Thank you to all who are taking the time to read this story, and many thanks to those who have reviewed. This is the first story I've posted, so comments are much appreciated. I've tried to be good about grammar and spelling, but if you notice something that I missed, please feel free to let me know. Thanks!
I was in a corner of the library by myself, once more immersed in a book when Sister Anne tapped me on the shoulder. I nearly jumped out of my seat in surprise. I would never get used to being brought abruptly out of my books. The transition from fantasy to reality could never happen too slowly for me.
"The Headmistress would like to see you in her office Ms. Rink." She said, her mouth a restrained smile. "And I suggest you neaten up a bit. Wouldn't want to get in trouble for violating dress codes now, would we?" She added as she eyed my blouse hanging un-tucked over my wrinkled skirt. Her strict tone didn't reach her eyes, which laughed openly at the fact that dress code violations were the main reason I found myself in trouble. That and being caught looking down at a book instead of up at where I was walking. I stood up hastily, forgetting the stack of notes I had so carefully organized and placed on my lap for safekeeping. I grimaced and picked them up, shoving them in my backpack along with the books on the table and the one still in my hand. "Thank you." I said to the nun, when I straightened up and saw her holding out another scrap of paper I had dropped. She said nothing, simply smiled in response and nodded her head to the hallway that would lead me to the office I had visited many times before.
I wondered what it was that Headmistress had called me to her office for this time. It was too early yet for my usual yearly letter from Father. I shook that thought out of my head.
No, this year it won't come. Or if it does, it won't say that. Anything but that. I thought to myself.
That's the same thing you said last year. Replied the bitter, pessimistic part of my mind. The hopeful one overruled it again. No, Father will bring me home this summer. I know it. He told me he would, and why would he lie to me? Besides, I have to go home this summer. The high schools I applied to aren't boarding schools. I'll have to live at home to go to one of them. Father knows that. And he'll do the right thing. I'll be home in June. The pessimist snorted in disbelief, but retreated once more into the corner to pout and watch from afar rather than argue. Maybe the Headmistress does want to see me about news from Father. Maybe he sent a letter saying he found someone and he wants to bring me back home at once! Or maybe he didn't find anyone and he'll have given up, and he just wants his daughter back home. This uplifting and hopeful thought drove me to walk faster down the corridors. The pessimist was shaking her head, knowing she would be the one to comfort my crushed hopes once more when the letter said the same thing it had for the past five years in a row.
Swinging my backpack over a shoulder, I held the last spare piece of paper to my chest with my chin, hastily tucked my blouse in, and tried, unsuccessfully, to smooth my rumpled plaid skirt. I arrived at the spiral staircase at the end of the hall and took a deep breath, shoving the paper I still held into my blazer pocket and stepping up to the first step.
My feet carried the rest of me up the stairs until they stopped suddenly in front of the large oak doors I knew so well. I turned to the mirror hanging on the wall to the left of the doors and grimaced. Headmistress hated ponytails. They were too informal for her liking. I took the fraying elastic out of my black hair, stuffed it into my bag, and ran my eyes over my reflection from bottom to top, stopping when I met my own startlingly dark green eyes. I turned back to the doors, took another breath, and knocked twice.
"Come in." Said a stern voice I knew quite well. I should have, after almost nine years. Nine years, and almost every time I'd been called to the headmistress's office she had been the bearer of bad news. The headmistress was sitting at her desk, hunched over some papers. She looked up when I entered, and her expression changed from a frown to a sad look when she saw who it was.
"Ah. Andrea." I frowned slightly at the name, surprised that she called me by my first name instead of my last, as she usually did. I stood in front of her desk, arms behind my back and replied with a question.
"You summoned me madam?" She nodded.
"Yes. Take a seat." She said, gesturing toward the one chair in front of her desk. "Now, Andrea, I'm afraid I have some rather bad news." She took off her glasses and looked at me with a softened expression. I frowned and wondered what she could possibly tell me now. The pessimist in my head straightened up, getting ready to give her customary "told-you-so", when the letter from Father was the same. "Your father has passed away." I slumped in my seat. I hadn't seen my father for almost five years, and yet my heart had suddenly turned to a lump of ice. I tried to speak, but the words wouldn't come out. As if she had read my mind, Headmistress answered the question that had never passed my lips.
