moonflower.

chapter two.

I’ve never been alone before; I’ve never been without mum. It’s a frightening experience, one I don’t want to go through. I sit there trying to think of something to focus on but nothing comes to mind. Mr Kelsby is no help; he’s too busy staring out the window at the rain that’s now lashing the windows. I can hear it rattling the glass it’s so loud.

I stand, needing to do something – anything, to get my mind off this. It’s a litany in my mind, You’re on your own, you’re on your own. I’m not on my own however, I can still feel Mr Kelsby’s disapproving stare as I walk around the room away from him.

The room is almost bare. There is one cabinet, one bookcase, the desk and chair and one large painting. I’m surprised at the starkness – Camberley is quite a well-to-do school, I would have expected the Headmaster to emphasise this. But there’s nothing to indicate wealth in here.

I wonder if he put all the money into his bedroom instead?

I walk around Mr Kelsby towards the painting behind him. It’s the only thing of interest in the room. It’s fairly large, bigger than most paintings I’ve seen.

It’s a family portrait, featuring a man and two children – a girl and a boy. I stare at it, wondering who they are when a voice behind me says, “Ah, my old family. There is me, right there,” a finger is pointing at the boy. “And the Camberley family motto, and now the schools, is written in the corner.” The finger moves, trailing down the side towards the bottom left corner.

I squint. The words are handwritten, scrawled onto the painting with only a little care, “ ‘Faber est suae quisque fortunae,’ Appius Claudius Caecus ”.

I don’t understand it but the Headmaster is already steering me away, not bothering to explain the Latin to me. Fortunae is fortune. But that is all I understand. My mind is soon being overtaken by shock at the Headmaster’s touch to wonder about the motto for too long. It’s so warm even though he has just been outside in a building storm. He isn’t even wet though the rain is still beating against the window; every inch of him is dry.

I say nothing and am soon sitting once again across from the Headmaster. He looks at me with a serious expression and I know something is coming.

“Now, Cassandra, I am sure you would like to get to your room as soon as possible,” the Headmaster says. I nod and he continues, “Before that however I would like to ask you some questions.”

I feel unsure for a moment, wondering what kind of questions he will ask but I nod anyway. Anxiety fills me.

“Do you consider yourself a reasonable person Cassandra?” I frown. Reasonable? I nod, feeling much like a puppet. I can’t talk however – my throat is closed. What is the Headmaster talking about? “And are you accepting of certain things?”

This time I do talk, fixing the Headmaster with a confused stare. “What kind of things?”

He shrugs, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning towards me. “Anything. Picture in your mind the strangest thing you can come up with, would you accept it if it were real?”

I look across at Mr Kelsby but he doesn’t seem to find anything amiss. He’s still staring at the weather aside; I know I will get no help there. What exactly does the Headmaster expects me to say? I usually hate surprises, I’ve already by shocked too many times today. I don’t think he quite means things such as surprise parties however.

The Headmaster looks at me keenly and I have to avoid his gaze. There is no harm in being asked questions but answering them can be difficult. I have to remind myself of this as I think of a response.

They can’t expel me already and I am, after all, already a student of Camberley Boarding School. They won’t take that away just for answering one question wrong. I stop myself when I realise that I’m beginning to over-analyse everything. Why am I so nervous? It’s stupid to be so nervous.

“I’m…I will accept anything I need to Headmaster.” He smiles, I wince. I have a feeling that this new school will be completely different to any of the others I have been too. Its strange, yet kind of exciting.

Mr Kelsby stands up, I stand with him. As stimulating as all this is I feel the need to get out of this room, away from the Headmaster who is still looking at me with anticipation. What is he waiting for?

I have no time to ask – and I don’t think I particularly want to – as Mr Kelsby motions for me to follow him out of the room. He says nothing, merely leading me through the other door that is next to the Headmaster’s. I say nothing likewise: the silence grows between us.

We turn sharply right once past this door down another dark corridor. This time the very décor seems to scream ‘haunted house’. It’s all dark colours – blacks, blues and deep reds. I find it amusing this time, pushing down whatever part of me is still afraid of the school.

This time I’m more afraid of the students.

A quick glance at my watch tells me that it’s only early afternoon. Hopefully this means that everyone will still be in lesson. It’s almost too dark to see where we’re going and I stumble, catching myself on the dorm. Mr Kelsby makes a sound of irritation and waits for me to stand up before walking on. I feel a certain measure of dislike for the man; I can’t help it if I’m inherently clumsy.

