The Lake (The Lake Trilogy, Book 1) (10 page)

All in all, it was a good day. Despite the awkwardness that seems to keep showing up between me and Will, I bonded with girls my age, which is something I haven’t been able to do for so long
, and I got to see some of the amazing scenery of the state I now call home.

We make good time getting home. It was four o’clock when we left Grandfather Mountain and 5:
30 as we arrive at Caroline’s house first. We drop Tyler off next, followed by Gwen and Chris who live three houses apart from each other. At first I’m a little surprised that none of them suggested we get something to eat, but then think that they probably already had plans.

With my handle on the door of the car I take a breath with the intention of thanking Will for the great day, and apologizing if I had done anything to upset him earlier. I wracked my brain all the way home, replaying the day, but still could not think of what I could have done to make his demeanor change so quickly on the bridge.
When I open my mouth something entirely different comes out.

“Do you want to come in? Get something to eat…or something?” I ask, immediately regretting every syllable. What was I thinking? If he’s unhappy with me, I’ve now put him in the even more awkward position of having to politely bail out when all he was most likely hoping for was to drop me off and end this day.

“Um…yeah,” Will replies hesitantly. He must still be upset, but doesn’t want to be rude. He is one of the most polite guys I’ve ever met.

“It’s no big deal...you don’t have to. I was just thinking…”

“No, I want to. I mean…I
am
hungry.” He smiles and makes everything better.

It’s astonishing to me how with one small gesture, Will can completely turn my thoughts and feelings around. I feel silly for having spent so much time trying to figure out what I had done to upset him. I’m just so used to being the core of someone’s sadness. It is quite a learning curve to exist in a space that doesn’t revolve around my transgressions.

Will sits at the counter while I make chicken salad sandwiches. Claire always has one of those rotisserie chickens from the grocery store deli on hand. He’s quiet and stares while I tear the poor chicken to shreds. It’s in this very ordinary moment that my nervousness at being alone with Will begins to slowly dissipate for what I feel hopeful will be forever.

“Are you ok?” I ask, noticing the in-thought look on his face.

“Yeah, I’m fine. I was just wondering something…about your parents,” he says.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought them up.”

“No, it’s ok. What did you want to ask?” I brace myself and pray he isn’t going to ask about the accident. Everyone always asked about the accident. I continue to chop and dice the ingredients without looking at him.

“Well…I was wondering what your favorite thing about them was,” he says.

“What?” I look up at him mid chop, surprised.

“I’m sorry, was that too personal?”

“No, not at all. It’s just…no one’s…ever asked me that before. It’s a nice change.” I pause to think for a moment because there were so many things that I loved about my parents. I reflect for a few short moments on my childhood. It’s nice to spend some time focusing on the joy instead of the tragedy. “I think the thing that I loved most about them was also the thing that drove me the craziest. They were structured, but let me do almost anything I wanted. I don’t mean I was allowed to stay up until three in the morning. I mean that whatever I wanted to do or try, they let me. It was great because it made me feel like they loved me enough to understand I was my own person. It was terrible at the same time because sometimes, after I failed miserably, I wished they would have shown some parental insight and protected me from getting hurt. But…they were always there to celebrate or pick up the pieces.”

“Hmmm. That’s really interesting,” he says thoughtfully. “Most of the people I know don’t want their parents involved in their lives at all. They prefer to keep their distance, being allowed to do whatever they want. Your perspective is…refreshing,” he answers.

“Well, isn’t that what parents are for? Aren’t they supposed to protect us?”

“Yes. But what happens when they want to protect you from something you don’t need protection from? What if they
think
they’re protecting you, but in reality they’re keeping you from being the person you’re supposed to be?”

“Well…maybe you have to respectfully stand up and make your case, and take responsibility if whatever it is you want to do blows up in your face.” I know from our earlier conversation that Will is talking about his dad. Will has dreams that are nightmares to his father. I don’t think it’s fair. It’s clear that Will is not a suit and tie kind of guy, and the idea of being forced into corporate America is slowly killing him.

