ᴀᴅ ᴍᴇʟɪᴏʀᴀ ~ ᴅᴘꜱ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

1 - constantine school for hurls

If this lecture drags on any longer, I'm going to vomit.

I can only spin this pencil between my fingers so many more times before I gauge my eye out with it.

Dignified, pristine, gracious, and proper; Those are the 4 expectations of the students of Saint Constantine School for Girls (they definitely stole the whole idea of "4 pillars" from Welton Academy, which was established 4 years before Constantine, by the way, but you didn't hear it from me.) I think boring, useless, sexist, and tedious would be more fitting.

I've been at this god-forsaken school since 6th grade and, much to my dismay, they have yet to change the orientation speech. It's the same nonsense every year, talking about the success of their grand alumni and how it's "such an honor" to attend in the first place. What bullshit.

"Miss Albrecht, pay attention," a teacher hisses, cutting like bubbling lava through the muggy chapel air. I don't get a look at her face before she fades back into the crowd of indistinguishable graying white women employed as teachers. I tuck the pencil behind my ear and cross my arms, sinking back into the stiff wooden pew.

Time drags on until I hear the same closing statement I've come to love after all these years, solely because it signals my impending freedom: "And with that, ladies, welcome to Saint Constantine School for Girls. Whether it be your first year, your last, or anything in between, greatness is expected, and it shall be delivered."

I leap up before Headmistress Coleman can get out the last syllable of delivered. I learned by year 2 that the aisle seat is a lifesaver during orientation. The sooner you get up, the sooner you can get out.

I keep my head down as I exit the chapel, passing numerous tearful goodbyes from miscellaneous families. I hardly spare them or their sniffles a glance. I grew numb to my own parents' absence long ago, specifically with anything related to school, but the walk from orientation is still never pleasant.

Before I can wallow in self-pity for too long, I step out of the chapel and the smell of mildew and old bibles leaves my senses. I use the pencil stowed behind my ear to wrangle my frizzy hair into an up-do. It's unseasonably humid for early September, especially in Vermont, my curls show it.

Now, for my next stop: Maxine Residential Hall.

As students move up in grade at Constantine, they're slowly moved into worse and worse dorms, primarily to save the better commodities for younger students; after all, who would want to show parents/potential patrons the shitty rooms while touring the campus?

With that alluring exposition, I find it important to include that Maxine is going to be my third building and my fifth room overall since my sentence at Constantine began.

Two streets up, one block over, and I'm standing in front of my new home for the next 8 months. Vines creep along the deep-set cracks slithering up the building. The front doors look worn and rusted, and I was almost surprised when they opened without much fight while dropping off my belongings yesterday.

My parents have become masters at shipping their daughter off to school as soon as possible. One of their tricks includes moving me in the day before everyone else to "avoid huge crowds". Despite their ill-intent, I'd be lying if I said it didn't have its perks. I always get first choice of beds, not that it matters anymore. My rooming arrangement has been set in stone since 7th grade.

In my first year at Constantine, I was stuck with a girl named Sarah. She didn't last more than two months before withdrawing and was eventually replaced with Beatrice Haddix. Although I enjoyed the single room for a few weeks, I quickly grew accustomed to her. Beatrice and I bonded over our hatred for a specific supervisor on our floor, and the rest is history. Bee, as I call her, always takes the bed beside the window. I prefer to sleep closer to the door. Whether it started as a nervous compulsion or a simple compromise, neither of us can remember. But it works.