The Corburn Line

Chapter 1 | April 20th

Fridays were routine. The end of the week usually meant that I’d spent the last four nights almost deprived of sleep, and most of the girls at Tindall Ladies’ College were the same. The teachers seemed to accept it, probably being exhausted too. At any rate, they weren’t as strict as most other days. So every Friday plodded on, until the final period where the pre-weekend high kicked in, meaning there was absolutely no hope of getting any work done.

Once the final bell had rung, and every girl had called out in the locker room to wish everyone a good weekend, I’d make my daily trudge through the business section of Tindall to the train station. I’d always just miss the 3:10 to Corburn, meaning I’d wait another half an hour for the next on my line to come. The only variation to that was where I’d wait; sometimes I’d grab something to eat and sit for a while, or maybe stop at the newsstand to read the city’s crappy paper to waste time. Usually though, I’d make my way down to Platform 2 and sit mindlessly refreshing Facebook until the train arrived.

Fridays were a routine that hadn’t been broken in over three years of high school, and I fully expected them to continue in exactly the same fashion until I graduated the next year. I could already see myself graduating. Same dark brown hair, same grey eyes, same average figure. Liz McCarthy: totally predictable.

Predictability’s underrated.

On the particular Friday when Luke Arany first made his appearance on the Corburn line, predictability initially worked very well. When the train arrived, there was me standing up, hoisting my bag over my shoulder, hat in hand, stepping quickly down the platform to where the end carriage – the one I always rode in so I wouldn’t have to walk as far when I got home – would come to a rest.There was me politely waiting for the adults to get on first, and then stepping up lightly into the carriage.

Luckily, the fact that I had missed the earlier train usually meant that the student rush hour had died down slightly. Careful not to swing my bag into anyone’s face, I cast my eyes around to see if there was a spare seat anywhere. I’d need it: it was an hour home.

The train crowd varied more than a school bus, obviously. Sure, there were students I saw every day on the platform, but no one I knew particularly. Since most of them lived in the outer suburbs of Tindall; I didn’t really try to get to know them. A daily fifteen minute conversation would be pretty pointless. There were several workers who travelled at generally the same time each day, too, and the average commuter, but the train was mainly made up of students from both Tindall Ladies’ and the other schools in the city; mainly our brother school St Ronan’s.

Ronan’s boys had all the characteristics of their mascot. Don’t ask me why a school that was the definition of masculine decided to represent themselves with a seal, but they’d made the right choice. It suited them better than any other animal ever could.

When a Ronan’s boy walked into a room, they just had the effect, and they knew it. It was the grey blazer with red piping, and the red and black striped tie which was the perfect mix between ‘I threw this on as I l rushed out the door’ and ‘I understand the importance of good dress’. Without fail they looked, as my best friend Bonnie would say, “Quite smashing”.

Bonnie liked to pretend she was an English gentlemen playing croquet on the lawn of his estate. Or maybe she just wanted to be Nigel Thornberry.

I guess the awe of the world towards St Ronan’s – and don’t for a second think that I was immune to it – came from the fact that although seals are pretty cute; they’re strong and athletic looking, and kind of mysterious. They might be able to sit around on rocks all day looking magnificent and somewhat languid, but they're ridiculously fast, and no one would voluntarily cross them.