Move-In Day. 9:00 AM.
Orson & Richard Grey, School Entrance ---> Dormitory
Orson stood with his suitcase and backpack, staring up at the imposing wrought iron gates. Above, a canopy of silver clouds swelled with the promise of rain. Beside him, his aunt and the Director of Admissions engaged in banal conversation.
They were early. Orson brushed a few white cat hairs off of his sweater. He noticed a dead sparrow on the ground and began to salivate.
“Are you sure I can’t come in with him?” asked his aunt in her nasally Jersey accent. Chocolate-brown hair, painted nails, and caked-on makeup almost masked the fact that she was pushing 40. She repeated the question. “Are you sure? I’m just so curious, I mean, I couldn't find any photos online—”
“We think it best that guardians say goodbye here. It makes the transition a little easier,” explained the Director. He had greeted them personally at the gates—a silver-haired, clean-cut, attractive specimen in a stuffy suit. Exactly the type that Orson expected to see here. “You’ll be able to see all of our facilities on Parents’ Day.”
Orson breathed a sigh of relief. Aunt Gabriella was nice, but not the type of person you want making first impressions for you in the viper pit of junior Ivy Leaguers.
He still felt like he was dreaming. He supposed that there must have been a rep at his school scouting for Dyer candidates, that was logical enough—but out of everyone, they chose him? It was rather inconceivable. He felt like any moment they were going to realize their mistake. Like the Director was suddenly going to look at him like an anatomist would look at the wrong species of embalmed toad, clear his throat, and say erm, actually, I’m afraid we must have made a clerical error...
And maybe Orson
wanted him to. This was a considerable departure from the path—that is to say, the next sixteen-odd years of higher education that he had meticulously planned out for himself, with golden nirvana in the form of a plaque that says Dr. Orson Grey, DDS at the end—and he did not like deviations. But it’s not like he could have turned down the invite. Dyer would improve his chances at a college scholarship tenfold. Staying in Jersey would be unmitigated idiocy.
“I’ll be fine,” Orson assured her. “Bye, Aunt G.” Bye, Jersey City. Bye to the home-cooked dinners he’d just gotten used to eating and the three mewling cats who’d finally started to tolerate his presence in the household.
The Director gestured beyond the gates, past the circle drive of what looked to be an administrative building, down a long cobblestone road shaded by trees. “You’ll want to walk straight that way. The dormitory is the big, tall building with the gargoyles. It’s impossible to miss.”
---
Soon, Orson was in the dormitory lounge. The room was lit in warm, rosy tones, with furniture made of old wood and the faint aroma of old books. He sat politely on what looked to be an antique canapé, waiting for others to inevitably arrive. He hadn’t seen much on the way; fog hid most of the campus from him, as if he were in an old computer game with a very short draw distance.
He was just about to plink out a tune on the grand piano when he heard it.
“DUUUDE!” The howl came from the doorway; Orson looked up to see a familiar person. One who looked sort of like him, but shorter and scruffier, with harsher features and unkempt clothing. The boy carried a sticker-covered guitar case and some luggage: a huge black duffel, stained with dirt and falling apart. He walked over to Orson and gave his shoulder a hard slug.
“Rick?” Orson found himself shell-shocked. He blinked, adjusting his glasses. “I’m sorry. I just. Why are you… here?”
His twin flashed a grin. “Because I got accepted into this school. Duh-doy.”
Orson paled. “You got accepted?”
“What, like it’s hard?” he joked, falling onto one of the plush chairs. “It’s fine. I didn’t believe it either, dog. I thought for sure they got our names mixed up.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Orson said. He nervously tapped his fingers on the plastic handle of his suitcase. Okay, this was not happening. It had to be a joke, but there’s no way that Rick had the resources or lack of sense to travel across the country just to mess with him. "I just wouldn't expect you to have, um, gotten here so early! Did... Joy drive you here?"
“Yupperoni. Jesus, you’re out of the loop. Maybe you’d know I’m up to if you would have come home for the summer. Or Christmas,” said Rick, taking out a packet of black licorice from his pocket. “Whatever, dude. Just goes to show what I've been saying all along: you can’t separate the blood brothers.”
Orson's eyes narrowed. Any guilt he felt was replaced by suspicion almost immediately. "You know how much that stuff makes me want to vomit. Seriously, don't send the taste to me. Don’t send--"
"Whoops. Where are my fucks? I seem to have misplaced them," said Rick, ripping off a generous chunk of oil-colored rope and emitting a victory cry of "Blood brothers!" He leapt onto the floor to take evasive action, knocking over a standing lamp. Meanwhile, Orson sputtered with disgust; he was in pursuit, attempting to dash the candy from his brother’s hands, and all of a sudden it was the old days all over again.
"Seriously, stop it—ow, you asshole! Did you ever consider that shit like this might be why I moved
away?!" he cried, inciting a minor scuffle that would continue until someone walked in and made him self-conscious enough to stop.