Story: Biometrics don't lie. Part 14.

by Melissa

Part 14. Glimmers of hope.

This was the first day of my second week at Elmwood Academy. It was still early morning, the first bell a distant threat in the quiet halls, but I couldn't wait any longer. Every second counted. After straightening my apron and maid's cap and scanning my fingerprint to open the door, I crept out of my cramped quarters in the maid's dorm, the stolen hours of sleep clinging to my eyelids like cobwebs. In my hand, I clutched the completed assignment, a testament to my nearly sleepless night. The hallway echoed with the soft thud of my steps as I navigated the labyrinthine corridors towards the student lockers.

I soon reached my destination, a stylish locker adorned with an elegant plaque bearing the name "Melissa Jones" and which should have been mine. I reached to the locker and put my fingerprint on the scanner. "Fingerprints recognized and identity as school maid Melissa Jones verified and authenticated. Access to student Melissa Jones' locker denied." Of course, the locker - my locker - was programmed to be used by the delinquent girl who had stolen my identity, not by me.

Suddenly a figure materialized from the shadows. It was the delinquent girl herself. Startled, I almost dropped the assignment. The girl, clad in her pristine schoolgirl uniform, eyed me with suspicion and a defiant scowl, a smirk twisting her lips. "Early bird, aren't we?" she drawled, her voice rough with sleep.

Caught off guard, I stammered, shoving the assignment towards the girl. "I, uh, I finished your assignment."

The girl took the paper with a disinterested shrug, not bothering with a thank you. Then, to my surprise, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled banknote. "For your troubles," she mumbled, thrusting the money into my hand.

I stared at the low-value banknote, torn between relief and hesitation. Taking money felt wrong and it was a very small sum, yet it might come in handy as I was completely penniless after all my means of payment had been confiscated on my arrival at Elmwood Academy. "Thank you, Miss... Jones," I stammered, dropping a clumsy curtsy out of habit.

A snort escaped the blonde delinquent girl's lips. "Seriously? You can't even curtsy properly?"

Shame burned my cheeks. "I... I apologize, Miss Jones," I mumbled, forcing myself to try again. This time, the curtsy was better, but still far from the elegant swoop I had been taught by the head maid.

The girl eyed me with a smirk. "Alright, alright, clumsy maid. You want something, don't you?"

My heart hammered against my ribs. "Yes, Miss Jones. I... I was hoping you might tell Miss Agnès, the receptionist, that I helped you with the assignment."

The delinquent girl's smirk widened. "And why would I do that?"

"Because it would show that I care about the school and the students, not just about myself," I pleaded. "It might convince Miss Agnès to trust me."

The girl considered this for a moment, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Maybe," she drawled. "But only if I get a very good grade."

Hope surged through me. "I'm sure you will," I said earnestly. "It's a good assignment."

A sliver of doubt sliced through my hope. This girl, this delinquent I was forced to rely on, held the key to my freedom. Yet, the price – helping her to obtain a good grade through dishonest means – felt heavy in my stomach. But what choice did I have?

The blonde delinquent girl snorted, a humourless sound. "I'll think about it. But for your own sake, the assignment has better be very good," she said. "Just next time, type it. My handwriting is bad enough already without yours on top of it." 

I blinked. "I'm not allowed access to any electronic devices," I explained. 

The girl raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? This means I will have to type it myself. That sucks," she said. Then, with disdain, she looked down at me and snarled, "Well, aren't you going to tell me what it says?" 

I swallowed hard, trying to maintain my composure. "I... I wrote about how Luther's concept of absolute freedom led to unintended consequences, how it didn't address economic inequalities and how that eventually led to the rise of capitalism and even more inequality." 

As I spoke, the delinquent girl's expression slowly turned from contempt to confusion. "Wait, what? You mean the Reformation and all that?" she asked, clearly disbelieving. 

I nodded, feeling a mixture of anger and desperation. "Yes, that's exactly what I mean. Luther's idea of absolute freedom was revolutionary, but it didn't take into account the economic realities of the time. As a result, the lower classes remained trapped in servitude, and the upper class ultimately used that freedom to solidify their power through capitalism." 

