Page 1 of Life Lessons

Ican’t believe I used to love the first day of school so much. I remember last year so well, and it didn’t once involve me lying here with the duvet over my head, wishing that time passed by quickly enough for the day to be complete, without me participating in it. In fact, the return to school was a big, almost week-long celebration.

First, there was the return to school shopping trip, as there was no way in hell I would be seen dead in anything I’d worn before. So a whole new wardrobe was essential, and my parents were always too happy to just give me an extension of my credit card limit to allow for it. Anything to keep us quiet and out of the house.

The most important part of finding the best outfit was to find one that could make the biggest impression on the first day of the academic year. And, of course, a back-up outfit in case the first didn’t fit with the weather. One of the best things about being in sixth form was getting to wear our own clothes. It enabled us to be able to make a statement, and I relished the opportunity to show people who I really was.

I always made sure that my clothes not only fit my feisty, sexy personality but also my figure. I worked hard to keep my body looking fit and trim. It may sound American for a girl living in Cambridge, England, but our school had a group of sexy cheerleaders—led by me. Our football team was the best in the country, second only to a rival Academy based out in the countryside of nowhere, but talent deserves to be cheered. Well, we got the football players’ attention and got to wear sexy outfits at school on game days, so it was a win-win.

Everyone at Hillside West Academy knew who I was. I strutted around the school like I owned it, and I didn’t care who got in my way. There was a reason I was named Queen Bitch, and I relished the title. My other, less accurate nickname was the Evil Twin because everyone thought I was the bad one while Matilda Nightingale, or Tillie as everyone knows her, was the Good Twin. What they didn’t realise is that we were a team, two sides of the same coin. Without the other, we were incomplete.

This year is completely different. Gone are the sexy, flesh baring outfits, replaced with jeans and hoodies in various shades of grey and black. Nothing short, tight, or too revealing. But that’s not the only thing that’s different. After a lot of arguing, I finally got my family to agree to me transferring to a new school, a boarding academy to be precise. The less time I spend in this house, the better.

Even as I wander around packing up the last of my things to take with me, it feels as though I am drowning. The silence is deafening and everywhere I look there’s a constant reminder of what I have lost. A memory that I can’t even allow myself to re-live because the pain feels like it is gutting me all over again. It’s been almost five months since I was last at school. I should have graduated already but I couldn’t go back to finish. So now I have to start the last school year all over again. The idea of going back to school makes me feel physically nauseous, even a different one, but I need to get an education if I want to escape this town and this family. Maybe that’s what took me so long to decide, and why I am two weeks later starting than I should have been.

Once I’m dressed in my skinny jeans, black t-shirt, and baggy black hoodie, along with my well worn Converse, I spend a small amount of time applying minimal make-up, just enough to accentuate my features slightly and hide the dark circles. Brushing my long, jet black hair down my back, I can’t help but admire the new colour. Not only was it a dirty blonde colour, but it definitely didn’t have the electric blue streaks I added just last night. It wasn’t my intention but the streaks accentuate my crystal blue eyes, making them appear brighter than normal. The best bonus, other than looking different, is that my mother will hate it.

Noticing the time, I remember my mother telling me the driver would be here by ten in the morning, which is only fifteen minutes away, so I rush downstairs. My mother is sitting at the head of the table looking like royalty. Even first thing in the morning she is dressed in a freshly ironed suit, with her hair and make-up done to perfection. God help if anyone were to see Agatha Nightingale eating breakfast in her pyjamas. The spread she has in front of her looks enough to feed a large, hungry family, yet all she has on her plate is half a grapefruit that she is picking at with a spoon.

“Abigail, darling, please sit and have something to eat,” she says with a politely formal voice.

Clearly she is choosing to ignore the two suitcases I have next to me and the shoulder book bag I just loudly dropped on the floor. Looking at all the food on the table simply adds to the nausea I feel rolling around my stomach thanks to all the nerves.

“No thanks, Mother. I need to get going. Got a car journey to make, remember?” I ask, genuinely curious as to whether my mother has forgotten that today is the day I leave for school.

Neither of my parents wanted me to leave Hillside West, but they both agreed eventually. The only condition was that I agreed to go to a school that was just as prestigious. I thought that when Father used a bribe to get me admitted to Willowmead Academy, that meant they were okay with me leaving. Maybe I was wrong?

“You need to eat, Abigail, you…” Her voice trails off as she finally looks up at me and her face crinkles with anger.

