Time After Time

4

|Chapter 4|

•Alistair Beaufort•

The icy metal door closes behind me with a dull thud, drowned out by the loud droning of Mr. Pellini as he calls out names. No one turns their head, so I just remain standing in the shadows, calmly inhaling my second cigarette of the day. I study my Drama classroom, a small auditorium-like room with five rows of plush red seats and a small stage, which my new teacher is currently standing on. Beside him I see Mrs. Harper-Williams, the super-uptight Drama Head. As in, there’s something way up her ass twenty-four/seven, that kind of uptight. I guess this wasn’t the right day to arrive nearly half an hour late. While smoking in school.

I drop my cigarette onto the ground and stamp it out as quietly as I can before inconspicuously slipping to a seat in the back corner, all by myself. Pellini must have just started roll call, since he’s still on the A-names. I breathe a sigh of relief. Propping up my feet up onto the seat in front of me, I relax, waiting for my name to be called out.

“Kristin Aziz.” Pellini calls out.

“Here.”

“Collin Bailey.”

“Here.”

“Edison Beal-Lopez.”

“Present.”

“Alistair Beaufort,” the teacher says, then looks up and scans the room. Huh, the man does know me. I slide lower in my seat, just grinning at the stage. Then he says my name again. “Alistair Beaufort, do we have an Alistair Beaufort here?”

Murmurs begin to sweep through the class. I guess I’m pretty well-known around here, though I’m not sure if it’s in a good way or a bad way. Harper-Williams’s head makes a slow one-eighty around the room, searching for me. They know I’m here, they know that no one’s not going to show up on the fucking first day of school. Especially not the Alistair of last year. Still, I find it amusing, getting the class all worked up like this.

“I’m here,” I drawl, raising my arm and taking on an annoyed tone, “I’m here. Jesus.”

Pellini ignores my last remark, breaking into a relieved smile. “Mister Beaufort! So glad you could make it! I’ve heard so many exceptional things about your acting from Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Harper-Williams, and I find it a privilege to be working with you for your grade eleven year.” The Drama Head shoots me a proud smile.

I shrug, as if it’s no big deal. In fact, I feel downright fucking humiliated by this public appraisal of my acting. It’s partly my fault too, though, I think as I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s my fault I decided to stay in this stupid arts school, academy, whatever. It’s my fault I was such a stuck-up asshole with big dreams for acting last year. It’s my fault I even fucking tried. I’ve lost all interest in this, but I guess I’ll have to suck it up and act like the Alistair Beaufort last year, the best actor of grade ten. Maybe that way I’ll convince Mom I don’t need some therapist, that I’m fucking fine the way I am.

Pellini quickly moves down roll call before snapping the attendance folder shut with one hand and setting it down on the ground next to him. “Welcome, class, to grade eleven Dramatic Arts at OxfordAcademy!” he says, but I can hardly hear his voice from my little corner here, “I’m Mr. Pellini, and I will be your mentor, advisor, director and teacher this year for drama. To my left here is Mrs. Harper-Williams, the Head of Dramatic Arts here at Oxford, who you all must be familiar with.”

As Pellini begins talking about the success criteria this year, I tune out. Maybe I can sneak in a cigarette and hope no one can smell it. But, as I look around the place again, I realize it’s impossible. The place isn’t tiny like some fucking closet or something, but it’s enough for even the farthest person to get a faint whiff of cigarette smoke. As my eyes search the place, my gaze locks with a tall blonde, with full lips painted with clear lip gloss, and inquisitive brown eyes. She sits in the same position as I am in, long legs put up on the seat behind her, navy-blue Oxford skirt swishing just above her thighs. I don’t recognize her from previous years at Oxford, so she must be new. She shoots me a small grin.