Briarwood Chronicles: Mentor Me
Chapter 1
It has been exactly one month since I received my acceptance to Briarwood Academy. During that time, I managed to unenroll from Wilcocks High School, share a tearful goodbye with my best friend Sarah Mae, procure all my uniforms and supplies, engage in heated arguments with my mom about leaving the comfort of our small town, and come to the realization that if I want to become a world-renowned journalist, Briarwood is my best hope. To say I’ve outgrown the academics at Wilcocks is an understatement. Now, driven by that ambition, I find myself standing outside the imposing stone building that houses the admissions department of Briarwood Academy.
The admissions office at Wilcocks was less of an office and more of a table in the main office. At some point in time almost every student’s grandparents or parents had passed through that office to attend the school. Don”t get me wrong; Briarwood has legacies too, but the warmth and heart that emanates from Wilcocks doesn”t exist here. The air is thick with expectation, every stone that holds the school together seemingly paid for by an alum who now has their offspring walking the halls. The students who graduate from these regal stone walls all go on to live lives of importance and wealth. Here I stand, a legacy yes, but unlike all the other students, my mom didn”t graduate. She dropped out to have me. Now, the expectation in the air doesn”t only surround me but runs through my lungs, pressuring me to live up to more than just that particular legacy.
As I reach for the ornately carved wooden door, it swings open, almost knocking me out with it. As I try to gain my bearings, out comes three girls dressed in the same blue plaid skirts and light blue dress shirts as me. Their blue blazers buttoned perfectly. Two of the girls are identical blondes with striking blue eyes, their hair set in soft waves around them. At first, I thought I was seeing double. It isn’t everyday you run into twins. In the middle of them a shorter girl with sandy brown hair, pulled back into a tight ponytail and narrow face. She reminds me of a bunny rabbit.
”Excuse me,” I mutter, still jarred by the suddenness of the door opening.
”Move it new girl!” The girl in the middle shouts. Apparently, she is less of a Thumper and more of a Bunnizilla.
”My bad” I half apologize as I step out of the girl”s way and scurry into the building.
The admissions office is a simple room, only a wooden service desk with plexiglass is accessible in the lobby. It’s similar to a bank. The stark white marble floors serve as a reminder that I am in one of the most prestigious schools in Georgia. One could argue it’s even one of the most prestigious schools in the country.
”Can I help you?” The light voice of a young woman behind the desk asks. She looks as if she has been crying, her auburn hair pulled back into a messy bun. Strangely enough she appears to be my age.
”Yes,” I step forward. ”I am Amelia Roberts. I”m here to pick up my class schedule. I received an email instructing me to report here first.”
”Welcome Amelia. I have everything for you here. I”m Rose Childs. You”ll find everything you need in this folder—your class schedule, locker number and combination, the name of your student advisor, your new student mentor, the student handbook, and...” She trails off as I look at her, feeling uneasy.
”Oh, am I going too fast?” she asks concerned.
”No, um, no,” the words don’t come easy, my throat constricts. I take the navy folder with the school crest on the front as she slides it under the plexiglass. I stare at the crest of the school. A gold seal with a B wrapped in thorns in the middle. I flash back to the nightmare I had last night of the thorns on the B wrapping around me. I inhale, filling my lungs and steadying my mind, letting the rising panic sink away.
Weakness is not something you want to show in a place like this. ”I reviewed most of this information on the online portal. I”m just excited to have my schedule.” Attempting a smile I continue, “The email said it wouldn”t be finalized until my official start date.”
”Very good, off to a great start. Don’t worry I was nervous my first day too” she dashes my hopes that I was able to mask my nerves as she speaks. “I should warn you,” she stops mid-sentence. ”Well, I don”t want to scare you, but the girl that was in here before, Lisa, Lisa Taylor. She”s really upset that you took the last spot in the Journalism III class. It means she won”t be able to have her minions with her. Bella won”t take a class without Kate. It”s a whole thing. So maybe be careful.”
Confused, I ask ”Who? How would me taking a class in my major cause an issue? The Journalism program is the reason I”m here. I was recruited.” I don’t like the idea of a possible enemy on my first day.
