Staggering across the soft carpet, I kept my eyes open just enough to not slam into anything before I finally slid across the tiles. I barely managed to make it to the toilet before vomit exploded from me. Luckily I hadn’t eaten dinner, so there wasn’t much to throw up. The canapes, on the other hand, were less than pleasant the second time around.
When I was finished with that fun start to the morning, I crawled into the shower, turning the water on as cold as it went.
It was the only thing I could think to do to wake myself up.
Twenty-six minutes later, exactly, I was dressed in the uniform—knee-length, black skirt, plain white button-down, dark maroon jacket, black tights, and some really—okay, not really—stylish Mary Janes. The only thing that saved the shoes at all was the small heel that took them from dowdy into semi-fashionable.
To finish the look, I’d gone for minimal makeup—just enough to hide the evidence of last night—and my hair pulled back in a low bun, the curls tamed as much as they’d ever be.
Seeing myself in the mirror was the first real moment that I realized what the hell my life was now.
I looked nothing like the person I’d been two days ago. Shit, my friends would probably walk past me in the street and not know me.
Those emotions, they were not sitting well in my already tender stomach. My skin … it felt … itchy. Like my “fake rich” persona was stretched too tight and the real Violet Spencer was going to burst out at any moment.
Thankfully I didn’t have time to narcissistically obsess about myself any longer. I had to meet the ever-so-famous dean of Arbon Academy.
Trusty map in one hand, backpack with school supplies in the other, I hurried out of my room and in the general direction I thought the administrative offices were. They were near the front entrance of the school, where I’d first entered. Somehow I’d missed the building the first time, even though this map was telling me it was freaking huge.
Sure enough, when I passed the soccer field and the rest of the state-of-the-art indoor sports stadium, I found myself in a hall I hadn’t been in before. The weather outside was cold and biting, even through my tights and jacket, but in here it was a pleasant temperature. It was odd how this school flowed almost seamlessly from indoor to outdoor—I’d never experienced that at any of my schools before.
I liked it, though.
Turned out Dean Morgan was easy enough to find with signs leading me the whole way. Zipping the map into my bag, I slung it over my shoulder and entered the large, brightly lit receptionist’s office.
There were two women behind the counter, and both of them looked to be between thirty and forty. The one closest to me had her dark blond hair pulled back in a tight chignon, and her hazel eyes remained expressionless, even though a professional, perfect, white-toothed smile crossed her face when I stepped closer. I wondered where Mr. Wainwright was since he was the assistant to the dean. He was probably off doing more important things about the school.
“Welcome to Arbon Academy,” the closest woman said, her accent heavy and hard to understand. At a guess, she probably originated somewhere in the Russias, seeing as most of the world had adopted a slightly British sounding English as their primary language. “The dean is waiting for you.”
She waved her hand to a hallway behind their area, and even though I was a little surprised she automatically knew who I was, I didn’t really ponder it for too long. No doubt there weren’t a ton of new kids starting at this school regularly.
“Thank you,” I told her before schooling my features into something that hopefully didn’t reflect the “crapping my pants” feeling inside me.
Please just let this be about the school and not last night.While part of me enjoyed breaking the rules, I’d like to at least get established in this school before I was at risk of being kicked out.
The hall was long and winding; the old red brick and tan blocks that this section of the school was made out of hadn’t been covered by sheetrock, leaving it all exposed and interesting. There was so much history in the chips and cracks, in the color variation on each brick.
I would never call myself a history buff or anything—it wasn’t really my thing— but right then, I wanted to know about this school.
Soon the brick was covered by large portraits, and if I’d thought that my mirror contemplations were narcissistic, I had nothing on the massive photos of every single dean to ever run this school.
They were six feet tall, almost spanning from the ceiling to the floor, and I passed by many before I found the most recent.
Dean Morgan.
Dean Winston Morgan to be exact, according to the plaque below it. He’d been the dean for almost a decade.
Examining the image, I could immediately see the resemblance to Brandon. The dean was just an older, more refined version of his son with the same chiseled features and charming smile. It was hard to tell in an image, but possibly the same dead eyes as well.
Great.
I’d lingered in the hall as long as I could, so with one last deep breath, I turned away from the portrait and hurried along to the double glass doors right at the end. They opened automatically as soon as I got close, and a puff of lemon-scented air spritzed me as I walked inside.
Dean Morgan was probably trying to cleanse the “poor” out of the air from my mere presence. Or he just really enjoyed the fake lemon scent.
“Welcome, Violet.”
The warm, rich voice had my head jerking up as I took in the man behind the ostentatious wood desk—a desk so dark that at first I thought it was black, before noticing the splash of mahogany through the woodgrain in its legs.