“What the hell have you done to yourself, Abigail Louisa Nightingale. You need to pull yourself together. We agreed to let you transfer schools, but you promised that this foolish behaviour would end. You look ridiculous. You are skin and bones. What in God’s name did we pay that head specialist all that money for? It has been months and they haven’t cured you yet. Perhaps we need to get you somebody new?” My mother, as kind and caring as always. She couldn’t even say that I was seeing a counsellor.

Despite performing the ten deep, calming breaths I was taught by Jane, the ’head doctor’, all I could hear was my mothers perfectly manicured, pink nails tapping against the wooden table and my anger returned.

“Cured? Are you fucking kidding me? If you are sending me to a counsellor in the hopes that she cures me and wipes my memory of everything that has happened in the past, you would be very fucking mistaken. I can never forget her,” I shout. I’m on a roll, ready to tell her why I can never forget the best part of me when her raised shrill voice interrupts me.

“Enough! You know not to speak of her, and you know not to use that kind of language in my presence, young lady. I did not raise you to act like a hooligan,” she spits, revealing her true nature. To my mother, appearances are everything, even if they aren’t real.

“Whatever. The car will be here soon, so I am going to wait by the door. I take it Father won’t be coming?” I ask, but I already know the answer. He has barely spoken a word to me in four months and I can’t even remember when I last saw him.

“Whatever for?” she replies, her shrill voice becoming more annoying the longer I stand here. I guess for him to come home from work to see me off, a selection of things would need to happen. First, he would have to care enough about me. Second, he would have to be near my mother even just for a short period of time, which he despises. And third, he would have to take his dick out of his young secretary’s pussy long enough to find his way home. None of these things are going to happen, so I shouldn’t have bothered asking.

Grabbing a banana off the table and throwing it in the bag that I just slung over my shoulder, I grab a handle for each of my suitcases, one in each hand, and start wheeling them into our large entranceway. I hear my mother following me by the clicking of her stilettos on the marble floors, but I don’t acknowledge her. Throwing the large, wooden front door open, I see the black saloon car my father has hired has already arrived, and the middle aged male driver is quick to walk towards me to take my bags as he greets me.

Once my bags are loaded, I turn to my mother and say goodbye.

“I’m not sure when I will be back, but I will keep in touch as we agreed. A text once a week so you know I am still alive, a call if I need something, and return home for holidays, right?” I say, remembering the ridiculous instructions I was made to practically memorise.

“Well...actually, your father and I have spoken and the Headteacher will be providing us regular updates on how you are doing, so we do not feel weekly texts will be necessary. Also, we will not be celebrating Christmas this year and so there is no reason for you to return home. We have already checked and you can remain on campus. So, unless there is an emergency, we will see you at graduation. Okay?” she asks, like she is negotiating a business deal instead of basically cutting all ties with me unless there’s an emergency. I know I should be pleased. I’m not exactly my parents’ biggest fan, but they are the only family I have left. This just makes me feel more lost and alone than ever.

Sliding into the backseat of the car, I mutter a thank you to the driver after he gets in, before putting my wireless headphones into my ears and turning my playlist to random. I don’t care what plays, all I need is for it to be loud enough to stop my brain from thinking over the ninety minute car journey, as we drive out of Cambridge and into the rural countryside.

Thankfully, the music did the job, so I kept the wireless earbuds in as the car manoeuvres its way through the tall gates and along the driveway. Other students already moved in and settled into their student accommodation a couple of weeks ago. So, following the instructions on my phone, I direct the driver to the building next door.

Willowmead Academy is a prestigious institution, therefore people do not just drop out, and it fills up quickly. Meaning that the school is already at capacity. But when my father decides he wants something, he throws money at the problem until it goes away. That is how I find myself living in the teacher’s accommodation, as it’s the only place with any room. On the plus side, I don’t have a roommate, although I’m sure there will be some posh students with enough money that they can get their own rooms too. On the downside, after seeing my old fashioned living space, I feel sure that the student building has been updated a lot more than the staff building. But it has its own bathroom, a small kitchen area, and there’s no students making noise around me, so I’m definitely not complaining.

I spend the evening getting unpacked and settled in before exploring the campus a bit and then falling asleep with my head in a book. I wake up later than I would have liked, but it doesn’t take me long to get dressed into what has become my new norm. Black and baggy clothes that hide who I really am.

I’m not worried about being late. I have already received a virtual tour, along with an advanced copy of my timetable, thanks to another generous donation from my father. So I have the maps memorised, I can’t risk having to speak to someone to ask directions.

Pulling my hair over my shoulders on instinct, I’m hoping to get away with hiding my earbuds, that help to drown out the environment, for as long as possible. I throw my bag onto my shoulder, self-consciously straighten my hoodie as well as my hair before I shuffle out of the door on numb feet.

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