LIFE WITHIN THE HALLS

Gideon

Monday, February 9th, 7:30 a.m.

Night after night, I heard the same desperate cry of the scholarship girl in my head: 'Gideon, please help me!' The memory of her at the Ship House during the school's night party scarred my dreams, making me relive the trauma over and over. And every time I woke up, guilt and regret weighed me down, a constant reminder of what went wrong two years ago.

I tried everything I enjoyed doing to get over the past—studying, gaming, coding—but somehow, my mind always wandered back. It was as if it had become a part of me, and there was no going back to my normal life. If only I had ever had one.

"Good morning!" our family driver greeted me, opening the backseat door from his seat. "Day one of the new semester, are you ready?"

I nodded silently and got in without a word. He knew very well he wouldn't get an answer from me, like always; yet, he still asked. He was just a driver and couldn't be of any help to me.

My circumstances, the school I attended, and the cars I rode in told a story about me. One I didn't need to elaborate on. But unlike other kids, I hated the attention that came with it.

Being part of a high-society circle didn't matter to me. What mattered most were my best friend, avoiding detention (which would upset my dad), and my grades (which also mattered to my dad). So, literally, everything about me revolved around my father.

The drive to school typically took thirty minutes, but road closures due to construction caused traffic on the streets. The usual shortcuts were blocked off, and alternate routes were jammed with cars. We crawled along, adding extra minutes to our commute.

At long last, we turned into the school's gateway and glided into the parking lot, where a row of cars was already lined up. I took in the familiar sights and sounds of the campus, feeling a sense of déjà vu. It was as if I'd never left—same old, same old. Even the freshly painted white walls gleaming brightly under the morning sun wasn't new to me; it was the same every first day of a new semester.

Stepping out of the car, I was welcomed by the sight of three flags fluttering in the breeze. That was the only noticeable change. Initially, only two flags had flown—the school's and the United States'—but now a third one commemorated the school's 30th anniversary.

I felt refreshed returning after the semester break as I walked through the main entrance. Finally, some time away from home. However, there was a downside—I'd be sharing classes with two people on my ignore list: the Class President and the social media star who annoyingly broadcasted his every move.

The hallways pulsed with excitement, everyone's joy at being back was unmistakable amidst the high-fives and lively chatter. I couldn't blame them; after all, most were rich kids with seemingly no cares, their biggest worries being who to date, what to wear, or who'd be AnonymousX's next target.

I strolled to my locker, swiped my card through the reader, and the metal door opened with a click. I organized my new notebooks and folders on the shelf and added fresh pens and pencils to my locker's pencil case.

With everything settled, I slammed the door shut and took the elevator to the third floor, avoiding the drama-filled staircase. The mere thought of hearing about breakups and hookups made my stomach churn. From the elevator, I made a beeline for my classroom, settling into my seat with relief.

My classmates were a mix of busy bees and carefree spirits. Some were buried in their books, studying hard, while others chatted and laughed around Daniel Blay, unconcerned that a math test was scheduled for the day.

Daniel Blay was every girl's crush. His bright blue eyes seemed to cast a spell, even on the female teachers. It was obvious he was the reason everyone pretended to like me. They wanted to use me to get close to him, since I happened to be his best friend.

I put on the fake smile I'd been wearing since the Ship House incident, like a mask. I patiently counted down the minutes until the bell would sound, signaling the start of the test. I didn't bother flipping through my math books to prepare; revision seemed pointless to me.

As I waited, spinning my blue pen around out of habit, the bell rang, signaling the start of the test. A proctor in a sharp red shirt walked in with a box full of papers. He handed the papers out to us and gave us the usual drill: read the instructions, don't cheat.

The room fell into a hush, like the calm before a big event in a cathedral. I could feel the proctor's watchful eyes on us, ensuring no one dared to cheat.

That was the one thing I would say wasn't questionable at Hill Academy.

While I wrote, the sound of approaching footsteps distracted me from my paper. I looked up to see Principal Wilson escorting a female student I'd never seen before. She had almond-shaped eyes and chestnut-brown hair that fell straight down her back.

Principal Wilson nodded to the proctor, and I sensed a whispered conversation taking place. With my test almost done, I had a bit of time to spare, and my curiosity got the better of me.

I pretended to focus on my paper while sneaking peeks at the pair, trying to read their lips. Principal Wilson explained that the girl was a new student who needed to take the test to complete her admission, even though time was running out.

I was impressed by the new girl's resolve and found myself wondering what had fueled her to push so hard. Why not wait for admission the following semester?

The proctor handed her the test papers after the quick chat with Principal Wilson, and she slipped into the empty seat beside me. Her pen started moving swiftly across the paper, leaving me wondering if she was a genius or simply a daydreamer.

I tried to sneak a peek at her work, but Principal Wilson caught me on his way out and gave me a stern look. I straightened up fast. After he left, I forced myself to focus on my own paper again.

Minutes later, the bell went off to mark the end of the test. The proctor collected our answer booklets and left the room with it.

I turned to the new girl and introduced myself, "Hi, I'm Gideon," trying to seem friendly while actually fishing for information.

She smiled and replied in a mature voice, "I'm Em—Sandra. Sandra Wilmer."

"Were you able to finish your test?" I eagerly asked, expecting her to answer with a "No."

"Yes, it was okay," she said instead.

Was she operating with an IQ of 180, or was I just a joke to her? Either way, the truth would come out soon enough. The results would tell all.

"Bro!" Daniel called to me from the doorway, his bag slung over his left shoulder. "I'm taking the lead."

"Alright," I said, and zipped up my bag, getting ready to join him in the cafeteria for breakfast. The room had grown quiet, with only the occasional rustle of pages as the new girl read with quiet intensity.

"Sandra," I said. "Won't you go for a break?"

She looked up. "I'd love to go with you, if you don't mind."

"Sh...sure," I stammered a reply, and she closed her book. I had brought it upon myself, so even though I didn't particularly like the idea of going with her, I felt obligated to.

I waited for her to pack her bag, and we both made our way out of class. I noticed how some students were looking at us as we entered the elevator together. They had a reason to. It was the first time in a long while they'd seen me with someone other than Daniel, and that too, a girl. It was a rare sight.

The elevator took us down to the first floor, and then we exited, going up the short flight of stairs that led to the cafeteria doors. That was where I always caught up with Daniel whenever he left class before me.

"I can see you've gotten yourself a new friend," Daniel joked. "Aw, I'm jealous. I'm heartbroken."

I chuckled, "You know that's not funny." I then introduced Sandra to him, and they exchanged a warm greeting.

"Hi, Sandra." Daniel waved with two fingers, revealing the thin scar on his right palm. He had gotten the scar from a knife cut. "Mind if I call you Sandy?"

Sandra nodded, "Sure thing."

As we approached the cafeteria's double glass doors, framed in sleek chrome, the school's intercom boomed to life: "Attention students! Please report to the assembly hall immediately after breakfast for the semester's opening ceremony. Your prompt attendance is greatly appreciated. Thank you, and have a wonderful day."

Once the message concluded, we pushed open the doors and stepped inside, where the room erupted into a flurry of discussions and excited chatter.

What awaited us for the new semester was something I wished I could see before it happened. If it were just normal dramas, I could tolerate. As long as it had nothing to do with me, Daniel, and what had happened two years ago, I was less concerned.