‘Ignore them, we’ll wait,’ Alice says as I grip the handles of my suitcases tightly. ‘Take your time.’
‘Ten minutes max,’ I confirm, giving the handles a yank, my sore, skinned palms burning more than ever. But I’m not about to let a little thing like a shattered kneecap stop me from spending the evening with new friends and potential soulmate. It’s just like Shakespeare said, the path of true love never did run smooth. Love and these damn flagstones. Maybe this is where he got his inspiration.
Leaving Alice, Oliver and the others behind, I limp away as fast as I can, which really isn’t very fast at all given my shiny new knee injury and complete lack of upper body strength. And even though I know it isn’t helpful, I can’t stop myself from replaying every word, every action, every breath, checking and recheckingfor unforced errors as I go. As far as I can tell, their offer to hang out is genuine and even with my unmatched overthinking skills, the worst I can come up with is that this could be a one-off pity hang, an insincere apology to make up for me almost breaking my neck. But even if that’s what this is, there’s no problem, I’m happy to take it. The old Mia would’ve been mortified, would have hobbled away, locked herself in her room and never spoken to any of them again but not the new and improved Mia. That’s why I wanted to come to Hemden after all. To change things up, do things differently. I worked so hard to get here, went through so much, but it already feels like all the sacrifices I made, every struggle, every single fight with my folks, was worth it.
With the Goldbeck theatre behind me, I see the signposts and flags Alice mentioned as I make my way towards Carpenter House, more certain than ever.
Hemden University is where I’m meant to be.
2
Ethan
Well, at least the weather doesn’t suck.
My father weaves the rented SUV through crowds of kids and parents, his palm pressed flat against the horn. Ethan Taylor Sr does not understand the meaning of the word patience and a little thing like a pedestrian zone isn’t about to slow him down. In the back seat, I slump low, hiding my face under the hood of my sweatshirt. This probably isn’t the greatest first impression to make at a new school, rolling in, horn blasting and ploughing through my classmates like tumbleweeds in some old western.
‘Isn’t England supposed to be wet and foggy all the time?’ my mom asks, peering out of the window with suspicion.
‘It is,’ Dad remarks, in spite of the fact the sun is shining so bright, I’m burning up in my long sleeves.
But that’s him all over. Why trust your own eyes when you can believe what everyone else tells you instead? As he leans on the horn again, I see a signpost that reads Carpenter House and I know before the GPS can announce it. We have arrived at my final destination.
‘Hey, stop here, this is me.’
Pushing against the restraints of my seatbelt, I point at the building dead ahead. It’s huge and old and looks more like a creepy old manor house than a college dorm. Even in my too-warm sweats,I fight off a shiver as the car slows to a stop, my mom nervously fingering the silk scarf tied around her neck.
‘Darn place is ancient,’ she mutters. ‘You’re going to catch pneumonia, I just know it.’
My father snorts in agreement. ‘For the number of zeros on the check I cut, I expected better.’
‘I’m sure it’s fine inside.’ I unclip my seatbelt, ready to bolt, before the engine can start to cool. ‘Besides, I’m not planning on being in my room all that much.’
‘You’ll be in your room plenty.’
If it sounds like a warning, that’s because it is. My dad gives me a blast of his famous death stare and I freeze. The look on my mom’s face isn’t nearly so angry but the unshed tears shining in her eyes damn near break my heart.
‘Yes, sir.’
Opening the car door, I shuffle out of the backseat, head down, shoulders slumped, and with a sigh of resignation, my feet touch Hemden University ground for the very first time.
Welcome to your punishment, Ethan Taylor.
I don’t have much in the way of luggage, only my backpack, one duffel full of clothes and another for my soccer gear, so we make it up three flights of stairs to my room in one trip.
‘We should complain on the way out.’ Mom curls her hand around her forehead as she drops onto the bare mattress of my bed, looking like she could faint clean away at any second. ‘No elevator? It’s just got to be against the law.’
‘Don’t worry, Mom, stairs make for good exercise,’ I reply, eyes flicking around the room as I take in my new cell, I mean, home.
Aside from the bed, there’s just a desk, a dresser and a miniscule closet that looks like it’s one thousand years older than the supposedly antique furniture in my grandpa’s house. It’s basic. Spartan, my old coach would say, good for the mind. Not too comfortable, no distractions. But I don’t hate it. Aside from the world’s smallest twin bed and the fact I can practically touch the walls on each side of the room at the same time, I have to admit, the dorms are pretty sick, all dark wood and low lights. I feel like I’m in a movie, as far away from my real life as it’s possible to be, which is a definite plus. And I have a single suite all to myself, not like at Marshall. Sure, it’s old, ancient even, but the place has a good vibe. It’s got character, something I’m sorely lacking according to my father.
I catch a glimpse of the two of us in the mirror hanging over the dresser. Me and the old man, standing side by side. Whether I like it or not, there’s no denying we’re related. We’re about the same height, both a couple of inches over six feet, we have the same green eyes and black hair, but his has a weird tone since he started colouring the grey at his temples, even though he won’t admit it. My build is bigger though and my thighs strain against my jeans when I squat to shove my bags under the desk and out of the way. It’s a been a while since my dad hit the gym while I’ve been training every day. Nothing else for me to do since July. Naturally, he blames the accident, says he doesn’t have the time to work out these days, not now my brother needs so much more attention, but the truth is Ethan Sr, the former college quarterback, hasn’t been in any kind of shape for years. He just likes to blame everything on the accident. He just likes to blame everything on me.
While Dad roams the room like a caged animal, testing the lightswitches, inspecting the bathroom, muttering to himself about how badly the school has ripped him off, I unload my laptop onto the desk. Besides my clothes, it’s basically the only personal item I brought with me. I might not hate this room but I don’t want it to feel like mine either. This isn’t a vacation after all. It’s exile.
‘Here.’
Dad reaches into his back pocket and pulls out two things, a credit card and an old-fashioned flip phone, the kind bad guys use as burners on TV, and presses both into my hand. My iPhone was confiscated two months prior, along with my credit cards, car keys and any kind of freedom, so getting a phone back, even this brick, feels like coming up for air after spending too long underwater. A reward, maybe, for leaving the country without kicking up too much of a fuss.
