School of Misfits

~ Becca

The first thing I notice about Blackthorn Academy is that it looks like the sort of place people get murdered in.

The second is the ridiculously high black iron fence, complete with pointed tips, stretching along the entire property.

Lovely.

Nothing says welcome to your new home quite like architecture designed to prevent escape.

The taxi rolls through the open gates, its headlights illuminating a long driveway lined with enormous trees. At the end stands a building that looks like someone has taken a medieval castle, removed everything remotely cheerful, and converted it into a school.

I lean forward.

"Are you sure this is the right place?"

The driver glances at me in the mirror.

"Blackthorn Academy?"

"Yeah."

"Then yes."

"Right. Just checking you weren't delivering me to a vampire."

He doesn't laugh.

Tough crowd.

I sit back and watch the building grow larger.

Three floors, maybe four. Dark stone walls, narrow windows, towers on either side. Most of the lights are out, although a few windows glow yellow against the darkness.

My phone says 9:47 p.m.

Fantastic.

I've officially arrived at the boarding school for teenagers nobody wants to deal with anymore.

My parents must have been thrilled when they found this place.

Actually, scratch that. They were thrilled. My mother spent the entire drive to the train station explaining how Blackthorn is my last chance to become a respectable member of society.

Apparently, getting dragged out of a dumpster by the police is frowned upon.

Who knew?

In my defence, jumping out of the second floor window seemed like an excellent idea at the time. Admittedly, I was very drunk, and the police were storming up the stairs.

Unfortunately, I hadn't realised the dumpster was full. Or that someone had seen me jump. Or that the police officer who pulled me out would turn out to be the father of a girl from my old school.

That last part was particularly unfortunate. He recognized me immediately.

"Well, well. Look who we've got here."

I was lying on my back in approximately three hundred empty pizza boxes, wearing only one shoe.

Not my finest moment.

Still, I think sending me halfway across the country is a bit dramatic.

The taxi stops in front of the main entrance.

"Here we are."

"Unfortunately."

The driver gets out and retrieves my suitcase while I climb from the back seat, pulling my black jacket tighter around myself. The October air is freezing.

I look up at the building.

"Cheerful place."

The driver places my suitcase beside me.

"Good luck."

He sounds like he means it. Which is concerning.

"Thanks, I guess."

He gets back into the taxi and drives away before I've even reached the steps.

I watch his taillights disappear.

"Don't worry about me!" I call after him. "I'll just stay here in the murder castle!"

Rude.

I drag my suitcase up the steps and push open the enormous wooden door.

It creaks, of course it fucking creaks.

Inside is a large entrance hall with a black and white tiled floor, dark wooden panelling, and an enormous staircase splitting into two directions.

A grandfather clock ticks somewhere ahead and there are portraits on the walls. Old men with miserable expressions stare down at me.

"Well," I mutter, "you lot look fun."

"Can I help you?"

I turn.

An older woman stands behind a wooden reception desk near the staircase.

She has grey hair pulled into a painfully tight bun, small glasses hanging from a chain around her neck, and the sort of expression that suggests she stopped enjoying life sometime around 1987.

"Depends," I say. "Is this Blackthorn Academy?"

"Yes."

"Then unfortunately, I'm your problem now."

She doesn't smile. I'm beginning to notice a pattern.

"Name?"

"Becca."

"Surname?"

"Parcs."

She opens a thick folder, flips through several pages, and stops.

"Ah. Our late arrival."

"That's me."

"We were expecting you earlier this evening."

"Well, surprise."

She looks over her glasses.

I smile sweetly. She doesn't.

There's definitely a pattern.

"Your parents informed us there might be a delay, although I wasn't expecting you quite this late," she says.

"Very considerate of them."

"They also informed us about the circumstances leading to your admission."

"Oh, did they?"

"Yes."

"Did they also mention the dumpster?"

Her pen stops moving.

"The what?"

"Or the pizza boxes."

She stares at me for another moment before returning to her paperwork.

"Blackthorn Academy operates under a strict disciplinary system. You will be expected to attend all scheduled classes, complete assigned work, and comply with the rules at all times."

"Sounds exciting."

"Students are not permitted to leave their assigned rooms after eight o'clock in the evening."

I glance at my phone.

"Bit late for that."

"Your arrival is an exception."

"How generous."

"Any violation of curfew will result in disciplinary action."

"Right."

"Alcohol, cigarettes, narcotics, and other prohibited substances are strictly forbidden."

"Obviously."

"Fighting is prohibited."

"Naturally."

"Students are not permitted to enter the opposite residential wing."

"Tragic."

Her eyes narrow.

"Do you intend to take this seriously?"

I look at her.

"Would it help if I said yes?"

She lets out a proper, exhausted sigh, and I wonder how many students she's processed before me. Judging by the expression on her face, several thousand.

She slides a piece of paper across the desk.

"Your timetable. Your room number. And the name of the staff member responsible for emergencies."

I pick it up.

Mrs. Whitmore.

"Is that you?"

"Yes."

"Lovely. We're already friends."

"We are not."

"Fair enough."

She rises from her chair and collects a large ring of keys.

"Follow me."

I grab my suitcase.

We climb the staircase in what would probably be silence if my suitcase weren't banging against every single step.

Mrs. Whitmore glances over her shoulder.

"Could you lift that?"

"I could."

She waits.

I sigh and lift it.

Christ, this woman is going to be exhausting.

We pass several corridors, each looking almost identical to the last. Dark wooden doors, faded carpets, and wall lamps that provide just enough light to prevent people from walking into things.

