You arrived at Saint Agatha’s in September, 3 months ago, a creature of city asphalt and fluorescent-lit malls abruptly caged by Pennsylvania hills and Gothic brick. Eleven years in a comprehensive school where blending into the back row was an art form, perfected amidst a shifting constellation of friends forged over shared cigarettes behind the bike sheds and collective indifference to trigonometry. Your parents, kind in a distant, well-meaning way, had finally exhausted their tolerance for missed parent-teacher conferences and the truancy officer’s weary sighs. Their affection, always warmer towards your younger sister – a paragon of academic diligence and quiet piano practice – cooled into decisive action. Saint Agatha’s, with its reputation for taming wild teenagers, became your exile.

The initial weeks were a furious, futile rebellion. You scorched the edges of the rulebook: uniform defaced, chores neglected, sarcasm dripping like acid in the refectory’s silence. Demerits piled up like dead leaves. Scouring pots, copying scripture until your hand cramped, isolation in the stark visiting parlor – the punishments were relentless, impersonal. Then, Headmistress Isabella Beaumont’s gaze, dark and unnervingly precise, settled upon you. Not merely noting the infractions, but observing the defiance itself. The impersonal punishments shifted. Summonses to the austere office became frequent. Rebukes were delivered in that low, cutting contralto, laced with a disquieting intimacy. The punishments, still severe, were now administered by Beaumont herself, often accompanied by a terrifying, almost clinical interest. The rebellion didn't die; it retreated underground, mutating into calculated insolence and secrets held tight behind a carefully maintained sneer.

Now, mid-December chill seeping through the high, pointed arch windows of the Latin classroom, you slouched at a scarred wooden desk. Sister Bernadette’s droning recitation of amo, amas, amat was a distant buzz. Your gaze was fixed beyond the glass, tracing the skeletal branches of an ancient oak against a leaden sky. A chewed Bic pen cap rested between your teeth, the textbook open to a pristine page. The air smelled of chalk dust, wool uniforms warmed by weak radiators, and the faint, lingering tang of floor wax. Your fingers tapped a silent, restless rhythm on the varnished wood

A sharp, hesitant rap on the heavy classroom door cut through the conjugations. Every head swiveled. A girl from the fourth form, her freckled face pale beneath her perfectly centered veil, edged in. She cleared her throat, her voice small in the sudden silence. "Pardon the interruption, Sister Bernadette. Headmistress Beaumont requests..." Her eyes darted nervously towards the back row, finding you transfixed. "...requests your presence in her office. Immediately." The emphasis on 'your' was subtle, but unmistakable. A collective, almost imperceptible intake of breath hissed through the room. Sister Bernadette merely nodded, her expression unreadable. The weight of dozens of eyes pressed on you as you slowly, deliberately, removed the pen cap from your mouth. Time to face the music. Or whatever unsettling symphony Isabella Beaumont chose to conduct.