Page 22 of The Pawn

Deciding that I’m not in Kansas anymore, I shake my head and walk past the walled partition into the bathroom beyond.

Beyond the sitting room, it’s nothing at all like what I expected.

I knew things here would be fancy.

I just had no idea how incredibly, stupidly ostentatious they would be. To the point where I find myself wondering if I’m making the bathroom dirty just by being here.

The tiles are a dark, near-black grey that’s probably Italian porcelain, the shower stalls are wide and private, and the countertops are granite, each sink basin made of clean, delicate marble.

A row of vanities separates out the shower area on the left from the toilets on the right. Even though it's not peek showering time, more than one girl sits in front of a mirror with beauty lights, carefully over-lining her upper lip or strobing her cheekbones with the latest highlighter palette. There’s a cupboard full of fluffy white towels, each embroidered with the Coleridge Academy logo on one corner, and I swear that the shower stall in the corner has a rain shower head.

It should smell like Lysol and have hair gathering in the drain. That’s what the college dorm I stayed at during a field trip to Richmond one summer was like. Instead it feels like the fanciest bathroom in a high rise, or something taken straight out of a Singaporean mall for billionaires.

This bathroom must take an incredible amount of effort to keep clean and beautiful. By all rights it cost a fortune.

And yet, somehow, it all makes sense. Because when I look at my fellow students plugging in their expensive hair dryers to give themselves blowouts, putting on what must be many steps in a skincare routine, and tugging on the waists of their skirts to bring their hemline up as much as they dare, I realize that it couldn’t be any other way.

The bathroom that surrounds these girls has to match their beauty—anything less would be offensive. Even the plain girls here have nice skin and hair, perfect prim nails, and can contour away the bumpy nose they’ll likely get shaved down post-graduation. They don’t sleep in old gym shorts or put their hair up in a bun on a bad hair day.

In contrast I look like something their purebred cat dragged in from the acreage behind their fancy houses in upstate New York. My skincare routine only recently included moisturizer, and everything I have with me was bought from a drug store. Hell, my shampoo and conditioner still have the clearance stickers on them.

“Brenna!” Holly, who’s blowing her wet hair out at one of the vanities, waves in my general direction. "You took my advice."

"I did."

"Then you're off to a great start already," she says, like her advice on when to shower could possibly make or break my life. "I'm almost done here, so I'll see you back in the room. Then we can talk about what you'll be doing as the newest recruit."

I sense eyes on me, and wonder how the other girls will react to the discovery that the trailer trash from Virginia is about to be a Rosalind. Somehow, based on the cutting looks they're shooting me, I doubt they're about to be my number one fans.

A shower stall frees up in front of me, and I take my caddy in. There’s a little hook on the wall with a stool beneath it, leaving a space for me to hang up my towel and fold my clothes. I carefully leave them on the stool and turn the shower on to its hottest setting, thankful for how quick it heats up and how strong the pressure is. The water pressure at my aunt’s house, where my mother and I have been staying since the tornado, has left much to be desired.

I put the caddy on a little cutout in the middle of the shower wall, then pull out my only, most favorite remaining nice thing: a pair of waterproof earbuds. They were given to me by my former best friend Maggie, who came back from Rhode Island with her boyfriend long enough to give me her overwrought condolences and a few presents that pass for her version of friendship.

Of the presents, I gave the eyeshadow palette to Jade, my actual friend, and left the movie theater gift card with my mom. But the earbuds I kept, and as I turn them on and slip them into my ears, they effortlessly sync up to my three-year-old smart phone and start playing the playlist I have queued.

As I slip beneath the hot water and start lathering up my scalp with shampoo, I let the music soothe my soul. Alone with my thoughts, eyes closed and body relaxing beneath the spray, I let myself let go of the past and the future for just a moment. I let my mind wander and forget. Revenge takes a backseat to just... being. The song switches, and Billie Eilish’s voice croons raspy lyrics over a steady beat.

What do you want from me? Why do you run from me?

I scrub at my scalp until it feels clean, wash the shampoo off and run my fingers through my hair with a palmful of conditioner.

What are you wondering? What do you know?

Then I move on to exfoliating, scrubbing every bit of my arms and legs until I feel like a reptile shedding its skin.

Why aren’t you scared of me? Why do you care for me?

Finally, I shave all the stubble from my legs and armpits, very aware of the fact that the in thing to wear at Coleridge is the academy’s blue tartan skirt with knee high socks, an absurd throwback to school uniforms of yesterday. I may not have a blowout, but I can have smooth legs.

When we all fall asleep, where do we go?

There’s a sound outside the shower, and cool air briefly ruffles the shower curtain. I frown until I hear the door audibly close; someone must have thought this stall was empty, and I forgot to lock the door. It’s time to go anyway; I’ve been in here long enough, and I’ve still got to dry off, put on my Coleridge-approved clothing, and head to Calculus I to discover what horrors await me for an hour and a half.

Turning off the water, I push the shower curtain back and reach out for the towel. Once I’ve dried off reasonably and wrapped it around my middle, I grab for my clean clothes on the stool.

They aren’t there.

My bluetooth earbuds click off the music and tell me, “bluetooth disconnected.” My phone, stashed in the front pocket of the old gym shorts I wore last night, is at least twenty feet away.

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