Somewhere in the distance, I hear laughter and male voices. A door slams.

Mrs. Whitmore stops walking. The laughter immediately dies.

Interesting.

She continues.

We eventually reach a corridor with numbered doors on either side.

"This is the girls' residential wing. Bathrooms are at the end of the corridor. Breakfast begins at seven and classes at eight."

"Brilliant."

"Your roommate has been informed of your arrival."

"Poor girl."

Mrs. Whitmore stops outside room 214 and knocks twice.

A moment later, the door opens.

A girl with long brown hair stands in the doorway, wearing pink pyjama trousers and an oversized white T-shirt.

She looks from Mrs. Whitmore to me, then down at my suitcase.

"Oh!"

"Your new roommate," Mrs. Whitmore announces.

The girl smiles.

"Hi!"

"Hey."

"Please make sure she understands the rules," Mrs. Whitmore tells her.

The girl's smile falters.

"Of course."

Mrs. Whitmore turns to me.

"Lights out at ten. No wandering. No visitors. And absolutely no leaving this room after eight."

"Got it."

She studies my face.

I give her my most convincing smile. Apparently, it isn't very convincing.

"Good night."

"Night!"

She walks away and I watch her until she disappears around the corner. Then I turn to my roommate.

"Does she always look like someone pissed in her tea?"

The girl stares at me. Then, unexpectedly, she laughs.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You can't say things like that!"

"Why?"

"She might hear you!"

I glance down the empty corridor.

"She's got excellent hearing for someone her age, then."

My roommate grabs my suitcase handle and pulls it into the room.

"Come inside!"

The room is surprisingly decent.

Two single beds, two desks, two wardrobes, and a large window overlooking the grounds.

One side is decorated with fairy lights, photographs, and a collection of colourful cushions.

The other is completely empty. I assume the empty side is mine, unless my roommate has developed an unusual decorating style.

"I'm Wanda," she says.

"Becca."

"Nice to meet you."

"You too."

She looks me over. Not rudely, more like she's trying to figure out whether I've escaped from somewhere.

I can't really blame her.

My hair is red with black streaks, my eyeliner has survived eleven hours of travelling, and my ripped jeans have an actual hole in the knee big enough to fit a small dog through. My black lipstick is probably smudged too, but I haven't bothered checking.

"So," Wanda says carefully, "what did you do?"

I drop my bag onto the empty bed.

"To get here?"

She nods.

"Got drunk. Jumped out of a window and landed in a dumpster."

Her mouth falls open.

I shrug.

"Apparently, that's frowned upon."

She bursts out laughing. The kind where you have to sit down because your legs stop cooperating.

"Oh my God!"

"Yeah, yeah."

"A dumpster?"

"Can we focus on something else?"

"I'm sorry!" She wipes her eyes. "It's just..."

"A dumpster. Yes. We've established that. It wasn't my first offence but apparently my most memorable one."

She starts laughing again.

I roll my eyes, although I can't help smiling. Maybe she isn't so bad.

"So what did you do?" I ask.

Her laughter stops.

"Me?"

"No, the wardrobe."

"Oh." She looks down at her hands. "It's complicated."

She doesn't continue.

"Right."

I'm not going to push, everyone here has done something stupid. That's practically the admission requirement.

I unzip my suitcase and start pulling out a few shirts, some jeans, my makeup bag, and a packet of cigarettes I've managed to hide inside a pair of socks.

Wanda spots them immediately and her eyes widen.

"You can't have those!"

I look at the packet.

"Pretty sure I can. See?"

I hold it up.

"Actual cigarettes."

"They're forbidden!"

"So is alcohol. Doesn't mean it stopped existing."

She looks horrified.

I toss the packet into my bedside drawer.

"Relax. I'm not going to set the room on fire."

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"Good. Because that would be a ridiculous way to spend my first night."

She gives me a nervous smile and I continue unpacking.

After approximately ten minutes, I've had enough. My clothes are in a pile, my makeup is on the desk and my phone charger is plugged in. That counts as moving in.

I sit on the bed and look around.

"So."

Wanda glances up from her book.

"So?"

"What's there to do around here?"

She blinks.

"At this time?"

"Generally."

"Well, there's a library. A sports hall. The common room. We have a small cinema room too, but that's only open on weekends."

"Thrilling."

God, I need something to drink.

"Where's the vending machine?"

Wanda frowns.

"What?"

"Vending machine. Drinks. Snacks. Something edible."

"Oh. There's one downstairs, near the common room."

"Perfect."

I grab my phone.

Wanda sits up.

"Wait."

I look at her.

"What?"

"You can't go downstairs."

"Why not?"

"It's after eight."

I stare at her.

"Seriously?"

"Yes!"

"It's a vending machine, Wanda. I'm not robbing a bank."

"You don't understand. The rules here are really strict."

"What, do they lock us in?"

"No, but security patrols the corridors. If they catch you outside your room, you're in serious trouble."

"Yeah, I got that from Mrs. Sunshine downstairs."

"You'll get detention!"

I consider that and then shrug.

"Okay."

She blinks.

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

"You can't just..."

"What are they going to do?" I ask, pulling on my jacket. "Send me to a boarding school?"

Wanda seems to be getting desperate.

"Please don't!"

"Want anything?"

"No!"

"Suit yourself."

I open the door.

"Wait!"

I look back.

She's sitting bolt upright, clutching her blanket.

"Seriously. Don't go."

For a moment, I wonder what the hell is wrong with this place.

Then my stomach growls.

"Relax. I'll be back in five minutes."

And I step into the hallway.