All I Needed To Know [5]

Le Cinquième Chapitre

Travis caught up with me as I made my way down the corridor and walked beside me silently. There was so much rushing through my head, I was quiet for awhile, too. So what, did this mean I had to spend all my time around the incredibly gorgeous French boy I ran into in a park one day and got caught shamefully taking a picture of? Did he think I liked him? Did I like him? No, of course not. I had Bryce at home waiting for me, hanging on my every word, and I liked him, too. We had been together eleven months. I would always be faithful. Besides, I didn’t know anything about this Travis guy… so far, he seemed a little creepy. It was really awkward to walk beside him silently, though, so I asked him the most basic question I could.

“So… you’re in the Foreign Arts program, too?” I asked.

He paused, trying to decipher what I had said into his own language. “Yes, for guitar.” He smiled. “And I am hoping you, for pictures?”

I nodded sheepishly. “Yeah, that’s what I’m here for.” After a few seconds, I looked up to see he was looking at me, too. His head immediately snapped the other way, pretending to look at the paintings we passed as we made our way down the hall. Travis scratched the back of his neck and furrowed his heavy brow in thought.

“I have come here two years now.” He told me. “The first day, all classes meet in the auditorium. Classrooms then are assigned.” I nodded again and kept walking, but he stopped.

“Jolie? Jolie Thomas?” Travis called from behind. My heart stuttered and I turned around slowly, cocking my head.

“The auditorium is this door.” He gestured. My cheeks flushed. Travis smirked and gently guided me in. Electric shocks surged through my body from the points where his fingers softly touched my back, the hairs on my arms prickling.

The theater was huge, with three balcony levels. The ceilings were arch-shaped, layered in ripples from the stage to the back wall for increased sound quality and amplification. A large fraction of the seats were already occupied by young, eager students. All the voices bounced off the walls, blending to create one large flurry of sound. I hurried down the side aisle to the first available blue, plush theater seat. Travis made his way to the back and began chatting with other natives, to which I sighed with relief but at the same time felt a little sting.

Not long after I sat down, the lights dimmed and a short, bald man made his way onto the stage. He wore a suit that had a chained watch dangling from the pocket. A tall, thin woman, wearing a dress-suit and had her bright auburn hair pulled into a tight bun followed close behind him, her navy, pointed heels clicking on the polished wood floor. The man took center stage, behind a podium, while the woman went to the back corner, pulling out a laptop and projection screen.

He cleared his throat impatiently and tapped the microphone that was snaking up from the podium. In return, every voice in the auditorium halted abruptly, leaving one muffled muse of voices to echo off the expertly crafted walls. A tiny Swedish girl, who I hadn’t realized had been talking to me, readjusted in her seat. After a few moments, the man began.

“Hello, young artists, and welcome to the Foreign Arts program. My name is Richard Margelo, the director of this program and Dean of this fine academy.” As Mr. Margelo delivered his prewritten speech, the read headed woman clicked through slides on the screen that displayed his words in at least three or four different languages. “This is my personal secretary”- he gestured back to the woman, and she snuck in a three-fingered wave- “Mrs. Susan Barnes.” He continued to inform us about housing, for the students boarding at the academy, and the rules and guidelines, which I saw as common sense and completely pointless to make a few hundred teenagers suffer through.

People were getting antsy. The sound of general rustling was beginning to underlie the lecture, and the same Swedish girl began to whisper at me, her voice high and words quick despite the thick accent that warped them.

After what felt like hours, Mr. Margelo was finished assigning classrooms and Mrs. Barnes ran out of slides. The girl beside me (whose name turned out to be Beth) mumbled “Fiiinally,” her cropped, white-blonde hair falling over her face. Everyone stood up and began to scatter to their classes. I slung my tote over my shoulder and started to shuffle along with the other students when Beth appeared beside me.

“So, what are you here for?” She piped. Travis quickly flashed through my mind via déjà vu, which I pushed away just as quickly.

“Photography.” I smiled politely, but her face fell.

“Ohhh, ‘cause I’m here for painting.” She sighed. “Damn, there are a lot of majors, aren’t there? It’s just, you’re the first person I’ve talked to and- Well, I’ve talked to a lot of people here, but you’re the first one I’ve really talked to, y’know? You’re like, such a good listener.” I nodded, pretending to be more absorbed in the conversation than I really was. Beth pouted. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to make other friends.”

We gad reached room 23A, the photography class for those whom could at least somewhat comprehend English. I laughed upon noticing Beth’s expression. “I don’t think you have much to worry about. I’ll catch up with you later.” I said, turning into the room. She waved and continued down the hall.