LIFE WITHIN THE HALLS

Sandra

Wednesday, 11th February, 4:58 p.m.

I was convinced Gideon had deliberately ignored my calls three times. Why would he even bother answering? By doubting my intelligence in front of Principal Wilson, he had indirectly shown me he didn't consider me a friend.

I'd been trying to reach out and see how he was coping with Daniel's issue, but it seemed I was caring for nothing.

I picked up the TV remote from the bedside drawer to turn on the television. I was getting bored doing nothing but staring at my phone, hoping Gideon would call me back.

The moment I pressed the power button on the remote, my phone pinged on my lap with an incoming call. Unfortunately and fortunately, it wasn't Gideon's name on the screen— it was someone far more important.

"Good afternoon!" I answered the call.

"It's evening already, dear," Mr. Wilmer corrected in his deep voice.

I took the phone away from my ear, checking the time on top. 5 p.m. on the dot. That reminded me of my meetup with Gideon and Jayden.

"Any updates for me?" Mr. Wilmer asked.

"Daniel's best friend, Gideon, swears that Daniel has been replaced by someone with his face," I shared, my pacing growing more frantic with each word.

"What?" he exclaimed after I filled him in. "So this means the real Daniel Blay is still missing?"

"Yes, please," I replied.

"I knew something was fishy. How Daniel was found without any sign of injury sounded strange to me. It was even in the news that he refused to comment on what happened to him."

"It was strange to me too."

Missing for 24 hours with no cuts or harm, without anyone demanding a ransom or something from his family? That sounded like something out of a Hollywood movie script.

"Please keep yourself safe in that school," Mr. Wilmer cautioned me.

"I will, you don't have to worry," I affirmed before hanging up.

I checked the time again and noted I had about an hour and a half until the meetup. Having already freshened up after returning from school, I had plenty of time to get ready.

My attention went back to the television as I walked to my closet to pick an outfit. The volume was low, but the topic of discussion on the screen seemed interesting: "Breaking the Cycle: Supporting the Victims of Drug Abuse."

I took the remote back to increase the volume, wanting to listen to what the panelists were saying.

"Joining us this evening is The Honorable Jessica Hill, Member of Congress and education reform champion, driven by her roots as daughter of Bel Air's renowned Hill Academy," the show host announced, and the camera was directed at her.

Victoria's mom had built a perfect image, but I could tell it was all a facade. She didn't have her husband's surname, nor did her children, hinting at her controlling nature at home.

I simply pitied her husband.

The show host asked for her take on the issue, and she responded, "I understand the intent behind this topic, but I believe we're approaching this issue from the wrong angle. We've thrown billions at rehabilitation programs with limited success. It's time to acknowledge that addiction is a personal responsibility, not just a societal problem."

Her opinion disgusted me to the core; I had to unplug the television. Wrong person on the right platform, I thought, shaking my head.

I took a deep breath and turned my attention to getting ready for the meetup. I browsed through my closet and picked out my favorite brown dress. It was now noticeably shorter than when my sister had bought it for me on my last birthday with her, two and a half years ago.

As I slipped it on and checked myself out in the mirror, the scent of one of the perfumes Mr. Wilmer had given me wafted up. I was admiring the fit, recalling memories of it, when a knock at the door caused me to jump. It was twenty minutes past five in the evening. Who could it be?

Quickly, I took a pen from my bag and hid it behind me, edging closer to the door. "Who's there?" I demanded.

"It's housekeeping. May I come in?" a female voice responded from the other side.

Housekeeping in the evening? Everything felt out of place in Bel-Air.

I sighed. "No, everything is fine here, thank you."

"Alright, have a good evening, Miss," the cleaner acknowledged before withdrawing.

I ran my hand over my hair, taming any stray strands, and slung my black petite bag over my shoulder.

I locked the door behind me and stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, the smell of fresh laundry and disinfectant filling my nostrils.

Taking the stairs to the first floor of the building where I lived, I overheard two women in cleaning uniforms gossiping in hushed tones.

"Look at her," one said, pointing her finger at me. "I can tell she's from a rich family, attending that big school. But, why does she live alone?"

"I've wondered the same thing. What kind of parent lets their teenage daughter live alone in a hotel?" the other cleaner mused.

Cleaner 1 added, "What's even more intriguing is that she never allows housekeeping into her room."

To which Cleaner 2 responded, "That reminds me, I once saw a man in a black suit leaving her room. I assumed he was her father, but the way he walked seemed like he was trying to hide himself."

I shot them a disapproving look, letting them know their voices were loud enough for me to hear clearly. So, what if I chose to lodge at a hotel as a student? What was the harm in that? I had my own reasons, my own motives, and they were none of their business.

I trudged out into the evening chill, requesting an Uber on my phone. I watched the minutes tick by at a glacial pace. After waiting for a whole fifteen minutes, the driver straight-up ghosted me. No explanation, no apology—just a big fat cancellation notice.

I let out a disgusted sigh and wondered why they'd even bothered accepting the ride in the first place. Like, what's the point of that?

Left with no other option, I stowed my phone in my bag and started walking, the squelching of my Crocs on the sidewalk echoing through the quiet, tree-lined neighborhood.

The sidewalks were lined with big houses that screamed luxury, their perfectly manicured lawns and entrances glowing under the streetlights. It was like walking through a magazine come to life.

I felt a sudden chill as I turned a corner. Four boys loitered nearby, their black hoodies and baseball caps making them look sketchy. My gut told me they were up to no good, though I couldn't quite put my finger on why.

One of them crossed my path and looked me in the eyes. "Hi, beautiful," he said, his voice dripping with an unsettling confidence.

His behavior reminded me of Jayden's, but with a very different face. Jayden was much better than him.

The other three closed in beside him, forming a tight circle around me. The darkness felt crushing, like a heavy blanket. Scared, I whispered a prayer, "Help me, God, help me," only to be met with mocking laughter from them.

Out of nowhere, the piercing beam of a car's headlights sliced through the darkness, making my eyes throb painfully against the sudden brightness. I raised a hand to shield my eyes, the light feeling like a razor cutting through the night.

The four guys approached the car, stretching their bodies as if they were gearing up for a boxing match. As they closed in, I strained to see the driver through the rolled-down tinted window, but all I could see was a bandana.

''We're your fans!" the four guys yelled in excitement, as if they had just seen Taylor Swift.

"You're my star, Jayden Scott," one of them said.

Jayden Scott? The same person who had tried to harass me in the school basement? Was he now the savior sent by the Lord to rescue me?

Jayden waved at me with a lazy hand, his Richard Miller watch glinting in the light, and his dreadlocks bobbing slightly as he motioned for me to get into his car.

I hesitated, my pride warring with my desire for safety. I didn't want to owe Jayden anything, but the thought of walking alone at night was unbearable.

He started counting down on his fingers, a silent reminder for me to make a decision about joining him in his white BMW, which had 'JD.SMITH' as the number plate.