ARIELLE

Chapter5

Orientation finally came, and was exactly as I had anticipated. It was overwhelming with a sprinkle of chaos.

Scratch that, it was very overwhelming.

It wasn't too chaotic because after you got through the forced icebreakers and the overly friendly atmosphere, orientation mostly involved walking around campus with other freshmen, while listening to administrators explain things that were already in the welcome packet. The school administration probably figured that not many people actually read it, which was understandable.

I, for one, hadn’t even bothered opening it.

On the other hand, it was overwhelming because I often found myself forgetting that I was allowed to be there. It felt as though someone might discover an error at any moment, sound the alarm, and I would be led back to my vehicle while everyone watched.

I can’t blame me much, really. I’d watched an unhealthy number of crime movies.

The feeling hadn't faded since I had arrived. Instead, it got more intense as I met more people while doing things that felt official.

Star and I navigated the administration building together by following the signs that led toward the check-in tables. The room was set up for efficiency, with long tables and folders organized by last name. Staff members smiled as they worked to help hundreds of students with their schedules.

My course schedule ultimately consisted of a mix of requirements and elective choices. I was required to take a general education course (Intro to Economics, which, honestly, I looked forward to the least). But on the bright side, I managed to load up the rest with things I actually wanted to study. Two literature courses, painting, and the one I was most nervous about—Art History with Seminar, which had the description: "Advanced study of artistic movements with particular attention to provenance, authentication, and historical documentation. Limited enrollment. Instructor permission required."

"How did you get that?" Star asked when she glanced at my schedule. She had secured a spot in an advanced creative writing seminar, which was quite impressive for a freshman. No wonder she had been freaking out about what notebooks to buy yesterday. "Isn't that supposed to be like, junior/senior level?"

"The website said freshmen with demonstrated interest were encouraged to apply," I told her, leaving out the fact that I had spent two hours crafting a statement of intent that was probably too earnest and way too lengthy. "I guess the professor liked my application essay."

"Of course they did," Star said. "You're the most interesting person I know, and we literally just met."

The art studios were in a separate building on the east side of campus, one of the newer structures that somehow managed to blend with the Gothic aesthetic of the older buildings. The building had large windows, high ceilings, and smelled of paint, turpentine, and creativity. When I walked in, the professor—a woman named Dr. Cho with silver streaking her black hair and paint-stained fingers—was setting up palettes.

"You're in my afternoon section?" Dr. Cho asked when I introduced myself.

"I am," I confirmed, a little bit nervous.

"Good," she said. "We'll be starting an interesting project where everyone's going to work on materials that make them uncomfortable. I can already see that many of you are going to hate it." She grinned. "It's going to be messy."

Yay! Sounds fun.

As I was making my way out, I did a quick survey of the room. There were easels set up in clusters. The walls were covered with work—some finished, some in progress, some that looked like someone just threw paint at the canvas in a moment of despair.

It was intriguing.

By the time it was noon, I made my way to the dining hall, and Star was already waiting for me. She was at a table holding two sandwiches she'd somehow acquired. The moment she saw me, she looked so relieved it almost felt like I'd been gone for months instead of three hours.

"I met this girl in my orientation group who talked about her internship the entire time," Star started once I was within hearing range, without even waiting for me to sit down. "And it was impressive, don't get me wrong. But like, we don't even know you yet, girl. You don't need to establish your credentials in the first thirty minutes. There was also this tall dude who tried to hit on me during a bonding exercise. It was so weird and inappropriate, I would have told him off if I hadn't been worried about establishing myself as mean during week one."

"Survival strategy," I observed, gesturing for her to pass me the sandwich.

"Exactly. But seriously, how do guys gather the confidence to approach someone and say, 'I find you attractive and would like to know you more?' What if I do not want to know you more, mister?" Star shook her head. "Anyway…, fill me in on the details of your orientation horror stories."

