Veins of Fire (Outcasts, #1)

CHAPTER FOUR // A HIGH SCHOOL GHOST TOWN

CHAPTER FOUR // A HIGH SCHOOL GHOST TOWN

THE STREETS I TAKE ON THE WAY TO THE SCHOOL may as well be ridden with rolling tumbleweeds, because I've never seen so few cars traversing the asphalt before. The sidewalks are packed with groups of kids ranging from eleven-years-old to around my age, and quite a few bike-riders peddle past me, but only about six cars cross my path on the drive to Crenbrook Junior High and High School. Once I pull into the lot, securing a parking spot is as easy as inhaling, and it's a nice change from the schools I've gone to in the past where getting a spot was as easy as inhaling if you were an extreme asthmatic with only one lung. Who could possibly hate quick, effortless parking jobs? 

As I climb out of the car, my feelings reverse completely. Every kid standing outside the building or coming up the sidewalk turns to watch as I cross the lot and head for the front doors, and some even start whispering among each other. As I step up onto the sidewalk, the words I strongly despise are the only ones I can pick up on in the conversations I hear: "the new girl."  

"You've done this a billion times, Iz. What's one more time?" I think to myself as their stares become a physical weight on my shoulders. "Get through this first week, and you never have to do it again." I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and keep pushing forward, weaving my way through groups of my new peers with as much confidence as I can muster. But it's really hard to be confident when the frigid morning air gives away just how quickly and shallowly you're breathing. 

I finally reach the front doors and go inside, and the warm indoor air is like a reward--"Congratulations, Isabelle! You're not a total wreck!" 

The inside of the school looks just like every other high school I've been to: rows of lockers lining the walls with classroom doors peeking out between them; a trophy case off to the left after you walk in, displaying a surplus of athletic trophies and a few academic awards and school mementos; and the colorful, strangely-patterned linoleum floor displaying the school's colors (Crenbrook's being navy blue and lime green). The only thing that really differs from school to school is the location of the Administrator's Office. Sometimes it is a separate building at the front of the school, other times it is buried deep within the maze of classrooms; Crenbrook Junior High and High School's,  however, is immediately to your right after you enter the building. 

I stare at the navy blue office door with contempt. It's conveniently close to the front entrance so I won't have to traverse the halls like a lost puppy before I get my schedule, but also inconvenient because I now have very little time to collect myself before I meet the last principal I will ever have and whoever else may be in their office.  And to make matters worse, the door and the shutters of the two floor-to-ceiling windows that frame it are shut tight, leaving what may lay inside entirely up to my imagination. Which I hate. Now I'm imagining a cold room with polished metal walls and white linoleum floors like a doctor's office, with a menacing operating table in the middle of it all, covered in fresh blood. 

I slam my eyes shut and shake my head, shake away the shivers cascading down my spine. However much it may feel like it, this is not a nightmare; this is just the first day of school. "You've done this a billion times. What's one more time?" I say to myself again, out loud this time. It relaxes me enough that I can open my eyes, close the distance, and knock on the door. 

I hold my breath until a voice calls out from the other side, "Come in." I breathe in deeply and do as they say. 

Inside, the walls are indeed not made of polished metal; they're basic, stucco walls painted lime green. The floor is flat, dark green carpet, and no blood-drenched operating table awaits me in the center of the room, just a large desk with a computer and neat piles of paper on top of it. I find the ability to breathe normally again.