Chapter Six The omen coming
CHAPTER SIX
The omen coming
OUR GROUP WAS ONE OF the first to arrive at campus. We waited near the shore until the last group joined us, and together, we took in the sight of Westfield like we were all breathing oxygen for the first and last time.
The grounds stretched on for what felt like an eternity.
Gravel walkways and perfectly trimmed hedges framed acres of freshly cut lawns and two separate gardens.
The campus itself was divided into three branches: the dorms and staff quarters, the recreational center and the conservatory, and then there, at the center of it all, the university’s main campus, which contained the School of Business, the School of Fine Art, the School of Humanities, and the School of Sciences and Technology.
Their structures were imposing, colorless edifices at the heart of the campus, from their Gothic spires that jutted like sharpened fangs into the heavens to the stained glass windows, scored brick walls, and extended arches that loomed up ahead.
Honey explained that most people on campus except for faculty were probably asleep in their dorms or away before classes began.
“Scholarship students, follow me,” Honey said.
She looked at me as she spoke, and embarrassment burned through me.
But I kept my expression blank, despite being singled out.
“Legacies and regular admission,” she continued, “Adam and Erin will guide you through campus and the conservatory.” She gestured to a white guy and girl who’d been waiting at the dock when we’d first arrived, and they waved for groups to join them.
The driver shut off the engine. But he didn’t step off the boat, even as we filed off toward campus.
Two-thirds of the first-year students, the legacies and regular admits, walked down the main trail to where Adam, Erin, and a gathering of Westfield staff waited for them with refreshments.
I and the other scholarship students trekked behind with Honey.
In the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but notice how when Honey separated the legacies and regular admits from the scholarship students, there was a clear divide among our undergraduate class.
My brief time in the foster care system and in medical facilities had shown me just how intrinsic and insidious racial and economic divides were across institutions; it didn’t matter if it was health care, child welfare, the entertainment industry—all of them had been this way.
And Westfield University was no different.
Here, most of the legacies and regular admits were white, though there were a few Black and Asian students too. But among the scholarship students, there was a wider pool of skin tones and complexions.
I shot a look at a girl who stood at the edge of our group.
Other than me, she was one of the few Black girls enrolling this year with a scholarship.
She had light brown skin, dyed chestnut hair, and warm brown eyes.
She wore a pleated moss-colored skirt, a white blouse, and a navy-and-green plaid blazer with Westfield’s lily crest embroidered on it.
Next to her was a guy with pale skin, auburn hair, and wire-rimmed glasses.
He wasn’t wearing Westfield iconography but seemed just as intrigued by the fact that the girl had already managed to get her hands on one of the coveted Westfield blazers.
Even back in the city, when I’d been living off tips and my hours being a psychic at Center City Mall, I’d seen Westfield students casually wear the blazer over their designer clothes while shopping at the mall or getting dinner.
This girl’s blazer looked strangely outdated compared with the ones I’d seen other Westfield students wear, and I wondered if she’d found it in a secondhand store.
Her short height fit the frame of the blazer like a doll, and against the soft glow of morning sun, her figure was like a mirage glittering in the light.
As Honey began explaining orientation rules, I approached the girl.
“Poppy House was supposed to get its own resident assistant,” she whispered when I neared, as if she could read the questioning look in my expression. “But Honey’s covering last minute.”
I nodded. “Yeah, she mentioned that.” If my powers weren’t so out of control, I could have shaken Honey’s hand, seen the full backstory of how she’d wound up in her position.
But this would suffice. “Do you know what happened to our original RA? Doesn’t seem like Honey really…
” I paused, glancing at Honey in her designer clothes with an RA T-shirt pulled over them to make her seem more approachable. “… gets it,” I finished.
“Of course she doesn’t,” the girl said. “She’s a Garnier.”
“Oh?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “The Garniers, as in that old money Virginia family that’s been around here since, what, the 1800s?”
“I’m from New York, originally,” I said.
I didn’t add that my family had moved out there initially when my Baby Mozart videos had started taking off.
Before then, we’d lived in a small Maryland suburb, and before that, my mother and her side of the family were immigrants from West Africa in the ’90s.
My dad and his family, on the other hand, moved from the South to Chicago during the Great Migration, while the other side of his family was from Virginia.
All of this was easily verified on the Baby Mozart fan page.
Though, from the looks of it, the girl didn’t seem to recognize me.
“Her parents are on Westfield’s board of trustees,” the girl said, continuing her explanation.
“Honey’s a legacy, and her family and the Saint Jameses practically own Westfield.
I mean, the Saint Jameses literally do, but that’s neither here nor there,” she said with a shrug.
