The Other Side of the Story

The normal high school student, Raven, needs to analyse the famous fairy tale of Snow White. Thinking this as easy, she soon uncovers the truth about the perfect Snow White, and realizes it is much deeper, raw and tragic than the story we all know so "well".

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2. Classroom 8

Monday. Winter. Dark. Talk about it being a sucky day already.

It’s funny how you always strive for the exact opposite of what you have. During summer, all I think about is cold snow, Christmas and wishing for the stifling heat and mosquitos to go far away. And during winter, I tend to think about wearing shorts and swimming at the beach.

But no.

Even though I always think of winter being all about tea, blankets, warm candles and fairy lights, it just never seems to be. Take for instance this weekend. It was bound to end sometime and eventually everyone would have to venture outside to his or her everyday routines again.

I for one was trudging tiredly through the 3” snow-covered sidewalks on my way to school, with my face feeling like pure ice. It felt as though the hairs inside my nose were frozen, so when I breathed it was a sensation in itself.

Finally, I saw the big redbrick building that was my beloved high school. (If you should be in doubt, my previous statement is completely sarcastic).

I hurried up the stairs to the entrance of Bleakly High School – which was a very hard thing to do as they were almost entirely iced over – and thanked all the Gods in this world for the creation of radiators. My body was thirsting for the wonderful warmth of the inside and instantly my whole body seemed to relax, drinking in the welcoming heat.
 
The hallways of Bleakly were all painted white and dark green lockers occupied the walls. In spring, bright sunbeams of light would shine through the glass roof and illuminate the white and green to softer and rounder shades of their color palettes. I liked the halls; they exuded such a peaceful energy. Of course, that was until hundreds of students poured out from their classes, hereby unleashing the chaos of hyperactive teenagers.
    Our school’s official colors were purple and silver so our mascot was obviously a beaver, and a very discolored-looking one at that. Bleakly had the average high school norms as one could imagine: popular jocks and cheerleaders, nerdy mathletes and band-players, the swimmers, gymnastics girls, artists and so on. I didn’t fall into any of these categories, so I was in the group called “other”. I didn’t mind this exactly, but it would’ve been nice to feel like more of a part of the school than I did.

I wish I had a burning passion for something. Well, I kind of do. I love to read, but I sure as Hell am not going to be the first Bleakly student to create a book club.

I should probably introduce myself before I go on with my story. My name is Raven Campbell and I am seventeen years old. As you know I adore to read. I have a couple of close friends Lily and Karman whom I love very much. I have dark auburn hair and full hazel eyes.
    My father, Trenton Campbell, is a very successful lawyer so he travels all the time, which leaves just my mother and I at home. Her name is Eve Davis-Campbell, and she works in a fancy restaurant downtown called Saint Jacque. This is so nice, because it means she always brings home delicious food after her shifts.

Now that you know a little about me and my appearance – even though looks don’t matter! – it might be a little easier for you to keep reading.

 

On this particular dreadful Monday I was wearing layers of soft and thick sweaters, green mittens, a maroon scarf, a knitted red and blue hat my mother had made for me and some heavy winter boots that oddly enough, didn’t keep my feet warm.

I was making my way through the halls to Classroom 8. English was the first subject today. It soothed me knowing we had English, because it has always been my favorite subject. Why? For instance, it involves a lot of reading. But on the other hand, the particular fellow classmates in that class were… as a lack of words to say this mildly, I’ll go ahead and tell you that all of them were pretty much the biggest assholes I’ve ever met.
     “Hello, darling!”
     “Hello Mrs. Grange” I smiled (or tried to, my lips were frozen so I’m not sure if they moved at all).
    Mrs. Grange was our headmaster and she was quite a character. She always wore brightly colored plaid suits (in colors that did not flatter each other), was in her mid-fifties and had a very high-pitched voice. Mrs. Grange was very nice while still being very firm. She was a type of person you never ever forget.
     I remember this one time when I was very upset over some stupid boy, the sweet woman found me crying in the bathroom and immediately took me to her office. She gave me a glass of water and some cookies, and refused to let me go until I told her what was wrong. I told her everything and bawled my eyes out, and she just sat there and listened. She was just very kind in a way you never would expect a headmaster to be.

By now, I had made my way to the classroom. As I walked inside I was almost hit in the face by a flying paper plane. Murmurs of voices and laughter filled the air in which we all breathed. It was all so loud, and I could already feel the consequences of not drinking my usual cup of coffee in the morning.
    The dark brown parquet floor creaked as I stepped on it. I almost slipped, due to the many collection of puddles on the floor from everyone else’s snow adventures.
    The familiarity of the classroom was comforting. I loved the old dusty blackboard behind the teacher’s desk and the navy blue English dictionaries on the vintage looking shelves in the corner in the back.  

“Class! Please, just listen for one moment, would you?” Mr. Robertson yelled hopelessly. He was my favorite teacher, so I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Nobody was ever silent when he attempted to check attendance. Therefore, the poor man had to battle fiercely every day to see who was there at 8:15 am.
    Mr. Robertson was in about his mid-thirties, had recently married and was very handsome in a homey, is-going-to-be-a-great-father kind of way. I respected him and desperately wanted the feeling to be mutual. Mr. Robertson was the kind of teacher you wanted to notice your work and recognize you for it.
    “Ms. Campbell?” he asked into the air, scouting the frenzied crowd for my face.
   “Here!” I said loudly, trying to make his job a little easier.
When he finished reading out all the names, he yelled:
    “Settle down a bit! I know it’s hard to be concentrate in this cold, but if I promise to do my work and you promise to be quiet and do yours, everything would be so much easier.” He clapped his hands together and smiled, resulting in his short beard to scrunch up. There were a couple of snickers from the back, but he ignored them.
    “Anyhow, as you all know, we just finished reading and analyzing The Catcher in the Rye so we are starting a new subject today. Can I have a drumroll please! You’ll never guess it!” he chuckled.
    Everyone started banging on the table. This was a cool thing about Mr. Robertson. He was very creative and active so he always made up these small things for the class to do, like the drumroll. Another one he had made up were the ‘fireworks’, where you made a swoosh noise, clapped once and then snapped your fingers on both hands about ten times. He would make us do this if someone said something noteworthy or something else that was special.
    “Your subject is: FAIRYTALES! And let me tell you, it’s going to be awesome.” he revealed.
    Instantly the whole class room erupted with disappointed groans.
    “Settle down now, would ya? Geez. Don’t worry children, I made sure it’s going to be interesting for you to study, all right?”
    I was actually a little bit excited. I had always enjoyed European fairytales like Sleeping Beauty and Little Red Riding Hood. In these alternate universes, everything ended happily and I couldn’t help but hope that same thing would happen to me. I knew though, that that wouldn’t be very likely to happen.
    Hidden in the storylines of fairytales, there were always messages with morals that seemed so simple in the text, but were hard to follow in real life.

I was so wrapped up in my train of thought that I jumped when Mr. Robertson threw a piece of paper on my wooden desk. As he handed out the rest, students had resumed their yelling and joking around. I studied my assignment and smiled when I read the name of my designated fairytale:

Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs

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