. This was mad. What on earth was I doing here? I'd decided to leave my family, come to a place which couldn't be further from where I lived and didn't know anyone here. Good one, Penelope. The cool wind pushed my neglected bangs back in unison to my thoughts, agreeing to the crazy dream like situation this was.

Ben and my mum both shut the boot of the car - a sound which enhanced the pivotal air of this moment - carrying as much as they could in their arms, crayoned suitcases in either hand from where I discovered art as a toddler, taking all my creativity out on any bag I could find in the hopes of making it as a prodigy in the industry.

"Good to see you're being helpful." 

I knew Ben was trying to be funny but whenever he tried, it just came out as outright rude. Sweat was already pooling around his armpits, leaking like a wildfire toward his chest area. Mum knew how I felt about his comment and so she gave him a punch on the arm with one of the smaller linen handbags she was holding. At least she understood how much I detested him.

"Honey, not the time for jokes. Anyway... on the email it says to go to the front office, which isss...?"

Twirling around in complements to her phone maps, her boney hands lay still in the air, confidently pointing in every direction in attempting the peacekeeper attitude of the group.

We all looked around, completely lost in the towering collage campus around us. 

"That way!"

She was trying to sound as if she knew this place back to front already, when really she was just trying to make me less worried. Me and Ben followed behind her, Ben scuffing his feet against the rocky ground - something I always found quite irritating. That awkward thing with him trying to act like a father happening again: a chummy stride within about 2 meters of my own walk in a protective manner. No way that was going to happen.

"So...."

"Just- don't. I know what you're trying to do," I interrupted.

I winced at the sharpness of my own words - my eye twitching slightly before hiding a side look to read his facial expression. I don't know why I tried, to be honest. He constantly carried numb eyebrows that never hesitate, something of a great poker face.

He nodded in agreement and we both decided to remain in silence for the rest of the journey to the office, wading through various packs of students on their way to their next lesson, glaring at me as if I was bait on a hook. Mum did infact lead us in the right direction: a small win for the day I expected to be highly disappointing with an inexperienced and way-too-innocent-for-her-age girl like me. It was like Year 3 all over again; joining a new school - the strong social anxiety hitting me hard, like I was sinking into the path beneath me without anyone noticing.

We made our way to an oak reception desk, detailed with small flowers engraved on the edges of the wood. The rest of the room was styled with a blossom tree wallpaper alongside the rare bluetit and woodpecker in front of a turquoise backdrop, a good distraction technique for those in the waiting area. The seats you usually see in posh hotels were dotted around: circular in shape and sliced into thirds so each seat was private, cushioned with the finest turin fabric to match the walls and prime wool stuffing (at least I assumed, considering there was no thread loose to even try and see the contents of the plump chair). Golden studs lined the joints of the wood and textile - it's glisten emitting through the room with a warm cream tone to twin the main lighting from the intricate chandeliers above.

"Hello there! We're here to check in? My daughter's new here." 

Looking at me and dragging me over to the desk, my eyes rose from the strong red carpet below, again lined with gold to reveal  dark wooden paneling underneath. Mum made out like it was such a big deal I was here. The receptionist clearly didn't care. Her half maroon dyed and half grey hair was in a tight bun and she had a pair of rectangular small glasses placed on her nose just below her eyes, shielding the speckles of freckles below which seemed to be her only lively feature left, attached to a string which went around her neck against a rosy chain connecting to a crucifix. A poor attempt at lipstick meant that she had overlined her lips, making more obvious the shriveled wrinkles that grew each time she concentrated on typing with her talons for nails.