Kylie - Chapter 1

Author’s Note: In the first chapter of my novel, I introduce the protagonist, Katherine Lewis, and the inciting event of her going off to boarding school shortly after her parents have died. I definitely intend to flesh out parts of this chapter, especially the characters and some of Katherine’s reactions to the situation. I had some trouble writing in a teenager’s voice, so suggestions about that would be helpful. Katherine is fourteen, but I want her to be mature for her age because of how she was raised and her parents’ deaths, which will both be explained in later chapters. I do think that I will be able to strengthen the teenage voice once I’ve gotten to know my characters more and have had the chance to really flesh them out. Another concern I have is whether or not present tense is working for the story. I tend to write mostly in past tense, but I thought that first person plus present tense might help bring the characters and the story to life. Suggestions about the perspective and tense would be great.

1

My dad used to call me his piccolo vagabondo, Italian for little wanderer, because I’m incapable of staying still, and because I’m rarely satisfied with the answers I’m given to my endless questions. But I never really thought of myself as wandering, and as I stare down at my parents’ graves, I am certain I have never been a wanderer. I have simply been lost, unable to find traction in my life despite the passionate and unrelenting guidance of my brilliant parents. 

And now I am more lost than I have ever been. 

That’s why as soon as I lay my bouquet of lilies on their gravestones I will join Aunt Liz in the car and attempt to make the best of our five-hour drive to Holloway Academy. 

Six months ago I received an acceptance letter to my number one boarding school choice, which just so happened to be the one school my parents were not convinced was the place for me. Holloway had come out of nowhere; one minute I was searching the web for boarding schools in Tennessee, and the next I was staring at a tiny advertisement picturing nothing but an unadorned, uninformative logo. I’m not sure what caused me to click on it, but I suddenly found myself exploring the academy’s site with growing curiosity. It easily became the final addition to my list of potential schools, which I handed over to my parents, who then proceeded to do their own research. 

When they told me that neither of them had been able to find any information about Holloway, they suggested I take it off the list, but my mind was already made up. One of my few talents is making decisions and sticking to them. So I sent in my applications, and as I tried to focus on my last few months of Junior High, I couldn’t help imagining life at Holloway. I was ready for a change, and though I wasn’t sure where my life was headed, I had an inexplicable feeling that Holloway was the best place for me to start. 

Then my parents died. The only compass in my life vanished. 

Every stifling summer day that I survived only increased my desire to leave behind my life as an alleged vagabondo, to leave this place and see who I could be. I didn’t want to be lost anymore. 

So here I am, riding shotgun in Aunt Liz’s Mazda, taking one last look in the rearview mirror at the cemetery and the life I am leaving as it fades into the past. I glance over at Aunt Liz to find her watching me, and when our eyes meet she gives me a sympathetic and slightly uncomfortable smile before returning her focus to the road. I can tell she wants to say something but can’t find the right words.

“You don’t have to say anything, Liz,” I tell her as I retrieve my worn-out copy of The Call of the Wild and open it to where I left off last night. 

Aunt Liz nods and we drive in silence for a few minutes. I can practically hear her thoughts swirling beneath her frizzy, auburn hair. “I’m so bad at the whole comforting thing. But Kate, you can still talk to me if you need too, okay?”

I give her a small smile and nod. Honestly, I prefer to suffer in silence, to fight my way through the grief and come out the other side ready to start over. I don’t expect to ever completely move past my parents’ deaths, but I also don’t particularly want this loss to define me. I don’t want my new teachers and classmates to see me as the kid whose parents just died. I want them to see the whole me. I just have to find out who that is first. 

* * *

So, I do have to admit that there’s some credibility to my parents’ initial concerns about Holloway. I found it strange that they were unable to find any information online, and when I tried to pull up the website I had found I was no more successful. Weird. But I figure it was just a glitch or the site had been taken down for maintenance or something. Then there’s the acceptance letter, which had provided the address for the large, white clapboard house we have just pulled up to. There’s no way this is Holloway Academy. Is it? Aunt Liz and I share a confused look as she drives down the half-circle gravel driveway toward a man dressed in slacks and a blue button-down shirt and holding a clipboard. Aunt Liz stops the car when he is level with her window, which she rolls down.