"It was a car crash apparently. He was driving while intoxicated." I looked away. I had always known that it would be the drinking that would kill my father. I just hadn't known it would happen so soon. "I'm afraid that's not all. I know you had ambitions to transfer to a different high school next year, but it states clearly in your father's will that the money he left you would be to finish your education here until you are eighteen and have gained your diploma. After that, you can do what you wish with the remainder of your inheritance. And, as you have no living relatives, at least according to your father, you have no other option than to go through with this plan." I blinked, dumbfounded. I had spent the last few months filling out forms, writing essays, and taking tests in order to gain acceptance into a few better schools, and for what? To find out I was stuck here for three more years. I had a bigger chance of attending a good college if I got my diploma from somewhere else. And honestly I was sick of St. Agnes's. I had even stuck through one year of high school here before I decided to try for some other places.
My mouth finally spit some words out; the first ones my mind had been able to put together in a complete sentence.
"Will that be all Headmistress?" I asked as politely as my grief would allow. She nodded and I stood up, turning to leave the door.
"Wait, Andrea." I turned to face her, but my eyes traveled to the window, refusing to meet her sharp hazel ones. "You have my permission to take the rest of the day off. Tonight after dinner we will move you into a different room now that we know for sure you will be staying with us after the end of this year." I nodded and turned away silently. Normally this would have been considered a rude slight that I never would have gotten away with, but she let it pass and said nothing more as I left the room.
My mind was stopped cold, but my heart was on fire. My feet took control yet again and after a few minutes I found myself in front of the main entrance. It was only about three in the afternoon, but it was dark and rainy. Perfect. I pushed through the doors, and ran for a while, tears and rain blending on my face, before I tripped on a tree root and fell, hard, to the ground. I examined my leg, which was suddenly throbbing, and found that I had fallen on a rock and made a formidable gash, both long and very deep. I thought I could see bone, and knew I would probably need stitches. But I didn't move. Finally, the pain on the inside had caught up with the pain on the outside. I let the rain soak through me, hoping to let it numb my body, both inside and out. I just lay there, shivering and sobbing. I couldn't think. Even the pessimist was caught by surprise and remained silent, and for once she and my crushed hopes were in agreement, making up the whole person who now had no one. Everyone who meant anything to me was gone. And even worse, everyone who I meant anything to was gone. I was now leading a meaningless existence.
I'm not sure exactly how long I stayed there in the rain. Minutes, hours, and seconds blended together. Time was just another thing that held no meaning. I don't think I was crying for the whole time about my father. That tragedy had just opened up so many other wounds that had never healed. Eventually, I ran out of tears, and, soaked to the bone, I retreated back to the school. I didn't care that I was freezing cold, or that my clothes were sopping wet. I didn't care that my backpack and everything in it was probably ruined. I didn't even care of how I looked; covered in blood, mud, and water. I stood up, breathing in sharply. My leg had finally stopped bleeding, but even the freezing rain hadn't numbed the pain. I clutched the very rock I had damaged myself on for support, and somehow managed to limp all the way back to the school, despite the dizzying pain and nausea from blood loss.
Literally and figuratively, every single part of me was numb to everything and everyone around me. Except my leg of course, which felt like it was being stabbed every time I took a step. I felt like I was floating, and I merely stared at the floor as I pushed through the double doors once more. I felt the stares of the other St. Agnes girls, but their giggling and whispering fell on ears that no longer cared what they thought. I glanced up at the clock in the entryway. It was almost six o'clock, which was the strict dinnertime, but I had no appetite for either the food or the stares and questions I would be force-fed if I went in the dining room. As floods of girls pushed around me to get through the doors before they slammed shut at exactly six, I pushed back the other way.
At first I thought I should go to the hospital wing. But I had no desire to answer endless questions from an all too nosy nurse, who meant well, but who would probably make me feel worse. I had never talked to anyone about what made me feel sad or scared or alone, and I preferred to keep it that way. So I ignored my common sense, which was telling me that I needed to have my leg looked at and walked instead down a familiar path. I made it all the way back to my dormitory before my mind caught up with my feet and I remembered that Headmistress had mentioned moving me to a private room. I stood in front of the door, wondering what to do when Sister Anne tapped me on the shoulder for the second time that day. This time I didn't jump, but turned to face her slowly, processing who it was. She gave me a warm smile, but I wasn't so blind as to not notice the worry in her eyes.