We make it a few more feet before Mr Kelsby stops and reaches out an arm to open a door. I stare at it as we walk past, marvelling at the elaborate calligraphy and the strange drawing underneath. The words say ‘Day Dorm’ and there is a picture of a silver bullet, a rose and a stake underneath, all entwined with vines. It takes me a while to realise that the thorns make a ‘H’.

We carry on through. I stay close behind Mr Kelsby, hoping his figure will hide me even though we are much the same height.

A sigh of relief escapes me when no sounds immediately register. Only the faint noise of a TV programme and the whistle of a kettle that has been left on. Whilst Mr Kelsby goes to see about the kettle I take the time to look around what will, in all essence, by my new home.

There are two rooms, separated by an archway. I guess that I’m currently standing in what will be the common room, the other is definitely a kitchen filled with cookers and cupboards and three different sized fridges.

The common room is colourful – almost blindingly so. After the lack of colour in the Headmaster’s room and then the decidedly creepy colour scheme in the corridor before I’d almost expected something either stark or black but this…it’s actually quite daunting.

There are several couches and seats piled high with cushions. It’s all yellows and oranges and bright blues and reds. It’s almost like the seaside with its candy colours.

Mr Kelsby comes back, decidedly not the least amused about the kettle. He is muttering about detentions and writing it up on a board when he returns to stand in front of me. His scowl is quite intimidating and I try not to cower back, steeling myself for whatever new is coming.

“As you can see this is the common room.” His words are mocking; apparently he does not like stating the obvious. He turns and gestures, “Over there is the kitchen. You will do all your cooking and snacking there. There is a cafeteria that will serve food during school hours only. If you have any requests for ingredients write them down on a list on the fridge. They’re restocked every Friday.” This is the most I’ve ever heard Mr Kelsby say. He doesn’t seem to like it, his lips are turned down at the corners and he keeps shaking his head.

“You ‘relax’ in the common room, unless you don’t want all the other students to bother you.” He says ‘students’ like some would say a curse word. “Then you go to your room.” He hands me a small piece of paper with one letter and three consecutive numbers written on it. I can barely make out the tiny handwriting when I look at it. “The girls dorm is on the third floor.” He thrusts a key into my other hand. “Good luck.” And then he is gone.

For the second time today I am left to fend for myself. Mum would say something about this building my independence but right now I just feel tired – bone tired and world-weary.

My bag, whilst light, is starting to weigh down on my shoulders so I jostle it a little and try to find a door to the upstairs.

I find one in the kitchen next to a fridge that hums loud enough to cover the noise of the TV. I hesitate before going upstairs, wondering if I should turn it off before shaking my head and wrenching the door open. They can turn off their own TV.

Beyond the door the space is cramped and pitch black. The steps are steep and there is no banister. The stairs are discouraging but I will not be defeated. Taking a deep breath I once again readjust my bag before starting up.

Getting to the first floor is not hard but by the second I am gasping for breath. A combination of claustrophobia and the effort of climbing have me almost collapsing against the wall once I reach the girls’ dorms.

This corridor is just as off-putting as the stairs. The walls are bare and painted white – from what I can tell. The lighting is poor and there are no windows, just doors on either side with letters and numbers imprinted on them.

I soon realise that the letter is the same on every door; it’s just the number that changes. My own door is towards the end, ‘H203’. By the time I reach it I am cursing every architect that ever lived and breathing so heavily that I wonder if I just might develop asthma in this place. It’s all too possible as I lean against the door, fumbling with my hands for my one sole key.

Shoving it in I almost fall through the door into the room, throwing my hands out to catch and balance myself before I can. It doesn’t work – I fall anyway and am lying face down on the floor when I hear a voice behind me.

“Oh my gosh! Are you alright?” The voice is high-pitched and almost giddy but still muffled; both my ears are out of commission, one ear is flattened against the rough carpet of my room whilst the other is covered with my bag.

“Hello? Can you hear me? You’re not deaf are you? Oh that would be so bad!” I’m tempted to reply sarcastically before mentally hitting myself. I need to make friends here and I’ll take anyone who offers.

“Could you – could you just pull my bag off?” The bag leaves, the other person yanking it off my arms and throwing it down. I wince when I hear something smash and turn to see the apologetic face of my wound-be rescuer, the rescuer who had broken one of my worldly possessions.