“Good afternoon, ma’am,” the man says in a soft, deep voice as he nods at Aunt Liz. Then he looks to me and asks, “May I have the name of the incoming student?”

“Katherine Claire Lewis,” I tell him, introducing my full first name just as I had practiced early this morning in my bedroom. Back home everyone called me Kate or Katie, but I’ve always wondered what it would be like to actually be called Katherine.

The man checks off what I assume is my name on the clipboard, scribbles something down, then looks up and smiles at us. “Welcome to Holloway freshman orientation, Miss Lewis. You can unload your belongings at the foot of the steps,” he gestures to the broad wooden steps leading up to the house, where a haphazard pile of luggage sits under the shade of a willow tree, “and we will have someone take them to your room. After you say goodbye to your family you may go inside. There are refreshments in the room to your left and the orientation meeting will start in approximately thirty minutes.”

“I don’t need to stay for the meeting?” Aunt Liz questions. “I thought maybe I’d help her settle into her room, take a look at the campus?” Her voice mirrors the confused suspicion I feel creeping down my spine. Aren’t orientations supposed to be family oriented, parents meeting teachers and the principle and eating a last meal with their children before going home? And where are we? The white house is the only building in sight, and this man is the only other person I see. 

I take that back when I see a black truck turn onto the driveway. I let out a short breath of relief. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but the orientation is for the students only. Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of Miss Lewis.  Now I must attend to the next student. Please have a safe drive home.” I watch the man approach the family in the truck, which has come to a stop behind us. 

“Okay, then,” Aunt Liz says with a hint of irritation in her voice. She drives the car over to the steps and parks. When I get out the first thing I notice is the air. Not that summer air in the heart of Tennessee is unbearably thick, but it’s definitely not this… light. And it’s always hot, whereas this air is refreshing in its coolness. I like it. I especially like it when, after unloading my three bags of luggage, I haven’t broken a sweat. I grab my backpack from the backseat and set it by my feet as I lean against the back of the car next to Aunt Liz. 

“You can probably leave that with the rest of your stuff if you want,” she tells me.

I shake my head. “I’d rather keep it with me.” I packed several of my favorite books in there, along with a family photo album and a few keepsakes of my parents, things I’m not willing to let out of my sight.

We stand for a moment in silence, and I see that the clipboard man is still speaking with the people in the black truck. I wonder if they know each other, or if the student’s family is giving him more trouble than Liz had. “Well,” Aunt Liz says, pushing off from the car. “I was planning on just grabbing a hotel room for tonight, but since I’m apparently not welcome here, I guess I should get going. Your meeting will be starting soon anyway.”

I hug her. “Thanks for driving. I’m sorry you can’t stay. I’ll call you and let you know what you miss, but it'll probably just be rules and boring house-keeping stuff.”

Aunt Liz steps back and returns my smile with a serious look, her hands on my shoulders. “Are you sure this is what you want, Kate? This is a big change, and you’ve been through a lot. Your parents would understand if —”

“I need this, Liz. I’ll be fine. But if that changes I promise I’ll let you know.”

I see a single tear form in the corner of her eye, but she quickly swipes it away. “I’m proud of you Kate. Your mom and dad are, too.” I nod. I know they’re proud of my decision, and while that knowledge comforts me it also worries me, because more than anything I want to live up to their expectations and show them that I made the right decision by coming to Holloway. “Well good luck. Call me when you get the chance.”

I give her another quick hug. “Drive safe.” And then she’s in the car and driving toward the main street. And I am alone. 

For about three seconds. 

I haven’t even had time to decide if I’m glad to be alone or not when the black truck pulls up and a girl about my height with blonde hair pulled into a long ponytail jumps out of the passenger side. The driver stays inside while she unloads a large green suitcase and three slightly smaller duffel bags. I realize the proper thing to do would be to offer my help, but honestly she seems to be enjoying herself. So instead I study her clothes, her stylish tan jeggings and brown heeled boots, and her blue blouse. Very nice. I glance down at my jeans and converse and gray tank top, but before I have a chance to feel any level of inadequacy the girl is standing right in front of me with a huge smile on her face. 

