After classes, I go to the dining hall to grab a furtive lunch. It’s a typical slushy, freezing February day. I promise myself I won’t look, but I can’t help but sneak a peek at my old table. They’re all there: India, Alice, Flossie, Tarquin, David, Oliver, Georgie, Libby, and Edward. They’re laughing as David pounds his fists on the table, bellowing something unintelligible from across the room. Even Libby is in stitches, wiping the tears away from her eyes, and looking perfectly at home with all of them as they laugh at David’s usual antics.
Libby looks over at me, as if sensing my presence. We lock eyes for several seconds, and she raises her hand as if to say hi. I’m about to take a step forward, to finally go talk to her and clear the air, when I see Edward put his hand on her arm, still laughing at David. My stomach clenches at the intimacy between them. I wonder what their relationship is like. Have they slept together yet? What do they do when they hang out? Does he like her weird sense of humor? It makes me sad that Libby has a boyfriend now and I haven’t even talked to her about it.
I turn and walk away.
Over the weekend, things get even worse. I’m exiting the library on Saturday night, lost in my thoughts, when I run into my friends. They’re all laughing and chatting away.
“Charlotte!” Libby says.
Georgie looks guilty.
I look back and forth between everybody. India looks particularly embarrassed, as if she’s been caught with the enemy.
“Hi,” she says. “We were just . . .”
“Donatella,” I say. “I get it. No worries.” I remember mentioning to India this morning that I’d be skipping dinner tonight to study. They must have put it together last minute, since we’ve been eating our dinners together in the dining hall on Saturday night this term. Libby and Edward are almost always off campus together on the weekend.
“Sorry,” Edward says, in a quieter voice.
“We should have invited you,” India says.
Libby and I are staring at each other. Is this what it’s come to? My friends sneaking around behind my back? Even India letting it happen?
My chest tightens. “Gotta go,” I say. “Later.”
I push past them, holding my books close to my chest for warmth. As I walk away, I realize that Libby’s birthday is coming up in April, and for the first time in forever, I don’t know how she’s spending it. It presses heavily on my heart. I hurry away from them so they won’t see the tears welling up in my eyes.
“Wait!” Libby says.
I turn around. “Yes?”
“Do you want to come with us? We’re going over to Snog Point. Maybe we can all have some wine together?”
As I look at everybody, I’ve never felt like more of an outsider.
“That’s okay,” I say. “Don’t want to crowd you all.”
A few days later, I get a note in my mailbox. It’s from Master Kent. He wants to meet with me today at three p.m. in his office, during my free period.
As soon as I sit down, I know I’m in trouble.
His office both looks and smells expensive. The walls are a kelly green with rugby photos on the walls. Behind a large oak desk, he sits, wearing a navy blazer. His cheeks are pink, his wavy hair is brown and deeply parted, and I catch my reflection in the unrimmed glasses framing his blue eyes. There’s a gold signet ring on the pinkie finger of his left hand.
“Charlotte,” he says, his white teeth glinting in the spring sunlight. “How are things?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Are they? I’ve been hearing troubling reports. Professor Dark said you failed your most recent maths exam.”
“I did.”
“And Professor Carle indicated that you’ve been having trouble in literature recently.”
“I wouldn’t call it trouble,” I mutter.
“Mistress Wilkinson says you’ve been late to practice several times.”
“Only a minute or two.” I wish I could sink into the ground.
“And finally, Mistress McGuire has reported you for sneaking out during bed checks. Arabella Whiteley came to her and has seen you running through the campus grounds late at night on several occasions and has reported you for drinking wine.”
I don’t say anything.
He rests his chin on his knuckles, looking like Rodin’s The Thinker.
“What’s going on, Charlotte?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“I’m not sure I believe you,” he says kindly.
“Well, there’s not anything. Sir.”
“Everybody stumbles on occasion, and I’m aware that the academic environment at Sussex Park is extremely competitive. It can lead to difficulties for even the most gifted student. I’ve spoken with your teachers, and they all report differences in your behavior. Not only have you repeatedly been late to class, you’ve been failing exams and have had a sharp decline in participation. You’ve always been an enthusiastic participant in student life, and your change in behavior has been noticed.”
My cheeks feel hot. “And?”
“It’s perplexing.”
I fold my arms.
“Between your field hockey performance last term and your declining marks this term, you’re jeopardizing your chances of getting into a good university.”
“I’m having a rough patch.”
“If it were just one class, it wouldn’t be ideal, but I’d understand. But you’re demonstrating a drop in participation and preparedness across the board. You’re one of our most promising bright lights, Charlotte.”
As we look at each other, I feel like he’s trying to burrow inside my soul. I stiffen in defense, narrowing my eyes.
He continues, “With your athletic promise, a scholarship has always been your best chance for a place at a top-tier university. Several of your professors have remarked on your previous desire to attend Exeter or Durham—or maybe even St. Andrews, like your father. I think those are commendable goals, but only achievable if you buckle down.” He leans in, placing his hands on the table. “It’s almost March and we have only a few months left in the year. I’m going to be quite blunt: if you don’t turn things around, and quickly, your chances at getting into a good university are in jeopardy. You must right the ship for the sake of your future. Otherwise, you’ll be looking back on this moment fifteen years from now with deep regret.”
He waits for me to respond. My chest feels tight and my heart is pounding.
“I’ll try to do better, sir.”
He leans back in his chair, exhaling sharply. Disappointment is etched into his face.
“I see.” He’s quiet for several seconds, looking at me over the rims of his glasses. Finally, he says, “We’ll have to call home to your parents to keep them abreast of the situation.”
I close my eyes.
“I understand it’s distressing,” he says, “but we must get you back on track.”
“Do you have to call my parents?” I ask. “Isn’t there another way?”
“You’re a shining star, Charlotte. It would be a shame to see you burn out.” He dismisses me, and I walk back into the waiting room in a daze.
eighteen
The following day, my mother shows up on campus. I’m shocked to see her—I was expecting a screaming phone call, not her arriving in person. She must have cleared her schedule to come down.
Which means I’m in serious trouble.
“What is the meaning of all this?” she demands once we’re settled in the small, heated back garden of a tea shop on the high street. Even though it’s freezing, she takes off her woolen coat, as if preparing for battle.