The Obsidians

Chapter 3

I must have looked at my schedule at least fifteen times, using it as a shield against any conversation with Liam. However, the charade could only last so long. Eventually, I could no longer pretend to be either too dense to understand a simple sheet of paper or so fascinated by it that I preferred it to human interaction. Reluctantly, I looked up.

Liam sat behind a small wooden desk, engrossed in a book. I took the opportunity to study his features. His brow was furrowed, suggesting either confusion or displeasure with the text. His posture was slouched, his palm supporting his chin as he read. The soft flutter of turning pages punctuated the silence. The morning breeze wafted through the open window, tousling his dark hair and adding a touch of chaos to his otherwise composed appearance.

Abruptly, he snapped the book shut with a sigh. I still clutched the schedule in my hand, perched on the bed that I could now call mine. My bag lay on the floor beside me, its contents untouched. Unpacking could wait until later. For now, I was free until tomorrow.

"This story makes absolutely no sense," Liam declared, shaking his head as he pushed the book aside, placing it atop a stack of other new-looking volumes. "None. Zero. How can you expect the reader to understand what you mean when you don't even explain it?"

He seemed genuinely irritated, and I, who was supposedly the one with anger issues, briefly considered offering him a pill from my cursed orange bottle. I remained silent.

"Don't get me wrong. This author has written some good books, but that one," he pointed at the discarded book, "that one is a big no for me. I can't believe I have to finish it for class."

"What class?" I managed to ask, my voice drawing his attention.

"History of arts. It sounds interesting, but it's not, especially now that we have the old knucklehead Mr. Luvei. He can't even maintain eye contact for more than two seconds."

For once, I felt grateful that Helen Jones had steered me towards psychology instead of the Art program. From what the principal had mentioned about my head teacher, Mrs. Denver, she seemed much more competent than this Mr. Luvei. I gave Liam a raise of my eyebrows and a nod, hoping he'd take it as a sign of agreement and not press further.

But he did not. "Honestly, Juliett once told me—she's a year ahead of me—that he once fell asleep during his own lecture. I don't know about you, but that just shows how boring his classes are."

"Sure," I mumbled, suddenly fascinated by my feet.

"Yeah, lucky you're not in my class. Anyway, where's your first class tomorrow?"

A question. How I loathed them. I glanced down at the schedule again, feeling embarrassed now that it was obvious I had been staring at it just to avoid Liam's gaze. "Um, classroom number 105?"

Liam leaned forward in his chair. "Oh yeah? That's fine then. It's in the building right across from the dorms, first floor. You can't miss it; all the rooms are labeled, so you'll be alright."

"Building across the dorms, first floor, labeled classrooms," I repeated mentally to make sure I remembered.

"Thanks," I said.

Liam turned back to his stack of books, staring at them. It was clear he didn't want to continue with the book he had just put down, but he seemed to have no choice. After a brief pause, he reopened it, frowning. For the first time since I arrived, I felt a peculiar sensation, like perhaps, just perhaps, I could actually have a friend.