"My poor girl, you must be chilled to the bone! And your leg! What in Heaven's name happened to your leg? We must take you to the hospital wing immediately!"
I opened my mouth to answer, but closed it again. I couldn't find the words. I didn't want to find the words. Speaking any of what had happened that day would have made it too real, too irreversible, for me to handle. So instead of speaking, I merely let her lead me to the hospital. As I had anticipated, Sister Rosemary, the school nurse, asked endless questions about my leg and the "tragedy that had befallen me" while she was cleaning out my leg with a burning liquid. I ignored her and stayed silence, preferring to watch the hydrogen peroxide fizzle painfully in my gash as it cleaned and disinfected. Gritting my teeth, I clenched the sides of the bed against the pain. Eventually, Sister Rosemary gave up and let me be. The only time I spoke was to refuse any numbing agents or pain relief. She gave me an odd look, but, surprisingly, followed my request, even though I had bruised the bone very badly. I was, apparently, lucky not to have broken it. I didn't feel lucky. After she was done sewing me up, I unclenched my teeth and made to get up.
"No, no my dear girl! You mustn't get up yet! With the amount of blood you've lost, it's a miracle you're still conscious! And you are still soaking wet." I hadn't let her change my clothes or put me in a warm bed. I had merely sat down on a bed while she worked on me. And now I didn't change my tune and start listening to her, but merely stood up shakily, supporting my weight on my good left leg, and ignored the ringing in my ears and the dizziness and left the hospital wing slowly. She called after me, but I kept walking. Once again I realized that I had no idea where I was going. So, for lack of anywhere else to go, I made my way slowly and painfully up to the headmistress' office.
I knocked on the door and was invited in for the second time that day. The headmistress looked up at me, bewildered, taking in, I was sure, my wet, muddy, and bloody and all around bedraggled appearance. I stared at the floor in front of her desk. She started to open her mouth to ask a question no doubt, but I interrupted her.
"I am sorry to have disturbed you headmistress. I just don't know where my new room is." My voice was so quiet I was surprised that she heard me at all. She composed herself quickly.
"Yes. I'll call Sister Anne right up and she can lead you to your room. Please, take a seat." She hesitated slightly before offering me a seat, and I guessed that it was because she had no desire for her chairs to be soiled. I ignored her offer, and instead stood in the middle of her room, somewhat awkwardly. She seemed to be at a loss for what to say, and I had no wish to start any conversation. She smiled at me and drummed her fingers on her desk. I concentrated on the sound her nails made when they touched the wooden surface. Plink, plink. Though it wasn't exactly a plinking noise. It was more a tapping. But not quite. I couldn't think of the word for it. I settled on a mix between a plink and a tap before I merely gave up. I threw my eyes around the room, looking for something else to concentrate on, for it was too dangerous to let my mind wander. The rain on the window, the flashing lights on the many machines on the desk, the steady blinking of the computer. Then suddenly she spoke again.
"Oh, I nearly forgot. You have some mail dear." She had never said "dear" before. It felt odd to hear such an, for lack of a better word, endearing term before. Apparently she thought it felt odd too. When I looked up, she was holding out a large stack of envelopes. There were eight in total, seven thick ones and one regular sized one. I determined this all by feel. I didn't dare hope that there would be a letter from my father in it. Perhaps if there was one it would tell me that this was all a nightmare and that he wanted his little girl back.
A thought struck me then, and a lump developed in my throat. I tore stinging eyes away from the headmistress, who looked down at her own desk, feeling that she was interrupting a personal moment for me. I shoved the envelopes in my backpack during another awkward silent moment. Finally, a second knock came from the door, and Sister Anne came in. She made no comment at my still horrid appearance and merely nodded at the headmistress when she gestured at me. She beckoned to me as if I didn't know to follow her. I ignored her slightly condescending ways as I normally did and followed her without a word. The moment we were out of earshot however, she shot off like a rocket.
