Finding Tom by Simeon Harrar Read Free Book Online Page B

walked alone with my bags in hand.
    As I came around a corner, Locklear University rose before me, situated elegantly on a hill overlooking the quaint town. A large stone arch stood at the entrance to the lower grounds, while cobblestone walkways wound their way up the hill, converging at an enormous chapel. Oh, that chapel, that breathtaking bastion of gray hewn stone rising into the sky, seemed to rest just beneath the clouds. Its drab walls were covered in stained glass that appeared to light up as if on fire when struck by the sun. The rest of the crowd shoved past me as I stared in awe like a gawking tourist. Climbing the steps up the hill, I passed between more gray buildings covered in the most elegant fashion by strings of green ivy. Ancient oak trees towered above, covering the campus in cool shade. This was a place of history and society.
    Hopelessly unprepared and unsure of myself, I followed the people wandering around looking for the right building, wherever that might be. Snobbish-looking students with badges seemed to be directing the flow of newcomers. At last, I was given a packet of information and pointed in the direction of the freshman dormitory, where I checked in at the front door. An old, rather miserable-looking fellow was handing out room assignments. He seemed to size me up, looking at my pathetic clothing and then shaking his head as if in dismay over the fact that anybody could get into Locklear these days. “Room 221,” he barked, and I plowed ahead before he could say anything else.
    Before me stood a large, open room with two sets of stone steps curving upwards. The floor was covered with a thick carpet, and a gaudy chandelier hung from the ceiling. Along the walls sat heavy upholstered furniture with carved ebony feet. The grotesque extravagance made me feel uncomfortable as I climbed up to my room. I entered a long corridor with doors spaced evenly on both sides, each with a shiny brass number. Navigating my way through the people and their piles of luggage, I arrived at a room marked by a bright, burnished number 221.
    I barged through the door and immediately saw that I was the latecomer. One side of the room was already decorated very handsomely. A writing desk was fully furnished with pens, paper, and even a typewriter, while the bed was made up without a wrinkle or crease to be seen. Suit coats and jackets were hung with precision alongside pressed pants. My side looked shabby and bare by comparison. The room was rather small, despite the extravagant makings of the building itself. I placed my suitcases on my mattress and flipped open the lid. I stared at the few paltry items lying listlessly inside. One set of worn sheets, no pillow, two sets of slacks, one pair of jeans, a few pairs of shorts and t-shirts, holey socks, one brown and one black pair of shoes, and a pile of yellow pencils rubber banded together. The other suitcase carried in it a random assortment of secondhand books and a few paper notebooks of my writings. The books fit neatly above my bed, and I tried to spread out the pencils to take up space.
    I sat on the bare bed, staring glumly at the floor, trying to fight the feeling of depression slithering in as I realized what I’d gotten myself into. I did not belong here. I could hear laughter seeping in underneath the door, and it made me anxious. I hated the hideous chandelier I’d walked under and the huge arch and the perfectly groomed lawn and hedges. This place was everything I was not. I was just a little country boy far away from home, even more alone now than I’d imagined. I lay down on the bed, wallowing in my misery as I stared at the blank ceiling. If I could have, I would have walked out of that pompous castle right then, but I couldn’t go home. On top of that, I reminded myself how Dr. Emory had vouched for me, and I couldn’t disappoint him. I had to prove that I belonged.
    I have found that misery and spare time are not good bedfellows. They tend to