The First Day Disaster
Monday, February 10thDear Diary,
Today, I underwent a full-blown personality crisis. Possibly several.
We arrived at St. Augustine's Ladies College — or, as I have renamed it, The Institute of Stifled Potential and Unwashed Denim — at 8:00 a.m. sharp, in a black town car that was clearly too chic for the gravel parking lot we were subjected to. The car was clean, polished, and worthy of a proper New York premiere. The parking lot looked like a donkey had kicked rocks into place and someone decided, "Good enough."
Strike One.
Let's talk about the uniform — that cursed, soul-destroying ensemble.A navy box-pleated skirt that hits mid-knee (so flattering — if you're a Victorian ghost), a short-sleeved button-up with a collar so stiff I thought I was being punished by a priest, and worst of all, black regulation shoes. Not even a tasteful loafer! Just plain, ugly, orthopedic nightmares. I've seen better footwear in retirement homes.
I tried to add a brooch — vintage Chanel, delicate pearl and gold detailing — and was told by a prefect named Alice (who, for the record, has the aesthetic range of a wet sponge) that "non-regulation accessories are prohibited." Prohibited, darling. Like it's contraband.
So I'm attending a reform school, apparently. How festive.
Strike Two.
Orientation began in the Great Hall, which sounds far more magical than it is. Picture long benches, echoing ceilings, a sad little podium, and a display of school trophies that haven't been polished since the invention of indoor plumbing. The Headmistress — Mrs. Penelope Trowbridge — gave a welcome speech filled with words like tradition, excellence, sisterhood and, my personal favorite, modesty. It was like being personally attacked with beige paint.
Then came the student body.
Imagine, if you will, a sea of beige. Beige hair, beige minds, beige ambitions. Every other girl looked like they'd stepped out of a discount catalog for farmhand-themed modest wear. I counted seven variations of the same messy bun. SEVEN. One girl even had the audacity to wear white socks with sandals. I nearly had a cardiac event.
One of them — I think her name was Indigo? Or Imogen? Or something equally Earth Mother-esque — came up to me during break and said:"OMG, I love your accent! Say 'bottle of water' again!"To which I replied, "Say 'dignity' without embarrassing yourself." She didn't get it.
Then she touched my hair.I died.I astral projected out of my body and screamed at the stars.
Strike Three.
And yet… Leonora is thriving. Naturally.
By mid-morning, she'd already been scouted by the lacrosse team, been invited to the art studio by some swoony drama girls, and was sipping green tea like she's already assimilated into this sundrenched cult of mediocrity. She likes it here.
She keeps saying things like, "People seem genuine, Leoni."Yes, well, so does unfiltered milk. Doesn't mean I'm drinking it.
And worst of all? No one here knows us. Back in Manhattan, we couldn't step outside without someone asking for a selfie, or an internship, or a brand collaboration. We were the Cortzel Twins — trendsetters, influencers, icons. Here, we're… blank slates.
Do you know how dangerous that is?
Blank slates can be overwritten. Reinvented. Ignored.
So. We begin again.
Operation Ascendancy is now in effect.
I've started a mental dossier on key players:
Head Prefect Emily Barrister: surprisingly smart, frighteningly ambitious. Must be neutralized or acquired.
Lucie Kravitz (no relation): owns the drama club, possibly a secret tyrant. Hair like an electrocuted poodle, but oddly charismatic.
Georgia Lin: science nerd, but low-key influential. Has the kind of quiet power that could be cultivated. Or crushed.
The Invisibles: a group of girls so socially irrelevant they haven't even noticed Leonora or me yet. Which, frankly, I find offensive.
Also: There's a boy's school across the lake. Saint Matthew's. Apparently, there's a social dance in a few weeks. If I have to endure another week of wearing this polyester prison cloth, I demand at least one opportunity to wear Louboutin heels and utterly dismantle someone emotionally.
In the meantime, my daily goals are simple:
Find decent coffee.
Establish dominance.
Survive the uniform without developing a rash.
Acquire mirrors for dorm room. Current ones are warping my soul.
Rebuild my social following, one shocked Australian at a time.
Wish me luck, Diary.No — wish them luck.They have no idea what's about to hit them.
Flawlessly exiled, but rising,Leoni Cortzel