“I wasn’t being insulting.”
“Are you serious? You called him arrogant. You said he wasn’t impressive at first glance. You said he wasn’t better than anybody else and implied he’s stuck-up. Jesus, Libby. People skills. Learn them.”
Her face reddens. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Lotte. I wasn’t trying to insult him, honestly.”
She looks over at Edward, who is listening intently and nodding, saying, “Yes . . . Yes . . . I understand . . . You don’t need to remind me . . . I’ll be there . . . Of course,” over and over.
“It must be stressful being him. He seems kind. I feel sorry for him, actually.”
“You feel sorry for Edward?” I snort. “Now you’ve officially lost your marbles. Shh, he’s coming back.”
He walks back to us, smiling tightly. “Sorry for that. Shall we?”
“Everything okay?” I ask him.
“Mmm-hmm,” he says. I’m not convinced but don’t want to press him further.
Suddenly, Libby stops. She pivots on one heel and says sharply, “Edward. Charlotte. Follow me right now.”
We follow her, looking at each other wide-eyed as she whips around the corner and then turns into a village shop.
“Have you lost it?” I ask her. “What’s with all the MI6 stuff?”
“There was a photographer,” she says. “Hiding behind the fountain in the town square.” As she’s talking, a heavyset balding man rushes by, looking frantically right and left while holding a camera. He passes by the shop without spotting us.
Edward lets out a sharp puff of breath. “I didn’t even see him. Thank you so much. I hate the bloody paparazzi.”
“I figured,” she says.
As we walk back through the campus gates, I feel a pebble in my shoe. My leg is a bit sore from hockey practice, so I stop walking, hopping on one leg to excavate the piece of gravel from my ballet flat. I look ahead, about to catch up with Libby and Edward, when I stop in my tracks.
They’re walking side by side, their steps in sync. While I’m always racing to catch up with Edward’s long strides, Libby’s three extra inches of height help her walk smoothly, calmly, unhurriedly next to him.
Libby looks back, realizes I’m behind them, and stops, putting her hand lightly on Edward’s shoulder to halt him. They both turn to face me, waiting for me to hurry and catch up.
After dinner with the group, Libby and I head back to Colvin to watch the telly together. The common room is empty, so we spread out on either side of the sofa, our legs and feet draped over each other. It reminds me of how we used to watch television together when we were little: jammed against each other like conjoined twins, despite the entirety of the rest of the large sofa.
“You survived!” I say. In the background, a Friends rerun flickers—one of our favorites.
“I survived,” she repeats, sounding exhausted.
“Thoughts? Concerns? Questions?”
“To answer all three: no, yes, and a billion.”
We laugh, eventually lapsing into silence as a car advert comes on showing two sisters driving in an Audi together.
“This is cool, isn’t it?” I say. “You and me together during the school year.”
“It feels like summer,” she nods, smiling. “Except with way more homework.”
“Ugh, don’t get me started on homework. I need to figure out what I’m going to do for my graphic design project.” The only two classes I enjoy are graphic design and history. Graphic design is basically an hour of playing around on the computer, and history is just stories and old gossip, really. “I love that class, but man is it a ton of work. We’re doing mobile design now. I want to create something fab.”
“Why don’t you create that app you’re always talking about?”
I love Viewty, but their search functionality is terrible. I’ve been looking for an app that combines beauty with design DIY, and what few things I’ve found are equally lame. Libby has been on my case for over a year to create it myself.
“Like that’s even possible.”
“It is,” she insists. “You’re so talented. And it’s not like your professor expects you to get it perfect. But start small, do your best, and take it from there. You never know.”
I pull out my iPhone, quickly scrolling through Viewty. I couldn’t do anything, like, professional, but I could probably make something decent for class. I close the app again, setting the phone down on my stomach.
“So young,” I say. “But so wise.” We giggle.
After another half an hour of Friends reruns, Libby starts yawning. “Do you mind if I go to bed?” she asks. “I’m sorry, but I’m knackered, Lots.”
Her yawn is contagious. “No worries. Let’s go up.”
I turn off the television and the common room lights, and together the two of us walk down the hall and up the stairs.
“Hey,” she says. “Want to have a little slumber party tonight? Like old times?”
I grin. “Do you even have to ask?”
After stopping by the bathroom, Libby borrows a T-shirt, and together the two of us slide under my covers.
“Remember the day Mum got that huge Soles order?” I say, feeling nostalgic.
“I do. From Selfridges.”
“It was just a day like any other. We woke up, and we had lunch, and we went to the community pool—”
“—oh, God, that place was so gross—”
“—and suddenly our lives changed forever.”
“Except it wasn’t exactly sudden,” she points out. “Mum and Dad had been working for years to get to that moment. It seemed overnight, but in reality, it was ages of effort.”
“That’s true.” I pull the covers up to my chin, snuggling in closer to Libby. “It feels like a million years ago.”
“Well, so much has changed.”
“Like us, finally together! I’m so happy you’re here, Libs.”
“Me, too. I can’t believe we didn’t go to the same school from the beginning.” She yawns again.
“Part of me thinks the reason I never applied to Greene House was because I was scared I wouldn’t get in,” I say, leaning my head over toward her shoulder. I’ve never admitted this out loud.
“You’re so talented, Lotte. You just have to believe in yourself like I do,” she says, her voice getting heavy with sleep as she contorts her arm to scratch the top of my head. “You’re so smart, but you don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Thanks, Libs,” I whisper into the dark. “It’s nice to hear that.”
“Okay.” She yawns again. “Sleepy time.”
“Love you, Bug,” she says, using my childhood nickname.
“Love you, Button,” I say, turning over and falling asleep.
seven
Like many boarding schools, Sussex Park has a small coterie of day students. They’re included in pretty much everything except Friday afternoon house meetings—the last thing after classes standing between us and weekend freedom.