“We’re still quibbling about word choice?”
“The two of you had nothing in common! You had nothing to talk about! And you broke up almost two months ago!”
“We had plenty to talk about.”
“That’s not what he says. He seems to think you were pretty boring, too.” As soon as she says it, she looks ashamed. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
I reel back as if I’ve been slapped. “Screw. You. I knew you were trying to steal him from me.”
“I didn’t steal him! You broke up!”
Mum comes into the kitchen, her face anguished.
“Please,” Mum says, putting her hands out. “Stop.”
“I hate you,” I say to Libby, throwing my paper crown on the floor at her feet.
I run upstairs, slamming my bedroom door so hard the walls shake.
Several hours later, I go downstairs to make a cup of tea. There are voices in the sitting room: it’s Mum, Dad, and Nana, all talking in hushed tones.
I tiptoe down the stairs.
“I’m confused,” he says. “She’s . . .”
I can’t quite make out what he’s saying, so I inch down the stairs quietly, poking my head around the corner and trying to hear without being seen.
“. . . it’s going to derail her studies. She’s only been at Sussex Park for a few months. What happens if he gets bored of her the way he did of Charlotte?”
“It still doesn’t make any sense to me,” says Nana. “Libby is so focused on her studies. When she’d even find the time for man-snatching is beyond me.”
“For once, we’re in agreement,” Dad says. “It doesn’t make sense to me, either. Edward was suitable for Charlotte. She cares more about boys and sport than university. At least dating a prince would have forced her to grow up and find some direction. And she’s socially equipped to navigate that world.”
“You think Libby’s too good for him?” Mum asks.
“Not exactly. But she’s too ambitious to be stuck on the arm of a prince, waving from a balcony and opening hospitals.”
“Well,” says Nana. “Thank heavens for small favors. At least he kept it in the family.”
While my father and I have a decent relationship, I’ve never been as close to him as Libby is. I know he’s proud of my athleticism, but my academic failures always bothered him. Libby’s perfect marks were comforting: something he could set his clock by.
But still: to hear my father say that Libby’s too good for Edward but that I’d be okay for him—because what else will I do with my life? It’s like a dagger through the heart. It feels like I’m doomed to be second best in the eyes of everybody I admire—always in perfect Libby’s shadow.
I sneak back up the stairs to my room. I’m no longer in the mood for tea.
A few minutes later, there’s a soft knock at my door.
“Charlotte?”
It’s Libby, tentatively calling my name.
She knocks again three more times, each time calling my name.
“I’m sorry,” she finally says through the door. “Please forgive me. I didn’t want it to be like this.”
“Leave me alone,” I say. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave me alone.”
Screw her. In fact, screw them all.
sixteen
Most girls don’t realize that you need to prune your makeup regularly.
If you don’t do a big cleaning twice a year, mascara grows bacteria, brushes accumulate gunk, and your makeup bag starts to develop a grimy layer of filth. The whole thing is one giant cesspool of gross.
Generally, I’ll replace two or three items, buying a couple of lipsticks and a new mascara and foundation, and simply dust off the rest.
Not this year. Back at school after Christmas, I decide to throw away the whole lot, dumping my entire bag into the bathroom rubbish bin and heading to the Boots in town to rebuild from scratch.
I need a fresh start.
Libby and I didn’t speak to each other the rest of Christmas break, which made for a super-awkward week. Even though I told her to leave me alone, I’m surprised that she’s stopped trying. It’s not that I wanted her to keep groveling for forgiveness, but . . . okay, yeah, I wanted her to keep groveling for forgiveness.
Now that we’ve been back on campus for twenty-four hours, both she and Edward seem to be going out of their way to avoid me. They’re never at the dining hall, and I could have sworn she pulled an about-face and ducked behind a building when she saw me walking toward her yesterday. I don’t know what any of this means. Are they hooking up now? Are they dating?
They would never. That would be a bridge too far, even for them.
The day after break is over, I’m in the Colvin bathroom on my floor, brushing my teeth after dinner. Edward and Libby weren’t in the dining hall, and none of my friends seemed to notice that I had little to contribute to the conversation—I was too busy mulling over things.
The door opens and Libby walks in holding a shower caddy and carrying a towel. She stops when she sees me.
I give her a dirty look before turning back toward the mirror.
“Hi, Lotte,” she says. She looks awkward, like she doesn’t know what to do.
“Hi.”
“I was just about to take a shower. Maintenance is fixing the ones on my floor—there’s no hot water.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
She walks across the linoleum floor in her flip-flops, entering one of the shower cubicles and closing the plastic curtain. I debate saying something to her, but she turns the water on so I finish brushing my teeth and go back to my room.
Twenty minutes later, however, there’s a knock on the open door. Libby stands there, wet hair braided, wearing her pajamas.
“Yes?”
“Can I come in?”
I’m feeling charitable. Maybe we can get things started back on the right foot this year. “Fine.”
Libby steps through the doorway, holding a box of chocolates. “Want one? I saved all the white choc for you.”
“Okay,” I say, plucking a piece from the box. I take a bite, staring at her as I chew. She looks hopeful, which makes me feel hopeful—I think she’s here to apologize one more time. It’ll take some time to forgive her properly, but I know Libby—she’d never hurt me on purpose. I’ve just got to dig deep and find the strength to forgive. “Thanks,” I say.
“So, uh . . . can I sit?”
I point to my desk chair. “Okay.”
She sits and we stare at each other.
Finally, she talks. “I miss you, Lots.”
I don’t say anything, my mind racing. It’s been two weeks since I caught them kissing; two weeks since my life felt like it turned upside down. We’ve never gone this long without speaking, not even with the two of us at different schools.
I do miss Libby—a lot. I can’t count the number of times over the past couple of weeks I’ve wanted to tell her a joke or ask for her advice. But I still feel so hurt.
“Thanks,” I say.
“I, uh, wanted to talk to you,” she says, sounding nervous.
“Okay, we’re talking. What’s up?”
“Yes. Right. So . . .” She swallows, looking like she’s about to pass out. “I need to ask you something.”