And she may never understand why I need this, but I do. Even I don’t entirely understand why yet, but I can just feel it in my bones. I’ll never figure out who I am while living in the warm, comfortable confines of my father’s inheritance.
“This is it,” I say as I reach the end of the hall. Room 212 has a battered brown door that is open just a crack. I gently press on it, and it squeaks as I peek my head inside.
It’s minuscule, stuffy, and smells of the pine-scented cleaner they must use far too much of on all the old wood. To the left, there is a single oak-frame bed with a visibly thin bare mattress, an old six-drawer dresser, and a small plain desk.
My mother gasps from behind me.
Meanwhile, a smile of excitement creeps across my face.
I press the door open farther and freeze with a breath caught in my chest as my gaze lands on a dark-haired boy resting on the second bed on the right side of the room. He’s reclining against the headboard with a sketch pad propped on his legs and dark-gray charcoal in his hand. His fingers are stained with the soot-colored dust all the way up to the middle knuckle.
“Oh, hey,” he says with a hint of disappointment in his tone. “Was sort of hoping you wouldn’t show up.”
A chuckle escapes my lips as my mother gasps again—this time in indignation.
“This can’t be right,” she whispers.
“I’m Colin,” I say, entering the quarters with my arm outstretched toward my new roommate. “Colin Shelby.”
“Declan,” he replies as he sits upright and takes my palm for a quick shake. “Declan Barclay.”
I glance down at my hand, running my thumb curiously over the smudges of black now smeared across my palm.
“Scottish?” I ask, noting his accent.
“Aye.”
My lips tug into a smirk as I fight to hide it. I can’t explain why I find so much amusement in this. It’s like entering society for the first time and feeling so enamored by every tiny mundane and ordinary detail.
Shoebox-sized living quarters among hundreds of unruly and vulgar teenage boys—perfect. A scraggly, strange Scottish artist for a roommate—even better.
The more appalled my mother appears, the more pleased I am. And just as she murmurs her discontent again, I’m reminded that she’s standing there.
“Oh, this is my mother,” I say, pointing to her behind me.
“You staying in here too?” he asks her before scooting over on the bed and patting the mattress by his side. “I’ll make some room.”
She scoffs, and I let out a clipped laugh.
“She was just leaving,” I say, turning toward her with wide eyes.
“Lovely to meet you,” Declan calls after her in a fake posh British accent. I delicately shove my mother toward the door and walk into the hallway with her.
“Are you really certain about this?” she asks again with worry and love in her eyes.
Holding her by the arms, I force her to look at me and not at the dust and dirt gathering in the corners of the floor.
“I’ll be fine,” I say with emphasis.
“But you don’t have to do this,” she argues. “Just come home, and we’ll get you the best education in Great Britain.”
“I know you would, Mum, but I need more than an education. I want…an experience. Anadventure.”
Her shoulders slump in defeat when she realizes that I’m not leaving with her after all. My mother just wants to protect me and keep me close; I know that. So it hurts me to bring her this pain, but it’s for the best.
“If you change your mind—”
“I know, Mum. I’ll call you.”
