Across the Hall

1

Chapter One
Violet

It had been a decade since I'd seen my parents.

Ten years. One hundred and twenty-nine months. Five hundred and sixty weeks. Three thousand nine hundred-something days.

Ten years of checking the mail for a small postcard, with my dad's signature on the back to let me know where he had traveled to that month. Ten years of wondering on what corner of the earth he had stashed my mother, and why he refused to tell me where she was. Why everyone who could possibly know, refused to tell me where she was.

Ten years of eating uncle Simon's lasagna because it was all he really knew how to cook, and falling asleep on the couch watching nature documentaries together. Ten years of organizing school events with Beatrice and dreaming about Oxford or Harvard, or some other old, prestigious school that I desperately yearned to be a part of.

But today was different. I didn't check the mail for a postcard, or wonder about my mom's whereabouts, or worry over tasteless lasagna and organizing events.

Today— was the first day of my second semester of junior year. It was the most important day of my high school career as of yet. Because I was finally going to show the world why I, Violet Hayal, deserved the ticket to Westcotte more than the perfect and pristine Olivia Bake.

"You ready?" Beatrice asked me, her eyes warm gazing my way. Her copper red hair fell in long waves down her shoulders. I realized then how much I liked it when she wore her hair down, as she so rarely did.

"You should keep your hair like this," I said, knowing she'd probably tie it up into a bun soon enough.

She rolled her eyes playfully, tossing her red locks behind her shoulder. "Nah, it gets too hot wearing it down. And quit avoiding the topic!"

"I'm not!" I forced out a chuckle, as she pulled open the school door and held it for me.

"Look, it's fine if you're nervous. I'd be nervous too," Beatrice smiled, joining my side as we entered the main hall. "I just...," she slowed, and then turned to face me. "Is it bad that a part of me wishes the scholarship will go to Olivia? I just really don't want you to leave me," her face fell into a look of sadness, and I understood completely where she was coming from.

I grabbed her shoulders, giving her a small but hopeful shake. "I'll write to you every week, and call every day. And I'll visit on the holidays, and you can come visit too! I'm sure you'd love Massachusetts."

Beatrice scoffed, rolling her eyes again. "Sure. The cold weather, the orange leaves, the smell of old money in the air. Sounds fun!" Her tone was laced with sarcasm, and I ignored it as I looped my arm around hers and we pushed down the hall.

Soon after, I spotted Olivia— standing only a few feet away by her locker. The moment her gaze met mine she stiffened like a board. Her face washed with an intense look, and there was a challenge in her eyes that I recognized all too well.

For the last decade, since I'd moved to California, it was Olivia Bake who had earned the role of being my rival. On the soccer field, in the art studio, on the theater stage, in every class we shared. She seemed to constantly ride my heels, always one step behind me. If I slipped up for even a moment— she'd be ahead.

And that, I couldn't have.

I swallowed hard, tearing my eyes away from her and continuing on toward my own locker. "I wonder what Olivia's prepared for the interview?" I tried to shake the doubt off my shoulders, along with the imminent fear of her preparation being more thorough than mine.