The small white house with the blue roof that Laurel's family is currently renting sits at a favorable distance from the school she will be attending for the next two years, allowing the young woman to walk to the building. She always enjoys the places where they don't have to live on base and go to schools where the students are almost exclusively American military students. While there is something to be said for everyone being able to relate to you, she tends to prefer the variety of typical public schools. Besides, in this setting she is able to have a job, and has been working at a frozen yogurt place nearby for the past week or so. It's slightly ironic, considering the fact that she is lactose intolerant, but Laurel has heard somewhere that frozen yogurt has some sort of enzyme that allows a person with intolerance to eat it anyway. This isn't something that she is inclined to test, having developed a dislike for dairy of any variety anyway. Still, though she can't eat at her place of work, the pay is decent and the job was easy to acquire, because very few, if any, others applied for the position. Thus started Laurel's weekday activity of standing behind a counter giving out yogurt. It helps her mood that the walls are all windows, and so she can people watch whenever the business is going slowly.
On this particular day, Laurel wakes up perhaps a half an hour before she has to leave, giving her time to shower and dress, and of course get her things together. Not the most organized of individuals, Laurel has one of those sorts of backpacks that require a person to dump everything into them and hope that they can somehow scavenge around and find whatever they need. Her bag is something of a black hole, in fact, and Laurel jokingly suspects that a family of sprite thieves is living in a nest at the bottom, selling her things to the mythical black market. When the young woman was younger, she had once written a story about a mythical black market. Well, it was less of a book and more of several pictures which she thought captured the concept of the story. She had been living in France at the time, and received both quizzical and amused looks from various people after she wandered off base, before returning home.
The young woman is not one for accessories, but her camera seems to always hang around her neck like a treasured necklace that she refuses to remove unless necessary. Laurel brushes her hair half-heartedly, though it works well enough. She has never been the sort to care much about her own appearances, too wrapped up in being enraptured by those of others. Thus she leaves the house in a plain, slightly flowing white dress, and sandals. The outfit is simple, but not unattractive, though it isn't notably fashionable either.
She can walk to school, but takes a bit longer than she ought to, because she stops to take a picture of a girl with beautiful dark hair skating past her. The girl is heading towards the school, so Laurel, to some extent, ends up following her there. Of course, one of the greatest distractions for the young woman is always light shining just so through the patches in trees. She raises the camera and snaps a shot just as the wind rustles the leaves. While the image has no depth of any sort, nor is it likely to be particularly spectacular, she will develop it and add it to her collection of light and leaves.
Content with the photograph, Laurel continues her journey towards the school, soon entering the building. It is her first day of attending this school, but she may recognize some faces from simply seeing them around, or seeing them in the frozen yogurt shop. She doesn't look at her schedule,instead looking at her arm. at her arm, which has the room numbers written on it in a line with no breaks, like a serial number. She doesn't rightly know which number goes to which class, only the order of it. This is meant to be part of the fun, perhaps, but is also partially due to poor planning on her part.
"Room 209," she murmurs, before heading in some direction based on a hunch. Room 209 is, as it happens, on the opposite side of the room from where she is, tucked away downstairs. She will have to follow the numbers and hope that they lead in numerical order to the location. What is more likely to be a problem is the likelihood of her being distracted on her way there.