Concordia discors

That first week at St. Scholastica’s I found myself really needing some Sanguinity time to unwind in. Some things about the school were disconcertingly new to me. I’d graciously acquiesced to their demand that I complete two full years there to get a St. Schol’s degree, even though I’d only been a year shy of a degree at my old uni, but some of the particular courses they insisted on were bizarre in the extreme. I say if a language is dead you ought to let it quietly moulder in peace. It’s indecent, unearthing it and making us decline bits of it.

And the rarefied atmosphere was a little difficult to adjust to, even though I’d always thought I rather craved a bit of rarefied atmos. When I first arrived a flock of girls descended on my taxi and made off with my luggage. I climbed out to find myself face to face with Hilda of the S.S.--I mean, sorry to go all Godwin’s Law here, but when she said, ‘I am Ms. Gna, your housemother,’ one couldn’t help thinking the only usage of ‘mother’ one really expected to hear from her was ‘motherland.’ ‘The freshmen always carry luggage in for the upperclassmen,’ she continued, sounding as if she disapproved of both freshmen and their seniors. ‘You will of course have missed the chance to do that,’ she went on, sounding even more disapproving of me. ‘Come with me now to pick up your keys.’

I followed her inside Tia House, my dormitory, to a small office on the ground floor. ‘First you must sign this,’ she said, and produced a document that proved to be an agreement to abide by the school’s rules. I signed it, and she whisked it away, photocopied it, chomped the photocopy with a three-holed punch, and thrust the photocopy and a binder at me.

‘What’s this?’ I asked, accepting the binder.

‘Your copy of the rules,’ she said, and forced the photocopy into my free hand. I stuck it in the binder, and she nodded approval and handed over a set of variously sized keys.

The St. Schol’s rules had to be seen to be believed. I skimmed some of them during the excruciatingly slow lift ride, and became temporarily so engrossed that I accidentally forgot to get out, rode back to the ground floor, and had to go up all over again. The required courses alone boggled credulity, and the section on outside activities was an anachronism of preserved-in-amber calibre. Incoming students, including both ‘freshers’ and transfers, were all but forbidden to work during the autumn and spring terms; even ‘uppers’ were strongly discouraged from holding jobs except during summer term. It was archaic. Luckily I’d held onto my summer earnings, which ought to be enough to cover spending money, but still. I suppose they wanted us available for other things, like the ‘voluntary guest lectures’ in the evenings. ‘Attendance at voluntary events is mandatory for new students,’ the rulebook proclaimed, without so much as a blush or a footnote referencing Orwell.

Uniforms weren’t required, which came as rather a shock, really, after the mandatory volunteerism--and at any rate they seemed to be worn; almost every student I’d seen had been wearing a St. Schol’s shirt or sweater or something, but this was, the rulebook assured me, ‘entirely at the student’s own discretion.’ I decided to err on the side of caution and treat myself to a few wardrobe additions when I visited ye olde school bookshop. I hadn’t any textbooks to buy, since a neat stack of texts had already, courtesy of my scholarship, been delivered to my room, but I did have a long list of supplies and additional readings, mostly novels, which I was ‘strongly advised to purchase before the first class sessions.’ Okay then. I was also, the rulebook ordered me, required to check my mailbox regularly and keep it cleared out ‘for the convenience of the housemother, who will otherwise have to hold your mail in her office.’ The housemother looked capable of eating my mail, so I vowed to stay on top of that.

And some things at St. Schol’s were disconcertingly familiar. That first day, I’d found room 303 without difficulty--it helped that my luggage was piled outside the door. Inside were two each of beds, desks, chairs, computers, closets, and semi-loaded bookcases. Having dragged my stuff inside, I sat down to have a look at the computer, then had a mild attack of nerves and rechecked the rulebook. Yes, it confirmed, the computer was mine to use, but there was a full page on what I couldn’t do with it: infringe on my roommate’s privacy, use speakers instead of headphones, point the webcam at my roommate’s half of the room, etc. Fine by me: I value privacy considerably. I suppose that was a form of foreshadowing, because at this point there was a knock at the door.

‘Who is it?’ I called, not looking up.

