At the End of the Pier

Houses and Reflections

The subway slows to a stop and I get off, walking up the staircase into the dreary world. It's still raining, so I pull on my hood. I check my phone. It's 8:23.

"Shit," I say under my breath. I'm late for school.

I jog on the sidewalk with the wind and rain in my face. I run up the steps to Barrington High. I take long strides, skipping every other step. I reach the top and swing open the huge glass doors. I'm greeted with a blast of warm air.

As I speed walk down the hall, I begin to hear the crisp voice of my biology teacher. I stop outside the door, and for a second I worry about all the stares and looks of disgust I'm going to get. I suck in a breath of air, and pull the door open.

The whole class is looking at me, and Mr. Kray is staring me down.
"May I ask why you are late, Miss Wilder?" He asks, cringing at my soaked figure.

"Sorry..." I manage to mumble, "the subway was crowded." I put my head down and walk to the back of the room. Mr. Kray is still looking at me above the tip of his square glasses. He nods to himself and carries on with his biology lecture.

• • •

After school it's still gloomy, but the rain had slowed to a drizzle. The hazy cloud cover is making the sky dark, and I can tell it's going to pour soon. On the subway, there's not many people.

As I gather my thoughts in my head, I realize that the strange boy wasn't on the bus right now, nor was he at my school. Maybe he didn't attend Barrington? Maybe he was just a trick that my mind played on me?

The train halts at my stop, and I snap back into reality. I quickly get off. I cross my arms over my chest and fiercely walk with my hoodie up, against the slight mist. I look up through the foggy cover for my home street.

In the middle of a row of houses stands mine. A little white house with a cherry red door. In our front yard stands the old oak tree that I used to climb and play on as a kid. The surrounding sidewalks are cracked and are filled with scattered weeds. The neighborhood has aged, but it looks good. Aging has made it look like an older British neighborhood.

I walk up the steps to my house,
and absentmindedly run my hand up the black metal railing.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five steps. I remember hopping up in these steps on one leg each and counting them at the same time. Those days were so easy. I didn't have any problems. Life was perfect.

• • •

I open the cherry red door to my house and run upstairs to my room. My room looks a lot like those cliche hipster rooms, but I love it. It's a loft room with a bathroom, too. My queen sized bed is opposite of my ceiling that is partially slanted (where it meets the wall) and I have a gigantic window next to my bed. It seems to overlook the rainy street.

I swing my bag into the floor, and instantly change into comfy sweats and fuzzy socks. I walk into the bathroom and take a peek in the mirror. Looking back at me is a seventeen year old girl with light blue eyes, dark eyebrows, pale lips, and long hair dark roots with sun highlights.

Me. Kate. I've always looked like this, but something seems off. I can't quite put my finger on it, but maybe it's not in my reflection.