RIOT HOUSE (Crooked Sinners #1) - Callie Hart Page 0,6
the cutthroat waters of international schooling, you grab hold of that fucker and you don’t let go.
“Sure. Thanks. That’d be cool.”
The excursion to the office is uneventful, which is to say that the world doesn’t end while I’m filling out my health questionnaire and grabbing all of the reading lists and mandatory textbook titles I’ll need to order for my classes. Carina acts as mediator between myself and the decrepit, mostly deaf octogenarian behind the desk, shouting when the poor old girl can’t hear my responses. The lenses on her glasses are so thick that they make her eyes look eight times their normal size. Despite the visual aid, she squints at me over the top of a stack of paperwork, like it might actually help her hear me better.
Once we’re done, Carina snatches the map the administrator gave me out of my hands and tosses it straight into the trash, dragging me down a long, crooked hallway, lined with bunches of flowers in vases. “Won’t be needing that,” she sing-songs. “You have me to be your personal Wolf Hall tour guide. I can tell we’re gonna get on just fine. I knew the moment I saw the fishnets.”
I glance down at the fishnet tights she’s referring to. I’m wearing them under my favorite pair of ripped jean shorts. The Doc Martin boots I picked out are potentially overkill, but my look wouldn’t be complete without them.
I know it’s cold, but my outrageous clothes were first in a long line of protests I have planned for my stay at Wolf Hall. Tragically, when I came out of my room and saw Carina’s clothes, it became apparent that the students here can wear whatever the hell they feel like and get away with it. Her bright yellow bomber jacket and red jeans clash so violently, there’s a risk I’ll develop a migraine soon just from looking at her.
The other students’ clothes are a confusion of different styles and colors, too. There are enough ripped jeans and band t-shirts kicking around to make it look like we’re all about to walk through the gates of a music festival.
Quickly adding two and two together, I realize that Carina’s taking me straight to class. “Shouldn’t I drop my stuff off at my locker first?”
“Psshhh. We don’t have lockers. If you don’t wanna carry a bag around with you, you’re gonna have to run up to your room between periods, and trust me, there is not enough time for that shit. Come on. You’ll be fine.”
The room falls silent when Carina coerces me into English. Heads whip around, conversations come to a grinding halt…and the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention. On a battered leather couch underneath a massive picture window, the guy from last night is laid out like he downed a bunch of Special K for breakfast and the drugs have just kicked in.
He’s the first thing I notice.
The second thing I notice? There aren’t any desks.
Well, not in the traditional sense anyway.
A little stunned, I gape at the room as I take it all in: the armoires, the ottomans, the over-stuffed arm chairs, and the worn old writing desks dotted around the vast space. Most surprisingly, there are book stacks toward the rear of the room, wooden benches, and, low and behold, there is a monster of a fire roaring in the open fireplace.
I’ve never seen anything like it before in my entire life. “What…our English class is in the library?”
A chorus of snickers go up, courtesy of the other students draped over the armchairs and leaning against the writing desks. Two guys, sitting on the floor by the other large window trade a droll look, as if this whole what-the-hell-is-going-on bit is really old to them. I feel like I’ve just walked into Doctor Who’s TARDIS and made the mistake of exclaiming, ‘Wait a second! It’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside!’
Carina kicks the boot of one of the guys sitting on the floor as she leads me past them toward an empty floral print couch. He lunges forward, baring his teeth and snapping them at her, but she ignores his performance. “No, the library’s way bigger than this. This is Doc Fitzpatrick’s den, as he likes to call it. He’s basically a god around here. Gets away with murder. He’s supposed to take his classes in the room they assigned him in the English block, but he says it’s easier to inspire