Austin hands over the keys since I’ll be driving home by myself while he stays after for football practice. I drop them in my bag and take a deep breath before forcing myself to get out of the vehicle.
Now that we’re standing in the parking lot, more people stop and stare. They bend their heads close together as their lips move. Hushed tones fill the air but don’t quite reach our ears. The strange fascination they have with us continues to grow as we move toward the entrance of the imposing stone building.
From beneath my lashes, my gaze scans the crowd. There’s not a friendly face to be found. This feels like a nightmare and a punch of nausea hits me full force. Thank God, I didn’t eat breakfast. Blueberry pancakes making an encore appearance on the front lawn is not the first impression I want to make.
I throw a worried glance at my brother. The smile he had been wearing ten minutes ago has been replaced with a scowl and a hard-edged stare. Thick tension radiates off him in suffocating waves. My brother is no stranger to fistfights. And he doesn’t have a problem throwing the first punch. Or the second and third.
When we were younger, Austin took a lot of shit for being slow. What our classmates didn’t understand was that he wasn’t stupid, he learned in a way that made him different. It took him a little longer to figure things out. After a while, it got to a point where if anyone made a comment about him not catching on quickly enough or they pointed out a bad grade, they would get pounded an inch within their lives.
I don’t want to see Austin slip back into that mindset again.
My fingers flutter to his arm. When his head twists toward mine, I hoist my lips, wanting to give the illusion of being unconcerned. After a moment, he gives me a terse nod as if he understands my silently conveyed message. We’ll call it a twin thing and leave it at that.
As we walk past more clumps of people, chatter and whispers hit my ears until the tips burn in mortification. This town must be seriously lame if our arrival has sparked this much interest.
“Bunch of fucking hicks,” Austin grumbles as we walk up the wide stone stairs before yanking open the glass door to the building.
I give him a tight smile, hoping things get better and we’re not treated like pariahs for the rest of the day.
My steps stutter as my gaze sweeps over the entryway. I’m just as bowled over as when we arrived at the house yesterday. I want to stop and take everything in all at once. The floors are a sea of glossy black-and-white checkered marble tile that stretches down the corridors. Near the staircase in the entry is a bust of a man displayed on an ornately carved pedestal. My guess is that it’s a likeness of Herbert Hawthorne, who founded the school. Gold framed pictures dot the upper portion of the cream-colored walls while the lower part is paneled in a black cherry wainscoting. I glance up at the timber-covered ceiling and the massive gold chandelier that hangs from above.
Students force their way past us, their gazes crawling over our bodies, but none offer help and I’ll be damned if I ask for it. There has to be a sign somewhere. My gaze travels around the corridor until it lands on black lettering etched onto a frosted glass door.
Relief floods through me as I point. “There’s the office.”
Austin remains quiet as we move through the crowded hallway. The further into the school we walk, the more out of place I feel. It’s a disconcerting sensation. One that makes the hair at the back of my neck prickle with unease. My brother and I are dressed exactly like everyone else and yet, we’ve been marked as outsiders.
With fingers that tremble, I grab the knob and push the door open, wanting to escape from the hallway and get away from all the prying eyes that are watching us. Once we step inside the office, I’m tempted to lean against the door in relief. I never want to go back out there again.
“Why hello there, you two,” a kindly voice greets from behind a massive desk strewn with papers.
It’s the first friendly face we’ve encountered since rolling into town yesterday.
I blink, wanting to make sure the older woman is speaking to us. When my gaze locks on hers, a smile wreathes her wrinkled features. Her grey hair is pinned up in a bun and a navy-colored cardigan is draped across her shoulders. Whenever I’ve pictured what a sweet old lady would look like, this was it. In other words, the complete opposite of my grandmother.