Hidden Worlds

by Kristie Cook

  Disoriented, I lift my head before focusing my attention on the clock near my bed. It’s four, my mind screams and my heartbeat triples. Freshman orientation …

  In a panic, I drag myself out of bed, stumbling to the sink. I turn on the tap and splash some water on my face to wake myself up. Then, I pause. Blinking, I hold up my finger, but I can’t seem to find where I had cut myself. It’s gone—there isn’t even a mark on my skin—nothing to indicate that I’d even scratched myself with that box cutter.

  Did I dream that cut? I wonder while my groggy mind struggles to wake up. No, I think, picking up the towel I had used to wrap my finger earlier. My blood is all over it. Searching the room for answers, I see the clock again—it’s past four. I’m missing orientation!

  In a hurry, I check my reflection in the mirror again. I stand on my tiptoes and try to see if my denim skirt is appropriate for the orientation. I give it a quick tug to straighten it; it’s more of a micro mini than I’d thought, but I really don’t have time to change it now—it goes well with my sleeveless top. Quickly, I touch up my make-up.

  Locking the door to my room, I move through the short hallway that leads to the main hall on the second floor. I jog down the stairs to the reception area and head for the beveled glass doors. Pushing one open and letting it bang closed behind me, I run down the sidewalk toward the auditorium.

  It takes me no time at all to become flushed from the mixture of late afternoon sun, exertion, and stress over being late. This should’ve been a nice, casual stroll through the campus, I think, listening to the heavy panting of my breath.

  The trees on campus are meticulously laid out to line the paths in arching aisles of green. Legions of birds are nesting in the thick canopy of leaves that stretch far above my head. It would be a beautiful nature walk, had I not been so late. As I listen to the calling birdsong above my ragged breath, I envy those birds for their ability to fly.

  Sprinting the last few steps to the Sage Center, I make it just before an elderly woman with a sour expression on her face closes the doors to the auditorium. A grimace of apology crosses my face as her eyes rove over me in disapproval.

  “They’re all in there, dear,” she says as she points to the doors at the back of the lobby.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  Taking a moment to catch my breath, I touch my stomach, because it feels slightly off all of a sudden—not hungry or upset—it’s more like the fluttering feeling you get on an airplane when it dips fast in turbulence. But, that isn’t exactly right … it feels like something inside of me is tugging me forward. I must be getting out of shape or something if I feel this strange after only running half a mile.

  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 multi-slacking,” 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 Mothers’ 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.

  Apparently, privacy isn’t a priority for the Mothers’ Club, but in this case, I’ll use it to my advantage. Due to my plotting, I barely hear the plan outlining a walk to Arden Lake directly following the orientation. The woman at the podium said something about finding a group? People in the auditorium are beginning to get up and mill around the exits.

  “I must’ve been day dreaming there at the end. What was that part about Arden Lake?” I ask Alfred as we rise from our seats.

  He stretches his arms as he says, “Oh, we’re supposed to find our groups for the walk to the lake just off campus. It’s a Crestwood tradition for the freshman class to go there for a barbeque. I think your group is that way,” he points, “with the first part of the alphabet. You’re a C, right?” he asks me.

  I follow his line of sight to a group of students mingling near the doors at the side of the auditorium. They’re all BlackBerry-jammed together, trying to turn the ring tones of their phones back on.

  “Yeah,” I say absently, “I’m a C.”

  I miss whatever it is that Alfred says next because I inadvertently stop listening. Instead, my entire focus is riveted on the perfect features of the guy from earlier—the angry one. He is leaning casually against the door to the exit, being surrounded by coeds with flushed, adoring faces. Among his pack of admirers is a cute little blond freshman playing with her cropped hair and touching his arm flirtatiously over something he is saying. As she taps the clipboard in his hand, I wonder if he is the guide for our walk to the lake.

  After taking a couple of steps in my group’s direction, I pause because the strangest thing is happening to me. The fluttering, weightless feeling in my stomach that I’ve had since arriving at the auditorium, seems to be increasing in intensity as I move forward. It’s as if velvet-winged Monarchs are taking flight inside of me.

  Unconsciously, I take another step in the direction of my group, but I stop when Alfred points and says, “I think that’s my group over there. I wish we were walking together. Maybe we can grab a bite to eat when we get to the lake?” he asks, while looking down at his shoes when the last words are spoken, making him seem really vulnerable. Suddenly, I feel even more protective of Alfred.

  “That sounds good, Alfred—um do you have a nickname? Something less formal than Alfred?” I ask as he stares at me. When he doesn’t answer I go on, “You know, like what do your friends at home call you?”

  “Umm, my friends, they all call me Alfred,” he replies.

  Smiling, I roll my eyes, before asking, “No one calls you Al or Fred, something that doesn’t make you sound like somebody’s grandfather?”

  “Uh, no, just Alfred,” he says, mirroring my smile.

