Campus

When I completed putting my clothes in the old pine dresser, I took my bag of bathroom requirements and went to the

communal bathroom to wash myself up after the day of travel.

I looked at my face in the mirror as I stroked through my tangled, damp hair. Maybe it was because of the light, but i already looked unhealthy and sallower.

My skin could be beautiful; it was very clear, almost looking translucent, but it all relied on color. Unfortunately, I had no color here.

Confronting my pale reflection in the mirror, I was forced to concur that I was not telling myself the truth. It was not just physically that I had never fit in.

And if I could not find a corner in a school with three thousand people, what were my opportunities here?

I did not relate well to people at my age. Maybe the truth was that I did not relate well to people and that is period.

Even my mom, whom I was closer to than anyone else on the planet, was never in symmetry with me, we were never on exactly the same page.

Sometimes I gaped if I was seeing the same things through my eyes as the rest of the world was seeing through theirs. Maybe there was a barrier in my brain. But the cause did not actually matter, all that mattered was the effect. And tomorrow would be just the outset.

I did not sleep well that night, even after I was done crying. The constant hitting of the rain and wind across the roof would not fade into the background.

I pulled the faded old bedspread over my head, and later joined the pillow too. But I could not still fall asleep until after midnight, when the rain eventually resolved into a quieter drizzle.

Thick fog was all I could see outside my window in the morning, and I could feel the claustrophobia crawling up on me.

You could never see the sky from here, because it was like a cage.

Breakfast with my dad was a calm event. He wished me good luck as I left for school. I thanked him, knowing fully well that his hope was swasted.

Good luck was inclined to avoid me. My dad first left the house and went off to the police station which was like his wife and family.

After he left the house, I sat at the old square oak table in one of the three unmatching chairs and assessed his small kitchen, with its dark paneled walls, white linoleum floor and his bright yellow cabinets.

Everything looked exactly the way it was, nothing changed.

My mother had painted the cabinets herself some years ago in an attempt to bring some sunshine into the house.

Over the small fireplace in the adjoining handkerchief sized family room was a row of pictures.

The First was a wedding picture of my dad and my mom in Las Vegas, then one of the three of us in the hospital after I was given birth to and carried by a helpful nurse. Then followed by the parade of my school pictures up to last year's.

Those were really offending to look at, I would have to do something to see if I could get my dad to put those pictures somewhere else, at least for the moment that I have got to live here.

It was difficult being in this house, not to realize that my dad had never gotten over my mom. It really made me feel uneasy.

I did not want to be too early to school, but I could not stay in the house anymore. I wore my jacket which had the feel of a biohazard suit, and then headed out into the rain.

It was still drizzling outside, but not enough to soak me through instantly as I reached for the house key that was always hidden under the eaves by the door, and locked up the door.

The sloshing of my new waterproof boots was frightening. I so much missed the normal crunch of gravel as I walked.

I could not pause and admire my truck again as I wanted; I was in a hurry to get out of the misty wet that whirled around my head and clung to my hair under the hood wore.

Inside the truck was nice and dry. Either Achmad or Klaus had obviously tidied it up, but the tan upholstered seats still scented faintly of gasoline, tobacco, and peppermint.

To my relief, the engine started instantly but it was loud, roaring to life and then chilling at top volume. Well, a truck this old was definitely bound to have a flaw. The antique radio was still working, and that is a plus that I never expected.

Finding the school was not that difficult, though I had never been there before. The school was like most other things, it is positioned just off the highway.

It was not so apparent that it was a school; it was only the sign post which affirmed it to be the Barbourville High School that made me stop.

The school looked like a collection of matching houses, it is built with maroon colored bricks. There were so many trees and shrubs I could not see its size at first.

Where is the feel of the institution? I pondered nostalgically.

Where are the chain link fences and the metal detectors?

I parked my car in front of the first building, which had a small sign over the door that reads "front office".

No other car was parked there, so I was so certain that it was off limits, but I just decided I would go in there and get directions from the inside rather than just circling around in the rain like a dumbhead.

I walked unwillingly out of the toasty truck cab and strolled down a little stone path lined with dark hedges. I took a deep breath before I opened the door in front of me.