A Place for Misfits and Mongrels

Freaks, geeks, movers, shakers, and hell, pot brownie bakers… The weirdos, yeah, the weirdos… that’s who we are. There’s nothing particularly wrong with us, no defining characteristic, there’s no stamp of misfortune that’s branded on our foreheads upon birth. We don’t enter unto the world with a flashing neon arrow pointing to us shouting out our societal deficiencies. Yet, somewhere along the line, we’re labeled as the odd balls. We’re the people that just don’t fit in. It’s not for lack of trying, but there’s only so much you can do when the rest of the world decides you’re a little too quirky to be a cool kid. So, nevertheless, we spend our days trudging through trenches of urbanite bullshit just trying to find a place to call our own. God, if only there was a place for people like me… a place for misfits and mongrels.

           “Hinkle! You’ve got mail.” The voice of our dormitory director penetrates my meditation like nails on a chalkboard. I uncross my legs and shuffle across the common room of my all girl’s high school to collect my mail. I’m handed what appears to be a rather weathered envelope with no return address in the top left corner. It smells musty, like it got lost in a sewer line somewhere, and there’s a big italic M in tacky wax stamped across the back seal.

           “Well, well… Stinkle got a love note.” Valerie Brown’s voice finds my ear drums and I immediately contemplate jumping to my death from the school’s clock tower… though, I suppose that’s a bit dramatic. “What’s the deal, Stink? Your boyfriend up for parole or something? Good behavior’s finally paying off?” I roll my eyes as far back into my skull as they’ll possibly go as I turn to face the tall and leggy blonde that’s standing before me. Valerie Brown is one-third honor student, one-third debutant and one-third raging, royal bitch. And she’s a major pain in my ass. Her blue eyes are always sparkling and her blonde hair is always curled. Her petite frame and lengthy stems make her appealing to all the boys, the boys we never see because our parents found it justifiable to sentence us to a hellish education in an ALL. GIRLS. SCHOOL.

           “I told one person I made out with a runaway from juvie one time at a party in middle school, and suddenly I’m dating Johnny the Juggernaut from county lockup? Come on, Val, you can do better than that.” My voice is curt and sarcastic. I shove the letter into the pocket of my torn and tattered jeans and brush my crimson red hair over my shoulder. It falls to the top of my pants in soft waves that look impressively unkempt next to the Barbies that are my classmates.

           “It’s not my fault you’re into slumming it with the delinquents of society, Stink.” Valerie giggles, along with her chorus line of Baywatch clones.

           “Honestly, Valerie, between your riveting social life and totally fulfilling academic career, I’m surprised you’re not more hard-pressed for time. It’s good to know you save some hours in your day just to torment us little people.” I place a jovial hand over my heart and fake endearment.

           “Whatever you say, Stinkle.” I watch as she turns to leave the common room, her plaid, Cambridge skirt twirling about her hips as she does. “Tootle-loo!”

           “Tootle-loo!” I toss my middle finger in the sky as she and her onslaught of future trophy wives exit the building. “Bitch.”

           I make my way to my dorm room on the third floor, and am instantly relieved to see that my pre-assigned roommate, Gemma, is nowhere to be found. Don’t get me wrong, Gemma isn’t as bad as most of the plastic bimbos that pollute this school, but she’s still what they consider normal, thus she’s accepted by society. I, on the other hand, am cast aside like the sludgy, frothy half-milk mixture that’s not exactly whipped cream but not exactly frappe either that’s left in the bottom of your Starbucks cup, which you don’t care about enough to actually drink, so you pitch it. Sludge-froth meet trash can, and Iris, meet the bowels of the adolescent hierarchy that is high school.

           I slump down on my twin bed that’s entirely too short for my thin and lanky body. My black polished fingers find the letter in my pocket and I tear into it eagerly as I wonder who could’ve sent it. Etched in elaborate cursive writing at the top of the stationary is the name of a school… Merriweather’s Education Emporium – A Place for Misfits and Mongrels.

           “Merriweather’s Education… Emporium?” I read aloud to myself. “Dear Iris Olive Hinkle, we hereby formally invite you to attend the spring semester of adolescent learning at Merriweather’s Education Emporium. As one of the world’s leading educators for pre-university youngsters, we pride ourselves on a wonderfully whimsical and outlandishly opportunistic approach to the curriculum we teach. Upon your acceptance into the Emporium, which was indeed approved prior to the distribution of this letter, you will be granted full access to all of the facilities Merriweather’s has to offer its bright young pupils. Though you’ll be learning the same things as every depressed and tired high school across the globe, our atmosphere was designed with students exactly like you in mind. We welcome only the kookiest, quirkiest, and outright most un-ordinary students to M.E.E. Please find directions to our campus attached to this letter, and should you choose to accept your invitation, we will see you for enrollment and orientation on January 10^th. Sincerely, Winifred and Odie Merriweather, headmaster and mistress of M.E.E.”