The girl raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised my articulate explanation. "Huh. Well, that's actually pretty interesting. I guess I never really thought about it that way," she said, looking through the papers. 

I felt a surge of satisfaction at having gotten through to the other girl, even if it was only for a moment. "Yeah, it's kind of ironic, isn't it? Luther wanted to free people from religious oppression, but he ended up unintentionally helping to create a new kind of oppression in its place." 

The delinquent girl seemed to be thinking about this as she continued to flip through the pages of the assignment. "Huh. I guess that makes sense. But, now get lost. I have a reputation to uphold. I can't be seen discussing with a lowly maid like you." 

My heart sank at the girl's words. I hurriedly dropped a curtsy and backed away, afraid of angering her. With the crumpled banknote still clutched in my hand, I hoped that what just happened would, in the end, help me to reclaim my identity. Relief warred with a gnawing sense of guilt as I hurried towards the communal kitchen, desperately hoping I wouldn't be late. 

I scurried through the halls of Elmwood Academy, my heart racing as I tried to make up for lost time. The kitchen, where I was supposed to start my shift, loomed ahead of me. The scent of freshly baked bread and brewing coffee filled the air, tantalizing my senses despite the early hour. I paused outside the door, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. I fumbled to put fingerprint on the scanner. The device beeped and the door unlocked with a click. 

As I stepped inside, a wave of disappointment washed over me. Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, was already there. She stood at the centre of the kitchen, her face contorted with fury. "You're late, you incompetent excuse for a maid!" she screeched. "You think this is a game, girl?" she continued, her voice a low growl. "You think you can just waltz in here and do whatever you want." 

The other maids, all dressed in their crisp uniforms, looked on me disapprovingly. A hot wave of shame washed over me, battling with a surge of anger. Every instinct screamed at me to defend myself, to reveal my true identity, but logic clamped its icy grip around my throat. Utterance of the truth would only bring down a storm of punishment, making my already precarious situation even more dire. 

"I'm sorry, Ma'am," I mumbled instead, knowing it would do little good. "I got delayed. I didn't mean to make you wait." 

Mrs. Henderson's expression only grew more stern. "Delayed, you say?" She snorted derisively. "Well, we don't have time for such nonsense here, girl. You should have been here on time, just like everyone else." She gestured to the other maids, who watched me with a mixture of disapproval and amusement. 

"Maybe you haven't learned your lesson yet," Mrs. Henderson continued, her voice softening a fraction. "Maybe a taste of real work will straighten you out." 

My gaze fell to the worn mop propped against the wall. Real work? This wasn't work; it was punishment. Each scrubbed floor, each emptied trash can, each ironed student's uniform felt like a brick being laid on my dreams. Back home, I dreamt of excelling in my classes, of making friends, of a future filled with possibilities. But here, in this kitchen, the future looked bleak. 

"Now get to work, girl," Mrs. Henderson barked at me. "We have a hungry school to feed." 

With a sigh, I reluctantly began to obey. As I scurried to obey, the small victory of the completed assignment suddenly felt insignificant in the face of Mrs. Henderson's relentless hostility. Yet, a flicker of hope remained. Maybe, the delinquent girl would keep her word and tell Agnès about the assignment. With any luck, this would be enough to convince the receptionist to pass on my letter of apology to Maria, and would be another step on persuading my former family maid to vouch for my identity. But in the meantime, I would work diligently, trying to remain invisible and avoiding any further confrontation with the head maid. So I busied myself with scrubbing pots and pans, washing dishes, and preparing vegetables for the day's cooking. 

*** 

Later that morning, the hallways of Elmwood Academy gleamed beneath my scrub brush as I knelt on the spotless linoleum. The polished wooden floors reflected my every movement, the smell of lemon cleaner and dust wafting through the air. As I scrubbed, my ears perked up at the sound of a group of teachers gathered near the staff lounge, their voices hushed but filled with excitement. "Mrs. Cavendish is back from her conference," one teacher murmured to another, "and I understand our biometrics system was a big hit. Apparently, she really impressed everyone with it. This could be a major turning point for the school's reputation." 

