High Life | ✔️

3

I COULDN'T SLAM the door in Chelsea's face fast enough.

I ensured that Chelsea's footsteps were far enough from my room before I let out a long stream of expletives. When I was done, I surveyed the room.

As promised, it was a room made for one person. Meaning, no pesky roommate - which was to my benefit. I stripped and kicked the forsaken court shoes off. Clad in undergarments, I took a walk around the space that I would call 'home' for the next year.

It wasn't a huge space, definitely not by my standards. But it had a private bathroom, a double bed, a cupboard, a desk and something of a makeshift kitchen complete with a mini fridge and a microwave. My room was located on the highest floor, which translated into 'no sneaking out through the window'. But it also translated into good view.

I approached the windows, consoling myself that sneaking out as opportunity cost of a good view wasn't too bad. But I knew I was kidding myself. Despite the vista beyond the glass panes of my windows, I found myself looking ground-ward in longing.

I missed home. Missed Marc, Alex, and the entire gang. I even missed stupid Mr. Phipps the Physics teacher.

For the past few years, I constructed and reconstructed this bad, edgy and dangerous image for myself. I made a name for myself as The Girl Who Did Not Care. I had charisma, I had wit, but I was a brash, vulgar and lazy person who tried too hard to make people think that I didn't try.

Marc knew it was some kind of escapism that I partook in to entertain myself. But beyond Marc, not many knew the real me.

All Central High knew was the silver haired girl who wore Marc's clothes (everyone thought we were banging; we weren't) beneath leather jackets, completed with ripped jeans and expensive sneakers (a crucial detail many seemed to miss). The people who knew I was from wealth were far and few in between. I'd been called a street rat on more occasions than I could count.

But I liked it. I liked knowing things about myself that others didn't know.

Doesn't matter anymore, though. I wasn't silver haired Andie anymore.

The mirror knew as much. A single glance reflected the image of a bespectacled female, freckled and mousy haired. I didn't feel like an Andie anymore. I didn't want to associate Andie the cool kid with this plain Jane of an Andrea.

I allowed myself five minutes to reply to everyone's texts before I began the process of unpacking. It was a process through which I realized that my grandmother had gone all out to replace my clothes with things not even nuns would wear.

Two hours later, I was roaming the halls of the female dorm in a plain T-shirt and sweatpants, the only semi-normal clothes I could find amidst the mass of long sleeved blouses and ankle length skirts.

I chanced upon what appeared to be a lounge. The people within - I say this in the least offensive manner - were all of of Eastern Asian origin. I stopped myself from encroaching into their space, as I fondly recalled the talk about 'factions' I had with Chelsea from Hell. I wondered if this was what a faction looked like.

"Hi," I called out. "Uh, I'm new here."

One of them looked up from their Chinese novel, an expectant expression egging my question on.