“Relax,” I mutter, even though I’m far from relaxed.
He doesn’t need to know I hate this idea. It makes sense from a medical standing, but it doesn’t mean I enjoy the premise. I’m merely acting reasonable even though my insides have been coiled around my spine since I agreed to come here.
“I’ll be fine. I promise I’ll call often.”
“Good.” He drops a kiss on top of my head and off he goes, leaving me with Melinda who marches me across more cobblestone paths toward the dorm building a few hundred yards away.
11
Hailey
My eyes dart to the digital clock on the nightstand as soon as I jolt awake.
Shit. Eight forty-three am.
Seventeen minutes until my first class. Thirteen minutes late for breakfast. Damn it. I’ve not had any food since I left the hospital yesterday afternoon, too chicken last night to head downstairs for dinner and face the students’ scrutiny after the dean highlighted myunorthodoxlate arrival.
A pile of Lakeside College’s reading material is scattered across my bed where I fell asleep last night half-curled around the orientation guide and the map.
Untangling myself from the sheets, I scramble out, my shoulder protesting the sudden movement with a hissy fit. The breath lodges in my chest as I cradle my arm, waiting until the pain subsides.
My sling hangs over the desk chair but it’ll only slow me down so, instead of protecting my delicate shoulder fromadditional trauma, I dash into the bathroom, my feet skidding across cold tiles.
Yes, there’s an en suite bathroom, and if that’s not great enough, I don’t have a roommate. The room is a spacious single with a large bed tucked on one side, a desk by the floor-to-ceiling ornate window, a closet, a loveseat, and a small coffee table. The décor is simple: white walls, gray curtains that match the comforter, and a dark wooden floor.
Not too shabby.
I grimace at my reflection—wild hair, flushed cheeks, and wide, panicked eyes. I’ll make quite the entrance in class. Like I need to draw more attention...
First things first. I pop two painkillers, chasing them down with a splash of water straight from the faucet and, using my good arm, tame my tangled, blonde locks into a rough ponytail.
Three minutes later, with my teeth brushed and face washed, I dart out of the bathroom. My suitcases are pushed against the wall, all open, clothes spilling onto the floor in a messy waterfall.
I was—unsuccessfully—searching for a phone charger last night. Dad did a decent job packing but as I dig through the clothes, I realize everything, save for a few dresses I hung neatly in the closet, is wrinkled.
A dress it is. White with a flowery pattern. It seems my style has dramatically changed. None of my old clothes are here. Last I remember, my favorite color was black and I wore strictly jeans, never skirts.
Pulling the breezy dress on takes more tries than I care to admit, especially since my injured shoulder is throwing another fit. The pills haven’t had time to kick in yet.
Zipping myself up with one hand is an accident waiting to happen but, once successfully managed, slipping into my white sneakers doesn’t take long.
Eight forty-nine. Must be a record.
Checking my reflection once more I pull a disgruntled face at the bruises and scars. The old ones, the ones that melt with my complexion, don’t bother me as much, but the fresh red ones, shining like a beacon against my milky skin, do.
There’s no time to cover the shitty Pollock impersonation on my skin with makeup, so I rush back into the room, flipping through the clothes for a cardigan.
Just my luck that I can’t find any which don’t look like a dog chewed them up and spat them out.
Eight fifty-one.
Damn it! Either I leave right now, or I’ll be late.
Being late for class is suddenly tempting. I need ten, fifteen minutes tops to apply stage makeup and hide my imperfections, but the dean said punctuality is taken seriously around here.
Cursing some more, I huff a resigned breath, flinging a heavy book bag over my working shoulder.
Maybe people will have the decency not to stare...