"Andrea! You're still all wet! Didn't you dry off at all? You must be freezing from being in those wet clothes for so long! Well, you can warm up in your room. We've already had your things moved. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your new home." My mind shivered at her words. Even though I'd been at St. Agnes's for more than half my life, I'd never considered it a home. No, my home was with Father. It had always been, and it would always be. My pessimist appeared again for a minute.
He's dead! He's dead and you'll never see him again! She screamed it at the top of her voice. I could almost see her. She was confused. She didn't know what to feel or think or do, so she settled for retreating back to her corner to sob. My hopeful side was still numb and silent; she had barely even reacted yet. She refused to process what the rest of me was telling her. These two characters, the conflicting sides of my mind, were always there. They had always squabbled for control, at least on things concerning Father. It was as if the hopeful me had grabbed the wheel from the very beginning, leaving the pessimist to become a backseat driver. But now, I wasn't sure who was in control. Both of them were afraid, as I was as a whole. I wondered, as I had many a time before, which of them was the real me, and which one didn't belong. I knew that one of them didn't, and that eventually only one of them would be my conscience; the voice in my head. But for now, as a contrast to how I normally saw them, neither wanted to take the wheel. Which meant that I had no one directing me, leading me, or telling me what to do. One of them had always been there, no matter what, for as long as I could remember. I didn't know what to do now that I didn't have the opinions of these two personalities running through my mind.
I left the confusing region of my mind and let Sister Anne lead me away, not wanting to think anymore about the three years still ahead of me at St. Agnes's, or about my father, or about my conflicting mind. I knew there were only a few other girls who were permanent borders, at least, only a few that lived here year round, and most of them were only here for, at the most, two years, while their parents traveled abroad on business or pleasure. Whatever their story was, not one of them had to live at St. Agnes's for twelve years. Only I was given that particular fate. Anyway, I had, at that point, a rough idea of where the private rooms must have been in the school. This was mostly just because I had had since first grade to explore St. Agnes' and by now I knew where almost everything was. Because of this, I made a mental note of the route Sister Anne led me through, and my mind was already mapping out paths to the dining hall, the library, and my classes.
Eventually, Sister Anne stopped in front of a door that already had a shiny new plaque hanging on it, reading "Andrea Rink." I turned the knob and walked into my room for the first time. It was small, and indeed, my suitcase was lying on the bed that was in the far left corner. The head was against the wall, and by the foot was a door, which I presumed led to a bathroom. Across the room from the bed was a large dresser, over which hung an antique looking mirror. Other than a bookshelf filled with books in a third corner, the room was otherwise empty. I didn't look at anything other than the floor. Sister Anne, after standing in the doorway awkwardly for another few minutes, left without another word. I stood in the middle of the room for a few minutes shivering and dropped my backpack on the floor before I stumbled into the shower in the bathroom, blasting myself with hot water, uniform and all. I hadn't thought I had any tears left, but they came, blending with the steaming water from the shower. I stayed under the water until I no longer felt cold; at least on the outside. Eventually I turned off the shower and huddled under a towel in the bathtub for the rest of the night.
When I woke up I was wet, cold, and I felt raw all over, inside and out. My leg felt horrible, and I could barely breathe steadily for the pain. My heart was tired of beating, my mind was tired of thinking, and my eyes were tired of crying. Opening my eyes, I was confused about where I was for a few minutes before everything connected in my head. Dead father. St. Agnes' for four more years. Private room. Every part of me was still in shock and disbelief. But it would sink in eventually. I had already changed into a clean and dry uniform before I remembered it was Saturday and that on the weekends, I had no classes. I sighed and sat on the edge of my bed, then decided to unpack. I dragged my suitcase off the bed and across the room, dropping it in front of the dresser, and as I straightened up, I looked in the mirror. At first glance, I saw what I always saw in the mirror. Myself. But I didn't look away quickly like I normally did. I had never liked my looks, and so usually avoided looking in the mirror except when I needed to see how messy I looked. For once, I met the eyes of my reflection. And one moment they were the same eyes I've always seen, a very weird and dark shade of green, but then they changed. In the blink of an eye, I wasn't looking at my face anymore.
The eyes I was staring at now were dark blue instead of green. And the face around them was tanner than mine. Blonde hair was cut short around my new reflection's face. He was wearing a different uniform. He was a… he. I cocked my head, frowning slightly, and the pessimist came out of her daze, taking over, for my normal self didn't have the energy needed to deal with strange boys appearing suddenly in my bedroom mirror.
