The Girl That Got Away

School Uniforms and Emily Gilmore

Dreading the  start of the pretentious prep school, I stood propped against the doorway, clad in stiff, uncomfortable fabric reminiscent of a Catholic school uniform. As my sister pleaded with our mother to wake up, I found myself, for once, grateful for our lateness.

I absentmindedly fiddled with the thin, stringy friendship bracelet that Rory had made for me years ago. While my grades were strong enough to gain admission to the rigorous Chilton Academy, I knew I was not the same caliber of student as my sister.

The highly uncomfortable shoes, combined with that fact, definitely did not make me fond of the idea. According to my mom, factors that influenced borrowing money from my grandparents included Friday dinners and my attendance at Chilton. Apparently, my grandparents saw it as a way to "keep me in line," as I'm too much like my mother for their liking.

As my mother tumbled down the stairs, her outfit was quite unusual.

"Are you wearing cowgirl boots?" I inquired

"We're going to be late," Rory complained.

"Mom can't go out dressed like that," I said as we hurried out the door.

The imposing, gloomy Chilton campus lacked any sense of fun or creativity as we exited the Jeep and made our way inside, doing our best to ignore the curious stares from other parents and students before heading to the headmaster's office.

Surprisingly, Emily Gilmore, the high-strung matriarch with an excessive fondness for hairspray, was sitting and having tea with the elderly gentleman.

Mom asked, "What are you doing here?"

"Headmaster Charleston and I are old friends," she quipped as she eyed my slightly modified uniform. "Why is Chrissy's skirt so short?"

"I just hemmed it," I said. "It's within the dress code."

She simply rolled her eyes and went on to endorse Rory as if he were a prized cow.

Now, when I say Chilton is fancy, it's fancy, there's pillars and everything. My classes were slightly different from Rory's. I was taking French and a few arts classes along with my core courses, and that made it just a little bit better.

"Welcome to visual arts class," said Miss Henry, a young woman in her mid-twenties with short auburn hair. On the first day, we began with some simple sketching and basic exercises. Miss Henry quickly became my favorite teacher. I even was extended an invitation to an art group, which I accepted gratefully.

Lunch was good and my art friends invited me to sit at their table. I felt bad at first seeing Tory reading alone, but I knew she enjoyed the quiet so I didn't bother.

My day was going smoothly until a forceful shoulder slammed into mine, scattering pencils and papers in all directions. "Watch where you're going," he said gruffly, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine. Those same eyes that saved me from a night of terror.

"Tristan, right?" I said apologetically as I gathered the last loose paper and stood up. "I'm really sorry, I zoned out there for a moment." He scratched the back of his head and replied, "No, it was totally my fault. I didn't know you went to school here"

"I just started, Is it always so gloomy?" I asked as the bell rang, signaling our now lateness.

"Not with the right people." With a smile, he walked away, but not before turning back in the empty hall. "I'm having a party this weekend at my place - booze and stuff. You should come," he called out, then turned back around.

"I don't know your place" I shouted back.

"I'll call you, Pixie" I smiled.

"You don't have my number"

"I'll get it to you alright?"

"You better"