I See London. Chanel CleetonЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter 6

      Firsts. There was something about the first day of school. Today felt like the start of everything, not just the start of classes. Today was the day I would finally get to take the classes I wanted to take, to focus on subjects I actually cared about rather than having to sit through boring biology classes and the like.

      My inner nerd hummed with excitement.

      I stood in front of my small wardrobe, desperately trying to decide what to wear. When I packed for London, my clothes had seemed decent enough. But after Saturday’s party I began to realize fashion was a serious business at the International School. And I had no idea how to play the game. These were the moments when I wished I had a mom.

      “That really doesn’t go together.”

      I gritted my teeth, not bothering to turn around and look at Fleur. “Gee, thanks. I hadn’t realized.”

      Her hand reached out, thrusting something orange and pink in my line of sight. “Try this. It’ll help the outfit out.” Fleur paused. “Without it you look a little sad.”

      I grabbed the scarf out of her hand. I had ten minutes to get to my classroom building. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than being late on the first day.

      “Thanks,” I mumbled, wrapping the scarf around my neck. I stood back, studying my appearance in the mirror. She was right—it was better.

      When I turned around, Fleur was gone.

      “You look great,” Noora called out from her side of the room. “I like the dress.”

      “Thanks. Do you have class this morning?”

      She shook her head, her silk hijab swinging with the motion. “I have my first class in the afternoon. I’m just going to spend the morning reading a bit. What class are you headed to?”

      I had my schedule memorized, printed out, and tucked in my planner in case I forgot. Introduction to International Relations, British Literature, History of Mathematics (yep, they were actually going to give me math credit for that one), Introduction to Political Science and Creative Writing.

      “Intro to International Relations with Graves.”

      Noora wrinkled her nose. “Have fun with that. It sounds like the kind of class that makes me glad I’m an Art major.”

      It was the class I was most looking forward to. At the International School you didn’t declare your major until sophomore year, but I’d known I wanted to study IR since my sophomore year of high school.

      I rushed out of the room, hurrying through the hall and down the stairs, weaving my way through the groups of students standing in the lobby. I left the building, trying to settle the nerves in my stomach. I had to make a good impression today. The International School was small; it was likely I would have the same teachers throughout my four years here. Being late was not an option.

      King’s House was the main residence hall at the International School. The building housed most of the dorms along with the cafeteria, several staff offices and a common room that contained several leather couches, a large flat-screen TV and a pool table. The other residence building, Queen’s Hall, was a few streets over. Our classes were all held one street away from the main residence hall.

      I made the trip in seven minutes, barely walking through the classroom door in time for class to start. I sneaked into the back of the room. The room was small, but filled with students. I counted about forty in all. There was only one empty seat.

      “You have got to be kidding me.”

      Samir lounged in his chair, his legs crossed at the ankles, right next to the only open chair. He grinned. “Miss me?”

      “Hardly.” I rolled my eyes, sliding into the seat next to him. “Are you even supposed to be in this class? Aren’t you a sophomore?”

      “Junior.”

      My eyes narrowed. “Why are you in an intro class? What’s your major?”

      He beamed at me. “IR.”

      “Bullshit.”

      He laughed. “I speak the truth.”

      “You’re a junior and you’re just now taking Intro to IR? How is that even possible?”

      “It used to be at eight. I don’t do morning classes.”

      “You don’t do morning classes?” I didn’t bother to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

      “I like to keep my mornings open…for other activities.” He winked at me.

      I shook my head in amazement. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

      “You love it.”

      I laughed. He was so ridiculous I couldn’t even stand it. “Does this whole persona you’ve got going normally work for you?”

      “All day…and night long.”

      I mock shuddered. “I feel like I need to take a shower.”

      He tossed me a wolfish grin. “I might be able to help you with that. After all, I know what you look like without a towel on. All that creamy white skin…”

      My cheeks flamed. Please tell me we didn’t have a seating chart. No way could I handle this proximity to him for the rest of the semester.

      “Okay, it looks like it’s time to start.” My head jerked up at the sound of our teacher’s voice. He stood at the front of the room—somehow I had completely missed his presence. “If you’re in here, then you’re supposed to be enrolled in Introduction to International Relations.” The professor, Dr. Abbott, a tall man with a British accent, paused for a moment. No one got up and left. “Good. Let’s begin.”

      I spent the hour furiously scribbling down everything he said. International Relations—as the professor explained it—studied the relationships between countries. He walked us through introductory concepts, handing out the syllabus and going over his expectations for the class. For an hour he talked about some of the world’s major conflicts; it all sounded like a giant soap opera to me. Even Samir’s presence couldn’t distract me.

      I was hooked.

      Few people spoke in the first class; instead the professor just lectured while we all took notes. Well, some of us took notes. It was easy to tell the students who were really into the subject and the ones who wished they were anywhere else.

      Samir didn’t bother picking up his pen.

      “Good class,” Samir commented as class came to an end.

      I tossed him a skeptical look. “Were you even paying attention?”

      He grinned. “Can I help it if I was distracted by the great pen shortage? The suspense of whether you would run out of ink was way more compelling than anything Abbott had to say.”

      I stared down at my desk. Four pens stared back at me.

      Was that unusual? It seemed prudent to have back-ups. For my back-ups to have back-ups.

      “There’s