Clara sat in the front row of the classroom, her gaze fixed on the blackboard where mathematical formulas were scribbled in neat white chalk. She understood most of them, and for the first half of the lesson, she paid close attention to Sister Ruth's explanations. But then, the screeching sound of the chalk dragged across the board like nails on glass, cutting through her focus. A sharp headache erupted, forcing her mind to wander.
Her thoughts drifted far from algebra and into the dreaded week of holidays she'd soon spend with her mother. A week she wished could disappear into the void.
"Clara?" Sister Ruth's voice broke through her haze, snapping her back to reality.
"Yes, ma'am?" Clara replied, her voice slightly sluggish, as though waking from a dream.
"Are you alright?" Sister Ruth asked, her tone soft with concern. "Lately, you've been a little... distracted in class. Is something wrong?"
Clara glanced around, noticing the curious stares of her classmates. She straightened her posture, willing herself to appear composed. With a quick nod, she dismissed the teacher's concern and forced herself to focus again.
Just then, a cheerful voice rang from the doorway. "Clara Matthews!"
Startled, Clara turned to see Sister Benedict standing there, her smile wide and radiant.
"Your attention is needed in the principal's office," Sister Benedict announced.
Clara's stomach sank. What could this be about? Slowly, she rose from her seat, acutely aware of the murmurings of her classmates as she left the room.
Walking beside Sister Benedict down the hallway, the echo of their footsteps on the tiled floor only amplified the pounding of Clara's heart. With every step, her mind raced through countless scenarios, none of which felt comforting.
When they finally reached the principal's office, Sister Benedict knocked gently, then pushed the door open. Clara stepped inside—and froze in horror.
Sitting in the principal's chair was her father, his posture rigid and his expression a mask of fury.
Her mother sat beside him, wearing a large straw hat that failed to conceal the fresh purple bruise marring her left eye. Clara didn't need to ask who had given it to her. She already knew.
"Clara," the principal began, her face lined with sympathy, "you've been called here to inform you that you're no longer a student of St. Margaret College for Girls. I'm so sorry, dear."
Clara's breath hitched. What? Her mind spun as she struggled to grasp the words. Why was she being expelled? What had she done to deserve this?
Before she could voice her confusion, her father's gruff voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Pack your bags. We're leaving now."
His words carried the weight of command, leaving no room for argument.
Clara's chest tightened, dread washing over her. She didn't want to go back—not to that broken house, not to her father's oppressive rule. Her relationship with her mother was already strained, but her father's return promised only more misery. The man she despised most in the world was back, and with him came the dictatorship she thought she'd escaped.
Blinking back tears, Clara left the office in a daze. She trudged to the hostel, each step heavier than the last, until she reached her bunk bed. Sitting down, she let the floodgates open, her sobs raw and unrestrained in the empty room.
Painful memories clawed their way to the surface—memories she had tried so hard to bury. Now, with her father's return, they came rushing back, leaving her gasping for air under the weight of her anguish.
Agatha, her roommate, heard the wails from the corridor and rushed inside. She recognized the voice immediately.
"Clara!" Agatha cried, hurrying to her side. She sat on the bed and placed a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. "What's wrong? Why are you crying like this?"
Clara wiped her tear-streaked face with trembling hands. With a shaky breath, she turned to Agatha, her voice heavy with despair.
"I'm leaving," she whispered. "I'm leaving the school... and I'm never coming back."