Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
EBONY
Pulling in through the twenty-foot wrought iron gates at a snail’s pace, that nagging realisation that I don’t belong strikes again with a little more force, my gut churning uncomfortably with nerves as the enormity of what I’m doing here descends.
I could cower away and run back to the safety of going absolutely fucking nowhere in life, but I know I won’t.
Even brimming with unease, there is something about this place that beckons me closer, that voice telling me I can be myself here.
The tyres crunch over the mile-long pebbled driveway that leads to the impressive eighteenth century building that looks more like a castle from one of those turn-of-the-century gothic novels than a place to learn social studies and the art of flower arranging—the wide spectrum of courses meant students flew in from around the globe to study here.
It’s a world away from the box room above the Italian eatery that I’m used to.
I tug the collar of my tee up to my nose, and I swear I can still smell the lingering scents of their meatball stew ingrained into the fabric; no matter how vigorously I seem to wash them, herby bolognaise played second to whatever drugstore rose vinegar perfume I could find.
Vines tangle up and around the south side of the building that covers at least three acres of land.
Hoya kerrii plants with their pink blush heart-shaped petals blackened at the edges by the sun decorate the grey stone brickwork, the steepled turrets that seem to disappear into the clouds above, and the arched stained-glass windows lending it a sense of fairytale whimsy.
For a brief second, I allow the beat of excitement to bloom in my chest.
Not just anyone gets invited to study here.
In cowboy country, as it was best known last time I was here, it’s easy enough to separate the local townies and the out-of-state students, just by the way they dress.
It’s like someone threw a barnyard hoedown in with an elitist cocktail mixer and called it a party.
A sea of blue wranglers and wide brimmed hats sharing space with petticoat dresses and pressed Oxford sweaters.
And then there’s me—head to toe in black and standing out like a sore thumb for all the wrong reasons.
No one would be confusing me for a trust fund kid anytime soon.
The scholarship to attend this term came with its stipulations—get good grades, keep the good grades, no funny business—I’m paraphrasing.
The hoity jargon included in my welcome letter is the main reason I’m steering clear of the English literature and language department; I needed a dictionary just to make sense of it.
I’ve chosen art, folklore studies, and drama as my primary courses this term—hoping the ‘inspired by my interpretation’ line will cover for anything I’m not entirely sure about.
Even I don’t think I’m skilled enough to sell this performance, and I’ve only been here for three minutes.
I consider asking the cab driver to take another lap while I get my nerves in check, but I quickly realise we’re in a queue of sleek black chauffeured town cars, each statelier than the last as returning students climb out onto the gravel driveway.
When I say I grew up in Hells Haven, this was not the part of town I was referring to.
The backdrop of rolling hills that fences us in hides the ramshackle country lane town I’m used to, the town I fought so hard to escape.
It’s easy to be captivated by the picturesque beauty here within its wrought iron confines, but knowing what is hiding in the shadows, the spell of its beauty never quite manages to completely dispel that ache that lingers in my chest. Grimmville breeds the worst humanity has to offer—even here in paradise, and I’d do well to remember that.
“I haven’t got all day,” the driver grumbles as he pulls open my door.
I’d been so lost in my own head, I hadn’t even realised we had stopped moving.
Students pass me by, curious looks on their faces as they survey my outfit.
Holey band tee, ripped jeans, and my battered boots held together with duct tape while comfortable, was probably not the best idea when I was arguing with myself with how best to assimilate this morning.
But needs must, and of the three outfits I own, this one covers the most skin.
Sweeping my long wavy hair forward over one shoulder, I secure the strap of my rucksack, holding on with a clenched fist as though it’s a parachute and someone’s priming to kick me out of a plane at any second.
Right now, I’m questioning what scenario would be less fear-inducing: being here or free falling from ten thousand feet.
With my suitcase on the ground beside me, I slip an earbud in and crank up Yael Naim’s ‘New Soul’ not my usual choice in music, but it’s upbeat enough that I can’t hear the thump of my heart going ten to the dozen in my ears anymore.
I hand the driver a twenty, watching him peel out with a screech of tires from the kerb.