           I read through the letter several more times, but my confusion remains permanently knitted across my brow. What the hell is Merriweather’s Education Emporium? This cannot be a real thing. I have never even heard of such a school, and now I’m being handed an invitation on a silver platter? How peculiar. I study the letter for what feels like several hours, and put the campus location into the navigator on my cellphone. It’s not far from my current high school, about a two hour drive up the inner-mountain byway. It’s not long before my dorm room is flooded with darkness as the sun sets over campus. I curl up in bed and tuck the letter from the Merriweathers beneath my pillow. Sleep eludes me, however, as my mind swirls with possibilities.

           Soon, far sooner than I’d care for considering my night was far from restful, sunshine is pouring through the blinds of our window, saturating our tiny dorm room in many hues of gold. Gemma is already gone, presumably to breakfast, and I spring out of bed far more excited than when I’d gone to sleep. As my mind prodded at the idea of being a M.E.E. student all night, my confusion eventually turned to curiosity, and now, as I stand in the middle of my bedroom, I’m giddy with excitement as I start to pack my belongings. January 10^th is tomorrow – but I’m blowing this popsicle stand tonight.     

           I spend all day packing and getting myself organized. It doesn’t take me but a few fleeting moments to scamper away from my dormitory, my sad, measly possessions are in tow as I pad across the cobblestone walkways that lead from building to building across campus. The wheel on my suitcase squeaks melodiously as I hustle to my car. The moonlight casts a haunting glow across the stuffy modern buildings of my high school and I’m sure that anyone else might find the touch of fog that’s settled across the grounds to be unnerving, but not me. I can hardly contain the smile that is plastered to my face as I leave this place behind. Merriweather’s Education Emporium is calling me, I can hear it beckoning like a drum. My footsteps quicken as I put one more pace, and then another, between me and the nauseating normalcy of this prep school that’s been my home for far too long. I’m ready to meet my future at M.E.E.

            I drive through the wee-hours of the morning. The roadways are desolate and I can almost hear the permeating silence that surrounds me as my car rumbles down the byway. Mountains that are wrapped in mist and twilight form a gateway to this new chapter in my life. I smile bigger, brighter, as I narrow in on Merriweather’s campus. My GPS informs me that I’m nearly there so I decide to pull off into a dark and silent alcove, just off the main road, to catch a bit of shut-eye. I dream of possibilities as I rest, possibilities of all of the fascinating and magical things that are coming my way tomorrow.

           The sun penetrates my windshield with a tenacity that only the brightest new dawn could bear. My eyes flicker open and I’m overtaken with the newness of morning; I can feel the butterflies waltzing in the pit of my stomach. Today is the day. I start up my engine and pull out, once more, onto the inner-mountain byway. I’m close to the M.E.E. campus, and I can hardly wait to get there.

           “Your destination is on the right.” The British-studded voice of my navigation lady informs me that I have arrived.

           “Eek!” I can’t contain the eager squeal that escapes my lips. I pull into a long, shaded driveway. There’s an intimidating brick archway that adorns it, the words Merriweather’s Education Emporium: A Place for Misfits and Mongrels is etched in stunning copper cursive. I smile. I park my car along the sidewalk and follow the crowd of students that seem to know where they’re going. I hope they do anyways. I can’t help but feel enthusiastic as I take in the crowd of people around me. There’s already so many more people like me. I see a girl with blue hair chatting with a boy who has a nose ring and a tattoo on his arm. I see a young couple holding hands – the girl’s dressed in a pleated skater skirt and the boy has on skinny jeans. There’s no pompous, prestigious polos in sight.

           We all make our way into a rather grand looking building. There’s hundreds of students already gathered, taking their seats in a vast auditorium. I nestle into the end of a row next to a tough looking girl, she’s probably my age. Her short black bob is teased and her eyeliner is winged. She is wearing a tight leather jacket and acid-washed jeans. I silently applaud her nod to the nineties. Brava, senorita, brava!

           “Welcome students!” A rich and hearty male voice thunders through the speakers. “My wife and I would like to personally thank each of you for accepting your invitation to attend Merriweather’s Education Emporium this semester, and we welcome you to our humble and charming campus.” A man, who I take to be Odie Merriweather, says.

           “You should have been handed a packet of welcome brochures, room assignments, keys and class schedules upon your entrance to our grand hall auditorium.” A woman pipes up from Odie’s side, I denounce her to be Winifred. “In just a few short moments, you will all be dismissed to your dormitories, where we hope you’ll find your roommate assignments and accommodations most suitable.”

