Never in my life did I believe that I would find such comfort in seeing the familiar old, withering building. The large school that sits nestled in the secret part of London, the part that commuters and caffeine fuelled business men and women forgot.This was my 11th year in MESH, the school for the artistically, musically and dramatically abundant, and I couldn't be more grateful. This year meant that I could escape from my mother and her new husband, Buck number 3; the husband's names soon became irrelevant after Johnathan, a rich and portly entrepreneur whose belly was, eventually, bigger than the size of his pay check.
I climbed out of Buck number 3's cherry red Audi, slamming the door and smirking to myself as I imagined his wincing face, scared that I had scratched the paint work. I walked over to the boot, grabbing my tanned leather holdall, my initials ‘AM' neatly stitched with golden thread on to the aging, scuffed leather.
"Alexandria, have you got everything? Remember, your father and myself are going to St. Tropez for the summer, so we won’t see you until September." my mother said as she cocked her head from the passenger window.
"I don't have a father. He died the day he decided I was too much of a burden. All I have is you and Buck number 3." I looked my mother in the eyes, determined not to show pity for the woman as I picked at the already chipped black nail varnish that decorated my brittle nails.
“I wish you would stop saying that Alexandria, you know I don't like it. It makes -"
"Oh, I'm so sorry Victoria. I mean mother. Do you not like it when I call your newest project Buck? Well guess what mummy, I don't like it when you chose to fuck off to whatever country and not even write me a shitty postcard. You don't even pretend care. You're just like him." Letting my venomous words sink in to my mother’s already fragile mind, I stomped away from the obnoxious pair moving quickly towards the rust covered gates, the once black iron casting delicate shadows on my papery white skin. Still clutching onto my bags, I leant my back against the gate, the crumbling metal digging into my back.
"Alexandria, if you have learnt nothing over the years of being here, you could at least remember that these gates leave awful black marks over everything they touch." A familiar voice sounded from behind me, their smile evident.
"Ah, yes. Just like a shitty version of King Midas, only everything that the gate touches turns to mould. How could I forget, Nessy?" I turned my head, my back still firmly pressed to the bars, only to be greeted with a rather smug looking Nessy.
"Alexandria Morts, you know that you are to call me Principal Woodgrove or Vanessa. And you may only call me that when we are in my study. Or do I need to give someone chair duty on the first day back to MESH?"
I shook my head, a small smirk tugging at my lips as I pushed myself off of the gate, the feeling of powdered black paint making my skin itch already.
"Looks like someone needs a shower, don't they miss Morts? Oh, and Alexandria?" Principal Woodgrove asked as I turned my back to her, making my way to the main school entrance; the hundreds of students already checking the news boards, seeing what new hobby they could take up, most of which were re-enactment groups, band practice or gardening clubs.
”You have some things on your bed that you may want to have a look at.” With a small wink from Nessy, I turned back towards the front doors, my eyebrows arching with confusion. A gift form my mother perhaps? No it was far too fast for her to have some epiphany and send me an apology gift, which I would of course open and then refuse to use. I'm not, nor was I ever, an ungrateful child but I didn't want presents that were bought out of pity.
MESH was decaying. Well the schools building was falling apart anyway. The tiles on the floor were chipped in some places, the once aquamarine blue paint was peeling off of the corridor walls in soft curls and jagged strips, almost as though they had purposefully been ripped and shredded from the aging walls; the paper would slowly fall to the floor as though it was an exotic leaf falling from a tree, but you would only see that if you were lucky.
The usual summertime noises filled the many corridors of the main building, the chatter of reunited friends, the slurping of girls drinking smoothies from their fancy plastic cups and of course the incessant pecks and puckering of kissing teenagers, along with the occasional lust filled moan. The noise annoyingly creating frown lines on my forehead and lonesome thoughts in my mind. Both of which were unwanted.
Thankfully, I was rewarded with my own permanent room after my fifth year of MESH, the result of an extended holiday in Marrakesh with Buck number 1, and a blooming friendship between my mother and Mrs Woodgrove. This meant that I could escape the long queue for the ladies washrooms and the aggravation of a far-too-preppy roommate. The room itself was boring, not the type of boring that makes you want to sleep, permanently, but the kind where no unneeded attention was drawn to it. Just like the man that always reads the newspaper at the train station, always watching, but never really seen. The white emulsion walls were bare apart from the occasional stain where I threw a pencil, my version of makeshift darts, or a footprint which was usually the result of pent up artistic frustration.
As I entered my room, number 023, I was vaguely aware of the vibrating floor boards and repeated crashes of drums, the vibrations travelling through my body. Looking at my bed I saw three perfectly wrapped 'gifts' in a deep colour that was neither blue nor green, but a perfect balance of the two and apparently a close match to the dyed ends of my hair; the something’s that Nessy was talking about. The 'something’s' didn't make me happy that my mother may not have forgotten about me, but made me shake with rage. You see, the fact that the gifts were already on my bed, meant that my mother had been planning on fucking up, it's like she knew I would be pissed off and her and Buck number 3 and they just didn’t care.
Just as my hands hovered over the first package, its shape a long oblong, the dinner bell rang. The dinner bell was one of my favourite features of my room, which used to be part of the original servants quarters when MESH was just a humungous stately home. It’s almost calming ringing resonated through my ears, almost waking my brain up and telling me it was time for better than home-cooked food. That’s the thing about this big, old school. It's more of a home then my house could ever be, and even with the new addition of the hideously unplanned series of drumming coming from the floor above and the many rushed footsteps and over excited shrill cries of ‘Food, Finally' echoing through the hallway, I knew that MESH would always be my home, as though my body was anchored here.
I pulled my hand away from the bluey-green wrapped presents and shrugged off my denim jacket, the jacket was much too big for my average frame and it was holey in some places and the denim was beginning to fade; I always thought that if clothes would fade, it was a sign of love. Like you loved it to death.
As the unsteady rumbling of footsteps started to decrease a loud banging noise could be heard, getting louder and louder, closer and closer.
”Good Food, How I’ve missed you!” a deep voice said from behind my door, just as it began to rattle with the constant banging. The little fucker, I thought as I threw the heavy, white oak door open, revealing to me a tall and lanky guy whom was just turning to leave down the hallway
”Hey!” I cocked my head out of the door frame and shouted at the boy, who continued to drum against the walls of the corridor randomly with his hands, his fingers occasionally tapping against the doors and walls.
The boy turned his head, looking over his left shoulder. ”Sorry love, drummer and all that. Got to keep my hands moving”. His voice was deep and very suggestive as he winked at me. Lord knows what he wanted to do with those hands.
”Yeah, whatever ”just as Ii was about to step back into my room another boy ran past me towards the drummer, and smacked his back playfully telling him something about Mexican Monday's which was, I'm guessing, to do with our dinner. I rolled my eyes at the pair, but noticed something on one of their necks, what looked like a small ship was tattooed with black ink on to the mysterious boy’s neck, as he continued to talk to the drummer and leant his head, it looked almost as though the little ship was rocking.
I laughed at the silly thought and shut my door, ready to go to the dining hall for what would apparently be Mexican Monday with thoughts of the small, rocking ship.
YOU ARE READING
Charcoal veins
أدب المراهقينAlexandria Morts and Ezra James are a pair of troubled teens. The Burden of hope, love and disappointment has turned them bitter, and left them feeling numb. But when the pair both attended a summer school for the general arts, they find that maybe...
