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Dear Reader, I would like to first state that the following entries are clearly fictitious, and could never happen, well I take that back, they are more than possible. But I can only wish that there is no evil, so malevolent, in this world, but one can only hope.
Imagine, just for a moment, that you have to wake up before the sun even rises on the first day back from summer break. You cringe as you roll over in your bed, tangling yourself in your warm blankets, and hit snooze on your alarm clock, the movements make your sun-burned skin feel as if it just burst into flames. You softly moan and try to ignore the pain, it’s just too early to deal with it, which starts out a sudden rush of fire on your skin, almost unbearable, then after lying perfectly still the agony turns into a irritating throbbing, then just a twinge. Yawning and rubbing your eyes you make slow movements to try to untangle your self, after every movement you cringe, but finally you escape from the warmth of your bed to, almost regrettably, hurry to the bathroom, grabbing the aloe lotion from the counter and squirting it into your hands. You sigh with relief as you caress your shoulders and neck, the fire is washed away, for now.
Now Reader, imagine Dallas Manser slowly starting to get ready for her first day of school at Bolivar Academy, as a first year. Her movements were slow and tired, sluggish and elderly. Dallas walked from her bathroom across her dark room to her closet, where her towels were. She heard her door creak open and she knowingly turned her head to the door, where her stepmother stood with orange juice and a plate of muffins, just like so many times before
Her stepmother’s soft voice whispered “Katie are you up?”
Dallas gritted her teeth, she hated being called by her first name, Kaitlin, and any nickname derived from it. “Yes,” she swallowed bile, “Mother.”
“Well I made you banana muffins and fresh orange juice. You need to be ready in an hour. It’s a long drive to Bolivar.” With that, the woman Dallas had to now call her ‘mother’ left. Now I’d like to point out that Dallas’s stepmother was good at having a friendly, motherly, caring façade, but that’s all it was, a façade, a front, a lie.
Following the daily routine of so many school year before, Dallas quickly got ready for school; first she picked out her outfit, a short red turtle neck dress with sleeves that reached her elbows and a pair of black leggings. After her outfit was laid out on her bed she found her black knee high boots and threw them on the bed along with her outfit. Pressed for time, she quickly straightened her hair and applied her makeup.
Once she was ready she began tidying her room and gathering her stuff. A deafening, shrill, jarring sound ruined the serene atmosphere, a whistle. Balling her fists and biting her lip, Dallas grabbed her backpack and purse and hurried down stairs.
“Doesn’t she realize I’m not a dog?” she grumbled under her breath, she hated when her dad’s new wife, blew a whistle, signaling you have five minutes to get down stairs. Of course she didn’t ask her stepmother why she treated her new stepdaughter like a dog but she wouldn’t let her irritation go without notice, she slammed her door and stomped down the stairs. And actually she hated her stepmother without the conditions from above present, it wasn’t an on off love hate thing, it was more a twenty-four-hour-I-hate-you-go-die type deal.
Without saying a word to the new Mrs. Manser she got in the brand spanking new car her dad bought the dreaded women, a slate blue sports car in mint condition. She resumed her position, facing the window with her body turned in a posture that told her stepmother she would not settle for disruption, even if the only thing being disrupted would be thoughts of hate, usually, but today she resumed the position and thought about her new school.
Scenario after scenario ran through her head, which was a typhoon, a tornado, a hurricane of thoughts and worries and concerns. Looking out the window, seeing old scenes play out and familiar places go speeding by, she sighed, at last she was getting after from the atrocious Manser residences. She was going to a new, elite, private academy, Bolivar Academy.
Before the car even stopped, Dallas was unbuckled and standing outside.
“Wait until the car stops, Katie, you could get hurt!” Her stepmother told her in a concerning manner, in which a stranger would assume the stepmother loved her stepdaughter but in truth she wanted her to get hurt, preferably die.
“It’s beautiful,” Dallas looked around.
From the front parking lot, Bolivar Academy looked like a mansion, it was at least two stories tall, white-washed brick, ivy circling the columns, perfectly manicure hedges, beautifully weeded gardens on either side of the door, which was double doors covered in stain glass windows. She gasped at the sight of hundreds of teenagers lounging on the front lawn. Just as in her dreams, Bolivar was perfect. She quickly grabbed her backpack and purse from the backseat and hurried up the lawn, leaving the rest for her stepmother, or whoever, to carry.
Once instead the school she went to the front office, which was surprisingly empty, everyone else must still be lingering on the lawn, making friends and talking to old ones. Nothing she would wish to partake in, she was fine being a loner. She opened the door and a bell jingled, a red-headed office attendant looked up and smiled.
“Uhm, I think I came to the right place, but I’m looking for my room number so I can go to my room.”
“Last name?”
“Manser.”
“Well that’s weird,” the attendant said looking at the computer screen squinting.
“What?” Dallas asked patiently.
“There is no room number by your name. But they bell is about to ring and you will have to head to your homeroom anyway. So, I’m going to give you your schedule and locker number then show you to your classes,” the attendant gave her a friendly smile and walked around the counter. She went to one side of the room and at an amazingly fast speed she found Dallas’s schedule, usually Dallas would be suspicious, it was almost as they had been waiting for her, but the thought of being suspicious never crossed her mind.