by Nicole Grane
Chapter 4
I slept hard that night. I didn’t even remember dreaming. I’d managed to get up in plenty of time to not have to compete for the shower.
I picked my outfit carefully for my first official day at Pinehurst. I was the new girl on campus; the key was to blend in. This would have been sound advice to anyone. But for me . . . I never blended in. I always stood out! Maybe it was because of my red hair? Maybe it had been my snarky attitude? Or maybe, just maybe, this time, the fact that I’m George Hollyander’s daughter will be what sets me apart from the rest.
I put on my skinny jeans and a fitted black tee, thanking the powers that be there wasn’t a dress code. I looked at myself in the mirror, debating my shoe selection. “Hmm . . . black heels . . . definitely,” I thought aloud.
After slipping on my shoes and grabbing my book bag, I made my way to the door. The hall was bustling. Everyone was rushing around. Only a few, like myself, looked ready for the day. It pays to get up early when you have to share a bathroom with twenty girls. I shuddered, trying to shake away the thought.
I made my way to The Kitchen for breakfast before my first class. I had to admit that I was, for the first time that I could remember, nervous for my first day of school.
I nibbled on a piece of toast while looking over the campus map. My first class was Shielding. “Where the heck is it?” I turned the map around several times. I couldn’t find building S. “Piece of—”
“Can I help you find something?”
I looked up. A beautiful blond-haired boy with blue eyes was smiling at me. He ran a hand through his hair that I’d expected was purposely messed up for fashion’s sake. His lips were curled up into the same lazy smile I’d seen last night. Roland Vandenberg.
His smile broadened. “Are you lost?” His voice was soft like butter. I found myself melting.
“Huh? Oh, no I’m just trying to find the Shielding class.”
“Let me see that.” He placed the map on the table in front of me. “Okay, you’re here . . .” I guessed he was pointing at the map, but I was too busy staring at his face to notice, “ . . . and the gym is over here.”
I hadn’t realized how close I’d leaned in. Our faces were nearly touching when he looked up, my image reflecting in his eyes. By the expression on his face, I’d taken him by surprise as well. I sat back immediately, already feeling the hot flush on my cheeks. That was the drawback to being fair-skinned; the whole world knew when you were embarrassed. I hurriedly looked to the map. His fingers were still in place, pointing out the two locations.
“Thanks, I think I can find it now.”
“Hey Roland, what’s up!” A super buff guy, possibly beefed up on steroids, threw himself in the chair beside me with such force that it skidded into mine.
“Hey, Babe!” He threw his arm over my shoulders.
I looked at him incredulously. “You did not just call me babe.” I shrugged out from under him.
Steroid guy laughed. “Feisty! It must be the hair.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. I hated guys that made fun of my hair.
“Chad, not cool, Bud.” Roland laughed with his friend, but behind his eyes, I could see an apology. I studied him for a moment. I didn’t care how cute he was. I decided Roland was just like all the other guys I’d met— severely in need of a backbone!
“Thanks for the help.” I gathered my things and stormed out—which was not an easy thing to do. My heels did not allow for the dramatic storming out I was aiming for. Note to self: you may want to rethink the shoe selection.
I made my way across campus to the gymnasium. Shielding was in building G—go figure. Apparently not all classes were in their alphabetical buildings. I rolled my eyes at the logic of it all.
Class had already started by the time I’d managed to get there. My shoes clanking across the gym floor made my tardiness all the more noticeable.
The students were standing in what looked like a military formation—arms crossed behind their backs, feet apart. I'd never seen a class of girls so quiet.
The teacher turned to face me. He was dressed in military fatigues. From his camouflage hat to his highly polished boots, this guy screamed discipline. By the expression on his face, I doubted he’d laughed a day in his life. He walked up to me and extended his hand—I handed him my class schedule.
A wide smile spread across his face. “Well I’ll be damned!” He laughed, looking up at me. “You’re George Hollyander’s baby girl.”
“Yes, I’m his daughter.” I wasn’t sure how to read this guy. I certainly didn’t want him referring to me as “George Hollyander’s baby girl.”
