Lavender

Episode 1 Creaky Porch Swing Walking through the halls of Dwayne High, I'm bombarded with feelings rolling off of the surrounding students. For as long as I can remember, I've been plagued with knowing the truth about others' intentions. This school seems no different from the others. The basic emotions of greed, lust, envy, all hit me in waves. I despise the human race as a whole. A teacher approaches me. "You must be new here, deary, are you looking for the office? Did you already get your schedule from the counselor?" She's a plump little woman, at least half a foot shorter than me, with a head full of gray hair piled high in a bun. She continues looking up at me, as if waiting for something while I examine her, and I remember she asked me a question. "Oh, uh yes ma'am. This is my first day. I'm not sure if my dad enrolled me or not, but I was a senior at the last school." I try to gauge her reaction to my words by reading her emotions, looking for the usual animosity I receive. Teachers don't typically take me at my word. But I only get a sense of acceptance from this small granny. She must have kids or grandkids of her own that have put her through hell. She just smiles up at me and turns to lead the way, expecting me to follow her. While I walk through the halls, I notice everyone turn their heads, all eyes on me, and the only thing I feel is disgust. Is this the vibe in the air from them seeing me or is this my own vibe from being in this dreary place? I hear the teacher's voice but I've slowed down to glare back at all the students, so I don't catch her words. I rush back up to her to catch the end of what she's saying "...Greer will find your schedule for you. I'm hoping you'll have Mr. Davis for English, he's very kind. I think you'll like it just fine here deary, it's a small town, a good place to grow up..." I intentionally fall back this time, none of this matters to me, I'm just here for my diploma so I can move on to a good career and get away from my father. Only two more months. I've been counting down for years. I continue following, until finally we've come to a door which opens to what I can only assume is the front office. Sure enough, we walk inside, and the registrar is sitting a few feet in from the door at a desk that looks like it's been around since the civil war. The woman at the desk turns her tired eyes over onto the old woman. "Oh Mayra, good to see you this morning. Who do you have with you?" The old lady, Mayra, looks up at me expectantly with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry deary, I didn't think to ask your name." I smile back, you just can't help it with her, she pulls the friendliness out of you, even when you think it's nonexistent. "My name is Gwendolyn Scott. I'm a new student from Staffordshire. I'm not sure if my dad enrolled me, but I was a senior at the last school." The registrar looks me up and down, frown lines deepening between her brows. "I hadn't heard of a new student joining us. Is your father not very involved in your schooling?" I look down at my black leather boots and shift my heels a bit. "Ahh, not exactly..." I'd already decided to leave out the part about my mother dying when I was a child and my father moving me all over the country since. He thinks he can make money and find old, dusty dinosaur bones everywhere we go. I don't understand the fascination with it all. If it's buried, then it's buried for a reason. Of course, my half-answer only concerns the registrar even more. "Well hon, you're gonna have to complete your registration paperwork here today and come back in the morning for your schedule and school supplies." She explains, "We weren't prepared for you to show up today, so we have nothing ready for you." I shrug my shoulders and pretend this doesn't bother me. As if I don't mind returning to the dusty wooden house that my father decided was a good place to set up shop. I already know I'll find him passed out on the couch when I return. She hands me a stack of paperwork on a clipboard with a pen connected on a beady string of metal. Gosh, this place can't even keep their pens locked down. I glance back at the registrar once more and notice something different this time. A hint of pity hits me and tries to knock me down. Oh hell no, I need to get out of here. I quickly find a chair and determine that I should just stand after a quick inspection of stains, crumbs, and what looks like chew marks on the leg, possibly from a rat. --- I'm pulling up to the desolate house in the old raggedy truck I brought with us from Staffordshire. I make a quick assessment of the house. The weeds are overgrown, lots of shingles are missing from the roof, the creaky overused porch swing looks like it hasn't been used in years, and the windows are just covered in filth. I don't know what my father thinks we're doing here, we simply can't live here. Nonetheless, I'm all too aware that I don't have an option, so I haul my mostly empty backpack out of the truck and throw it over my shoulder and start walking towards the steps. The door clicks open, I kick it shut behind me and start up the stairs to my makeshift bedroom. I don't bother looking for my father, I'm sure he's on the couch sleeping after getting upset over whatever "lost opportunity" he's stumbled across this time. I twist the knob and find the dreadful bedroom I'm staying in. Only two more months. My bag plops on the bed and I make my way to the bathroom down the hall. My sullen, too-skinny reflection stares back at me in the cracked mirror, greasy black hair falls in straight lines down to my elbows, brown contacts cover my lavender eyes which my dad says I inherited from my mother, and my eyebrow ring shines in the light from the window. The ring must be the only clean thing about me. Most of the places we stay at don't have very clean showers or warm water with even an inkling of pressure in the pipes. I take my contacts out and sweep the majority of my hair into a slick ponytail and head back towards the stairs. Surely I can get this place picked up a bit. It's a nice day outside, which makes me think the yard might be a good place to start. I find a rickety mower in the back of the house and decide I can at least cut down the forest that's trying to grow. I start by popping in my earbuds and quickly find a rhythm with the pattern I'm mowing in the dead grass. I'm almost done with the front of the house, dripping in sweat, with only a few lines left to draw when a motorcycle comes flying down the dirt road. I only notice because a silver streak catches my eye with the glare of the sun. The rider gets about a mile down the road and suddenly turns around, spinning gravel off the tires. Intrigued, I let the mower stop and pull one of the earbuds out, waiting to see if the rider falls off. I can't help my small bit of hope, it would be the most exciting part of my day. To my dismay, the rider is experienced and makes the turn with ease. To further my dissatisfaction, he pulls into the grass next to my old truck parked in the driveway. Great, people... again.