“Oh gosh! I’m so sorry!” The girl says but I shake my head, struggling to stand up so I’m face to face with her. Or, she’s face to shoulder with me. The girl is small, petite in a pixy way and I can’t help but feel an initial dislike of her because of this. I push it down. Friends, a little voice in my head goads.

I nod, “It’s nothing. Thank you for helping me.”

She beams, taking my nod as a cue for her to come even closer, looking around with curiosity. “It’s no problem! None at all!” Is everyone here so ecstatically happy? Besides Mr Kelsby of course. I have to stop myself inching away from her as she leans in. “Are you the new girl? You are aren’t you? Oh, I have to tell Alicia about this!”

I wonder briefly why she isn’t in class when the question is answered for me. The sound level rises with the noise of seemingly millions of feet hitting the ground. The girl steps out of the room – my room – again and calls for one out of the crowd. They all seem to converge towards us before stopping and staring at me.

I sweat. It’s uncomfortable – being under so many calculating looks. I have to hold back the urge to duck and shut the door in their faces. I’m not a naturally shy person but when faced with this many people I can’t help but want to flee.

My rescuer is introducing me to the crowd. “This is...ah...what’s your name again?” I tell her and her smile gets wider. “Cassandra, oh what a wonderful name! This is Cassandra Downing everybody!” I expect them all to clap but instead there is an almost deathly silence before the sound of clip-clopping heels is heard.

A girl detaches herself from the crowd and walks up to me. She is just as short as the other pixy girl but instead her look is cold, like an ice princess. I have to lock my arms to stop from visibly shivering.

“How...quaint Laurel,” she says. I assume Laurel is my rescuer. “And does Cassandra want to come down to have dinner with us?”

I hate the way she says my name. It’s similar to the way Mr Kelsby said ‘students’ earlier and I can see now all too clearly why he would. Spite seems to seep out of this girl’s every pour – you can’t help but respond to it. I can feel my hackles rising even as I try to tamper them down. Friends, the voice says, becoming weaker now.

Taking a deep breath I gesture to my room, “Ah, I’ve already eaten actually.” It’s a lie but from the looks of their faces they believe it. I don’t care – I can go without food for hours and I don’t even need to – mum has packed me sweets and cookies for ‘midnight feasts’ in my bag.

“Oh? What a shame. We’d love to see you in the Common Room though. Would you care to watch TV with us Cassandra?”

Again I shake my head ‘no’. “I just wanted to rest for a while.”

I might as well have smacked her. She looks shocked for a minute, and then outraged and then she simply gives me a tight smile. It takes a moment for my own stupidity to sink in – I had just insulted the Queen Bee of the school. A school where I know no one and no one knows me and I have just insulted the one who is in charge of them all.

I sink. My spirits almost visibly choking. It’s like I have already built my own coffin.

“Well,” she says. “Maybe another time.”

She leaves and everyone goes with her, turning around and waltzing back down the corridor. I let out a small sigh of relief when they all disappear downstairs but the relief doesn’t stay with me long.

Already my stomach is clenching and my hands are clammy. I have just signed my own death warrant and no one here will help me to un-sign it. I may as well have jumped off the cliff earlier and drowned myself in the sea. At least, as my mum would say, that would have been romantic.

Instead my death is going to come in the form of a bitter and ruthless harpy who will probably scratch me to death with her nails.

I am not looking forward to it.

I grimace, shutting the door and turning around to survey my room. I hope, as I turn, that it will be nice. Even with a scratchy, rough carpet. I don’t care about anything else as long as it’s nice – then I can spend all my hours up here and there will be no need to go downstairs. I’ll cook when everyone else is in bed, shower before anyone else gets up.

My hopes are dashed.

There is nothing apart from a wardrobe, a desk and chair and a metal-rung bed. The mattress is dirty, the walls are yellowed and written on and everything reminds me so much like a mental institution that I want to cry.

Instead I swallow the tears and sit on the bed. It creaks alarmingly beneath me but I ignore it, reaching out to grab my bag.

It’s wet. I open it up and realise that Laurel has smashed the snow globe that my grandfather had given me two years before he died. It is the one final nail in the coffin and I can’t help the two silent tracks of hot tears that fall down my face.

I grab the bottom of the snow globe and throw it as hard as I can at the far wall where it collides with a bang and falls harmlessly to the floor. The wall now has one large dent in it but I can’t gather up the energy to care.

This place is stifling me and already I want to flee from it – but where is there that I can go?

There is nowhere to go now.

I feel even more alone when I think that.