This guy looked like he could eat nails for breakfast, and by the way his students hadn’t moved, I assumed he was a total hard ass; the type that makes you do fifty pushups for stepping out of line. But here he was, smiling at me like I’d just handed him a check for a million bucks.
“Uh, I think there’s been some mistake.” I leaned in a little, not wanting the other students to hear. “I don’t do first period P.E. I don’t like to be sweaty all day.” I grimaced at the thought.
His mouth opened slightly. He took a good look at me, taking special note of my shoes. His eyebrows rose. “Are you sure your George’s daughter?”
“Yes I’m sure,” I answered with mild irritation. What kind of question was that?
He looked over my class schedule once again, a grin replacing the once warm smile that had greeted me. “I’ll tell you what little lady. You just head on over to Mr. Roberts’s math class. Tell him I’m switching your schedule around. I’ll square it with Ms. Leech.”
I sighed in relief. Finally! Someone who understands that sweat and a manicured appearance do not go hand-in-hand. “Thank you.” I turned and started walking away.
“Oh, and Hollyander!”
I looked back at the teacher, still smiling.
“See the attendant in the locker room before class. I want you dressed and in formation at fifteen hundred hours.”
My confusion was noticeable.
He frowned. “That’s three o’clock Hollyander.” He walked away, shaking his head.
“Well, why didn’t you just say three o’clock in the first place?” I mumbled under my breath. I’d just wasted ten seconds of my life trying to figure out what he was talking about.
I spied Iris this time as I turned to leave. I gave her a slight wave before I walked out—she didn’t move.
I made it through my first two classes with nothing noteworthy to report. Mr. Roberts was extremely easy going and didn’t mind the schedule hiccup, as most teachers would have. I wasn’t able to talk to Iris during second period like I wanted. Ms. Spicer had a guest speaker who’d come all the way from Romania. Apparently, the Romanians had developed a highly effective way to cast a levitation spell without the side effects of a headache. Funny, I never had that problem.
It wasn’t until third period biology that I learned what the P.E. teacher: Gunnery Sergeant Jaxson had done. According to Iris, who I now regarded as a great authority, sixth period P.E. was for the boys.
“So what, I’ve had boys in P.E. before,” I shrugged.
“No Evie, it’s a boys’ only class.” She raised her eyebrows on the “only.”
“No way!” I laughed. “He wouldn’t have me in P.E. with just guys . . . there must be some mistake?”
“I don’t know Evie . . .” Iris sang. “Gunny doesn’t make mistakes. He sort of . . . cleans them up.”
“Well there has to be,” I stated matter-of-factly. “There is no way he would place me in a boys only class, Iris. No way!”
“Maybe . . . ” Iris was twisting her golden hair around her finger nervously.
Mr. Mayer called the class to attention, and with no further thought about Gunny, I focused on the subject at hand—plants with healing powers—something I knew absolutely nothing about.
I met Iris for lunch outside The Kitchen after English. We got our food and sat down beside
Aubree and Barbie. I’d just taken a bite of my ham and cheese when three girls, all wearing tight fitting tops and miniskirts, sauntered over.
I didn’t need to look at them closely. I’d seen their type before. The one in the middle would be the leader, the other two: her cronies. They would all be “popular” of course. Not necessarily because of who their families were, but usually because of whom they went out with. My guess, one of them, the leader most likely, used to go out with Roland. She was pretty, outwardly. Tall. Thin. Blonde. The kind of girl you wished you looked like but never wanted to be.
I took another bite.
“Stacy, what a surprise.” Barbie held a false smile on her face. “I thought you’d still be in the bathroom yakking up breakfast.”
I choked.
Aubree and Iris did their best to hold back a snicker. It was obvious by the way they kept their eyes downcast they didn’t want any part of this.
Stacy smirked. “I heard you’re a little under the weather today yourself Gillian . . . poor thing. Still bloated huh? You really shouldn’t wear leggings with your figure. It’s just not attractive.”
If looks could kill, Barbie would have incinerated Stacy right there on the spot.
“So, you’re the new girl?” Her attention shifted toward me.
I looked up at Stacy; doing my best to ignore the haughty look she was giving me. Her manicured nails drummed impatiently on her hips as she waited for my response. “I suppose,” I answered before picking up my drink and taking a sip.
