“I’ll leave you two to it,” the receptionist says with a smile, then disappears again.
Jasper raises his hands to clutch the straps of his backpack. At my old school, kids could wear whatever backpacks they wanted. Here at this fancy school, everyone has to wear the same backpack. It’s navy and utilitarian and the front is emblazoned with the school logo. I detest it.
Jasper tilts his head to the door to saywe’re leavingwithout having to speak to me. Then he’s off and I’m grabbing my bag and catching up with him.
Outside, the chilly autumn air prickles my face. We walk over a stone path surrounded by garden beds and swaying eucalyptus trees. My old school was nothing but cement, dirt, and weeds.
“You know, you’re meant to stand up when you meet someone,” Jasper tells me.
“This isn’t the first time we’ve met.”
“I’m just saying. If you end up meeting the principal or someone important, you’ll look like an idiot if you remain sitting in your chair instead of getting up and shaking their hand.”
We curve around a block of classrooms, and then another block. In the distance, a huge football oval appears before disappearing. This school is already making me dizzy. From what I’ve seen, I think this school is at least as big as my old one, and my old one had almost two thousand students. This one, Senior mentioned, only has about 600 — 100 kids in every year level.
We arrive at a wall of lockers, shaded by an outdoor roof. Jasper says hello to other Year 12s who peer at me. Jasper doesn’t introduce me. I don’t introduce myself.
“This is yours,” Jasper says, stopping at a locker and slapping the front of it. “Did you get a combination lock?”
The receptionist gave one to me. I pull it out, along with a piece of paper with the combination on it.
“You know how to use it?” Jasper asks.
I shake my head. “My old school used padlocks and keys.”
He sighs, then takes the lock and piece of paper out of my hands. He studies the combination, then twists the lock around, showing me how to do it.
“Can you do it again?” I ask. All I saw was a blur of fingers.
He stares at me, and I can tell he’s weighing it up in his mind. If I can’t unlock it later, I’ll have to find him or someone else, and that someone else will find out he didn’t teach me properly.
With a grumble, he takes the lock from me and goes through it again, more slowly. Then he lets me try.
“Got it,” I say, when I unlock it.
He hands me the tag with my combination for safe-keeping. “Got your timetable?”
“Yeah,” I say, taking it out of my pocket. The receptionist also gave it to me this morning.
Jasper leans in to read it. “You’ve got maths in the morning. Grab the stuff you need for it and we’ll head into homeroom.”
He walks off and I open my locker and shove all of my heavy books and textbooks into the space there. I take out what I need for maths, then lock my locker. While I wait for Jasper to return — he’s chatting to a friend by his locker — I look around the school. Short Year 7s and 8s walk to their lockers in groups. With their oversized blazers, they look like children wearing their parents’ business attire. A group of Year 12 girls pass me, wearing short plaid kilts. Have they worn the same one since Year 7? Or have they rolled them up? Either way, my eyes linger on their legs.
“Let’s go,” Jasper says from beside me. He takes me to another building with automatic doors. As soon as I step inside, I realise it’s the library. Holy hell.
Several windows are joined together to make up one wall of the library, showcasing the oval. There are several desks and colourful couches and beanbags. By one wall is a cluster of modern desktop computers. Another wall is covered with newspaper clippings, probably about students and their achievements.
Then there are my new classmates, standing amongst the bookshelves, gossiping in groups. Many of them linger by a line of study rooms connected to the library.
Jasper leads me to one. On the way, I notice a huge plaque on one wall of the library which readsThe Finley-Cavendish Library.Underneath, in smaller but still clear enough to read letters, is the note:Easton Grammar thanks the Finley-Cavendish family for their generous donation.
In the study room, there are already a fair amount of students waiting — some of which notice me, some of which are too busy catching up after the holidays. Jasper leads me to the front row of desks and drops his books down. I take a seat beside him.
“Alright,” he says, appraising me. “You need to cut your hair.”
I reach up to touch the back of my head. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s too long and uneven. When was the last time you got your hair cut?”
