Page 35 of Swallow Your Sorries

“Oh, well, you know I’m from the drama department. I’m not very familiar with the ballet sector and the head instructor hasn’t arrived yet. It must be a new scholarship as we get those from time to time. Here, drag a seat up front.”

“Thanks,” I smile gratefully, taking a folding chair from a stack and placing it beside a round-shouldered South Asian girl. She’s staring at her penny loafers, which are identical to mine. She looks as petrified as I feel. Hopefully, I conceal it a bit better and not like I’m about to evacuate my breakfast at any second.

“Young ladies and young gentlemen,” a woman begins from behind the podium on stage. Mrs. Cardot. I recognize her as the school principal from my information packet. She’s tall for a woman, at least six foot two with a broad frame. Her sleek black, French bob and matching tweed set scream polished regality.“Welcome back to your final year at Beaulieu Academy. I expect the summer has seen you well and kept you refreshed and in good spirits upon your return.”

“I missed you, Mrs Cardot!” a boy with tousled, brown hair shouts from beside the pale boy and the room erupts into giggles.

I’m not giggling though because those black abysses haven’t left me, and from this angle, they don’t appear so mysterious. No, they look…murderous.

“Thank you, Mr. Hale Perriot,” the principal says through tight lips. “I assume we’ll have many more detentions together this year.”

I fiddle with the silky ribbon around my neck as Mrs. Cardot goes on with the announcements. Somehow, my tie doesn’t look like everyone else’s now that they’ve changed from their street clothes. In fact, my entire uniform looks different, but how can that be when I purchased it from the school’s store?

Aria’s royal blue ribbon is stripped with the same colour green and gold from the school’s crest, unlike my plain blue one. Stassi’s crest is made of metallic thread, not the dull ones that decorate the left breast of my blazer. Even the blazers themselves are different, with lapels of varying sizes, styles and textures. Aria’s a dull satin while Rin’s is pure silk. Then there are the skirt lengths. Mine covers my knees, but most girls wear knee highs that go all the way up to their exposed mid-thighs. Stockings aside, their shoes range from high-heeled boots to Doc Martin’s, kitten heels and ballet flats with ankle ties carefully knotted into bows.

The differences don’t end with the girls. Even the boys have taken liberties with their customizations, from mandarin collars to ivory turtlenecks in lieu of the school’s polyester button-downs.

In hindsight, it’s obvious who the newbies or scholarship students are with their rule-abiding attire. I look down at my shoes again, identical to all the girls beside me and cross my ankles as if that’ll help hide the fresh meat label even though I’m sitting with all the other scholarship kids. Speaking of, these people don’t care about me, or the fact that I have a scholarship, right?

Then why did Stassi look so grave when she asked about it?

As if on a wire, my eyes are pulled back to the boys’ section. Back to the pale boy, who hasn’t so much as blinked. No matter which teacher gets up next, how many claps resound around the room, or how much laughter erupts, his expression remains the same. Beautifully murderous.

“Darling,” Mrs. Trix says, tapping my shoulder, and I rip my eyes away from the boy’s to hers. “It’s time for your speech.”

Had all the other students gone already?I can’t recall a single speech.

I nod and stand, nervously pulling down my skirt. Not that it’s necessary given its conservative length. The twelve steps it takes me to ease around the podium feel like an eternity. I lean against it for support, sure my legs will give out at any moment.

“Good morning,” I say into the mic, and the feedback that echoes through the room is enough to crawl anyone’s spine. When the high-pitched sound tapers off, I continue, hoping my voice isn’t as shaken as I feel. “I’m Eloisa Ginhart and I received the ballet scholarship. Ballet’s been a passion of mine since I was five years old and Beaulieu Academy has been another aspiration of mine since I was twelve. So when the Elaine Hardy scholarship came along—”

“The what?” Mrs. Cardot asks, interrupting me and lifting a finger. A much older teacher is in her ear, whispering furiously. She’s tall and thin, with sharp cheekbones, excellent posture and lips that look like she’s constantly sucking on a lemon. Is she the head of the ballet department? “I’m told there’s no ballet scholarship by that name.”

I gaze dumbfounded from her to the students and back again, but no words come out.

That couldn’t be right.

I gape like a frog down at my documents where the wordsElaine Hardy Scholarshipstare back at me, as do all the curious gazes of the students.

“So what? She’s pretending to be a student?” Rin asks incredulously as she stares up at me. “Did you seriously fake a scholarship and think you wouldn’t be found out?”

Laughter erupts around the theatre.

“That’s enough, Ms. Joung. We’ll figure out what’s going on and get Ms Ginhart sorted out shortly. Eloisa, please take your seat. Meet me at the office after the assembly.”

The silence is deafening as I nod and hastily head for the lifeline that’s my chair. I clutch it in time right as my legs give out, and I flop onto the mental unceremoniously.

What’s happening?I rub my arm, pinching my elbow to make sure this isn’t another one of my nightmares. It’s all too good to be true, isn’t it? Didn’t I think that someone was punking me the moment the acceptance letter landed at our door? But how could that be? I went to the office this morning and got registered. There were no issues.

A whisper chain breaks out amongst the students, and I watch as the message carries from the boys’ side, all the way to the girls’. They all stare at me now, as if they know something I don’t. I find Stassi and Aria in the crowd, but they’re furiously whispering to each other with their heads down.

When the assembly dismisses, the staff files out, but all the students remain.

I’m just about to flee my chair and make a mad dash for the exit behind Mrs Cardot when the boy with the staring problem gets to his feet and scrolls towards the stage casually. Towardsme. As he draws closer, my lungs draw their last breath as if they already know something I don’t about his commanding presence.

“Don’t you fucking move,” he says, and I don’t have to wonder if he’s addressing me or not, because I’m the only one trying to leave the auditorium.

I freeze at his words, physically unable to move as he inches closer. As he finally passes under a light and his face is illuminated in full, I can see the new fresh hell I’ve landed in.

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