Page 44 of The Bleak Beginning

I swear it’s as if she’s testing me, but I fail again because I just dip my chin in agreement.

“Very well,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “I trust you’ll inform me if anything changes. My door is always open for scheduled discussions if you need assistance.”

I nod, eager to escape her scrutiny. As I stand to leave, she adds, “And Miss Prescott? Do try your best to stay out of trouble. We wouldn’t want any more…incidents.”

Grateful for the dismissal, I quickly made my exit. As I step into the hallway, the weight of my decisions that led me to this university settle on my shoulders. The utility closet flashes in my mind—the musty smell, the flickering light, the cramped space barely big enough for the cot. But I’ve made my bed, quite literally, and now I have to lie in it.

The corridor bustles with students rushing to their next classes. I blend into the crowd, my mind racing. How am I going to survive the next few days in that closet?

Thank goodness, it was Friday, so maybe campus wouldn’t be as hectic, students going out or staying in their rooms enough not to notice.

Hoping to hype myself up for what will be the longest weekend ever, I decide to head over to the mail office to see if I have any incoming mail. I hadn’t bothered to check my box since I arrived, but maybe Clara had gotten back to me.

The mailroom is a quaint building at the edge of campus made of ancient, weathered stone, surrounded by a few neatly trimmed bushes. As I push open the heavy glass doors, the smell of cardboard and plastic-wrapped parcels hits my face.

The mailroom is mercifully quiet, most students having already collected their packages and letters for the weekend, and I couldn’t be more relieved.

I head to the far north side and find my box number among row after row of tiny gold metal boxes lining both sides of the walls. My heart leaps at the sight of a single envelope inside mine as I open it.

Eagerly, I flip it over, hoping for good news from Clara. But as I scan the outside of the envelope, my spirits plummet. This isn’t from Clara; it’s from Elle.

My dad’s girlfriend was the last person I expected to receive any sort of mail from.

I shove the envelope between the pages of my textbook, refusing to even open it.

As I turn to leave, the sound of the door opening catches my attention. I glance up, a dull throb running across my temples when I recognize the familiar silhouettes of my shadow, followed by two others.

The Legacies.

I freeze, before quickly hiding behind a pillar.

“No way! I wish I could’ve been there to see it myself.” Camden’s voice echoes in the quiet room. “I bet she was flopping around like a fish out of water.”

“Yeah, but then Atlas had to go and save her,” Bishop says as their voices get closer.

“Atlas.” Sylvester scoffs. “That guy has the biggest savior complex I’ve ever seen. He’s always trying to ruin our fun.”

“Well, consider yourself lucky, because I heard Ophelia will be spending the next three weekends with him trying to save the oceans, or whatever,” Camden says with a laugh.

“That must’ve been priceless,” Sylvester agrees, and I swear I can hear the smirk in his voice.

These guys are so awful.

“Guess you won’t have to worry about seeing her this weekend, huh?” he questions Bishop.

I press myself closer to the pillar, straining to hear more of their conversation. The Legacies’ voices grow louder as they approach right on the other side of where I stand. I flatten my back further against the wall.

“Did you get the code for Prescott’s mailbox?” Bishop asks.

What? So embarrassing me in front of the entire school and watching me almost drown wasn’t enough? Now they wanted to go through my things?

“Got it right here,” Camden says, followed by what I assume is him pulling out a slip of paper from his pocket. “0-8-0-9. Easy enough to remember.”

“Good,” Bishop agrees, just as I decide to chance a peek.

“It better be,” Camden grumbles, tugging at his dark locks. “I had to trade the dweeb behind the counter an entire jar of styling gel for it.”

“Aw, I’m sure your hair will survive a few days until you can get more,” Sylvester says with mock-sympathy, running his hand through his friend’s hair, messing it up as Camden swats him away.

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