I watch the taxi pull from the curb and turn to stare up at the tall building looming over me. Downright High. A place notorious for hosting the worst kids in the state. I look at my duffle bag which has been so over-used it's splitting at the edges.

The gates open with a loud creak and two guards walk toward me, looking like they've been copied and pasted from a prison-based television series.

"Miss Cooper?" The smaller one of the two addresses me.

I nod.

The other one reaches for my bag and I quickly snatch it up. He offers me a flat stare.

"I need to process your bag."

"Hell no."

"It's a requirement upon entry, Miss Cooper. Please hand it over," the first man says in which I'm guessing a nicer manner than I was going to receive from the other guard.

Reluctantly, I hand it over and let them lead me through the gates.

I get patted down several times and walk through a metal detector. I feel sick to my stomach. The air is stiff and cool inside, as if the windows haven't been opened for a few months. I'm ushered through the winding corridors and to my room. I glance at the door, seeing the number '22' in gold lettering. I smile faintly. My lucky number.

"Classes are from nine," the guard instructs, handing me my class schedule and a campus map. When I have a free hand, he passes my bag to me and when I have it swung onto my shoulder, he turns to leave.

I take a deep breath before I open the door. The room is dimly lit and smells strongly of salted caramel. There are two single beds and a small, barred window. The room is small but bigger than I expected. There is a brown and white striped rug sprawled across the floor and thick, gold beads dangling from the window. A girl sits off to the right, her legs folded beneath her, a bowl and a pair of scissors in her hand. She balks at the sight of me and shoves the bowl underneath a pillow, bits of marijuana toppling over the edge.

"Jesus Christ!" she exclaims, frowning down at the spillage. "You scared me half to death."

"I should carry a bell on my collar," I try to joke but my voice comes out hoarse and bitter.

"Would be helpful," she agrees. "Guess my solitude is over."

"Guess so."

She brushes her palms against her thighs as she stands. "I'm Constance."

Her raven-black hair falls down her shoulders in waves, hanging messily at her hips. The darkness of her hair and skin reminds me of a childhood friend I had. Memories I'd rather cut my finger off than to revisit.

"Addison."

"You don't have much stuff," she eyes my bag.

"I travel light."

I swing my bag onto my bed and sit, exhaustion setting in my bones. She is staring at me in an open and slightly confronting way. I'm used to this, my face was plastered over newspapers for weeks.

"I don't know what it is, but damn, you look familiar."

My stomach sinks and I try not to react. "I get that a lot."

"All you white people look the same, that's why," she rolls her eyes and takes her place back where she was. "You smoke?"

"Sure."

"We can go up to the roof and spark up before lights out?"

"Lights out?"

"At nine they turn the lights off and we have to be in our rooms."

"This place is a prison, isn't it?"

"Similar in ways, yeah," she nods. "At least they don't lock the doors. What's your schedule look like?"

I pass it to her, and she studies it. She has long, black nails and I wonder if she is allowed to have them that long. I have no idea what rules there are here.

"We have some classes together. I can show you around."

"Thanks."

It doesn't take long to unpack my things. I survey Constance's night stand, seeing candles, books, a notepad, perfume, jewellery, crystals, and a photo frame with a woman who looks like she would be her mother. I stare at mine, which looks bare in comparison.

"It's time."

"Hmm?"

"Quick!"

I shove my shoes on and follow Constance out of the room. The hall is empty. She explains in a hushed whisper that there is usually a two-minute lapse between shift changeovers, then leads me up a narrow staircase that reeks of mould.

She props the door open with a cement block, before we take a seat on the weathered bench. She lights the end of the joint and sucks in her cheeks, one of her curls springing loose from her bun when she does.

She slides it between my fingers, and I take a deep breath.

"How do you get it?" I ask.

"My brother."

"How do you get it in?" I amend.

"There are ways. I go home for the weekend and have figured out a few ways to get it through."

She takes the joint back from me, inhaling deeply, before letting the smoke billow out of her parted lips. She turns, waving her hand around her, grinning.

"Welcome to Downright High."

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Noticing any similarities? ;)