First Lines, First Glances
“All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.”
I read the line again, letting the words sink in. Orwell had a way of making the absurdity of the world feel sharp and real. Funny, ironic, terrifying all at once. I wondered how many people actually noticed the small hypocrisies around them—or if most just shrugged and accepted the rules, blindly following whatever they were told.
I closed my eyes for a moment, thinking about it. Equality. Justice. The lies people told themselves every day. Sometimes I thought my own life was a little like that—my grandmother’s cold glares, my father’s distracted presence, the world constantly expecting me to be something I wasn’t. I had learned to observe, to analyze, to protect myself with sharp words and sarcasm. And yet, there were moments when the weight of it all pressed in, reminding me that life didn’t always make sense, no matter how clever or prepared I was.
“Viola! You up there, or are you planning to hide all day?”
Rosalind Spenser. Of course. The one person who could drag me out of my thoughts without me pushing her away. I snapped the journal shut and shoved it into my bag, trying to look as if I’d been perfectly calm, perfectly in control.
“You’re relentless,” I muttered as she linked her arm through mine, grinning like sunshine itself. “Some of us enjoy quiet mornings, you know.”
“Some of us? You mean you,” she said, unfazed. “C’mon, it’s the first day of senior year! I refuse to let you sulk through it.” I smirked. “And you’re still insisting on calling yourself Rose instead of Rosalind?”
“Absolutely,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Rosalind sounds like some boring old novel character. Rose is fun. Rose is me. End of discussion.” I laughed softly and, half-teasing, half-serious, quoted aloud,“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
Rose threw her head back and groaned dramatically. “Oh,Viola! Must you always ruin the fun with Shakespeare?” I shrugged. “Someone has to keep your ego in check.” I sighed, rolling my eyes. Rose was the exception—the only person I let see me without the armor. Everyone else got my sarcasm. Everyone else had to figure out how to navigate the walls I built.
Downstairs, our fathers were waiting. My father, a policeman perpetually pressed for time, was in a hurry, as always. He couldn’t send me to college every day himself, so this arrangement worked best: Rose and I would ride with Rose’s father, Edmund Spencer, a literature professor at our college.
Mr. Spenser had inherited his father’s love for literature and Shakespeare. That was why he had named his daughter Rosalind, after the clever, fearless heroine inAs You Like It. He picked us both up every morning, letting us tag along while my father hurried off to work in his colleague’s car. “Viola, Rose, ready?” Mr. Spenser called, glancing at his watch. His calm, slightly amused tone reminded me of why I respected him. Despite his busy schedule, he never hurried our chatter.
“Good morning, Viola, Rose,” Mr. Spencer greeted, eyes twinkling. “Ready for another adventure into the world of prose and poetry?”
“Do we have to?” Rose groaned, slumping into the car. “I swear, one day I’m going to escape your literary torture, Viola.”
I shot her a glance, smirking. “Torture? You mean enlightenment.”
Mr. Spencer chuckled, placing a hand lightly on my shoulder. “She’s right, you know. Enlightenment is a gift—though some prefer to be blissfully ignorant.” I smiled at him. Our little routine had become a comforting rhythm over the years. He was more than a professor to me; he was a mentor, a guide, almost like a second father. Our conversations about literature, Shakespeare, and life had taught me more than any classroom ever could.
Rose, of course, hated it. She rolled her eyes dramatically every time he mentioned a play or a poet. “Honestly, Viola, must you two bond overeverythingin iambic pentameter?”
I laughed softly. “Some things are worth bonding over, Rose. Unlike your obsession with morning gossip.”
Rose said, turning to me. “Last minute secrets?”
“Not that you’d understand,” I muttered sarcastically, though a smile tugged at my lips.
Mr. Spencer started the car, and the familiar hum of the engine filled the quiet moments as Rose continued her playful protests and I quietly listened, absorbing the world around me. My father appeared at the door, straightening his uniform jacket.
“Come home in time... don’t—don’t wait around... have your dinner as—”
I cut him off quickly. “Yes, I know. You’ll be late. It’s okay, I’ll manage.”
He gave me a fleeting smile, then climbed into his colleague’s car and drove off. Mr. Spencer glanced at me as we pulled onto the main road.
“Ready for your first day, my scholar?” he asked, a warm note in his voice.
I nodded. Tall, clever, sarcastic, socially distant—but today, riding with him, I felt that quiet confidence grow. Some things were constant. Some bonds unshakable.
Rose groaned again, but I ignored her. Literature and I had a language no one else quite understood, and Mr. Spencer was my partner in it.
As the campus came into view, I felt that familiar twist of anticipation and unease. First lines had been read. First glances were about to be stolen. And deep down, I knew senior year would be anything but ordinary. Something—or someone—was about to change everything.
