I stare at her.
“I know that’s hard to hear, but it’s true,” says India. “Besides—and I say this with all respect for her, Charlotte—but your sister is totally boring.”
Even though I’m angry with Libby, I feel a knee-jerk desire to defend her.
“And . . . boring is good?”
“For Edward? Boring is great. I don’t think he’d say that. He’s still deluded enough to think that he has choices. But he needs to be the star, and he needs a steady girl who won’t compete with him. His family couldn’t have it any other way.”
“You’re acting like they’ll get married,” I say, thinking about my grandmother’s prediction.
India shrugs. “You never know. Like I said, he thinks he has choices. But he doesn’t, really. His life is totally mapped out.”
“So won’t his family choose for him?” Discussing the marital prospects of your seventeen-year-old ex-boyfriend is beyond surreal.
“Never,” she says, frowning. “He’d die. He needs to have some say in the matter. He’ll meet a new crop of girls at university.”
“Fresher meat. Bigger boobs. Smaller brains,” cracks Georgie. I shoot her an exasperated look.
“But he’ll always return to the inner circle. We’re the girls who knew him when. There are only a few people to choose from, really. Mummy says it was the same with his father, and his father before him. They never learn.”
“Damn,” says Georgie. “It’s all written like a book, huh?”
Flossie nods. “It’s comforting, in a way.”
Only Alice looks depressed. “Comforting? It makes our world sound so small. So fated.”
“It is fated. And if you think our world is large,” says India, “then you haven’t been paying attention.”
“Well,” I say, feeling wounded, “out with the old.” I reach over to my desk and hold up the Polaroid photos. “Edward gave me these. One last parting souvenir from our time together, I guess.” I open a drawer, jumbled with DIY accessories and loose-leaf papers, and toss the photos inside. “Souvenirs for my children’s children to marvel at someday—Good-Time Granny and her princely conquest.”
“That’s the spirit,” Flossie says. “You’ll find a nice boy who’s more your speed—I know it.”
“Don’t be glum,” India says. “Boys are disposable. Even Edward.”
I don’t know what I was expecting from Libby after she came to see me. A public rejection of Edward out of loyalty to me? I’m not sure—but I’m surprised that she stops trying.
Maybe I just needed her to ask my forgiveness one last time.
Now it’s like I can’t escape the sight of them.
There they are, giggling at each other over a stack of history textbooks and Russian novels in a remote corner of the library during study period.
There they are, sitting dead center at our usual table in the dining hall, laughing with Flossie and Alice at David’s lunchtime antics.
There they are, walking through the quad during the daily three p.m. break, hands clasped, arms swinging, sun shining bright and hard into their smiling faces.
After a week of awkward run-ins, stilted chapels, and pained silent breakfasts—I refuse to back down and she’s stopped apologizing—we’ve silently settled on a joint-custody arrangement of our friends. I’m taking athletics this term and am always starving after practice, so I have India and Co. for breakfast. Lunches are theirs: while Libby and Edward hold court, I sneak into the dining hall like a thief, loading up my tray with food on paper plates, and then either taking it outside to eat by myself on the lawn or back to my room to stare blankly at my textbooks.
Dinner is the only minefield. India has become a begrudging Switzerland, fielding texts from each of us asking if it’s safe to come and whether the other offending parties have left. (“You’re all bloody exhausting,” she complains one night over wine in her room, a rare moment of the mask falling. “I’m not your minder, and I wish you’d all buck up and be friends for the sake of the group. I feel like a child again, before my mother and father called off the divorce and came to their senses.”)
We fall into a pattern of them eating on the earlier side, before eventually going back to Edward’s room or Libby’s room or wherever the hell the two of them go to giggle and paw at each other. I halfheartedly do homework in the common room or library until about seven p.m., when starvation takes over and I show up at the dining hall for my dinner. Only a few times have we tidily crossed paths: Edward and Libby walking out hand in hand at the exact moment I’m entering. When recognition dawns, their eyes slide to the floor, to the ceiling—anywhere but full-on to meet mine.
To be honest, I don’t miss Edward at all. Now that we’re broken up, it’s become clearer than ever that the two of us didn’t do much talking. Most of the time was spent either hanging with our friends, watching TV, or making out. And now that the word is out I’m single again, boys have been flirting with me. Just yesterday, Robert walked me back from chapel after I slipped in late (mostly to avoid sitting with my friends).
But the distance from Libby is hard. Every single time I pull out my phone to text somebody, I think of her. Even though I spent years at school without her by my side, we’d be texting daily—now, there’s nothing, and it’s lonely. India’s doing a good job trying to fill the void, but it’s not the same. We pass each other on the stairs of our dormitory or run into each other in the common room, and she’ll give me a hopeful look. Sometimes, she says hi, and sometimes she looks grumpy and ignores me right back, which only serves to make me more irritated.
I miss her—but I can’t bring myself to forgive her.
One night in late January, while I’m watching Britain’s Got Talent alone in the Colvin common room, one of the contestants makes me think of my aunt Kat. For reasons I’ve never been able to pin down, Mum and Kat haven’t spoken in over ten years. My mother used to tear up whenever Kat’s name was mentioned—usually by Nana after a few too many brandies during the holidays—but these past few years, she’s been stoic, not rising to the bait and eventually changing the subject altogether.
When I walk upstairs after the episode is over, feeling sorry for myself, I find a little stuffed E.T. sitting outside my room. There’s a note attached to his pointer finger, and inside, written in Libby’s loopy scrawl, are four words:
I’m sorry. Sisters forever.
The combination of the thoughtful gift and the reminder of my mother’s falling out with Aunt Kat makes my chest tighten. I suddenly see their feud through new eyes.
I don’t want to lose my sister.
I walk back down the hall, staring at the stuffed alien and smiling a little to myself as I climb the stairs. Libby’s room is at the end of the hall, but when I get there, the door is closed. I’m about to knock when I hear voices.
My heart stops, and I press my ear to the door.