Now, forgive me if I'm wrong, but I don't think a room on the top floor of a house is supposed to feel like a freezer in Pennsylvania. You'd think it'd be like the inside of mom's heavy duty oven in which she baked cakes for deliveries. But no. I wondered if I'd suddenly crossed the border onto Canadian soil with its -30 degrees weather in the winter.

The room still had its furniture from the previous owner. A canopy bed was pushed into the middle of the room with the curtains on the pillars drawn back and tied to the posts. Two winged back chairs were backed in the other corner and sat next to the sliding doors. Those were pretty uncommon for doors that led into the hallway. The floor was completely covered in a fuzzy blue rug that massaged your feet even through your socks.

It had been five weeks ago that I'd moved from home to the Fitzgerald's to study abroad. St Abbey had a really good fine arts program that I had immediately fallen in love with upon hearing about it. It had taken ten business days to convince my parents to send me to another continent. And that was just to learn how to hold my paintbrush and liquefy my voice.

I was rolling up my stockings over my knees and thighs when I heard a knock on the door. "Farah, honey, you've got to hurry up if you want to make it to school in time. Even with the bad weather outside, the teachers won't be understanding." Mrs Fitzgerald fussed, running around my room and packing stuff into my backpack. Toothbrush for if I eat an onion pizza? Check. Extra stockings for if mine get a hole? Check. Hairspray for after gym class? Mrs F's got it covered.

Mrs Fitzgerald was a tiny little brunette lady that only dressed in pastels. She always had her hair tied into a chignon at the back of her head. She had crows feet by her warm eyes and laughing lines around her mouth. She had to look up when talking to me, but didn't refrain from giving me a good scolding when I came home late for whatever reason. And she always fussed over the tiniest things, like when my tie wasn't straight or when my stocking weren't pulled thin enough.

"Whoa, Mrs F, loosen up on the hairspray." I told her when she started spraying the darn thing all over my way-too-messy-to-be-acceptable ponytail. "The car's picking me up in a few minutes, so I'll have enough time to scarf down that delicious smelling breakfast downstairs." I smiled at her and dashed out the room before she could put her finger on the hairspray and asphyxiate me with hair product. That would totally be a classy way to die.

Farah Bernard; cause of death: choking on hairspray.

The Fitzgerald house was an old Victorian house that was decorated with vintage items. For instance, the big Grandfather clock in the parlor that for some reason chimed every hour and a record player that still worked in 2015. Mrs F had rolled her eyes when I'd asked if I could get Fall Out Boy songs on a vinyl record to play in the house on Sunday mornings. She'd laughed and pinched my cheeks, then walked away while saying that a was a strange girl.

St Abbey was a prep school for rich snobs whose parents thought they had talent. Others students, like me, got in with scholarships that we hadn't gotten our hands on easily. That was another motivator for my parents to send me here. They only had to spend money on the many packs of colored sticky notes and dividers for my binders. That in itself was a whole investment.

The school was built on a hill. In the first week, I'd figure that you could see the whole town rolling out around the green fields of the hill . It was an old stone building that would've sent four year olds hiding behind their mother's skirts. Gargoyles were perched on every corner of the building--and trust me, it had a lot of corners. One of the punishments the school inflicted was trying to scrub off the moss that gathered on the walls.

In this stormy weather, with thick rain droplets splattering everything it touched, the courtyard was completely empty. The statue of forgive-me-I-forgot-his-name the angel was streaked with rain and seamed ghastly. The gray clouds had rolled in late last night and the rain had held until now, giving everything in the town a more or less deserved bath.

The hallways had already emptied out, everyone seeking for warmth in their respective classroom in this horrible weather. The echo of the clacking of my heels against the floor of the hallways made my skin crawl. It was like I was in a horror movie and I was walking straight toward whatever ghoul was lurking in the distance. And that ghoul happened to be Mr Smith's math class, room 239.

I wrenched open the classroom door and stepped inside, completely aware that everyone inside was staring at me. The guy in front of the classroom stopped talking and regarded me with a confused expression. "Can I help you?" He asked, placing his hands on his hips. This was definitely not my math class; I'd remember if an Adonis was in it. I glanced at the number on the door and silently cursed myself--239, not 293.

"Uh, I--"

I spun on my heel and dashed down the hallway, dodging Ms Rivers who was carrying a high stack of A4 packages of paper. My heels made an annoying clacking sound against the floor, which didn't help the rush I felt in my ears. How embarrassing was that? I checked the number on the door before entering and found a very annoyed Mr Smith inside.