Libby stands up, giving Mum a bear hug. They embrace for several seconds. I pull my phone out of my bag, glancing at the time. We have at least two hours before lunch—plenty of time for me to work some magic on my sister.
Finally, Mum pulls away. She’s still clutching the sleeve of Libby’s favorite olive-green army jacket—she’s had it for so long, I’m half expecting the damn thing to grow legs and start walking around on its own. “Call me, day or night—if either of you needs me, okay?”
“We’ll be fine, Mummy! Love you!”
“Love you, Mum,” Libby says.
After a few more pained glances, Mum leaves, her heels making muffled clicks on the hardwood floor as she walks down the hallway.
Libby plops back down on the bed. “What’s next?”
I’m already unzipping Libby’s suitcase, throwing clothes onto the bed next to her.
“You’re going to wrinkle everything!”
“You really care if this gets wrinkled?” I ask, holding up a frayed flannel shirt. “No offense, Libby, but most of your clothes are a disaster.” Her face falls, which makes me feel horrible. “I mean, you look super cute right now, of course,” I say, rushing to soothe any hurt feelings.
The girls at Greene House didn’t have to wear uniforms. Libby’s always been more relaxed and bohemian in her clothing choices: she wears lots of long, flowy dresses and pairs her oversized army jacket and combat boots with just about everything. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in a pair of high heels. She’s kind of like an absentminded professor—too focused on her studies to worry about silly stuff like fashion.
I don’t think it’s silly, of course.
“No offense, Charlotte, but I don’t feel the need to impress anybody.”
“Oh, please. People like to be impressed. It’s polite. It makes them feel like you care what they think.” I hold up my hand. “And don’t say you don’t care what they think. Of course you do. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
She raises an eyebrow. “When did my little sister get so wise?”
“I’ve always been a total genius, you just never noticed.” I rummage through her clothes, separating them into two piles: keep and donate. The donate pile outpaces the keep pile five to one.
Libby watches me work. “Am I to gather that all of those”—she points at the rapidly expanding pile of concert T-shirts and stretched-out jumpers—“are clothes you’re not going to let me wear anymore?”
“There’s a charity center in town on the high street. We’ll go this weekend, donate all these grungy old clothes, and then buy you new ones. In the meantime, you can borrow some of mine. You and I are the same size—and mine will actually fit. Lucky you!”
“It’s pointless to resist, huh?”
I nod firmly. “This is all for your own good. We’re going to get you started on the right foot here at Sussex Park.”
Operation Libby has officially begun.
six
Libby can’t stop fretting as we walk to lunch.
“Are you sure I look okay?” she asks, biting her thumbnail as she looks down at her uniform.
I scan her critically. The pleated green-and-white tartan skirt looks juvenile on almost everybody, but since Libby is absurdly tall, it falls above her knee and somehow manages to look chic. “You look great.” She’s wearing the rest of the standard-issue uniform—fitted white button-down shirt and V-neck navy jumper—paired with her favorite black combat boots. I’m dying to get her into a pair of ankle booties, but I know better than to rip the plaster off. With Libby, it’s all about baby steps, and I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.
As we walk down the quad, other students smile at the two of us, a few piping up with “Hey, Charlotte!” as I wave and greet them.
“You’re popular.”
“I’m friendly,” I correct her.
“I can’t wait to finally meet all your friends. I feel like I know them with how much you won’t shut up about them,” Libby says. I roll my eyes, but I’m happy to see her back in a teasing mood.
As we walk into the dining hall, Libby’s eyebrows rise. “Holy hell.”
It’s easy to become immune to the grandeur after spending three years here, but the Sussex Park dining hall is a truly spectacular place. I try to see it through her eyes. The ceiling is tall and vaulted. There are four massive gold-and-brass chandeliers. The hall is long and narrow, and at the far end, there are stained-glass windows. It’s an impressive space.
“Follow me,” I say, winding through the tables as more students greet me. “Over there are the hot foods. That’s the salad bar.” I point to an ice cream station. “The dessert runs out by the end of the night, so you’ll be disappointed if you get here too late.”
My group sits at the very back of the room at their usual circular table. “Hey! Meet my sister. This is Libby.”
They look at her curiously.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” says Flossie. “Seems like we’ve been hearing about this famous sister forever.”
“Or at least for a week,” says Georgie, smiling.
India stands up, her waist-length blond hair engulfing my sister as she hugs her. “Libby. Welcome to Sussex Park.” She looks at Alice and Flossie, who stand up and walk over to Libby, embracing her one by one in a receiving line.
“You have a perfect nose,” Alice says to Libby solemnly. “Is it real?”
Libby looks alarmed. “Um, yes?”
“I’m Georgie! Nice to meet you!” Georgie gives Libby a warm hug.
“Didn’t know you had a sister, Weston,” says Tarquin, staring at her legs.
“I’ve only mentioned it a billion times,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “Thanks for listening.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re visiting?” asks David. There’s a smudge of mustard on his chin, and I discreetly motion toward it. He runs his hands across his face, smearing it further.
“I just transferred in.”
“From which school?” Flossie asks.
“Greene House? In Surrey?”
“One of my cousins went there,” Flossie says. “Thank God you escaped.”
India pulls out the wooden chair next to her, patting it. “Here, Libby. Sit next to me.”
“Have you seen Eds?” I ask, pulling up a chair from a nearby table. “I want him to meet Libby. He texted me an hour ago.”
Everybody shrugs. “I haven’t seen him all day,” India says, taking a sip of her tea.
As the group talks, tossing around jokes and insults, Libby is quiet. She looks around the room a lot, taking everything in and occasionally nibbling on her thumb cuticle. I know her well enough to realize that she’s probably getting overwhelmed.
After forty minutes, Edward is still a no-show. I text him as we leave.
ME: Where r u?
A few minutes later, a response:
EDWARD: Sry, family stuff. Talk later.
I frown. “We should head out,” I say to Libby. She obeys, standing up to leave the dining hall.
“Bye, Libby,” India says. “See you tonight at dinner.”
“Bye!” she says cheerily. “It was nice to meet you all!” Her voice probably sounds normal to everybody else, but it’s higher than usual, which means she’s definitely stressed.
“Watch out for the campus ghost!” Alice calls after her. “His name is Francis. He haunts the library!”
“Is she serious?” Libby mutters to me.