”I know. I processed your recruitment personally at the headmaster’s request. It”s a relief to have new students with us. You aren’t the only one recruited this semester. Unfortunately, some of the returning students are upset about the influx of newcomers. They fear it will mess up the curve. Lisa openly advocated against recruitment at the last student council meeting. I have a feeling she won”t treat any of the new students well, but you two having the same major will make her come for you. Especially with your recent success in getting published in several of the larger newspapers.” As she rants the room starts to spin. My initial plan was to keep my head down and blend in.
”Do you know the background of all the students here, or just me?” I ask wearily.
”Oh, I know every student file backwards and forwards. It”s my job. I have an excellent memory and organizational skills. It”s why my work-study is here. I”m a scholarship student too.” She pauses. ”Sorry, I shouldn”t have said that.”
I hoped my scholarship status would be confidential, but it had occurred to me that once people found out who I was and who my mom was, it would get out eventually. ”It”s okay,” I resign. ”If there”s nothing else, I should probably track down my locker before my first class. Thanks for your help.”
I leave the office feeling no better than when I entered. I’ve already made a grave miscalculation. I thought at a school this size new students would be able to come in under the radar. Anytime someone enrolled at Wilcocks it was front page news, literally. The school paper would run an interest piece, something I fought against. I tried to explain to the other staff that there are people in the world who don’t want to be the center of attention. The message was lost. The school would be in a buzz for days, everyone trying to get to know the fresh meat. Now I can only hope that some of the good karma I’ve collected advocating for those students” privacy helps me in escaping the same invasions.
Hope does me no good in attempting to navigate the halls. The school is enormous. I wonder if this is how Theseus felt in the Labyrinth as I attempt to move through the corridors before finding the lockers meant for juniors. My locker is D128, top row. I’m aware that there are people who would be elated over a top-row locker, but standing at only 5 ”2”, I have to reach on tiptoe to see the numbers on the lock. You’d think a school with this much money would have something other than archaic combination locks. Even Wilcocks High updated to Chromebooks, making lockers obsolete. I manage to open my locker and deposit supplies that I won”t need in my first class. I might’ve overdone it with the office supplies. There is just something about shopping for sticky notes, pens, and the hunt for the perfect notebook that brings joy to my heart. Typing notes is fine, but I still prefer to handwrite them. When I shut my locker, I jump back in surprise.
Leaning against the locker set is 6’ 2” of chiseled stone, and not the ones the building is constructed of. The buttons on his chest hold tight. I have to crane my neck up to see a jawline that could cut glass, and a pair of steely blue eyes staring down at me.
”Didn”t mean to scare you, new girl. Just wanted to introduce myself to my neighbor.” I study his face, but my eyes are fascinated by the perfect twirls in his curly brown hair. I continue staring, struggling to find words for the second time today. Unfazed that I have yet to utter anything beyond the yelp at first sight he continues. ”I”m Benedict, but my friends call me Ben. Do you want to call me Ben?” The smirk on his face is the red flag I need to snap me out of my daze.
”Um, hi. I”m Amelia. Nice to meet you, Benedict.” I respond by placing emphasis on his name. I know that purposely calling him by his full name might seem like a power move, but if I”m being honest, that smirk told me he isn”t really interested in being a friend. I don’t have time for a distraction right now, even if I want to find out if his curls feel as soft as they look.
”I”ll take that as a no to calling me Ben. Fair enough, we just met after all. How about this, we can get to know each other when I walk you to your first class.” Again, that smirk. I want to wipe it off. His voice drips with confidence even though he keeps a playful tone. Who does this guy think he is?
”I can actually get there on my own,” I lie. I’m completely aware that if I were Theseus I’d succumb to demise by minotaur. “and I”m supposed to be meeting my student mentor.” I open my folder to find the name and... well, crap. ”Any chance there”s another Benedict nearby or—”
”Benedict Blake at your service, Amelia Roberts, and no. I”m the only Benedict at this school.” He continues to smile down at me. Demise by mentor a more accurate description. I’m already tired of having to crane my neck up to look him in the eye. Just as I’m ready to inform him I will be seeing my advisor about this mistake and ask for a female mentor, he suddenly takes my bag from the ground and slings it effortlessly over his shoulder. ”Now, how about that walk?”
Internally, I groan. All plans of a hasty exit thwarted leaving me no choice but to follow him down the hallway toward what I hope is my first class.