“Yeah. That’d be nice.” Will shakes himself and changes the expression on his face from deep in thought to ready to eat so I put his sandwich on a plate and hand it to him. “This looks really good. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll share my secret tips for a perfect chicken salad sandwich with you someday. I have to know I can trust you and that you won’t steal my recipe and create a chicken salad sandwich empire!” We laugh and it makes me happy to see him smile again.

“You can definitely trust me, Layla.” He smiles at me and I know he means it.

School is starting soon and I still haven’t been to see the campus. I’m already registered so it’s just a formality for me to visit before classes start. Formality, or not, I’ve got to get the lay of the land before I
set foot onto the battleground. Claire insists that today is the day for me to see Heyward Washington Preparatory Academy and I can’t argue any longer.

Claire tells me t
he school isn’t too far from home. We turn off the main road and down a secluded, wooded drive. Pulling up the drive I’m sure Claire is running an errand on the way to the school, dropping off some legal documents at a high profile client’s office. The building I’m staring at looks like the White House. Its architecture is startling in the middle of what I would call the woods. Tall columns stretch the height of the three-story building, with two two-story wings jetting out from either side. It’s so out of place.

“Are you coming?” Claire asks as she gets out of the car.

“Um…ok,” I say getting out with her. I’m really not interested in the awkwardness of meeting one of Claire’s clients, but this building is so amazing, I almost can’t take my eyes off of it.

“Welcome to Heyward Prep, Layla.” Claire smiles as my jaw drops.

The woman in the front office greets us pleasantly and addresses Claire by name. She’s a tall, thin woman, older, with short graying blonde hair. She speaks with a sweet southern accent, reminding me of Paula Dean, warm and sugary sweet. She’s calmly thumbing through a stack of papers as Claire introduces her as Mrs. Whitman and informs me that without her the school would have crumbled years ago.

“Oh, Claire, sugar, you’re too sweet! It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Layla. I hope you’ll enjoy your time here. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to come see me. Ok? I’ve got your schedule right here, dear. You can find your classrooms today if that’d be helpful.” She pulls a small, rectangular piece of paper from the stack she’s handling and gives it to me, along with a map of the school. The map is quite intricate – color-coded and arranged by grade.

“Yes, that would be great. Thank you,” I say as I accept the papers. I look at the map more closely and see that all my classes are on the east wing because that’s where all the senior classrooms are. The rest of the administrative offices are on the third floor of the main building, which I somehow already know is a place I never want to go. According to the map, it’s a floor filled with conference rooms and the offices of school officials who hold my academic future in their hands. A closer examination of my schedule reveals that all my classes are honors and to say I am thoroughly panicked is an understatement.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Whitman, there seems to be a mistake. I’m not qualified to take honors chemistry or trig,” I tell her with cool concern in my voice. I’ll be here a lifetime if they expect me to pass those in order to graduate. I try to hand my mistake of a schedule back to her but she holds up her hands in refusal.

“There’s no mistake, sugar. All the senior classes here are honors. Don’t worry, though. We have some brilliant students who are able to tutor you, and there are some students at the college who help us out with that, too. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of, dear,” she says nonchalantly, as if a tutor is going to somehow magically make me understand complicated math and science. This is going to be a very long year.

“Um…ok.” I sigh and purse my lips. I twirl a lock of my long
ponytailed hair as I contemplate this.

Another administrator walks into the office and Claire becomes involved in an immediately heated conversation about how this year’s mock trials should be coordinated. I motion to her that I’m going to go ahead and find my classrooms and excuse myself.

The main hall of the building is unlike any school I’ve ever seen. The floors are carpeted and the walls are painted a warm, khaki color. It’s incredibly inviting. There is no linoleum flooring or fluorescent lighting, which every girl here is sure to enjoy. Fluorescent lighting never made anyone look good. Along the walls are oil paintings of the school’s founders and board of directors, all in gilded frames. Of course, Gregory Meyer is at the helm of this ship. That doesn’t surprise me. I have the impression that Mr. Meyer enjoys being at the center of everything. Even his portrait creeps me out. It’s like the ones at the Haunted Mansion at Disney where the eyes follow you.

