The Back Stairwell

Prologue

It’s an unspoken rule in our high school: don’t go in the back stairwell. No one knows why, but everyone obeys it. My locker, Locker 213, is directly next to the wooden door that covers the hall to the back stairwell. It would be convenient to just go up those stairs instead of winding around the long way, but I do it anyway. Everyone does. That’s just how our high school works.

I was at my locker, putting on lipstick and fixing my straightened, blonde hair, only to look at my pink watch and realize that I was going to be tardy for class if I didn’t hurry. I slammed my locker shut and stopped, staring at that infamous wooden door that contained the mysterious back stairwell. I looked at my watch one more time and made my decision.

I opened the heavy wooden door with a creak. The lights were off, but the sun shone in, illuminating the small room. It looked like any other stairwell, except that it was abnormally clean (for a high school, anyway) and that the stairs were made entirely of glass. Instead of walls, there were large glass window panes. Our school was sitting on a large hill, so this stairwell overlooked the entire city. I stopped and stared, the beauty was breathtaking.

Snapping out of my small trance, I noticed a gold plaque on the railing. There wasn’t any time to read it, so I jogged up the square glass staircase. I pulled open the matching wooden door carefully and slipped out. The hallways were mostly empty, except for a few straggling people. I set foot in the door nearly the exact second the bell rang. The teacher gave me a dirty look; she hated people being late to her class.

After math, I decided to cut through the back stairwell again, both to save time and because I wanted to see it again; it was so beautiful. I jogged down the first part of the stairs and I stopped on the flat landing. I looked at the plaque. It read: “For Martha Johnson. The Glass Staircase. Built: 1975.” I heard light footsteps behind me and turned quickly on my heels, running straight into a boy. 

“I-I’m sorry.” he stammered. I jump back, startled.  “I’ve never been in here and I saw that you went so I thought it would be okay to look really quickly. I’m sorry.” He had straight, black hair and emerald eyes. He wasn’t tall, probably only 5’6'' at the most and was wearing our traditional school uniform: a moss green blazer with white piping, black pants, thick black glasses, and a green and white tie. His tie was tied a little too tight and his pants were a little too short, giving him an aura of geekdom. 

“You’re fine.” I said, raising my eyebrows slightly at his flustered speech. Who was this person?

“I’m Easton James. I think you’re in my English class?” he said, suddenly composing himself. 

“Oh, yeah, I remember you.” I said. It’s true; I do remember him, but barely. He always sits in the back of class and doesn’t say much. “I’m Ainsley Walters-Hudon.” He nodded in recognition.

“Why’d you come back here? We’re not supposed to.”

“There’s no rule against it,” I said, “and I was about to be tardy. I needed to get upstairs fast. Speaking of being tardy, I’m going to be late to science. See you around.” I turned away from him and walked down the rest of the stairs, opened the wooden door, and left the stairwell. I didn't want to hang around him much longer; something about him, in the way he acted, made me feel awkward. I didn't konw how to talk to people like him and I tended to avoid situations in which I had to talk to them. I realize that makes me sound like a bad person, but it was a fact. I just didn't know what to talk to them about.

I spent the rest of the day wondering about the stairwell. Wondering about Martha Johnson. Wondering about Easton.