I look around my room, feeling proud. I might not be able to cook to save my life, but I pride myself on my eye for design. Libby thinks it’s ironic that I’m into do-it-yourself design, since my tastes are way more expensive than hers, but I love the feeling of taking chaos and clutter and creating something beautiful. I’ve downloaded a few new DIY apps recently and got inspiration for both a lampshade and a photo collage that I want to make soon.
“It looks fantastic! You’re so talented, Charlotte.” Libby keeps trying to push me into doing design professionally, but I wouldn’t even know where to begin. I still have years to worry about things like a career.
I put my hand on Libby’s back and gently usher her up another flight of stairs and down the hall toward her room. The inside of Colvin is just as majestic as the outside—wide hallways, vaulted ceilings, a marble floor covered with an expensive though ancient navy carpet—but the cluttered walls make it clear that teenagers live here. They’re covered in tacked-up notices, drawings, sport flyers, wrinkled sheets of paper with emergency phone numbers and email addresses, and lists of rules and regulations long ago faded yellow. Room thirty-eight is the last one at the end of the hall: it’s cold and empty. I wonder who used to live here and then remember: it was Indira Bhatti, the Bollywood teen pop star. She left school unexpectedly in the first week because of a TV show in Mumbai. Rumor is she’s being homeschooled.
There’s a stripped single bed, empty shelves, and a view of the quad in the distance.
“It needs a little bit of love,” I say. The bed lets out a loud squeak when I sit on it.
She settles next to me on the bed. We sit in silence for a few moments, and I realize that Libby is doing that thing where she retreats inside herself. It’s been her way of coping with stress since we were little. She starts chewing on her cuticle, and I reach over and gently swat her hand away from her mouth.
“You’re going to do great, Libs,” I say, knocking her foot gently with my own. “I’ve got your back.”
“Thanks, Lotte. Do you think this was a mistake?”
“It was not a mistake,” I say firmly. “I know it’s scary, but it’s a good change. We’re together the way we always should have been.”
She smiles, leaning her head on my shoulder. “I agree. Thank God you didn’t follow me to Greene House, otherwise we’d both be up the river.”
“See?” I joke. “You should always just do exactly what I do.”
My phone vibrates: it’s a text from Edward. I hold the phone up so Libby can see it. “I still can’t get over it,” I confess to her. “Me and Prince Edward. Beyond, right?”
“Completely beyond. How are things going with him?”
“Good. He lives across campus, in one of the senior boy dorms. Stuart Hall.”
“No complaints so far?”
“Mmm, not really.”
“Not really, or none?”
“I mean, maybe just one. He’s private. Like, really private.”
Libby looks at me blankly, as if she’s waiting for me to continue. When I don’t, she says, “That’s all?”
“Yeah . . . why?”
“What were you expecting, Lotte?” she asks, laughing. “Did you think he’d start Snapchatting your dates?”
“Ha.”
“Instagramming your meals? Live-tweeting your jokes during Strictly Come Dancing?”
“You’re hilarious. Keep it up.”
“Okay, so other than the famously private guy you’re dating not taking out a full-page ad in the Guardian about the two of you, how is everything else going?”
“Well, Ms. Smart-Arse, I’ll have you know we eat all our meals together every day, and he comes over after dinner every night. Last night, he was here until almost one in the morning.”
Libby’s eyebrows widen. “One in the morning?”
“Yup.”
“Are boys allowed in the rooms? And don’t you have bed check?”
“We’re supposed to, but our head of residence is about ninety years old and has been here for decades. She did one official bed check the first day of school, but that’s it. She hasn’t seen the inside of my room once. And no, boys aren’t allowed in.”
“What about the head of house?”
“Arabella? She doesn’t care. She only took the job to get a better room.”
“That’s surprising. My residence head at Greene House knocks on each door one by one every night and talks to every girl.”
“Kind of pointless, when you consider that it’s an all-girls school—and no more talking about Greene House!”
“Ugh, sorry, bad habit. What was Edward doing here at one in the morning?”
“What do you think? We weren’t talking.”
“Charlotte! Are you sleeping with him?”
“No, no, no. Nothing like that. I mean, something like that, but . . . we just snog. Fool around a little bit. He’s barely seen me with my shirt off.”
“Are you going to sleep with him?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.”
“How old is he?” she asks.
“Seventeen. Eighteen in the spring. His birthday’s the week before yours, actually.” Unlike most students in her year, Libby is already eighteen. My dad was transferred by BP to Germany for a year when I was two and Libby was four. When we returned, my parents decided to hold her back a year in school.
She nods. “Be careful. We had three pregnancies at Greene House last year.”
“At Greene House? Who were they sleeping with?”
“Campbell Hall was down the road. All boys. Maybe you should go on the pill,” she says. “Or an IUD—just in case.”
“In case I’m so overwhelmed by princely passion that I simply can’t bear it, throw him to the ground, and spontaneously have my way with him?”
She giggles. “Something like that. Plus it’ll help regulate your periods. Win-win.”
“Maybe you’re right. I can get some at the infirmary here.”
“Would they have to call Mum and Dad?” she asks, looking alarmed.
“Shit. I didn’t think of that. I don’t know. I’ll have to ask around.” I pause. “But wouldn’t that be crazy? To lose my virginity to Prince Edward? Do you think there’s a big fanfare when he has an orgasm? Duh-duh-duhhh! Presenting . . . the royal load!”
She clasps her hands over her mouth, pulling a disgusted face even as she laughs. “Too much! You’re so gross!”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the big sister?”
We giggle.
After a few seconds, she says, “Just don’t sleep with him only because he’s a prince, okay? And definitely don’t sleep with him without protection.”
“Libby, come on. Cut me a little bit of slack. I’m not an idiot.”
Of course I’ve wondered what it would be like to lose my virginity to Edward, but I’m not ready yet. I don’t know what I’m waiting for, but I imagine I’ll know it when I feel it.
Mum pushes the door open. “Here we go!” She rolls Libby’s suitcase into the room. “Isn’t this cozy! You’ll be able to decorate this room nicely, Libby.”
Libby and I shoot each other panicked looks. Judging by Mum’s cheery manner, she didn’t hear us talking about sex. Now that would be awkward.
“Thanks, Mum,” I say, standing up and giving her a hug. “We’ll call you later tonight. Have a great drive home, okay?”
Her face falls, but she quickly smiles. “I guess I should leave you be.”