Further exploration down the hall leads me to the library where my schedule indicates Study Hall is held. I pass through the heavy, solid wood door and the room is instantly like a dream. There are elegant sofas and the room is filled with rich mahogany furniture. A fireplace has wingback chairs strategically placed in front of it. The room looks more like a lodge than a library. The smell of old books fills the air, and I inhale deeply several times. There are two rows of tables with green banker’s lamps like the kind you see in movies. It’s wonderfully overwhelming and I have to make myself leave before I find a book and a corner and am never seen again.

I find the east wing easily. Each room is marked with a simple “E” and the number of the room. There are six classrooms on each floor. The science and math rooms are on the first floor, which means my English, civics, and Spanish classes are upstairs. All the rooms are the same so I decide that I don’t need to go upstairs to locate my other classrooms.

Walking back down the long hall toward the main building I see a gold-plated sign pointing to the dining hall.
Dining hall? Why don’t they just call it a cafeteria?
As I come within reach of the doors I see why. This is no cafeteria. The room is filled with large round tables covered with white linens. Each table has ten high-back chairs, and there are small floral centerpieces on each table. With four huge silver chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings, the room is more like a hotel ballroom than a high school eatery.

I don’t see an entrance to where the students pass through the kitchen and receive their lunch from the industrial size pot it’s held in, only a set of swinging double doors. 
No…it can’t…they couldn’t actually have wait staff here!
I’m in shock at the mere thought. I’m used to packing my lunch and I certainly don’t want to draw any more attention to myself than I already will, so I better find out from Claire if I’m absolutely crazy, or not.

“I’m sorry I didn’t show you around the school. Did you find everything ok? What do you think?” Claire asks as we pull out of the parking lot.

“No problem. Yeah, I found everything just fine. It helps that all the senior classes are in one place, and the library is amazing,” I say.

“Isn’t it?
High school wasn’t like this when I was there!” Claire says.

“Speaking of that…I have a really silly question.” I take a deep breath before I ask the most bizarre question I have ever asked. “Do they have…waiters…in the dining hall?” I’m astounded that I even have to ask the question for clarification.

“Yes. Ostentatious, isn’t it?” Claire says.

“It just seems…weird. Doesn’t
anyone
bring their lunch?” I ask, knowing full well what the answer is.

“Oh…no. There’s a menu of about five or six things that rotate each week. It’s never the same menu two days in a row. It’s all really good food, though. Sometimes Mr. Meyer holds lunch meetings here when the entire firm is involved. There’s a professional chef on staff and he runs the place like a five-star restaurant.” Claire pauses. “You have to remember the lifestyle that these kids are used to, Layla.
Their parents don’t want them treated any other way.” Claire’s explanation reminds me that I have a lot to endure this year. I’m grateful for Will and my new friends, knowing they’ll protect me from the pompous, dark side.

Claire and Luke’s office is on Main Street in downtown Davidson, just a block up from the Village Green. Claire has to run in for a few minutes so she gives me the option of getting a tour of Meyer, Fincher and Marks
and waiting in her office or doing something else. Because I really don’t want to have an up-close stare down from Mr. Meyer, I opt for something else. I notice the bookstore Luke told me about and I’m sure I can fill my time there while I wait. Claire pulls up to the curb right in front of Main Street Books and as I get out I tell her I’ll go to the coffee shop if I finish in the bookstore before she’s done. The blue trim around the windows and the red door immediately invite me in. It looks old, which I interpret as dedicated. From the outside it seems like the kind of place that has worked hard to fight the giant booksellers, but always prevails. It’s the kind of place that remembers you and what your reading preferences are by your face, not your frequent buyer card.