Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“You’re in Lawrence Hall.” My father squints at his iPhone, scrolling through the information the school sent him. “Looks like we can check in at the student center.”
I traipse after him as he marches across the quad in the direction of the central brick building. There’s already a flock of eager parents and students hovering around the check-in, and I’d rather be anywhere but here right now. My dad still hasn’t looked directly at me, and I catch myself staring at the side of his face, wishing he’d just acknowledge me. He used to be my rock. My stability. For so long, he was my sole caretaker while my mother remained a passive participant in family life. Everything has shifted, and I barely recognize him now. I don’t know when our relationship fell apart, but it did.
Things haven’t been easy for any of us, but they especially haven’t been easy for him. Lately, it seems like all he does is work, and the long hours in the city have monopolized his time. Gone are the days of vacations and birthday dinners. I can’t even remember the last meal we had together. As my parents' marriage crumbles and their attention drifts in separate directions, we’ve all become our own islands. I haven’t made things any easier on them. Abandonment issues are a bitch, and the only way I manage to get their attention now is by getting into trouble, which I’ve been doing often lately. And this is how Loyola Academy came into the picture. As my father says, this is my chance to turn over a new leaf. But to me, it just feels like he’s sending me away.
“Welcome.” A bright-eyed faculty member greets us as we move forward in line. “Are we checking in?”
“Yes,” my father answers. “Stella LeClaire.”
“Ah, Stella.” She drags a manicured finger down the sheet of names in front of her. “There you are.” After checking me off like an item on her to-do list, she retrieves an envelope with my information printed across the front. “Here is your room number, map, class schedule, and orientation information. Welcome to Loyola Academy.”
“Thanks.” I stuff the envelope beneath my arm, pinning it to my side. Dad doesn’t waste any time herding me toward my dorm. As it turns out, the map isn’t necessary because he already studied the materials they sent him, and he knows exactly where it’s at.
The iconic brick building that once housed several now famous alums squats on top of the hill surrounded by trees and well-coifed shrubs. The main entrance is smack in the middle; a solid set of double doors flanked by white columns. Three rows of paned windows stack neatly along the length and depth of the building, indicating three separate floors. Or in the case of teenage girls, a whole lot of hormones. Dad blows through the entrance and past the flurry of activity in the common room, an enormous space filled with books, a central fireplace, and plenty of comfy sofas. He’s hell-bent on finding my dorm as soon as possible, and I’m certain he’s already counting down the seconds until he can get back to the city. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to catch my breath.
Lawrence Hall is aged but well cared for. Solid oak floors squeak beneath my red Dr. Martens, and a pervasive scent of lemon cleaner lingers in the space. Along the corridor, I catch glimpses of mothers and daughters fussing over bed linens and furniture in the rooms. As usual, my mother is notably absent, and I can’t count on Dad to fuss over anything.
“Here we are.” He opens the door numbered 203 and examines the space. The room is small and basic, with a twin-sized bed, a desk, a dresser, and a few shelves for my things. My mother arranged for a private room because she said roommates are for commoners, and in her eyes, everything comes down to appearances. As my dad sets my suitcases aside, I doubt he’d care one way or the other.
“Well, what do you think?” I sit down on the bed and test out the mattress, which is surprisingly comfortable.
“Stella—” My father’s eyebrows pinch together as a knock on the door interrupts whatever he was about to say. Another faculty member wearing a Loyola emblem on her blazer steps inside with a stiff smile.
“Mr. LeClaire, I hope you don’t mind the interruption. I’m Marcy from the financial office. We spoke on the phone a few weeks back regarding the remainder of the tuition payments.”
“Of course.” My father kneads the back of his neck with his fingers, undoubtedly trying to relieve some of the tension gathered there. “I thought we already cleared that up.”
“You had a business meeting to get to, and unfortunately, our call was cut short.” Marcy’s eyes wander over me as she speaks, and she doesn’t attempt to hide her obvious disapproval of my tight red dress and black leather jacket. “We understand you’re a busy man, so we extended the deadline as a courtesy, but I just need your reassurance that you will have the remainder of the payment to us within two weeks.”