“Hi, I’m Bridgette Carson,” she says, and holds out her hand. 

“Katherine Lewis,” I say, shaking her hand. “I was about to head inside. Are you ready?”

“Definitely,” she replies. “Just a sec.” I pick up my backpack and sling it across my shoulders as Bridgette leans through the truck’s open passenger window to talk to the driver. If I concentrate, I can hear their conversation, but eavesdropping is one of the many things on my list of improvements to make, so I distract myself by tightening the straps of my pack. When Bridgette heads back over she is slipping something that looks like a folded envelope into her jeans pocket. “Okay, let’s go.” 

We walk up the steps and across the vast porch, where the front door is propped open. Slipping inside we find ourselves standing in a spacious foyer, which is empty save for the soft voices drifting in from the room to the right. Bridgette takes the lead and makes her way across the hall, the click-clacking of her heels reverberating against the foyer walls. The sound pierces the quiet, but she doesn’t seem bothered by it at all. 

I follow her into the room and immediately find myself suffering from a mild case of claustrophobia. The majority of freshmen are in front of me and to my right, sitting in chairs facing a stage near the far wall or standing in the aisles. There are a few kids to my left, filing along a row of clothed tables lining the wall, placing various foods on glass plates and filling glass cups with yellow punch. I feel someone take my hand and realize that Bridgette is beside me, watching me with concern. “You okay?” she asks, squinting her eyes ever so slightly in concerned interest.

“Yeah, there are just a lot of people here. I’m not big on crowds. Or lots of noise.” 

Bridgette seems satisfied with my answer, because she proceeds to pull me toward the refreshments and only releases my hand when she reaches for a plate. I follow her through the line, placing some fruit and crackers and cheese on my plate, and after we fill our glasses with punch we join the rest of the students. I quickly sit down in an aisle seat in the back row and watch as Bridgette flits from student to student like she’s in some kind of meet and greet competition. It’s kind of entertaining to watch. 

My plate is nearly empty when I hear someone’s heels stepping up onto the stage. I look up to see a fifty-something-year-old woman wearing a beige pantsuit make her way toward a wooden podium in the center of the stage. Bridgette slips into the seat beside me and slides her empty plate under her chair. “Meet anyone interesting?” I ask her quietly, keeping one eye on the woman as she shuffles through a stack of papers.

“Oh, yes,” she says excitedly. “There are people from all over the country here. Billy, the tall blonde one, he’s from Seattle, and Jennifer’s from some little town in Iowa, and —”

Two soft taps on the microphone stop Bridgette mid-sentence, and I join the rest of the students in turning toward the woman on stage. “Good afternoon, students. My name is Margaret Pearce, and I am the president of Holloway Academy. It is my greatest pleasure to welcome you to the first step in freshman orientation.” As she speaks in a richly kind voice her eyes travel over the crowd of students; when she gets to me she seems to linger a second or so longer, and in that time I see a brief sense of recognition in her light blue eyes. At least that’s what it seemed like in the moment, but then she is looking down at her papers and I can’t be sure. Confusion and curiosity swirl inside me as President Pearce continues her welcome speech. 

“As I am sure you’ve guessed, this is not Holloway Academy,” she says. “This is my home, which is located on the edge of the campus grounds. Your dormitories and most of the classrooms are a few miles south, and in a few moments you will be on your way there.” I can sense the excitement in the room as students shuffle in their seats and a few whispers escape into the air. “But first,” President Pearce continues, and everyone stills, “I have two rules and a piece of advice to share with you, so please pay attention. First, the use of cellphones on campus is strictly forbidden.” No cellphones? What about emergencies? And contacting our families? I see the same thoughts crossing the faces of my new classmates, but President Pearce quickly takes charge of the room again. “You will soon understand that this is a precaution meant for both your safety and your families’, as well as for the Academy’s protection.” 

Protection? Safety? What kind of school have I gotten myself into? A part of me wants to get up right now and leave; because I am here for answers, not more overwhelming confusion, and because I already miss Tennessee and my bedroom and Aunt Liz, and I really wish my parents were here. The small part of me that wants to stay is the part that is considering my suspicion that this Margaret Pearce knows something about me. And that’s the only reason I’m still sitting here. Well, that and Bridgette’s hand on my knee, which she has placed there to stop my leg from bouncing up and down, a bad habit I have when I there’s something on my mind or I’ve been in one place for too long. I give her a subtly goofy smile and she removes her hand. 