My heart skipped a beat. Mrs. Cavendish was the dean, the only person who, according to Agnès, the receptionist, could fix the error in the biometrics system and give me my life back. I continued scrubbing, my mind racing. I wanted nothing more than to walk up to Mrs. Cavendish and tell her the truth about my identity. But the thought of facing her was terrifying. She was known for her stern demeanour and unforgiving nature, as well for her unfaltering confidence in the biometrics system. What if she didn't believe me? Would I end up getting punished even more? On the other hand, if I didn't go to Mrs. Cavendish, there was a good chance that no one would ever believe my story. I was already being treated like the delinquent Melissa, and it seemed to be getting worse by the day. 

I took a deep breath and steeled myself. I couldn't keep living like this. I had to try something, even if it meant facing the most feared woman at Elmwood Academy. With determination in my heart, I decided to go and find Mrs. Cavendish as soon as Mrs. Henderson, the head maid, would be too busy to check on me. 

A moment later, as Mrs. Henderson had to answer an urgent phone call, I decided to make my way to the dean's office. My heart pounded in my chest as I hurried through the empty hallways, careful not to make any noise that might attract unwanted attention. I knew that if Mrs. Henderson caught me, there would be severe consequences. My mission was simple: find Mrs. Cavendish, the strict dean of Elmwood Academy, and tell her about the identity mix-up that had led me to being mistaken for a delinquent student. 

Finally I found the dean's office. My fingertips traced the cool metal of the doorknob, and I took a deep breath before knocking. "Um, Mrs. Cavendish? My name is Melissa... Melissa Jones. I... I need to speak with you, please." 

There was a moment of silence before the door opened a sliver, with a grating screech. Two icy blue eyes, devoid of warmth, drilled into me through the gap. They raked dismissively over my starched maid's uniform, a clear sign of their disdain. Finally, the dean spoke, her voice a guttural growl that sent shivers down my spine. "What is it, girl?" she demanded, her voice like ice. 

I dropped a curtsy and swallowed hard. "Excuse me Ma'am, I... I have something important to tell you. There has been a mix-up... I have been mistaken with another girl..." I trailed off, my voice fading as the dean's expression turned even colder. 

"You have no appointment, girl," Mrs. Cavendish said sharply. "And I don't have time for your foolishness. Now, get out of my sight before I have you punished for wasting my time." With that, the dean slammed the door in my face, leaving me standing there, heart pounding and tears stinging my eyes. I knew I couldn't just give up, but how could I possibly get through to Mrs. Cavendish? The answer, it seemed, was that I couldn't do anything right away. 

I glanced around, unsure of what to do next. On my way back to my scrubbing duties, I went through the reception area. Agnès, the receptionist, was at her desk, glaring at me. I wanted to go to her, to ask for help, but I was unsure she would be willing to assist me. And I was also afraid of the consequences if Mrs. Henderson caught me. So I took a deep breath and hurried back to my work. Luckily, I was already scrubbing the floors and polishing the banisters when the head maid finally came back. She looked at me suspiciously but remained silent. 

*** 

A couple of hours later, I winced as a stray pebble dug into my palm. Scrubbing the hallway floor on my hands and knees was becoming a wearisome routine. Sweat trickled down my forehead, blurring my vision. The image of the group approaching – four girls, their immaculate and flawlessly ironed schoolgirl uniforms - probably ironed by me - a stark contrast to my stained cleaning clothes – did little to alleviate my misery. 

Leading the pack was the other Melissa Jones, the blonde delinquent girl. Her face held a mask of nonchalant boredom. Her blonde hair was tamed into a neat braid. With a defiant glint in her eyes and a smirk playing on her lips, she wore my stolen identity. Her schoolgirl uniform – the one I should have been wearing – looked crisp and pristine. I couldn't help but notice how easily the girl had slipped into the role of a privileged student. In contrast, my maid's uniform, scratchy and damp with sweat, felt like a constant reminder of the laborious reality I inhabited. 

The girls stopped on the other side of the corridor, their voices buzzing with the day's gossip. "Philanthropy as a Tool?" the delinquent girl scoffed. "More like manipulation 101, wouldn't you say? It's all about looking good, right?  Dumping a few bucks at a charity gala while your family fortune is built on exploiting sweatshops in third world countries." 

