Underneath The Covers


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3. Two

 "You may leave me," I tell Matteo as I settle myself on a red settee with the other new students in the Administrative Hall. A shade of baby pink painted parallel from the floor to one-fourth of the wall and the rest are patterns of pastel color of polka dots covered the walls. There are indoor plants in every corner of the room and on every side of a chair little too fashionable and weird for an old Academy. 

            On the table across me, different magazines are piled neatly. One is something I can identify, an issue of Vogue magazine. Interested as I always do, I grab the copy and studies the cover only to have disappointment spread across my face – Kristen Stewart, in her Vogue cover debut, a 2011 issue.

            I don't hate her, what I hate is the fact that this is also a copy I once read a million times and merely memorized every article in this issue. I believe it has been drowning in the attic. She is more of a poker face, but her beauty is naturally stunning – a mixture of blankness and fierceness; unique.  

            As I throw the magazine back to the table, another girl beside me throws one too and murmurs in a dialect I can’t comprehend but the word “shit” alone. Disgusted, she stands and walks toward the door.

             It’s my turn and the lady in the counter gives me my schedule. She is in her mid forties and leans forward as she adjusted her eyeglasses, probably checking up my face. “What’s wrong? Did I give the wrong schedule, young lady?”

            I didn’t respond. I can’t tell if it’s wrong nor can tell if it’s right because it was my parents who decided when I was on a reunion trip with my old friends. I look at the schedule I am holding and decided should swift P.E. and Foreign Language; P.E. for afternoon and Foreign Language for the start of the day. No choice!

 

            “I’m afraid you have mistaken, Mrs –“

            “Campbell. You can call me Mrs. Campbell.” She inserts.

            “Oh yeah,” I reply and add, “That P.E. should be during afternoon instead of Foreign Language.”

            “Okay dear, a minute.” Mrs. Campbell leaves toward a door behind the counter, to an office.

            Remaining at the counter, I wait for almost five minutes until Mrs. Campbell returned.

            “Sweetie, over here. I apologize that it took so long,” she says as she hands me a new copy of my schedule. “I’ve been the schools ‘concierge’ for a decade, you must be Melanie’s daughter. You really look like your mother.”

            “Uhm –“

            The bell interrupts about conversation and I leave the room, starting off for my first subject – Foreign Language.

            Wait. French?

            Oh no.

 

  

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