My arrival at Rowan Academy
After a ride that seemed to last forever, Aunt Cathy's dusty silver Toyota Celica pulled up in front of Whiteoak Hall. I climbed out of the car and braced myself against the sudden cold. I was glad I'd decided to wear jeans instead of tights under my Indian-print batik dress. I pushed a wayward hair behind my ear and said, "Thanks for the ride, Aunt Cathy! What a great weekend....I'll call you soon...have a safe trip back and tell Mom and Dad I'm fine."
With a shiver, I zipped my jacket as far as it would go before the zipper was choked by my big rainbow-colored woolen scarf. I pulled my Army surplus parachute bag and a backpack out of the open hatchback, closed it behind me, and stood for a moment looking at the edifice before me. The air smells different here, I noticed, missing the salty scent of the Maine coast but thrilled by the crisp late-autumn chill. I hiked my backpack over one shoulder and entered the building.
After a brief search for an office, I found it and checked in. With room key in hand, I ascended two flights of stairs. Old oaken floorboards creaked beneath me, a familiar sound from my farmhouse childhood, and I smiled as I opened the door to the third floor. Pacing down the hallway, observing the numbers until I came to 321, my room for the year. There were two paper nametags on the door; Sara-Jane (me) and Arianrhod. I recognized the name from a Welsh myth book and wondered if this woman would be a Sidhe. The only Sidhe I've ever met are noble elders. I turned the key in the lock, wondering what I'd find behind the door.
The room was empty. My roommate apparently hadn't arrived yet. I thought long and hard about which bed to choose--I certainly didn't want to discombobulate a Sidhe! I tested the mattresses, considered how the room was arranged (and how it could be rearranged), and decided that, all things being equal in the mattress department, I'd take the bed by the window. "If Arianrhod decides she'd prefer this one, I'll be glad to switch," I told the empty room.
I unzipped the parachute bag and bag and pulled out a set of sheets, two pillows, and a homemade-looking patchwork quilt. Unlike the typical "Country design" patchwork quilt, though, this quilt sports images of flowers and medicinal herbs, made out of cloth, under a clear sky. My mother taught me how to sew, I thought, with a slight pang of homesickness, and I remember how proud she was when I showed her this quilt. It's not a Rembrandt, but it reminds me of home.
After I made the bed, I pulled out a small boombox and a wallet of CDs. I decided to listen to The Shroud's In The Garden (a recent gift from Aunt Cathy), and set it to playing softly while I folded and hung up my clothes, put my books on the bookshelf and connected my laptop to the Internet jack by the desk. For a moment I considered getting online for a while and writing some e-mails home..."Naah," I told the room, "I'm never going to meet anyone if I just hang out here. Besides, I'm getting hungry."
Well, I looked at the map of campus and found out where the dining hall was--in the student center--and went out to grab a bite to eat.
With a shiver, I zipped my jacket as far as it would go before the zipper was choked by my big rainbow-colored woolen scarf. I pulled my Army surplus parachute bag and a backpack out of the open hatchback, closed it behind me, and stood for a moment looking at the edifice before me. The air smells different here, I noticed, missing the salty scent of the Maine coast but thrilled by the crisp late-autumn chill. I hiked my backpack over one shoulder and entered the building.
After a brief search for an office, I found it and checked in. With room key in hand, I ascended two flights of stairs. Old oaken floorboards creaked beneath me, a familiar sound from my farmhouse childhood, and I smiled as I opened the door to the third floor. Pacing down the hallway, observing the numbers until I came to 321, my room for the year. There were two paper nametags on the door; Sara-Jane (me) and Arianrhod. I recognized the name from a Welsh myth book and wondered if this woman would be a Sidhe. The only Sidhe I've ever met are noble elders. I turned the key in the lock, wondering what I'd find behind the door.
The room was empty. My roommate apparently hadn't arrived yet. I thought long and hard about which bed to choose--I certainly didn't want to discombobulate a Sidhe! I tested the mattresses, considered how the room was arranged (and how it could be rearranged), and decided that, all things being equal in the mattress department, I'd take the bed by the window. "If Arianrhod decides she'd prefer this one, I'll be glad to switch," I told the empty room.
I unzipped the parachute bag and bag and pulled out a set of sheets, two pillows, and a homemade-looking patchwork quilt. Unlike the typical "Country design" patchwork quilt, though, this quilt sports images of flowers and medicinal herbs, made out of cloth, under a clear sky. My mother taught me how to sew, I thought, with a slight pang of homesickness, and I remember how proud she was when I showed her this quilt. It's not a Rembrandt, but it reminds me of home.
After I made the bed, I pulled out a small boombox and a wallet of CDs. I decided to listen to The Shroud's In The Garden (a recent gift from Aunt Cathy), and set it to playing softly while I folded and hung up my clothes, put my books on the bookshelf and connected my laptop to the Internet jack by the desk. For a moment I considered getting online for a while and writing some e-mails home..."Naah," I told the room, "I'm never going to meet anyone if I just hang out here. Besides, I'm getting hungry."
Well, I looked at the map of campus and found out where the dining hall was--in the student center--and went out to grab a bite to eat.