"Exactly," another girl chimed in, her voice dripping with cynicism, "We throw a few crumbs to the poor, take a million-dollar photo op, and suddenly we're Mother Teresa." 

A third girl adjusted her designer sunglasses, a glint of something unreadable flickering in her emerald eyes. "Charities are just a tax write-off for our parents. A way to control the narrative, make them look good while keeping the poor dependent on us." 

The previous girl retorted, her voice laced with boredom. "It's like throwing a bone to a starving dog. Keeps them quiet for a while." 

My breath caught. "Philanthropy as a Tool" – that was the kind of conversation I'd had with my parents before coming to Elmwood! A surge of anger bubbled within me. Here was that impostor, discussing topics from the Elmwood curricula with ease, while I was an invisible servant reduced to menial labour. 

Suddenly, the delinquent girl's eyes darted on my direction. I held my breath, fearing I'd been discovered. But no, the blonde's gaze lingered not on me, but on a crumpled candy wrapper lying on the floor a little further away. She kicked it and sent it flying away. 

The conversation of the girls continued, a masterclass in obliviousness. They reached the corner and turned, their designer bags swinging carelessly. Not a single glance was spared in my direction, not a hint of recognition for my hard work. I stared after them, a bitter taste in my mouth. 

*** 

Later, during the afternoon, as I shuffled past in the reception area, the familiar weight of the mop and bucket a constant reminder of my predicament, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease. My namesake, the blonde delinquent girl, was just stepping forward to speak with Agnès, the receptionist. Curious, I ducked behind a large potted plant and craned my neck to listen in. 

Agnès, the ever-patient receptionist with a kind smile and knowing eyes, looked up from her paperwork. Recognition flickered across her face, followed by a flicker of surprise. "Miss Jones? Can I help you with something?" she asked the girl, her voice gentle. 

The blonde girl took a deep breath. "Uh, hi Agnès," she stammered, uncharacteristically shy. "There's something I need to tell you... It's about Melissa, the redhead community service girl." 

Agnès' brow furrowed. The air crackled with unspoken tension. "Melissa? And what about her?" 

I couldn't help feeling a twinge of sadness hearing the blonde delinquent girl being the one called "Miss Jones" at Elmwood Academy, while I was just "Melissa" or "girl" for everybody. 

Taking a deep breath, the blonde girl forced the words out. "Melissa helped me a lot with an assignment last night. Stayed up way past lights out, actually. I just wanted to let you know..." 

Agnès' eyes widened. A sigh escaped her lips. "Miss Jones, I know who you really are. This isn't fair to Melissa." 

The blonde girl's jaw dropped. Shock washed over her, leaving her momentarily speechless. "What... what do you mean?" she finally stammered. 

"Don't play dumb, Miss Jones," Agnès said, her voice laced with disappointment. "We both know you're not who you pretend to be. There was a mix-up upon your arrival, and you've been masquerading as a student ever since." 

"That's ridiculous!", the blonde girl insisted, "Melissa is a liar! She keeps trying to tell everyone I stole her identity, but it's not true!" 

I was about to intervene and protest, but, then, I noticed Sabrina, another school maid, who was emerging from the hallway. I tensed, afraid that Sabrina would spot my hiding spot. I knew that Sabrina had been assigned to keep an eye on me, and that being caught not working could lead to yet another punishment, so I ducked back behind the plant, deciding not to interrupt the conversation after all. 

Agnès studied the blonde girl with a mix of sadness and pity. "Miss Jones, I understand you're in a difficult situation, but lying only makes it worse. Melissa, the real student, is stuck doing menial tasks as school maid while you enjoy the benefits meant for her. Is that fair?" 

The blonde girl remained first silent. "Melissa... she is a liar,"  she then said. "But one thing is genuine with her: she really wants to study. In fact, when I showed her my course notes, so she could help me with my assignment, she was the one who thanked me despite being the one helping me." 

Agnès raised an eyebrow, a flicker of interest replacing suspicion. "She did?" 

The delinquent girl reached into her bag and pulled out a stack of neatly organized notes. "I take notes in every class," she continued. "Can you give them to her... so she can at least study at night. And when the time comes, I'll also try to convince the teachers to let her attend classes." 

