The Indians of Bending Creek

This was going to be hell.

That was the first thing thought through my head as the schoolbus - which was really a low-grade coach carrier - rolled between the wrought, black-metal gates. I could softly hear gravel crunching and popping beneath the heavy rubber tires, which hissed and squealed as the bus turned. Well, at least the seats had been comfortable. So comfortable, in fact, that every other person on the bus besides myself and the elderly man driving the bus had fallen asleep. I suppose the driver could have been asleep, too. The last six hours had consisted of nothing but pine trees and straight asphalt road. We must be in the northern part of Canada, now - due to the lack of butt-fuck anything.

It was a chock. I was used to the bustling New York City, with its neon signs and streams of faces. The lack of both - the lack of anything but tall, green-needled spruce trees - thew my mind into a turmoil of disbelief. How could there be this much space filled by nothing but towering pine trunks and grey-painted sky.

I found the forests slightly creepy, with their wind-blown branches and deep shadows. They reminded me of a graveyard, somehow - wild and abandoned. Not exactly menacing, but old. Like a sleeping force was in some way hidden beneath their dark soil. The lack of noise on the bus probably didn't help, filled sparsely by a dozen sleeping breathes and that incessant fucking creaking! The sky wasn't doing anything for my nerves, either. It hung low and grey, stroked through by waves of thunderous black. It was only a matter of time until the storm was unleashes, I knew.

We were out of the forest now, at least. The bus turned through the gates of our destination and rolled to a slow stop. Hydraulics hissed as the buses movement came to a sit, rocking backward as it settled onto its axis; its long journey complete. The motion shook a couple of the other passengers awake with sleepy murmurs. I watched out of the corner or my eyes as a young girl, across the aisle and a row of seats ahead of my own, awoke. She had a full head of curly blonde hair and a teardrop face. As I watched she raised a hand and rubbed her wrist across her eyes, before turning to stare out of the window. I looked away quickly before she could catch me staring. Just before I turned away, I caught a flash of brilliant green eyes reflected in the grey glass of the window. For just a second, my breath caught in my throat, heart fluttering lightly.

Damn, but she was cute.

"Alright, kids!" the bus driver shouted down the mouth of the intercom, his voice crackling and blaring down the rows. They were the first words he had spoken. "Time for us all to get off!"

Why do it myself, when there are so many cute girls around?

I grinned at my inner monologue, but followed suit as the other teenagers climbed shakily to their feet and gathered their belongings. The bus filled with the sound of compartments clicking open, feet shuffling, and zippers ... zipping?

What the hell to zippers do anyways? What is that noise?

Hoisting my camo-green gym bag over my shoulder and pulling my black leather (It wasn't really leather, but it felt like it - pleather, maybe) backpack out from beneath the seat, I made my way out into the aisle. The blonde-haired girl was right in front of me, and I had to consciously wrench my eyes upward and fasten them to the windshield as I followed her down the length of the bus.

It should be illegal to have a body like that at our age.

As we filed off the bus and onto the dew-soaked black tarmac of the round driveway, I got my first real view of our destination. Of course, I had seen it in the website photographs and brochure advertisements, but this was something else. As much as admitting it felt like betrayal, there was not a single building in New York City which could rival this. It made the Empire State look like it was built of Lego, and the Chrysler Building look like a dime-store knickknack.

Bending Creek Private School, for the rich and powerful.

What was I doing here?

The outside of the building was made of thick, sturdy grey brick and golden chassing. The roof was black-slate squares, a slanting rise to a peak. One tower rose from the center of the building, dominant yet elegant. An enormous gold-and-brass bell hung beneath the triangular black roof of the tower. The man building beneath the bell tower looked very much like a chuch, grandly imposing even cloaked in only grey and muted gold. Light poured from the tall, inset windows. Two halls of identical stone-and-glass rooms spread out from the larger building, encircling the round parking space like protective arms.

A woman had appeared, as if by magic, from around the front bumper of the coach bus. The image almost made my crack up - an image of her crawling out from beneath where the bus had run her over. She had shoulder length brown hair - which made her look like she had been hit by a bus - and eyes which looked perpetually startled. Her slim body was attractive, but bordered on skeletal, and bobbed slightly as she made her way around toward us. I wanted to sit the woman down and make her eat a steak dinner. Not in, like, the 'I want to date her' way, but in, like - fuck it... you know what I mean. Besides, she had to be at least thirty. Slightly out of my age range. The students around me stood, tired and awkward, like a heard of directionless sheep waiting for their shepherd.

"Students!" the woman screeched, and I swear to God I physically winced at the pitch. Her voice was reedy and piercing, like knives shoved into my ears. I restrained myself from raising my hands to cover them; might be slightly offensive. The woman sounded like a cat crying to be fed - but in English.

"I am so glad to have you here!" she continued, oblivious to my silent suffering. "Welcome to BCP! I'm going to be your secretary, Miss Dominique! If you have any questions, I'm your woman!" Spinning on one black pump heel, she actually snapped her fingers and began a stalking walk back to the front doors of the school, leaving out group dazed and deafened behind her. "Come!" she screeched happily, "Lets get you all signed in a signed up for fun!"

This woman was either on some really good drugs, or had made some really powerful and vengeful enemies in her last life.

We all followed, regardless. As our group drew closer, the bus driver leading in his oddly quick shuffling gait, I began to make out details I hadn't been able to at a distance. Angels etched into the glass windows, 'Bending Creek Preparatory School' in bronze letters above the doors, the way her jeans shaped themselves to her-

Fuck, stop!

My group followed the chirpy secretary through the front doors and into what I could only guess was the lobby. It was large and square, with a white linoleum floor and stark fluorescent wall lights. A large wooden desk took up half of the left wall space, backed by bookcases full of binder-filled notes and documents. A computer sat on the desk and threw glowing blue light on the nearest bookshelf. The perky woman positioned herself behind it. The screen reflected in her dark brown eyes, making them shine blue and white as she scrolled through an on-screen document.

"Annabelle-Lynne Farrah?" she looked around searchingly, her eyes dramatically wide. "Anabelle-Lynne?"

"Anne." the blonde girl said flatly. It was an interesting sound, one that caught my ears and sat on them pleasantly. It was sweet, but disinterested. "I am Anne Farrah."

"Welcome, Miss Farrah." the secretary said, giving her a polite nod. To my surprise, the girl seemed to draw backward into herself where she stood, her face darkening slightly and tilting toward the floor as she returned the nod politely.

"Tony Lorenzo?" "Here."

"Brittany Beckam?" "Here."

"Mathias King?" "Present."

"Sarah Leward?" "Here."

The woman paused, narrowing her eyes as she studied the screen. Slowly her cherry-painted lips parted. Her voice, when it came, was hesitant and questioning. "Jay ... Scar ... tee ... then ... o?" She glanced up, her wide brown eyes vaguely apologetic and bordering on a cringe. I sighed lightly under my breath and gave her a small wave to brush off the poor woman's embarrassment.

"Scarentho." I announced, some of my accent breaking through, drawing eyes. "Call me Jascer."