President Pearce keeps talking as though the no cellphone news should be an easy thing for us to digest. “Second, students are not permitted off the campus grounds at any time while classes are in session, with the exception of class trips and dire emergencies.” Okay, I had been expecting that one. It is a boarding school housing a couple hundred teenagers after all. “As for the advice…” She pauses, again sweeping her eyes over us, and again settling on me a moment longer. “Holloway has the potential to be the best thing that has and will ever happen to you. I strongly advise you take advantage of this opportunity. Get involved, study hard, and keep your minds open.” 

With that she collects her papers, descends the steps, and leaves the room. I’m about to head after her when the clipboard man enters the room. “Transportation to the school is out front,” he announces. “Please follow me.” He disappears, and students file out behind him. Bridgette and I get stuck in the middle of the bustling crowd, and as we make our way outside I am already making plans to get back here so I can find out what President Pearce knows. If she even knows anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if I’m just being paranoid.

The sun is beginning to set when we step out onto the porch, the combination of shade and a cool Carolina breeze giving me goosebumps. Beside me Bridgette gasps quietly, and I follow her gaze to see what has grabbed her attention. Lined up along the gravel driveway are four shiny black vehicles that look like a cross between a hummer limo and an SUV. Only four? I look around and realize there are only about thirty students here. The thought makes me excited. At my junior high school it was too easy for me to get lost amongst the one-thousand or so kids roaming the halls and the classes of thirty students. One of the main reasons I chose to attend a private school was the small student-teacher ratio. 

“Ride with me?” Bridgette asks as students begin to pile into the vehicles. I nod and climb into the last car with her, where we slide to the end of the first row of seats. “Do you think she was serious about the whole no cellphones thing? I mean, she can’t really expect us to not call home, right? How can that be unsafe? I’ve got friends who will send out search parties if they don't hear from me soon.” 

I grinned at the thought of seeing Bridgette’s face on a milk carton. “She sounded pretty serious to me. Maybe they’ll explain it when we get to the school. “

When she realizes I don’t plan on verbally sharing in her aggravation, Bridgette turns around and starts talking to the two guys sitting behind us. Just then the driver’s door opens and in climbs the clipboard guy, minus the clipboard. He glances back at us in the review mirror, hie lips moving as he silently counts the number of students, before starting the car and pulling out behind the other cars. I notice him glancing at me in the mirror, so I lean forward and ask, “Why doesn’t President Pearce live closer to the school?”

“The Presidents of Holloway Academy have always lived in that house, it’s tradition. I’m sure she has her own reasons, as well.” 

I can’t get a feel for whether or not I can trust this guy yet. He isn’t really a fount of information, and his tone suggests he isn’t much for conversations. I don’t even know his name. But I have a lot of questions and no one to ask about them. “What’s your name?” I ask him.

“Jefferson.”

Okay. Is that a first or last name? I sigh. It’s taking too much effort to talk to Mr. Jefferson. “Are you a teacher at the Academy?” I ask. If he’s a teacher then maybe he can help me get a meeting with the President.

“Yes.” 

I’m about to push for more information, but the scenery outside grabs my attention. We’d been driving down a paved road surrounded on both sides by towering, green-leaved trees. Now the forest fades behind us as we drive across flat, open grassland, where the occasional horse can be seen grazing under a willow tree. There are several small ponds scattered about the property, and in the distance I see the silhouette of a mountain range. 

“Are those the Appalachian Mountains?” I ask Jefferson.

“Yes,” he replies, and I see him watching them from the corner of his eyes as we continue down the road. 

“Have you ever hiked any of it?” I ask. Dad and I used to go hiking a lot, and I’ve always wanted to hike a part, if not all, of the Appalachian trail. 

This time he turns to face me, and I scoot back in surprise. “You ask a lot of questions, Miss Lewis,” he says, then returns his eyes to the road. I’m impressed by his forwardness, as well as by his ability to keep the car going straight without looking. But what he said is nothing I haven’t heard before. 

