Lorelie vs the Life of Summer Rose

Chapter 18

I step in through the door. The Headmaster holds out her hand when Summer moves to do the same.

"Not you, Miss Inoue," she says, stiff. "I asked for Miss Lacsamana first."
I look at Summer. Summer looks at me.

The door shuts in her face before we can even say goodbye, much less debate about it. It starts to feel like I'm being held prisoner more than I'm being interviewed. I watch, my back pressed against the wall, as the Headmaster rounds her desk and returns herself to her seat, gesturing to one of the two chairs across it.

"Sit," she orders. I don't hesitate. I'm sitting within the next second, much less gracefully than I intended. "My name is Headmaster Ramirez."

"I'm—"

" — Aware," Headmaster Ramirez finishes, and holds out her hand. I take it. The entire time I'm biting my tongue, somewhat embarrassed but also confused. Extremely confused. What does she want from me? What kind of don't-speak-unless-spoken-to law is this? "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," I say. It feels like my mouth is dry.

"I understand you... landed... quite recently," Headmaster Ramirez says, her mouth twisting to the side like the word 'landed' has left an odd aftertaste. "What do you know about this school?"
"I've done a little research," I start.

"Have you?"
"Yes. Emphasis on a little, though, because I don't have my own phone yet, let alone access to a computer." I swallow. "But I do know that Canterbury College is quite prestigious. It houses some of the most intelligent students and also many children of high-profile social figures."

"You have done your research." Oddly, she doesn't sound impressed at all. If anything, she sounds bored. And bored is not good. "So you understand."

"I... Suppose so." I don't understand at all. "By the way, will I be doing the exam here in your office?"

The headmaster ignores me. "Canterbury College only accepts the best."

"Yes."

"We accept nothing less." Her eyes narrow. "Do you understand?"
I nod. "Yes ma'am."

I can't decide whether she's telling me to keep my expectations to a minimum or to have them, and just make sure they aren't positive. Either way, I feel trapped. This room feels tiny. The exam— whenever that is— feels daunting, like a knife offered up on a silver platter meant for me to take my own life. Maybe she's condemned me to fail, but it's almost like succeeding in securing a place here is just as good as that. Failing. It's like I'm doomed either way.

I wonder what's going on behind that sharp, imposing look. I wonder what she sees when she looks at me, and what it is that she scrutinises that makes me feel so small, so ridiculous in her grand office in my second-hand clothes, clothes I was proud of and made me feel good just seconds ago when I was anywhere but here. I wonder if she wonders about my background. If I was rich or poor. Smart or dumb. Pitiful or pitiless. I know she certainly doesn't feel the former, because someone who pitied me wouldn't look at me like I'm a rat that climbed my way out of the sewers.

I'm not sure if I want to go here, anymore.

Does she look at everyone like this?
"So—" she waves her hands. "What were your interests?"

Is this an interview? Since when was I doing an interview?

I clear my throat. "Well... I've always been interested in English. That was my special interest before everything happened. I wanted to be a writer."

"A writer."

"A fiction writer," I say, feeling myself start to sweat. I bunch up my skirt in my hands and remind myself to breathe. "I entered and won a few competitions, intended to get published one day. I was going to study it at university. I was also the editor of my own section of a local newspaper, which gave me a lot of opportunities and experiences and—"

She raises her brow. "A starving artist?"

"Something like that."
"And..." She looks me up and down. Again. "Fashion?"
My cheeks flame. "That's a hobby."

"Keep it as one."

I frown. "Wait—"

She clicks her pen. "Would you consider yourself a... groupie?"
"Pardon?"
"You are aware that there are many well-beloved social figures attending our school, some of which you may recognise. My concern is that given your... socio-economic background—" which I haven't told her, but she clearly has seemed to divulge on her own. "—you may struggle to treat them in a professional sense. These students specifically go to this school to avoid that treatment and be able to pursue a high-quality education. Groupie-behaviour is absolutely intolerable."

I swallow. I can't tell whether I'm more offended that she thinks so little of me or so shocked that this was the first thing she thought to ask of me. Either way, it's caught me completely off guard. I'm speechless.

"Do I have a reason to worry?" she reiterates, each syllable enunciated and spaced apart. I shake my head. Slowly, at first, then vigorously, both trying to chase away the horrified trance paralysing me and dispel any assumptions she may have made in the time I spent just staring at her.

"No, Headmaster."
"No?"

"Not at all." I readjust in my seat. "Besides, I don't know if you heard, but I have some... Amnesia. Or schizophrenia? No, that's not right. We haven't got a name for it yet."

Headmaster Ramirez sighs. "What exactly are you referring to?"

"Sorry, sorry." I comb my hands through my hair and give myself a moment to reset. "I meant that I don't know any of the celebrities here. So they're just as good as normal people."

"I'll have to take your word for it." Headmaster Ramirez scribbles across her page. "Your position here is conditional on your behaviour, Miss Lacamana."

"Yes. Understood." I pause. "It's also conditional on my performance on the exam, right?"

"Of course."

"Great."

From her drawer, she retrieves a booklet, then slides it beneath my nose. My heart stops in my chest. I look back up at her.

"In front of you?"

She laces her fingers together. "Is there a problem?"
"Uh..." I stare down at the booklet. It stares back at me. I try not to have a heart attack. Then I look up at the Headmaster, and I'm sure that's exactly what happens: I'm having a heart attack.

I don't know what I was expecting, but it definitely wasn't this.

I'd mentally prepared myself to be in a small room with a bunch of other prospective students, minding my own business and locked away in the safety of my own mind. But now I'm in front of her. I'm doing the test under her stern, hawk-eye gaze, quite literally only a desk's width apart.

I couldn't imagine a worse scenario than this.