St. Văduva's School for Prestigious Girls

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕹𝖎𝖓𝖊

Her eyes rolled in her skull, eyes fluttering as she came back into her body, the haze lifting slowly but surely. Like before, she held onto an iota of thought, tearing into it as it rose out of the fog of her mind. Her heavy eyes were met with an unfamiliar ceiling, and she jolted to attention, ready to leap from where she lay, but a hand gently held her down.

"Shh, it's okay," they whispered. "Just stay down. You passed out."

Temperance rotated her head to see a familiar blonde girl with a pixie haircut. She sat beside Temperance on a stool, her eyes wide and worried. If she remembered correctly, her name started with a Z.

Temperance groaned as her nausea bubbled up in her and threatened to overflow. She slung an arm over her belly, ignoring the pixie-girl's instructions. She sat up, wavering slightly, but leaning against a salmon-colored wall with diagrams of the human body. The sickbed was shrouded in a yellow curtain, allowing Temperance and the blonde to sit comfortably in a semi-hidden private room.

"How do you feel?" the blonde asked.

"Like shit," she said. She winced at the sound of her voice — rough, ragged. Like her tongue was nothing but desert sand — dry and scratchy and in need of an oasis. "Want some water, though."

The girl — Zhanna, that was her name — jerked to attention, nearly falling from her seat as she searched her immediate area, snatching up a water bottle and offering it to Temperance.

Temperance took hold of it, immediately cracking the lid open and softly guzzling it. The water revived her tongue, giving her some cooling clarity. She wondered how long she was out. Her eyes lazily drifted over to a gap in the curtain, rimmed glowing white with natural sunlight streaming through. It was still day. That was good. At least she did not lose too much time.

She gulped the water, mildly taken aback by a distinct flavor heavy on her tongue. It was almost smokey and spicy, like the way whiskey tastes without the overwhelming bitterness. Her face scrunched up as she withdrew the bottle from her lips, tasting the flavor as her tongue rolled around in her mouth. She held the bottle to the light, not seeing any issue with the water quality.

She frowned. There was only one explanation. Her tumor was affecting the nerves that made her recognize taste. She scowled, setting the water down on the bed.

"Um," Zhanna squeaked. "Is the water bad?"

"It's whatever."

Suddenly the curtain was ripped back, the metal loops squealing as they slid against the curtain rod. Temperance flinched at the sound, turning to the source of the noise. A few people stood there, their faces worried. The one at the forefront who held open the curtain was a tall woman. Her skin was such a stark alabaster that Temperance wondered if it was white paint. Her wardrobe was all navys and midnight hues all wrapped into a sensible blouse and pencil skirt. Her dark hair was coifed carefully, and her lipstick was a bright, cherry red.

In fact, as she took in the faces of everyone else, she noticed just how perfect everyone looked. Two other people stood at the back of the crowd. The first one was bald, bearing a full face of glamorous makeup and light scruff on their deliberately carved jawline. Lips, eyelashes, contour — the whole nine yards. They looked airbrushed, like a movie star in their blinding white pantsuit and dangling golden earrings. They fiddled with their long nails, tapping their heels on the tile below, as though impatient having to be there.

The second one was like a Calvin Klein model with his chiseled cheekbones and deep, smoldering eyes. His dark complexion shone cooly beneath the lights. His hair was saved close to the scalp, boxing in his angular features all the more. He was gorgeous, even in his lime green tracksuit and white undershirt. But he still could not hold a candle to the man that had helped her on the staircase—

Temperance's eyes widened slightly as she remembered the event. The man. The one with the blue eyes. Where was he? Did he just drop her off and leave her?

"Temperance," the woman said, drawing the sickly girl's attention before it could wander any further. "I'm Ottilie Jennings, dean of students. How are you doing? I understand you fainted."

Temperance dipped her head. "Just my jetlag, I'm sure. I'm fine."

Ottilie frowned. "Jetlag doesn't make one faint, dear."

"Vertigo, then. Or maybe I picked up a bug. Can I go now? I want to go back to my room." She was more annoyed than anything about this situation. It felt like she was being ganged up on somehow, as it seemed that they were all here to bare witness to the woman who fainted and was subsequently caught on the staircase by a staff member. No one wanted to be here, eager to leave. She could tell by the wandering eyes, the impatient foot taps. But she supposed it was either she fainted here or at home where Constance would realize that something was up.

"It's wise for you to stay put," the Calvin Klein model said. His voice was deep, the light growl made it almost threatening. "You may not have hit your head, but fainting is a serious problem."

But Temperance heard nothing of it, as she swung her legs over the side of the cot, and stood. Several sets of concerned hands reached out, concerned and waiting for the girl to tumble straight into their arms. A look of relief plastered over their faces when Temperance remained steady on her feet. She immediately tried to bypass the bystanders, but Zhanna stopped her hesitantly.

"T-Temperance, I think you should listen—"

"Are we done here?" Temperance interjected. "Seriously, I'm fine. I just want to go back to my dorm."

Ottilie studied her with a scrutinizing glare, as though searching for weakness before her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Fine. You're free to go. Just stop at the nurse's desk and sign out."

"Got it."

Temperance shouldered past the crowd, peering around the quaint nurse's office, noting the cute needlepoint work on the walls, the religious iconography collecting dust where they hung, high on the walls. The nurse was stationed over by what she assumed was the exit, hidden behind a cherrywood desk.

An older woman, but certainly someone who was a looker back in the day. Her hair was slowly shifting into white, like how the seasons shifted from autumn to winter. Her bright baby blues sparkled upon seeing Temperance walking to the sign-out sheet. The older woman said nothing as Temperance approached. Thank whichever God was listening. 

Putting the pen to the page, she wrote her name in the section labeled: CHECK OUT.

Just as she turned to leave, the older woman's hand gently wrapped around Temperance's thin wrist. "Come back if you need it, love." She released Temperance, urging her with a raised finger to stay a moment and reaching for a paper pad with neat calligraphy curling around the center of the page. "And here — a note excusing you from the class you missed."

Temperance found herself smiling at the gesture. She could care less what her grades or academic life were like, but this older woman reminded her of her late grandmother.

"Thank you," she said. "I appreciate it."

She left the nurse's and headed straight across the narrow hall, entering the Student Resource Office and completing her ID photo. She got herself a cup of coffee from the dining hall, and went back to her dorm, where — even after downing burnt caffeine like it was the cure to her ailment — she promptly fell asleep, headache strangely ebbing away into a bizarre numbness.