aesthetic

two

Sunday was pretty uneventful. Calum and I texted a bit, I unpacked some more, argued with my brother about which room was who's, and then Michael and I went dye shopping, but that's really all that happened. Whenever I asked about Luke, Michael would change the subject and Calum (when we texted) wouldn't answer. It was pretty frustrating.

Monday morning is the bane of my existence. I have to wake up at four thirty because my hair takes forever to do and for some reason the bathroom mirror is really fücking tall and I'm.. 5'1 I believe. I wasn't finished till six.

Finding my school wasn't very difficult. The school was just down the road, like most other things. It wasn't very obvious that it was a school; only the sign, which declared it to be Sydney High School, made me stop. It sort of looked like a collection of matching houses, built with maroon-colored bricks.

I park by the first building, which reads 'Front Office'. No one else is parked here, and maybe that's because I came early, but I assume it's off limits. Teacher parking? I step unwillingly out of the cool, air conditioned car into the blistering heat that was Australia, and walked down a little stone path lined with rocks, each one varying in size. I take a deep breath before opening the door.

Inside, it is brightly lit, and cooler than I expected. The office is small; a little waiting area with wood folding chairs, purple matte commercial carpet, notices and awards cluttering the walls, a big clock ticking loudly. Rocks and colored sand jars are placed everywhere, as if there wasn't enough outside already. The room is cut in half by a long granite counter, cluttered with wire baskets full of papers and brightly lit colored flyers taped to their fronts. There are four desks behind the counter, one of which is manned by a tiny, gray haired woman wearing glasses. She is wearing a floral tye dye dress.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

"I'm Kylie. Kylie Montgomery?" I inform her, and see the immediate awareness light her eyes.

"Yes, of course," she says. She digs through a precariously stacked pile of documents on her desk till she finds the ones she's looking for. "I have your schedule right here, and a map for the school." She brings several sheets to the counter to show me.

She goes through my classes for me, highlighting the best route to each on the map, and gives me a slip to have each teacher sign, which I am to bring back at the end of the day. She smiles at me. I smile back. Which is more of a grimace because I am, indeed, a troll. And a potato. A troll potato. Potato troll? Whatever.

When I go back out to my car, other students are starting to arrive. I drive around the school, following the line of traffic. I am glad to see that most of the cars are older, like mine, nothing flashy.

I look at the map in my car, trying to memorize it now; hopefully I won't have to walk around with it stuck in front of my nose all day. I stuff everything my bag, sling the strap over my shoulder, and suck in a huge breath.

I can do this.

I finally exhale and step out of my car.

I look down at the sidewalk, which is crowded with teenagers. My all black outfit unfortunately stands out, along with my lilac hair, which is pulled into a messy bun. I didn't bother with too much makeup this morning; I'm wearing a bit of mascara and eyeshadow, but nothing extravagant. Too much makeup makes me break out.

Once I get around the cafeteria, my first class, in building 'b', is easy to spot. A large black 'b' is painted on a white square in the east corner. I feel my breathing gradually creep toward hyperventilation as I approach the door.

The classroom is small.

I take my slip to the teacher, a tall, young woman with bleached hair and botoxed lips, who's desk identifies her as Mrs. Carson. She sends me to an empty desk at the back of the class, thankfully without introducing me. I keep my eyes down at the reading list the teacher gave me. It's fairly basic; Brontë, Shakespeare, Chaucer, Falkner. I'd studied this last year. That is comforting to me. At least I'll know everything. I wonder if I still have all my old essays.. and if my mom would let me use them, or if she would think that was cheating. I go through different arguments with her in my head while the teacher drones on.