Cronies two and three mimicked her, doing their best to look as if this conversation was beneath them. Neither of the girls spoke a word. They were probably brain-dead anyway. Anyone who used as much hairspray as they did had to operate on one brain cell.
“Are you really George Hollyander’s daughter?” Stacy said this like there was no way this rumor could possibly be true.
“What’s it to you?” I glared back.
Iris and Aubree shifted uneasily in their seats.
“Don’t waste your time Stacy. George Hollyander is way too old for you,” Barbie taunted.
“Funny,” Stacy growled back at her. “As if I’m interested in him. But if I was . . .”
My eyebrows shot up. “If you were, he wouldn’t give you the time of day. He doesn’t date children. Especially ones that shop at—where do you shop?” Stacy was in serious need of the fashion police. “Is that . . . rayon?”
Barbie laughed. “Better go change your Pampers Stacy, I think you might have wet yourself.”
I smiled at Barbie—Gillian. I couldn’t help but see her in a new light. Maybe I was wrong about her. She wasn't as superficial as she looked. She was more like me than I’d thought. We both hated stuck-up girls who believed they were better than everybody else. It was only a start but I think Gillian and I were going to get along just fine.
Stacy looked at me as though her fashion sense had never been questioned before. “I just wanted to know if the rumors were true,” she snapped. “Humph, it doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not like you’ll be anything like him, popular I mean. As for that hair . . . what a rats nest.”
I shoved myself up from the table, knocking my chair back with a loud clatter. Stacy and her ghouls jumped, their eyes wide with shock, as they looked around nervously.
I glanced up and smiled at the sprinkler directly above them—I couldn’t resist.
“Ahahhh!” Screams erupted all around me.
I looked over to Iris and Aubree, standing there, dripping wet. They’d been collateral damage. “Sorry,” I mouthed.
Iris’s mouth popped open—she realized what I’d done but said nothing. The other students scattered like mice—all except for Stacy.
“You witch! You’re going to pay for that!”
With what can be none other than impeccable timing, Roland Vandenberg walked up; beautiful and most importantly, dry. Somehow, I’d managed to only set off two sprinklers this time instead of soaking an entire room like I'd done at my last school. Interesting . . .
Roland laughed lightly. “Stacy, you’re all wet.”
She looked like she’d crawled out from under a rock and got hit by a monsoon. Her hair was beyond droopy, and her make-up, let me rephrase that, her cheap make-up was smeared down her face.
“You think I don’t know that, Roland?” she snapped. “She set off the sprinklers!” Stacy was practically screaming, while pointing right at me.
I tried to look angelic.
“Oh come on Stacy. She can’t do that kind of magic,” Roland argued.
I would have protested but the idea here was to remain innocent. Still, he might have at least considered the possibility that I could do that kind of magic. I mean, was it really that far-fetched?
“She did!” Stacy was shaking her hands out, screaming at Roland who hadn’t stopped laughing.
In the midst of all the commotion, I noticed a guy sitting at a far off table in the corner. He was peering over his book, watching us–not that everyone else wasn’t watching too—it was comical. But there was something odd about the way he was staring at me. And in that instant, I knew that he knew what I’d done. Crap!
“You jerk!” Stacy brought me back to attention by shoving me—I’d let that one go. After all, I was completely innocent in all of this . . . at least that’s the way it needed to look.
“Hey, back off, Stacy.” Roland had stepped in front of me, blocking another one of Stacy’s attempted blows.
“You’re gonna pay for this!” she shouted over his shoulder at me. “Just wait until I tell Ms. Leech!”
The whole cafeteria broke out in laughter at that as Stacy stormed off, her brat squad tagging along behind her, all three dripping wet.
“She won’t tell,” Roland assured, his expression still bemused. “She’s just mad because she has to redo her hair.” He gave me a lazy smile and strode back to his table, a little happier looking than before. I guess Gillian and I weren't the only ones who hated stuck-up witches!
“I better get to class,” I smiled apologetically at my friends before I hurried off. I didn’t want to stick around in case Stacy made good on her threat; or worse—I could be bombarded with questions I wasn't ready to answer!