Still hidden behind the plant, I stood there, dumbfounded. The delinquent girl, the very source of my troubles, had acknowledged my work and even offered help? The world seemed to tilt on its axis. 

Agnès's gaze softened. She accepted the notes with a gentle smile. "Thank you, Miss Jones. At least... this is a start." 

"Can you... can you tell Melissa that she did a stellar job with my assignment?" the blonde girl asked hesitantly. 

Agnès nodded, a knowing glint in her eyes. "I will, Miss Jones. I will." 

I waited until both Sabrina and the blonde girl had left the reception area before stepping forward to the reception desk. Agnès, the receptionist, had been so angry with me before, but now she seemed... different. Her posture was less rigid, her expression less harsh. Perhaps, she was willing to help me after all. 

"You know, Melissa," Agnès began, her voice a gentle rasp, "I just wanted to say again how impressed I was with how you handled things with, well," she lowered her voice slightly, "your counterpart." 

I felt a blush creep up my neck. "I, uh, I did my best to help her with the assignment, Miss Agnès," I stammered. 

Agnès chuckled. "Don't be modest, dear. It takes a lot of courage to stand up for someone, especially when you're in the situation you are." Leaning forward conspiratorially, she added, "And you know what? I had another look at your letter of apology to Maria and, now that I've had time to think about it, I think your were sincere after all." 

My heart skipped a beat. "Really? You believe me at last?" 

A mischievous glint appeared in Agnès' eyes. "I'll be calling Maria tomorrow," she declared, "and ask her if she still wants to receive your apology letter and that one-hour video of you scrubbing the floor in your maid's uniform." 

My jaw dropped. Agnès, the receptionist, was willing to intervene on my behalf again? Overwhelmed with gratitude, I could only manage a choked, "Thank you." 

"There's more," Agnès continued, her smile widening. "Your...counterpart... she seemed quite impressed with your work on the assignment. Apparently, you did a 'stellar job,' according to her." She winked. "She even left her latest course notes for you to study. I will leave them for you on the counter by the staff restroom," Agnès said, gesturing towards a discreet doorway hidden behind a potted plant. "You probably wouldn't want the head maid to see you borrowing notes from a student." 

"Thank you, Miss Agnès," I said, expressing my relief. "You are simply the best." But even as one problem dissolved, another loomed. "I'm afraid I have another issue," I confessed. "I've been trying to reach Mrs. Cavendish this morning, but she didn't want to talk to me. I don't know what to do." 

Agnès regarded me with sympathy. "I understand how frustrating that must be for you, Melissa. However, I believe I may have a solution. As the receptionist, I have access to Mrs. Cavendish's calendar. If you'd like, I can make an appointment for you to speak with her later this week." 

"Really? You'd do that for me?" I asked, hardly daring to hope.

 Agnès smiled warmly. "Of course, Melissa. I understand that you've been through a great deal, and I want to help you however I can. But be careful when you talk to Mrs. Cavendish. She is quite strict." 

"I already noticed that," I admitted. 

"Now, let me take a look at Mrs. Cavendish's calendar," Agnès told me. She clicked a few keys on her computer before looking up at me again. "I see her schedule is quite full, but I've managed to find an opening tomorrow during the afternoon. Would that work for you?" 

I nodded eagerly. "Yes, that would be perfect, Miss Agnès. Thank you so much." I hesitated for a moment, then asked, "Do you think she'll actually be willing to help me? I've tried talking to her before, but she didn't seem very interested." 

Agnès' expression turned solemn. "I understand your concern, Melissa. However, I believe Mrs. Cavendish will listen to you this time, provided that you have an appointment. She has always been supportive of the Biometrics system, and she'll want to make sure that it's working properly. I'm sure if you can explain your situation clearly and convincingly, she'll listen and do whatever she can to help." 

After thanking Agnès, I picked up the bucket and mop and left, a newfound determination coursing through my veins. The path ahead was still uncertain, but for the first time since arriving at Elmwood, I felt a flicker of control. With Agnès' support and the delinquent girl's unexpected assistance, maybe, I might be able to navigate this bizarre situation and reclaim my rightful place at Elmwood Academy.