           “We are greatly looking forward to this semester. Here at Merriweather’s, we pride ourselves on offering the best education possible, while ensuring that each of our students has a whimsical and enchanting place to call their home. We promote individuality and all the kookiness you can stand here, so we encourage you all to be absolutely and irrevocably yourselves.” Odie’s old and papery face morphs into a childlike-smile as he speaks.

           “Now, go find your housing assignments and meet your new neighbors! And on behalf of my husband and I, and all of our fine and fabulous educators here at M.E.E., we welcome you to the best school year you’ll ever experience!” Mrs. Merriweather coos, and as the last words leave her lips, the onslaught of students begin flooding from the auditorium, eager to find their new homes.

           It takes me a short five minute walk to find my dormitory. I’ve been assigned to Fleagel Hall – Room 413. I make my way up a spiral staircase, juggling my suitcases and bags of belongings as I do. The long, mid-century hallway gives way to doors on both sides. Each one has dark, metal numbers decorating the outside, and there’s an old lantern illuminating the doorframe of each. Charming. I pass by several rooms in search of my own – 409, 411, ah, 413. The door is propped open already when I arrive. I walk in to find a charming, albeit quaint, dorm room. There are two beds, one on each side, a large chest of drawers, a reading nook with bookshelves, and two small study desks that rest under a large bay window that overlooks the campus courtyard.

           “Hey.” A female voice penetrates my thoughts. I look up to find the same girl whom I’d sat next to at orientation standing before me. Her leather jacket now rests on the bed that she’s claimed, and a tight band tee adorns her petite figure.

           “Hi there, you must be my roommate.” I extend a hand to greet her.

           “Looks like it,” she half-chuckles. “I’m Ava.”

           “Iris.” I smile as I toss my bags upon my bed.

           “Is this your first semester?” Ava’s voice hums as she continues setting up her living space. She must work fast, as she already has a poster of some indie-emo band up above her bedframe, and there’s an impressive assortment of candles and Polaroid photos sprucing up her desk.

           “It is.” I smile. I begin taking out my wardrobe and hanging it in the closet. “Yours?”

           “Yes ma’am.” Ava flops down on her bed that’s decorated with a black comforter. She has at least fifteen soft and plush pillows from what I can see.

           “This place seems fantastic.” I say.

           “For sure,” she nods in agreement. “Much better than the snooty old private school my mom had me in before I got my invite to this place.”

           “Same.” I roll my eyes. “Prep school.”

           “The worst.” She shudders and we both break out into a fit of giggles. “After we both get settled in and unpacked, do you want to explore for a little bit before dinner?”

           “Sounds great.” I agree.

           We spend the next hour or so setting up our living quarters. Ava’s side of the room takes on a gothic-romantic vibe, while my edgy girl-next-door décor looks like a scene from a retro rom-com movie. But it works. It all works. Soon enough, however, the two of us are meandering around campus soaking up the sights and sounds of M.E.E.

           Each building seems more impressive than the last. They’re all old and made of brick. Vines and flora of all sorts climb up the siding, and shady oak trees line the walkways, making campus feel intimate and safe. Everything about this place feels magical. There are several students roaming about, taking in their new place of learning, just like Ava and I. I fail to see a single leggy blonde in sight, and something about that makes me smile from ear to ear.

           Day one at M.E.E. wears on, and Ava asks if I want to head to dinner. We walk past a building labeled Hall of Heroines and I feel drawn to it like a moth unto a flame. “I’ll join you in just a few, okay?”

           “Sounds good.” Ava waves as she pads off to the dining hall.

           I walk into the Hall of Heroines. It’s dark and smells faintly of must and old books. There are a few candelabras illuminating the entryway. I weave through the hallways of the building until I come upon the main foyer. It’s an intimidating room – vaulted stained glass ceilings let in moonlight and there are dozens of large, painted portraits of women lining the walls. I stop in front of one to read the plaque. Winifred Merriweather – Headmistress and Fencing Champion, 1952. I smile. It’s the headmistress when she was a student. Each woman in the photos looks poised but not pompous, educated but not entitled. They are unique, each lady different than the last. Some have quirky hair-dos, some have piercings and tattoos, and some are dressed entirely from a time that’s not their own.

           “A Place for Misfits and Mongrels.” I read a large scroll aloud that rests over the entryway. I feel a sense of comfort, of warmth, in the pit of my stomach. I turn and look at the Hall of Heroines once more. “This place really is magical, it’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen before.” As I turn to leave the building, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection of a trophy case. My dark-washed jeans hug my hips and my red and wavy hair falls in idiosyncratic tendrils. There’s a smile on my face that seems so genuine, and I can’t help but snicker at the gap between my two front teeth – something that I always hated, but that suddenly seems so charmingly unique. I smile at my reflection.

“A Place for Misfits and Mongrels…” I let out a long sigh of contentment. “A place for people… Just. Like. Me.”

           THE END