Well I like to have a little recap before reading something. So here it is, and then we'll get onto the second chapter!
Recap:. I don’t know how I got into this school, I made sure I failed the entrance exam, and was rude: popping gum, rolling eyes, cursing, sprawled legs; all of the basics. When she told me gum wasn’t allowed I took the gum out and put it under her desk right in front of her. Oh yea I was badass, and yet here I am. In the headmistress’ office within the first hour of arriving. I believe that’s a new record.
The headmistress and I stare at each other for a while. She must be somewhere in her 30’s or late 20s even. Though how she’s dressed and is acting makes her seem older than the nuns here. There’s only two non-nuns here that I’ve seen, but it doesn’t really matter they can all kiss my-,
“Well now Miss Catalina,” how rude of her to interrupt my thoughts!
“It’s Ina,” I correct her. “I won’t respond to any other name,”
“Well Ina isn’t your name, and I will only call you by your name, Catalina,” she says. I stand up dusting myself off, and then giving her an adamant look. “How long have you been here?”
“What, you don’t know? I thought you were supposed to know everything,” I say like the smartass I am.
“That gives you one detention,” Oh big whoop. A detention to me was like a child only having to go to bed 15 minutes before he’s supposed to. Aggravating, pointless, but nothing serious. I sarcastically made a shocked face. “That’s two,”
“Oh like I give a crap,”
“Three,”
“Great job now count to five,”
“Four,”
“Not quite but you’re learning,”
“Five,” she says impassive as ever. How far can I push her? What’s her breaking point? For my last teacher it was the classic no man, no love, no life theory. What’s hers? What makes Miss Augusta Stylacs tick?
“Well, well, well Augusta it seems you can count to five it just takes a little bit, but that’s ok. Some people are slow like you,”
“Seven,”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa you skipped six. It goes one, two, three, four, five, six seven. It'’s alright we have all day to teach you,”
“Eight. That fills up the next eight months, assuming you last that Eight.” eight months? What the hell? Eight months of what? Sitting in a class for oh say 30 minutes, an hour? Two at the most. And now she is being a smart-aleck oh this is not cool “I don’t want to ruin a surprise. After your last class, which is history, you’ll be escorted to the detention hall. Sadly, you’ll be the only one since the other girls know the rules.”
“Oh, I know the rules, I just choose not to follow them,” I say with a slight smile.
“And that’s nine.”
“Fantastic, by the way you may want to fix those doors. And how your staff handles us students. We’re supposed to be your Monet, your Picasso, your damned Michael Angelo. You can’t be damaging something so priceless,” she smiles, but her smile seems devious. Entertained, like this is all a game.
“I’ll get right on it,” she says narrowing her eyes ever so slightly. Her cheeks don’t flush a pink, or show any signs that she might be alive. Maybe she’s cold-hearted (like I think she is) and just enjoys telling people what to do. Preferably girls from the age of nine-18. I fit somewhere in between; a 16 year old nonconformist. I get up from her room, and start to leave. “But first off,” I don’t look at her as she calls me back. “The keys that you have. They don’t belong to you. I would like them back,” she says coolly. I turn to face her, my best innocent look on.
“Why Miss Stylacs, whatever do you mean?” I say in a childish puzzled voice. She grins, but it’s fleeting and lasts only a minute
“Never you mind child, all wrongs will be fixed later,” she says in a mocking, derisive way. The bitch. With a sneer, I turn back around and slowly walk to the door. “All wrongs,” she repeats. In the instants that she says the words it makes something in my head click. I don’t like Augusta one bit. Something, I know something (possibly many things) is wrong with her, and this school. My hand lingers on the handle. With an unfamiliar pang of nervousness, I glance back and see her sitting prim and proud. I silently stab the nervousness to death, and bring the cool, calm, collected, sarcastic side in. I flash her a sparkly grin.
“That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?” I say, and leave her office.
The avenger of the nervousness I killed floods into me, and I tremble outside of her door. What’s this feeling? I’m not used to being intimidated, or afraid of another person. Especially one in a higher position than me. I try to regain my composure once out of Miss Stylacs office, but I fail miserably. Trembling and afraid, I head for the nearest bathroom. I take the key from my skirt and dangle it before my eyes. “At least I got one thing that’s of use,” I mutter to myself. I think I hear footsteps and accidentally drop the copper key on the ground. Cursing every deity there is; I snatch the key from the ground and stuff it uncomfortably in my bra before a girl walks in.
She’s short. Maybe three inches shorter than me, with brown hair that can’t decide if it’s wavy or straight. She has hazel eyes, more green than brown, and while I observe her in her knee length skirt and knee high socks, she stares at me.
“What the hell are you looking at?” I say getting aggravated. She stares at me like I have a third eye. She jumps at the sharpness in my voice
“N-nothing,” she whispers and turns to leave. Wallflowers. I never had patience for them. It turns out that I just needed to yell at that pansy to feel better. I saunter over to one of the mirrors and fix my hair. I roll my skirt four times and un-tuck my shirt, unbuttoning the first three buttons of it. I think of doing four, but decide to be modest. With one last model turn, I head for the door.
“Enjoy your bit of freedom?” the girl from earlier asks. What? Was she just waiting for me to leave the bathroom? I wonder when she got the nerve to speak. “Don’t get used to it. They always know,”
“Sounds scary,” I retort and start to walk away
“Don’t do something you’ll regret,” she calls to me. I turn around, flash her my pretty painted middle finger, and walk on. I don’t need some pansy telling me what to do. I don’t need anyone telling me what to do. As a matter of fact, I just don’t need anyone! Anger builds in each step I take, and I storm up to the ugly wooden doors I came into this God forsaken school. I’m getting out of this whore’s sore. I firmly grip the metal handle, and a stinging, burning, agonizing pain goes from my hand to my arm to my chest and through my whole body I can’t let go of the handle, and I stand there getting electrocuted by this door.