“I know,” I reply quietly, and lean back against the seat to watch the landscape pass us by. My mom once told me that I had been a ‘why child’, always asking question after question and wanting to know more. That’s never changed, and until I know everything I want to know, I will continue to ask my never-ending questions. Deal with it, Jefferson. But I sense that I won’t be getting much more out of him at the moment, so I turn my attention to Bridgette, who I don’t think has stopped talking since we left. I’m wondering why she chose to stick with me all afternoon when she obviously has a knack for making friends with more interesting people, when I see something through the dashboard that makes me lean forward again. 

On our right we pass the first school building, a vast, one-story brick structure. A sign planted in the grass near the entrance says this is the Richter Athletic Center. Everyone in the car has grown quiet as they look out first one window then another in their attempts to see the rest of the campus, but then the cars pull onto a side street and the disappointment is audible. We turn into a small parking lot and come to a stop in front of an average-sized, motel-like building. “Don’t tell me this is our dorm,” Bridgette whispers, her voice tainted in worry. 

“I hope not,” I tell her, because I had kind of been expecting to live in a suite with its own kitchen and bathroom. This looks more like a small hotel. 

Jefferson parks the car, then gets out and walks around to open the double passenger doors. “All right everyone, out you go,” he says. I jump out first, followed by Bridgette and six other students. Just as we are joining the three other groups of kids, a girl and boy exit the building and head over. I estimate their age at no more than seventeen. 

“Hello, newbies,” the girl says happily. She is short and thin, with spiky black hair and a small but noticeable smile. “I’m AnnaRose Parker, and this is Paul Rodgers. We’ll be your supervisors for the night.”

“Is this our dorm?” one of the kids behind me asks. 

Paul laughs, not maliciously, but as though he had been waiting for someone to ask that question. “You guys will only be staying here tonight. Tomorrow you’ll be assigned to your dormitories.” Bridgette sighs, mirroring my relief. “Your bags and dinners are in the lobby. Girls will stay on the bottom floor with AnnaRose, guys are with me on the second. The rooms are unassigned, but please don’t cram five people in a room, there’s plenty of space.” He glances at his watch and continues. “It’s just after seven, so we’ll make lights out at ten. Breakfast is at six.” 

The whole time Paul is talking, AnnaRose is grinning and trying to make eye contact with the students. I can’t decide if her apparent excitement is creepy or amusing. Then her eyes meet mine and the genuineness in her expression makes me smile back.

Paul stops talking and AnnaRose claps her hands. “Great, everybody inside.” All of the students make their way inside, and when I glance back I see Jefferson and the three other drivers leaving in the cars.

Once inside we all sort out our luggage and grab the bags of food before heading for the rooms. The guys take the stairs and elevators to the second floor, and the girls split off into various rooms. Bridgette and I are able to snag a room for ourselves. The room has a bathroom, two double beds, a chest of drawers, a mini-fridge, and a tv. Basically a regular hotel room.

“I’m going to jump in the shower,” I tell Bridgette, who nods as she struggles to chew the half piece of toasted bread she just stuffed into her mouth. 

I laugh, then grab my night clothes and toiletry bag and escape into the bathroom. I let the hot shower relax my muscles, and as my body and mind begin to unwind, the tears slip out. I try to hold it in, but today has left me tired and confused and overwhelmed, so I allow my emotions to take over for one minute. Just a minute. Then I shampoo and condition my hair, all the while taking deep breaths and making a mental list of all the things I still have questions about. At the top of that list is President Pearce, and why she seemed to recognize me, when I am fairly certain neither I nor my family have ever met her before. 

After my shower I eat dinner while reading The Call of the Wild. Bridgette wasn’t in the room when I got out, so I assume she went off to meet more people. I find I’m a bit envious of her unreserved social skills, and decide that’s something else I should work on during my time at Holloway. By nine-thirty Bridgette still hasn’t come back, so I switch off the main light, turn on the lamp on her bedside table, and curl up under the heavy covers. As I feel myself slipping into sleep, the last lines I had read from The Call of the Wild echo in my mind, and I imagine that I am Buck, responding to the wild howls and bounding into the forest to seek out the “mysterious something that called”.