A plume of dust making me cough as I wave my hand in the air to disperse it.
Keep the tip, I guess.
“You can fall, or you can fly. Just jump. You didn’t come this far to back down now,” I say softly to myself, glancing up at the place I’ll be calling home for the next year, willing myself to believe the words falling from my lips.
Climbing the steps with a bargain-store level of gumption that could be construed as a need to pee for those watching me, I plaster an uneven smile on my face and square my shoulders, every exhale shallow, my palms slick with sweat.
‘Fake it till you make it, Ebs.’
The scream catches in my throat as gravity yanks me down. I hit the concrete hard, wincing as my knees take the brunt, the denim barely softening the blow.
“So eager to learn you risk bodily harm—if I had a sticker, you’d be wearing it proudly on your t-shirt right now.
” His voice is deep, a hoarse gruffness paired with the faint waft of cigar smoke that has my stomach gurgling.
Shielding my eyes from the sun creeping through the clouds overhead, my gaze zeros in on the wrinkly hand he’s holding out to me, the frayed edges of a corduroy jumper with suede patches on the elbows falling over his knuckles.
The genial smile I force into place feels uncomfortable on my face.
Outwardly, this wiry man with his russet mop of shoulder-length hair, thick brows, and slightly hunched stature appears harmless enough, but there is something in his piercing blue eyes that glitter with warning.
I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is that has me on edge, but when he continues to talk, the unease settles.
“I don’t bite, and don’t believe anything you’ve heard. Okay, so I like pop quizzes, shoot me.” He holds his hands up in the air before continuing. “I only set one written paper coursework for the entire term, and watching films is part of my lesson plan.”
I take his hand and brace myself as he helps me to my feet.
“Thank you,” I say sheepishly, hating that my go-to reaction to adults in positions of power is gut-wrenching panic; it’s not like I’ve had the best of luck with them, but there’s nothing other than that initial fleeting feeling to suggest this teacher would be anything other than friendly.
“Ebony Winters,” I state, only realising now that he’s still holding my hand.
I break the connection and take a tentative step back as I tug out my ear pod and reach down to retrieve my suitcase.
“The pleasure is mine. I’ve heard great things.”
My mind rockets to the one woman who could have given my new teachers a reference. Dammit.
“Don’t believe anything you’ve heard,” I chuckle, throwing his words back at him, intrigued to know what Caroline might have had to say to this man.
With brows pinched, he looks up and reels off, “Hardworking, rambunctious, and resilient.” He lists off the words, squinting as he wracks his brain for the contents of my personal file that likely came across his desk during orientation.
Thankfully, Caroline assured me that my sealed records about the shit that happened last time I was in Hells Haven wouldn’t be included in the transcripts she had put together. She may be certifiable on a good day, but she isn’t a liar.
“I was a scholarship kid too, so if you’re looking to earn a few extra pounds, I suggest signing up for my TA position. It guarantees you forty percent of your final grade, and I’m an easy-going boss, if I do say so myself.”
“What do you teach Mr…?” I ask meekly.
“Crane,” he offers, “but Edgar is fine. Folklore and amateur dramatics lend a casual feel to the syllabus here at Hells Haven.” He smiles, and I find myself relaxing in his presence.
“We have a three-week interview period by the way, for the position,” he presses as I readjust my bag on my shoulder.
“But you didn’t hear that from me,” he adds, winking conspiratorially.
I open my mouth to speak, but a nails-on-a-chalkboard giggle steals my attention.
Whipping around, I see a statuesque girl poised to perfection with crystal blue eyes and curls of sandy coloured hair draped over her shoulders.
Her prim and proper candy pink cardigan and matching pleated knee-length skirt ages her, but her flawless skin and student ID badge pinned to her breast pocket let me know she is studying here too.
I look like Barbie’s evil emo sister standing here next to her, two complete opposites.
“Mr Crane, I’d like it noted I’ve put myself on your list of possible TA’s too.
” She pouts as she strokes her palm down his lapel.
Her sickly sweet comment is enough to give me a toothache.
Winding a curl of hair around her manicured finger, I note the unmistakeable flair of arousal building between them.