“The only reason Honey agreed to be an RA was so her parents wouldn’t force her into rehab after what happened last year. ”
At my wide-eyed expression, a wry smile formed on her lips. “I’m Vivian,” the girl said. “Vivian Smith. I started my first term at Westfield a while ago but never finished.”
“Hence why you know the Westfield gossip,” I said. I smiled back at her. “I’m Sianna.”
With my powers not as they once were, someone like Vivian, who had been to Westfield before, was quick to run her mouth, and had an ear to the ground, could be an ally. If she could help me find Kasem, then I could confront him about my powers and figure out what had happened that night.
“Last name?” Vivian asked.
“Oh, I mean… does that matter?”
“That’s all that matters at Westfield,” Vivian said.
“You’ll learn soon enough.” She ran a hand over her hair, which had been straightened and gathered on top of her head into a huge bun, while her bangs swooped to the side of her head.
As she did, I noticed the sleeve of her blazer was damp and dripping with swamp water.
“Sianna Grace Adu,” I said. “Does the middle name help?” The good part about being known simply as “Baby Mozart” was that most people who weren’t tabloid junkies or on fan forums didn’t actually know who I was.
Vivian smiled. “You’re not local but you got a scholarship?” she observed. “Interesting. They usually save them for in-state students.”
“My dad’s side is from Virginia. And I’m here on a music scholarship.”
That seemed to satisfy Vivian. “I’d shake your hand,” she said, “but…” We both glanced down at her hands, which were wet with swamp water.
“Did you, like, fall in?” I joked.
Vivian frowned. But then, thankfully, she giggled softly at my bad attempt at a joke.
With Honey leading us, our group followed closely.
I expected us to pass through the main part of campus to get to our dorms. Instead, Honey led us to a side path, away from the towering structure of the main campus, past the ivory facades of Westfield’s Greek life housing.
It took us nearly half an hour to arrive as we ducked past weeping willows, our shoes caught in muddied underpasses and overgrowth.
At one point, I saw a yellow snake burrowing behind a rotting tree as the path slowly deteriorated into an overgrown trail.
Finally, we arrived in front of a group of three multistory houses.
A wooden gate, with the words WELCOME TO POPPY HOUSE carved into it, enclosed the structures.
The words were painted in Westfield colors: ivory white, blue, and green.
While the three houses were identical, each framed by mahogany awnings, Honey clarified that they were separated by academic year.
One of the buildings housed all the scholarship graduate students, while the two that housed undergraduate scholarship students were designated for first-years in one building and everyone else in the other one.
Honey led us to the first-year scholarship student house.
“Take the morning to freshen up and put your things away,” Honey said. “Your orientation starts in the afternoon.”
A South Asian guy clad in Westfield regalia raised his hand.
Honey seemed confused by the gesture. “Babes, this isn’t class. You don’t have to raise your hand.”
“Aren’t we getting a tour?” he asked.
When Honey didn’t answer, he moved past her, back in the direction of campus. But she stopped him, all of the bubbly energy and lightness deflating from her instantly.
“No one goes to campus unescorted,” she said, taking a breath as if to calm herself before continuing.
“Look, the fan boats were late. You all had the option of having your luggage sent to your dorms ahead of time. Most of the legacies and regular admits did. You didn’t.
If you had, we wouldn’t have needed this stop in the first place, and you could have joined their tour too. ”
Of course, Honey didn’t mention that Westfield charged half a grand just for moving our things into the dorms ahead of time, an amount that our scholarships didn’t cover.
Honey smiled, her voice light and airy again, but forced.
“Don’t worry,” she continued. “You’ll get to see all of Westfield in a bit.
There’s also when your classes start. Think of it as an adventure.
” If the words were supposed to be a consolation, they were a poor imitation of one.
“Now, does anyone have any questions before we meet back here for orientation?”
Her answer didn’t appease the group, and there were more rumblings, more questions.
Honey rubbed her forehead. “You’re asking, like, so many things. Look, if you have a complaint, talk to your academic adviser or the dean of your school, okay?”
This time, no one else spoke.
“Great,” she said, beaming at us. She pulled out her phone and dialed a number and began walking back up the trail, not seeming to care that her conversation was projecting.
“Hey,” she said, “I brought them to Poppy House. Can you pick me up? This place is such a dirt hole and I think I just ruined my new Loubs.” Honey covered the phone with her hand, glancing between the now mud-stained red-bottom heels she wore and our group.
“No offense,” she whispered with an apologetic smile.
“I promise I’ll donate them to your dorm’s take shelf. ”
Then she retreated to the path that she’d brought us from, not looking back as she disappeared into the foliage.
The group of us stood there. Then, one by one, people started grabbing their suitcases and book bags and ascending the steps to the entrance of Poppy House’s freshman dorm.