The Boy Behind The Glass • Stydia

7. ground control

C H A P T E R • S E V E N

Lydia starts her first day of junior high with a new bag and an ego as high as her IQ.

She meets Heather at the end of the road to catch the school bus, declining a kind lift from her mother. She's 12 now, she doesn't need her mother to coddle her. Plus, her mothers rages of dark clouds and bad moods had only gotten worse over the years.

"Are you excited?" Heather greets. She looks as she always has done: rucksack slung over bother shoulders, breezing blonde hair tied back two long pale plaits.

"Of course," Lydia replies, confidently. This was her time to shine.

The bus was crowded and hot, the September Californian sun beating down on the metal box like a cooker. Lydia was getting overheated in her summery dress, long red hair caked her to her neck and back.

When they arrived at the school for the very first time, Lydia suddenly felt a pang of anxiety sitting like a brick in her stomach. The bus pulls into the car park, mostly empty apart from teachers cars and visitors.

Heather is at her side the moment after they step off the bus, both of them knocked speechless at the sight of the school.

After the welcome assembly, Lydia is given her timetable that tells her her first lesson is English with Miss Garcia. Thankfully, her first lesson was with Heather, so the pair walked side by side to their first session in Beacon Hills Junior High.

The class is larger than she's used to, all the desks seperated and individual. Lydia takes a seat in the front row, Heather at her right. She's grinning as she sits, her books placed down on the desk. Her Mosbey Dictionary sits within the pile, like a key of comfort.

Be like Florence Nightingale, she tells herself as the class fills up around her.

The teacher comes in, a middle aged women with frail blonde hair held off her face with a purple butterfly pin. She's curvy, wearing a flouncy flower dress and pink ballerina shoes. She has large glasses sitting on the bridge of her wide nose, making her look intelligent and comforting at the same time. 

"Hello, everyone," she greets, smiling widely. Big, stark white teeth flash, illuminated by her glossy pink lipstick. "My name is Miss Garcia, and I will be your English teacher this year."

Lydia sits up, back still-stock straight and both feet planted flat on the floor. Miss Garcia has them beginning to some 'breaking the ice' activities which involve them getting to know their classmates.

"We're going to be spending the whole year together," she explains. "So, this lesson is dedicated to helping you all introduce yourselves and make friends."

Lydia turned to the girl sitting on her other side, hunched over her desk and long brown hair blocking her face from view.

Lydia purses her lips, turning fully so her entire body faces the slouched form. "Hi," she says, loud and broad and confident. The girl looks up, brown eyes almost startled. "My name is Lydia Martin. What's yours?"

It takes a moment for the girl to reply, but when she does, her voice is small and frail, "Tracy," she says, clearing her throat as she straightens her posture. "Tracy Stewart."