I must be going insane. I didn't say this out loud, but to myself. All in all, I took this development well. After all, it made some sense. I was suffering from post-traumatic-stress disorder caused by the news of my father's death. Or maybe I had caught pneumonia from being wet and cold all night and I was having hallucinations. That and the blood loss made perfect sense. I was still staring at the boy. He looked a little older than me, maybe seventeen or eighteen, and he was definitely taller, as he was slightly hunched over to meet my eyes. He was also quite handsome. He looked bored, but he kept looking at me. Finally I spoke.
"What are you doing in my mirror?" I asked calmly. The boy's expression changed from boredom to surprise in the blink of an eye. Though not literally, for he maintained eye contact, even though his eyes lit up immediately.
"You can see me?" He asked quickly, straightening up.
"Well yes. You are right in front of me, though I suppose you're not really." I laughed, and he frowned a bit. "I must be going crazy." I said, laughing even harder. I wasn't sure what to do, and at the moment, it seemed funny that I was seeing some boy in my mirror. His eyes widened.
"No, no, no, no. Don't say that. I don't know why or how, but I'm really here, trapped inside this mirror."
"No," I said, laughing again. "You're trapped in here." I tapped my forehead. "And I suppose I am too." I shook my head and buried my face in my hands. I laughed again, but it was a wet laugh, for I had started to cry again. I turned away from the mirror, walking towards the door that led to the rest of the school. I grabbed my backpack from the floor and slung it over one shoulder.
"Don't go. Please! At least tell me your name." I turned back toward him, and my emotions were all over the place, flashing between angry, hysterical, and God knows what else. I stomped my foot in frustration at the fact that I was letting myself go so over the edge over my father. I hadn't thought it would drive me insane, and here I was, talking to a figment of my imagination. The poor boy must have thought I was crazy, for there I was, stomping my foot, tears streaming down my face, and choking back laughter at the same time. He didn't look like he noticed though, and his eyes were pleading. I wondered for a moment where my mind had conjured his image. I had never seen someone that handsome before. And the emotions swirling behind his dark blue eyes were anything but fake.
"Just your name…" He said quietly, in a soothing, calming tone, leaning close to the mirror. I was scared, and my breathing started to seize up. I didn't know why, but his eyes conveyed a sort of understanding that made it impossible to ignore him. As he watched me, I quieted. I stopped laughing, and my frustration ebbed away. After another few moments, I was just standing there, tears still flowing, and there he was, just watching. I closed my eyes for a moment and sighed, shaking my head slightly as I did so. Finally I gave in.
"Andy. Well, Andrea really, but you can call me Andy. Andy Rink." I don't know exactly what compelled me to say Andy. I hadn't even been called that in over eight years, but it came to mind the instant he asked my name. I watched him when I spoke, and he settled back into the room, stepping slightly away from the mirror.
"Andy. Thank you." He said, and somehow I knew he was thanking me for more than just my name. I nodded, still quiet. My hopeful self emerged again, curious about the boy, though still cautious. "He doesn't exist." Reminded the pessimist. She was ignored.
"What's your name?" The pessimist retreated like she always did. The boy grinned widely, showing off a perfect smile that lit up his equally perfect eyes.
"It's…" He paused, and the smile disappeared, his face falling. Told you so. Muttered the pessimist. I told you he wasn't real. How could he know his name when he isn't real? If I could have seen her face, I was sure she would have been smirking. Oh shush. I retorted back in my mind. She obeyed, but laughed at me from her corner.
"I… I can't remember." He looked stunned; for the first time his gaze was directed at the ground rather than at me. He stumbled backwards a few feet and sat on the bed behind him. He put his face in his hands, obviously distressed.
I stood there awkwardly for a few moments, feeling sorry for him in the few seconds before I remembered he was a figment of my imagination; a product of my crazy mind. The calm I had achieved before when he had been staring at me disappeared as fast as it had come. I laughed at myself through my sobs, then stomped my foot again; frustrated for letting myself fall apart over my father's death.
The boy looked back up at me, still wide-eyed and despairing. I just looked back at him, trying once more to think of how in the world I had made him up before I gave up, spun on my heel, and left the room, slamming the door behind me.