  “Well, I think that, since we’re going to be friends, and since I’m going to insist that you call me Evie instead of Genevieve, it would be sweet if I could call you by something less formal than Alfred … like Freddie?” I ask, hoping that he won’t object to the nickname.

  “Yeah, that’s fine … that’s good … Freddie,” he grins at me, seeming in a daze.

  “Okay, we had better go and join our groups,” I say, looking around.

  My group appears about ready to leave, but before I join them, I assess Freddie critically. He looks like he’s ready to go on a march with a fascist dictator, not a nature walk to a lake. His white oxford shirt is tightly buttoned at the collar and tucked into a pair of khaki shorts, which is being held up by a navy blue belt. Impulsively, I unbutton the top button of Freddie’s oxford shirt. Then, I muss up the perfectly straight, side-parted hairstyle he is sporting because it looks like Lego hair, like he had snapped it on his head this morning before going out.

  “There,” I breathe. “That’s better. Now, untuck your shirt and I’ll see you at the lake.” He walks away from me smiling and untucking his shirt, which is amazingly unwrinkled for having been shoved in his shorts.

  As I walk slowly over to my group, I study the face of our handsome group leader as he stands in the same position by the door. When I near him, his eyes lock with mine while his expression darkens into a frown.

  It is me! I think anxiously, He hates me! Maybe he only likes blonds. Nervously, I play with a strand of my hair and scan the crowd ahead of me, trying to find a tall person to stand behind—one that will shield my 5’ 9” frame from his line of sight. I locate an extremely tall male and tuck myself behind him.

  You’re being a coward and completely irrational, I think, trying to rally my fragile ego. You must be misreading something. He doesn’t hate you; he doesn’t even know you. Maybe he’s having a bad day, or maybe you remind him of someone he does hate.

  The distinctive fluttering in my stomach flares up again, making me feel like I’m being propelled lightly forward in the direction of the exit—his direction. Peeking out from around the wall of male I’ve strategically maneuvered behind, I see him coming toward me. Shoot! Here he comes! I think, bracing myself.

  In seconds, I’m face to face with the most stunningly beautiful person I’ve ever met. Well, maybe not “face to face” as he is at least five inches taller than me. He’s standing so close to me, that I have to crane my neck to see his eyes; they’re green and almost gray around the edges of his irises.

  Leaning in closely to my ear, his breath stirs my hair as he says softly, “This is not your group, and it is time for you to leave now.”

  His voice sounds like silk, but there is something very wrong with it. It’s echoing and shifting within my mind, making it seem to go on, like whispering hisses that linger even after his lips stop moving and his breath no longer tickles my hair. A small shiver of fear slips down my spine as every hair on the nape of my neck stands straight up in that moment. Stepping back and looking at his exquisite face, I see an air of expectation in his eyes.

  “How do you know I have the wrong group? Have we met?” I ask, quirking my eyebrow,
not even attempting to conceal the irritation in my voice.

  Confusion briefly clouds his eyes as he processes my response. He seems surprised at my reaction to his directive. He’s probably used to getting his own way. I bet women line up for a chance to please him.

  “What is your name?” he asks in a soft, urgent tone, leaning near my ear again. I stiffen again because his voice is making that hissing sound once more.

  My eyes narrow, “What’s yours? Mephistopheles?” I counter. “And, what’s with your voice anyway? It’s making my skin crawl,” I ask, rubbing my arms absently in an attempt to alleviate the goose bumps. His voice is more than annoying; it’s insulting. It’s making my brain feel itchy, but I can’t scratch it through my skull.

  I am gratified to see that I have startled him; he hides it well, but there had been a definite widening of his eyes and pupil dilation. If I hadn’t been so focused on his eyes, I might have missed it. His face is losing its menacing expression as it’s becoming devoid of emotion. It bothers me because without some indication of his emotion, it is hard to tell what he’s thinking. I glance around in frustration, seeing that we are rapidly gaining the attention of the rest of the group. In fact, the cute blond he had been talking with earlier is assessing me as one does a rival on an opposing team.

  When my eyes return to his, he says, “I simply want to check to see if you are on my list.” His tone is smooth and clear, with no creepy undercurrent woven into it. “What is your name?” he asks me, before waving his clipboard back and forth as if to corroborate his statement.

  “Evie,” I reply in a near whisper, noticing that we are definitely the objects of scrutiny from the rest of the freshmen in the group.

  He peruses the list of names on his clipboard like a bouncer at an exclusive club. I watch him with cautious fascination, knowing full well that he won’t locate an Evie on the roster, and wait to see his reaction. As his head dips low over the list, his dark hair slips down over one eyebrow. My hand wants to brush his hair back into place, to feel the texture of it. How strange—just a moment ago he was creeping me out and now I want to run my fingers through his hair. Maybe I’m schizophrenic, I think warily as the flutters in my stomach dance wildly.