Walking through the lobby of the auditorium, I’m grateful for the air-conditioning. I haven’t had the occasion to be in this building until today. It’s amazing, and I’m trying not to gawk as I glance around. Intricate floor-to-ceiling windows grace the front of the auditorium, throwing sunlight on the lithe fountain in the center of the marble floor. Diamonds of reflected light dance over the walls and ceiling and illuminate the beautiful bronze statuary frolicking in the midst of cascading water. Wandering over to the fountain, I read the bronze placard at the base of the statue: A Gift of the Wellington Family.
Momentarily distracted by the sign, I stumble into an elegant, sweeping staircase that leads up to the second floor balcony area. Blushing, I look around to see if anyone witnessed my faux pas, but the space is mostly empty because everyone has already gone inside.
I hurry over to the heavy wooden doors at the back of the lobby. As I push one open, I pause again just beyond the threshold because the lighting in the auditorium is dimmer than it was outside, making it difficult to see. Before my eyes adjust, I realize I’ve made another crucial mistake when the door slams shut behind me, causing several students seated nearby to turn and stare at me curiously. While feeling like an errorist for all of my blunders, I search in vain for an available seat so I can move away from my conspicuous position by the door.
Someone begins waving his hands a few rows from where I’m standing. “Genevieve…Genevieve,” a loud whisper says.
I move forward before recognition makes me falter and cringe inwardly. The person hailing me with unabashed fervor is the only person I’ve previously met at Crestwood. Alfred is waving to me and gesturing wildly toward the seat next to his, about midway down the aisle. I close my eyes briefly in an attempt to block out the faces of the students who are now openly scrutinizing me.
I hardly know Alfred at all; we’re acquaintances. I’d gotten invited to a Break the Ice Brunch this summer prior to coming to Crestwood. As a prospective Crestwood student, Alfred Standish’s mother had invited other potential freshmen to their home, hoping to find a friend for Alfred before school. It was a nice idea, in theory, but since I’d been the only guest to show up, it turned into more of a stiff interrogation than a cordial brunch. So instead of being an icebreaker, it had felt more like an icemaker.
When I had met Alfred, he hadn’t said much, but had let his mother do all of the talking for him. Secretly, I’m a little concerned about him because I look like a social butterfly next to him. At 5’6” and about 140 pounds, he might be an easy target to bully in the freshman dormitory.
I plaster a smile on my face because avoiding him now that he knows I see him would be a huge dis, so I trudge ahead, feeling like everyone’s eyes are on me. “Hi, Alfred, how was your summer?” I ask, while sitting in the seat next to his.
“It was weak. I didn’t do much, just worked on my multislacking,” Alfred replies with a grin. “I was hoping to see you here. You’re the only person I really know at Crestwood.”
“Wow, is that right?” I ask, trying to be supportive. “We have something in common—I’m flying solo here, too. Have I missed anything?” I ask with my eyebrows knitting together.
“No, they’ve just had us marinating here. They haven’t started yet, so you can kick back,” he says, taking in my rigid body language.
I let out a deep breath. “Thanks,” I say, and I feel unexpectedly grateful to be able to talk to someone. I sit back a little easier in my seat trying to chill, but my stomach still feels really strange, like butterflies are taking off inside me.
“You’d better make sure you silence your cell,” Alfred says conspiratorially. “They made an announcement that someone will collect your phone if they hear it. That’s such crap, like we’re still in high school or something,” he mutters, shaking his head.
I reach into my bag and silence my phone. “I bet that irritated some of the bluetools around here,” I smile, referring to the people who always wear their Bluetooth phones, even when they’re not talking on them.
Alfred smirks. “Yeah, you should’ve seen the texters scramble to silence their alerts,” he laughs. “Can you imagine them taking the phone from a dedicated texter? Their worlds would end—no more LOL or BRB—no, it’d be CUL8R.” We both laugh, while his blue eyes crinkle in the corners warmly.
The lights dim in the auditorium, and the crowd slowly begins to quiet as the Dean of Men addresses the audience from the podium at the center of the stage. What ensues is what one expects from an orientation: a brief history of the school, a general dissertation of its traditions, and an overview of the student code of conduct. Snore.
When the dean finishes speaking, an administrator addresses the class regarding freshmen registration. It’ll be conducted using the first initial of the student’s last name. As a C, for Claremont, I’ll enroll earlier in the morning than most other freshmen students. I smile because I know what an advantage this will be in attempting to get the most desirable classes.
Next, a few representatives from the sorority and fraternity houses on campus address us. One student is speaking about the various activities associated with the Greek system. Throughout this dissertation, Alfred is furiously taking notes on the subject, arduously documenting the process on his iPhone. Suddenly, I feel very protective of Alfred. I can picture him at the mercy of some overbearing upperclassmen with a God complex, bent on hazing and control—not a pleasant thought. Alfred seems younger than me, although I’m sure that isn’t the case because we’re both freshmen. Maybe I feel this way because he is what one would term as slight, or maybe it’s because he had done me a solid today by saving me a seat. Since he seems to look at me as a friend, it won’t hurt me to keep an eye on him, just to make sure that he adjusts well to school.
Stifling a yawn, I allow my eyes to wander through the profiles of the students sitting nearby. Just a few rows ahead of me, my gaze halts abruptly on a broad set of shoulders—very masculine shoulders. As my eyes begin traveling upward, I notice the curve of his neck and his strong jaw line—a full mouth that I can only describe as…sensual. He has a straight nose, I note as my eyes continue further up to his eyes, which are very, … very…angry? Livid would be a better word to describe the eyes glaring at me across the small space.
My heartbeat accelerates as my cheeks flush at the look of pure malice he sends in my direction. I turn my head to search behind me, hoping to see who has incurred the wrath of the perfection in front of me, but there seems to be no one who stands out as the object of his hatred. I look toward him again in confusion to see if he is still looking this way. My cheeks grow redder when I see that he is and that his expression hasn’t changed at all.
What’s up with hotness? I wonder. He looks like someone definitely broke his crayons. Quickly, I look away from him before I melt from the heat. Who is he? I wonder, trying to see him with my peripheral vision so that he won’t think that I am scoping him. Maybe he’ll be in that freshman directory.
I had gotten a directory with all of the incoming freshman class’s pictures and bios in it. It had been mailed to my house and was put together by the Crestwood Mother’s Club. I had looked myself up in it and found the senior picture I had been required to send in when I applied to Crestwood. Next to my picture was a brief biography of my high school accomplishments, which, I also assume, was collected from the application I had submitted to the school.