I recounted the most amusing encounters, and Star laughed so hard that other people at nearby tables looked over and couldn’t help but smile. Her laughter was that infectious. By the end of lunch, I'd relaxed enough that I forgot to watch my posture or my expression. I was simply enjoying the moment.

Star and I then decided to explore the library together.

The archival library, however, was where I completely lost track of time.

It was positioned in the oldest section of the main library building, accessible through a door that looked like it hadn’t received a facelift since the 1950s. The staircase down was narrow and slightly spooky. But once you reached the basement, it was like stepping into another world.

The space was vast—larger than should have been possible given the way the building looked from the outside. It comprised floor-length shelves organized by some ancient system. There were paintings stored vertically, photographs ordered by age, and documents from centuries ago preserved in wooden boxes. The lighting was dim and carefully calibrated, the temperature cool and constant. It definitely passed all the mysterious vibe checks.

"This is insane," I whispered, because the space somehow demanded silence.

"Right?" Star whispered back, catching the drift. "I read about it in the campus tour materials. They have actual historical documents down here." Of course, she went through the materials.

She then leaned closer and continued in a more hushed tone, "And apparently, there's a whole section that's, like, restricted? Nobody really knows why."

I gave her an incredulous stare, and she shrugged her shoulders with a look that said, ‘Hey, don’t hate the reporter; hate the news source.’

I gave a slight chuckle.

A librarian approached—an older woman with reading glasses on a rope and an expression that said she didn’t get interrupted often.

"Can I help you?" she asked, not rudely, but firmly, in a way that made it clear she was very protective of this space.

"I'm just exploring," I told her. "First time here."

She softened slightly. "First time is always the best time. You get to discover how much you didn't know you wanted to know about the world." She then gestured toward the shelves. "Feel free to look around. Make sure to be careful with the materials; gloves are available if you want to handle anything old."

For the next hour, I was immersed in a section dedicated to art history, going through brochures from old galleries, show records, and verification papers for artworks. I absorbed information like someone who had been thirsty for years. Star later wandered off to investigate something that looked interesting.

I also noticed a wall labeled "Restricted Access" that was cordoned off with a velvet rope. Behind it, there were boxes labeled with what looked like years—"1975-1985," "1985-1995," and so on. I tried not to stare at it too much, but it was impossible not to wonder about the reason for its restriction. Guess Star had a reliable source after all.

"Curious about the archives?" the librarian asked when she found me standing near the cordoned section.

"A little," I admitted. "What's back there?"

"Historical documents connected to an old research program," she said, and something in her tone suggested she wasn’t supposed to say even that much. "Nothing that should particularly interest a freshman art history student."

"I don't know what would interest me," I said honestly. "I'm still figuring that out."

She smiled at that. "That's the right approach. Better to be curious than be convinced you know everything."

Star and I emerged from the basement by the time it was already late afternoon, and we were both running on pure wonder and the kind of adrenaline that came from discovering beautiful things.

"That place is like a secret library," Star said as we climbed the stairs back to the main level. "A secret library full of mysteries. I'm pretty sure you want to spend every free moment down there."

"Sure," I admitted with a small smile.

Later that evening, while sitting in the dining hall with Star and a group of people who seemed to be drawn to her magnetic charm, I found myself participating in conversation. I didn't contribute much, but I listened. I watched. And somewhere between the terrible dining hall pasta and Star's animated descriptions of her orientation group, something changed.

"You're getting more comfortable," Star observed as we walked back to the dorm. "You smiled at Matthew's joke about the dining hall pizza. The Arielle I’ve come to know would have just internally noted it as amusing but never let her face show it."

"I'm still observing," I told her. "I figured it wouldn’t hurt to try participating."

"That's called being human," Star said proudly. "Welcome to the club. There's a membership card and everything."

At the end of my first art history seminar on Friday, I got my application essay back with an A and a note from Dr. Ashton that said: "Exceptionally thoughtful. You have a sophisticated understanding of how context shapes meaning. See me during office hours. I have a proposal that might interest you."

I read it approximately seventeen times.