Page 8 of The Bleak Beginning

“Thanks,” the girl says as we both get up, and I add the last pile of papers to her stack.

A warm smile spreads across her face, revealing her pearly white teeth against the pink tint of her lips. “Sutton,” she introduces herself, balancing the papers in one arm and offering the other for a handshake.

“Alex,” I reply, returning the gesture.

“Nice to meet you, Alex,” Sutton says, her smile fading slightly as she glances toward Maxwell’s office. “You’d better get in there before she comes looking for you again.”

I can’t help but notice the door is left ajar, as if it’s ordering me to come inside. My eyes quickly land on the stack of papers, and my mind starts churning with an idea. “Where were you planning on delivering these?” I ask.

“I was hoping to get permission to put them in the students’ mailboxes,” she responds with a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

I shake my head to reject her suggestion. It would require some extra effort, but it was a loophole that would allow her to bypass the rules; as long as Sutton didn’t knock on any students’ doors, she technically wasn’t selling or promoting anything. It would be a delicate dance between being efficient and avoiding getting caught as she slid flyers from room to room, but it was possible.

Her head nods as I lay out my idea, a smile spreading across her face by the time I finish explaining why it could work.

Sutton’s eyes sparkle with excitement as she considers my suggestion. “That’s genius, Alex! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” She glances down at her watch and bites her lip. “I better get started if I want to hit all the dorms before this afternoon. Thanks again for the idea.”

With a final grin and wave, she hurries off down the hallway, papers clutched tightly to her chest. I watch her go, feeling a mix of satisfaction at helping her out and annoyance aboutmy impending meeting with Maxwell. I swear I can feel her impatience through the wall.

I release a heavy sigh.Here goes nothing.

I enter the room and settle into the same chair I sat in yesterday, directly across from her desk. Restlessly, I fiddled with my fingers while she talks on the antique-looking phone.

Maxwell’s eyebrows are furrowed in frustration, her lips pursed as she spoke. Her hand tapped impatiently against the wooden desk, conveying her irritation and restlessness. I shared the same feelings about being awake on a Sunday before noon.

As I walked to her office earlier, I couldn’t help but hear the cheerful chirping of birds, reminding me that it was too early to be up on a weekend.

Mornings. So outdated and primitive.

As my phone beeped, I remembered that I had failed to read Clara’s earlier text. I hurriedly typed out a reply to her grievances about Elle, trying to tune out Maxwell’s frustrated remarks. My body was tense and sore from waking up earlier than I was used to, and all I wanted was the comfort of soft sheets and warm blankets.

“My apologies for interrupting our time. We’re facing some difficulties with filling the pool in our natatorium,” Maxwell explains, ending her phone call as I glance down at my own device. It’s been four minutes since I arrived.

Oh no, four whole minutes lost.

“No worries. Hey…”

Before I can react, a blur of movement snatches my phone from my hand. The sleek black device disappears from my sight, leaving only empty space where it was. Across the desk, Maxwell’s hand retreats with my phone tightly gripped in her fingers as she effortlessly settles back into her seat.

“I should have mentioned this yesterday, but personal cellphones are not allowed at Altair. They can only be used by students on weekends.”

I stare at her in disbelief.

“But it’s Sunday,” I protest.

“It is,” she confirms, tossing my phone into a drawer filled with others and locking it shut.

My face falls. Anger and sadness both rise within me, struggling to take control.

“You have no right to take that away,” I seethe, my face contorting in outrage.

My phone, my only connection with my sister, is now locked away in a desk drawer. Frustration and disappointment weigh heavily on me as I struggle to keep my emotions in check.

Her mouth flattens into a patronizing line. “If you need to make a call, you can request to use a phone at the school. The building for this purpose is right next to the mail office and open every Saturday and Sunday from nine in the morning until nine at night.” She tries to show sympathy, but her words only make me angrier.

“And what about the days in between?” I retort, pushing back.

She shoots me a stern look, and an awkward silence fills the air between us. “If you’d like, you could try putting pen to paper,” she suggests without sympathy. “Letters are how our students usually communicate with their loved ones and friends.”

---