When Sinners Play (Sinners of Hawthorne University 1)

Bring it.

I’m fucking ready.

8

When we reach the admin building, Max gives me her number before leaving me to sort out my paperwork—even though this campus is so fucking small that I figure there’s a pretty good chance I’ll randomly bump into her again before I have reason to call her.

I walk into the office just a few minutes before it’s supposed to close for the day, and the secretary, whose face is pulled taut by the impossible tightness of her bun, isn’t pleased. Neither is the academic advisor I’m saddled with for the duration of my education at Hawthorne University.

As I listen to my advisor go on about how I’ve been given a great opportunity here and should treat it with respect, I consider telling him why I was late. Because one of their elite, their best and brightest, their well-bred stock, harassed and embarrassed me in front of a sizable crowd. Thinking back to what Max said, however, I hold my tongue. If the people at the top don’t really give a fuck about me as a scholarship student, why will these people?

So I let him lecture me, and then I let him complain about the specialized paperwork that has to be added to my file, and then, finally, when he’s done complaining, I’m given access to my dorm.

Every student at Hawthorne is issued a key card for their dorm room, which also doubles as their campus ID.

It’s what’ll get me into my room, check my presence for attendance in class, and allow for access to the school’s physical library, digital library, and JSTOR—which apparently is like rich people’s Wikipedia.

By the time I’m finished getting all the paperwork taken care of, I’m tired, hungry, and very much done dealing with people who don’t want to deal with me in the first place.

Everything I own has been delivered to my dorm room, and an upside of not owning very much shit is that it only takes me about half an hour to unpack. Because Hawthorne is so elite and only houses a relatively small number of students, I have what amounts to an entire apartment unit all to myself.

I take a little extra time figuring out how I want to arrange my art on the walls, and once I get the pieces hung, I sink into the cushions of the plush couch, gazing up at the only things that make this little apartment feel like mine.

Home sweet home.

Classes don’t start until Monday, so I spend the weekend getting my kitchen stocked up and setting up a little studio in the corner of my living room that gets the most light.

Because I never really expected I’d be going to a college, let alone attending a fancy university, my major is, for now, undecided. My line-up for the first semester is a handful of 101 classes and basic extracurriculars—all art classes. For the cost of all these fancy courses, I should probably feel bad that I have no idea what I want to do with my life, but I figure that taking Ms. Nielson’s advice and trying it out is the first step in… I dunno, whatever little social experiment this part of my life is.

I’m not exactly looking forward to the first day of classes, but I have to admit, having my own fucking apartment isn’t half bad.

The McAlisters didn’t like the inherent messiness that comes with creating good art, so I was never really able to set up a permanent studio space in my room. I could get away with sketching and working with charcoal, but I didn’t get many chances to paint.

Here, though? I can do whatever I want.

While I never had any formal training outside of a couple classes in junior high, I’ve always found myself drawn to it. First coloring, then sketching, then my true passion, painting. I used to stay late after school, missing the bus home just to be able to use the school’s art supplies to finish my pieces.

Maybe it’s a little sad, but those are some of my best memories. Those times when it was just me, an empty art room, and whatever was in my head emerging slowly onto a piece of paper or pilfered canvas.

Now it’s a piece of Bristol board, and I paint abstract shapes in cool colors before adding vivid highlights—a splash of red here and there, like blood streaked across an ocean. None of it is meant to be comprehended or understood. Or at least, not the way a book is meant to be understood.

It doesn’t tell a story. It creates a feeling.

It just is.

There’s nothing more intimate or cathartic than feeling the drag of a paintbrush across a blank canvas, than smelling fresh wet paint or having graphite from your initial sketches still on your hands after a thorough wash.

It’s been a long time since I was able to just lose myself in creating pieces, and for an entire blissful weekend, that’s exactly what I do.

But at eight o’clock on Monday morning, my alarm clock blares into the quiet stillness of the morning, a harsh reminder of why I’m really here.

Ugh.

I roll over with a groan to turn the fucking thing off, then pull the covers over my head and get about thirty more minutes of sleep before I decide I need to get up and at least pretend I believe that my future can be reshaped in these halls.

Because of my self-imposed exile in my room the last few days, I’ve avoided another repeat of my first day on campus.

Now that I’ll be attending classes and crossing paths with other students all the time, I’m doubtful things will stay so calm and easy.