‘One of your fans,’ said a sarcastic and awfully familiar voice. It was Jen.

So as I said, what with one thing and another I was really looking forward to the Hockeysticksers’ planned sea voyage to the Patricic Rim. I might have to share a room with Ami Jenever, but at least I could avoid Josh Amos in-game--it was to be, after all, an all-girls’ trip.

Not that I mean to suggest that Jen was horrible to room with, because she wasn’t. As at camp, she seemed to come and go at odd hours, but she was pleasant enough when she was around. She was disconcertingly tidy; she never left clothes out, and kept her bathroom supplies to a bare minimum. She didn’t seem to own any trinkets, just essentials like clothes and electronics and books. Anything else she owned was either locked into her desk or, in the case of a few cards and pictures, thumb tacked to her bulletin board. I found myself being much tidier than usual just to keep up.

‘Tsk, tsk, Mina,’ Jen said one evening that first week, ‘don’t tell me you’re one of those cruel people who sully themselves by reading Fandom_Gossip?’

‘I read Fandom_Gossip religiously,’ I admitted. Really, who doesn’t? It’s like a 1940s Hollywood gossip sheet, all coy innuendo and campy hints, but with linkage.

‘You chant it in a dull monotone and wait for all your wishes to come true?’ Jen asked. I gritted my teeth and issued a revised statement.

‘I read Fandom_Gossip regularly,’ I said calmly.

‘You feature in Fandom_Gossip regularly,’ Jen said, throwing herself down on her bed and folding her arms behind her head. ‘So what’s the latest?’

‘Rumour has it a bitter bunny is leaving Otakukin Awakening over linguistic disagreements,’ I read. ‘No links yet,’ I added. ‘It’s just in the ‘In Brief’ column.’

Jen snorted. ‘She’s still leaving? What, is she stuck in the door or something?’

I skimmed the unlinked hints in the rest of the column and moved on quickly to the heavily attributed gossip of the main section. ‘Doctor’s peace disturbed by generational warfare,’ it began, and the several embedded links led to a handful of private journals (one now flocked with annoying thoroughness, I noticed) where a ginormous argument over chan was raging.

‘Similar trouble is brewing in several cauldrons, and keeping the Girls’ Dormitory up at night,’ F_G continued, and I followed the next set of links with a growing sense of dread. That fandom featuring well-polished wands was, it appeared, acrimoniously ripping itself a faultline over cross-generational fanfiction featuring startlingly precocious schoolchildren, and the rift between the Jolly Hockeysticksers and Holidays had been erased from memory. Now, past differences forgotten, they were forming battlelines based on their ‘support for freedom of speech and open fictional exploration of sexual fantasy’ vs. their ‘utter abhorrence for chan and responsible concern for its effect on its producers, as well as its possible encouragement and normalization of real-life abusers.’ I winced. When even the summaries are that long-winded, you know the levels of outrage are dangerously high.

I messaged Arc. ‘Is this latest chan kerfuffle going to be a problem for Penn’d Passion?’ I asked sympathetically.

‘It already is,’ she admitted.

‘Oh, no,’ I typed. ‘Is it because of Warr1or’s child-version of PrincessB?’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Warr1or’s promised me solemnly that there won’t be any sexual scenes involving PrincessB in his fic, and I’m inclined to believe him. My immediate problem is the Girls’ Dormitory set. They’ve submitted a rash of stories which are stuck in the editorial queue, and they can’t be accepted or rejected until I put some sort of policy in place.’

‘What will your policy be, pro or anti?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘I’m consulting a few legally-minded chums, and I’d also like to talk to a representative from the old school Hockeysticksers.’

‘How about RowanMarlow?’ I offered eagerly. ‘She did her dissertation on girls’ school stories.’ More importantly, she was booked to come along on our sea voyage, so perhaps I could persuade Arc to join us. I didn’t mention that part, but once again she beat me to the punch.

‘She did approach me about using the Honey’d Briar for some trip they’re taking,’ Arc said. ‘Perhaps I’ll say yes after all, and join them.’ She logged off, and I did a private little happy dance around the room.

footnotes

next