Page 2 of Forbidden Lessons

With fall only four weeks away, the early morning sunlight hitting my back is barely warming me at all, but it’s more thanbright enough to penetrate deep into the thickly carpeted foyer of the sprawling Victorian-era building.

I’ve driven past this place several times over the past couple weeks. Every time I’d store a mental snapshot. But it didn’t prepare me for walking through the front door.

I still don’t feel like I belong, but I don’t feel like an intruder, either.

I have a right to be here, and a text on my cellphone to prove it.

Doesn’t mean I’m not nervous. I’m all prickly under my clothes, a sure sign I’m going to sweat any second.

I’d love to take off my cardigan, but in my rush to make it on time to my first class, I forgot to put on a bra.

Is this what a meth addict feels like when they’re strung out?

The past few days have been absolute hell, and I look the part.

Hair brushed with my fingers. No makeup. No freakingbra.

And to top it off, I grabbed one of my most obviously dilapidated pieces of clothing to fix myself. When I glance down and see my jeans still have a ketchup stain on them, I nearly turn around and walk right back out.

But then I’d be a loser, and everything I’d have done up to now would be for nothing. Everything I’d gone through? Meaningless.

Hell to the fucking no.

The receptionist behind the large, curved help desk gives me a double take when she sees me coming. I rip my hands out of my mousy brown, shoulder-length tangles where I’d been trying to coax it into something resembling a hairstyle, and give her a bright smile.

I must look psychotic, because she stiffens up like I’m holding an assault rifle, not a brand new pink notepad with a bunch of random letters embossed in gold on the front cover. Ithought it was some kind of acronym when I bought it. It starts with STFU, which I know is code for shut the fuck up, but the rest is gibberish.

Just a coincidence then.

It was literally the last one in the only stationery-cum-bookstore in town. That’s what happens when you leave all your college shopping for the weekafterclasses begin.

Someone’s running a vacuum over the carpet a couple of feet away. A pair of faculty members coming down stairs I assume lead up to the first floor of the renovated manor.

Surprisingly quiet, but I guess everyone’s already on their way to class.

“Hi!” I slap my notepad down on the counter, blowing a chunk of hair out of my face, trying to look breezy. “So, I’m supposed to start classes here? I’m guessing there’s a schedule or something I need to collect?”

I overcompensate sometimes.

The middle-aged receptionist purses her lips, and to her credit, only looks mildly alarmed at my presence. “We sent out orientation packets over a month ago, sweetie. Did yours not arrive?” she asks, raising her voice over the sound of the vacuum cleaner.

I freeze, my brain scrambling furiously. “I was overseas!” I yell, at the exact moment the janitor turns off the machine.

My voice rings through the roomy foyer.

I clear my throat. “I only just got back. Guess I must have missed it.” My voice goes quieter and quieter as I realize everyone else in the vicinity has gone silent. Even the two teachers have stopped to stare at me.

God. You’d swear I was leading a marching band through a library.

“Name?”

“Haven Lee.” My nose tickles. Scrunching it up doesn’t help, so I rub it with the back of my thumb as the receptionist types away on her computer. I use the motion to scan around me, hoping I won’t spot someone I recognize.

I shift my weight, run a hand through my hair, and rifle the corner of my notepad as the woman types and types and?—

“I got the text for my first class,” I blurt out. “I’m signed up for your digital class notifications thingy?”

The receptionist does that thing where she looks at me over the top of her glasses, then looks down at her computer and taps away again. “That would be the one for Professor Rooke’s class? The one that began yesterday?”

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