“Mum, it’s nothing. They’re just blowing things out of proportion. It’s really not that big of a deal.”
“Master Kent emailed me your transcripts, as well as reports from all your professors. These are going in your permanent file, Charlotte. Stop downplaying. It’s an enormous deal.”
I look away, taking a sip of my tea. It burns the roof of my mouth, and I make a huge show of it. “Ow! I burned myself!”
My mother ignores me. “I had to reschedule five meetings to come down here. We’re in the middle of shipping our autumn inventory. Do you understand what that means?”
“Sorry to ruin your busy day.”
“Enough. What’s gotten into you? They tell me you’ve been skipping class left and right, sneaking off campus, playing hockey drunk, screaming at your teachers—my God, the list goes on.”
“It was the hockey coach, not a teacher,” I say quietly.
“And what’s worse, you don’t seem to care. Do you understand that this will affect your chances of getting into a good university?”
“Well, at least you have Libby to fall back on. Her future is set.”
My mother regards me with narrow eyes. “Is this about Libby and Edward?”
“I don’t give a shit about Libby and Edward.”
“Language!”
“Thank God you have one perfect child. Too bad I’m messing up all your plans for the future.”
“Stop it!” Mum says, looking horrified. “Why are you saying that?”
“Because it’s true. I heard Dad over Christmas, talking to you and Nana about how much smarter Libby is than me. How you aren’t worried for Libby’s future but you’re worried for mine. I get it—I’m a dummy, and my only shot at a good future is getting into a good university through sport.”
Mum scoots her chair so close that I can smell her perfume, the same one she’s worn since I was a kid. “You’re breaking my heart. Nobody thinks you’re a dummy. I’m so proud of you—I always have been. We’ve never needed to worry about you.”
“Not till now, right? I’ve messed up my year, and now it seems I’m messing up my whole life. Did you know that my friends have basically ditched me? I get stabbed in the back, and yet somehow I’m the pariah.”
Mum looks bothered. “I know I can’t make you forgive Libby for what she did to you. But she’s your sister, darling. You can’t ignore her forever.”
“Wouldn’t you?” I say. “You cut out Aunt Kat. What’d she do that was so much worse?”
Mum looks away. “There are things you don’t understand, Charlotte. My relationship with your aunt is complicated.”
“So is my relationship with Libby.”
Mum sighs. “I wish you would forgive her. It was a regrettable thing and Libby didn’t handle it well. I agree with you. But by trying to punish her, you’re only hurting yourself.”
I fold my arms across my chest. “It is what it is.”
“Fine,” Mum says, reaching into her handbag and pulling out a sheaf of papers. “That brings us to the other matter at hand. Can you explain these?” They’re credit card statements.
I take the stack of papers, my heart pounding as I leaf through them. “Credit card statements?”
“Here,” Mum says, taking them back. She runs a manicured finger down a page, stopping on a highlighted line. “Selfridges: two thousand pounds. And another one.” Down the page her finger goes, stopping on another item highlighted with yellow marker. “Il Carpaccio: one hundred pounds.” She looks stern. “First of all, you know you’re not allowed to go into London without asking me and your father.”
“Sorry.”
“And secondly—two thousand pounds on clothes? One hundred pounds on dinner? This is unacceptable, Charlotte.”
“It’s not like you don’t have the money,” I say, feeling sullen.
“That is not the point. Your father and I have tried to instill good values in you, but you’re acting as if having a credit card is a right, not a privilege.”
I shrug.
“Unfortunately, until you start taking some responsibility for your actions, we’re going to have to cancel your credit cards.”
I stare at her. “What? But that’s not fair! How will I eat?”
“We pay for the school meal plan. You can get everything you need from the dining hall. You’ll be just fine.”
“But what about coffees? What about going into town?”
Mum looks at me, her expression sour. “What about it? You’re going to have to stop until you get your grades up and demonstrate to your father and me that you can handle it.”
“You can’t do that!”
“We can and we already have. Your cards are cut off.”
I stand up, my chair scraping loudly against the cement patio. “Why isn’t anybody on my side?”
“Darling, it’s not about sides. Your father and I love you, but it’s time to start acting like an adult.”
“Well, what do I need to do to get the cards back?”
Mum is silent for a second, pondering. “You can get a job this summer.”
“A job? Like, at a coffee shop?”
“No, like an internship. Summer’s nearly here, and I don’t want you to spend another two months lying by the pool and shopping, like last year.”
“And if I get a job, you’ll turn my credit cards back on?”
“We’ll see.”
Even though it’s only March, I swallow my pride and start applying for jobs online immediately: temp positions, the front desk girl at the Spread Eagle in Midhurst, a boat hand on a day cruise off Portsmouth. After a week of trying, however, nobody has bothered to get back to me. It seems there’s not a booming job market for seventeen-year-old girls with no quantifiable skills.
I wish I could text Libby. Job hunting is right up her alley: she’d know just what to do. She’d probably even tweak my CV and take me into London to pound the pavement.
But I feel embarrassed. Too much time has passed, and my reaction to her and Edward now feels a little like an overreaction. I don’t know how to make things normal again. The joke is: the one person I’d normally ask for advice about the entire situation is Libby herself.
After yet another round of email applications sent into the ether on a Saturday morning, I’m starving. I slide on a pair of wellies, grab an umbrella, and head downstairs to brave the rain on the way to the dining hall.
It’s been raining for the better part of the winter, almost nonstop since we’ve returned from break. Unlike Libby, I can’t stand the rain. Normally it would put me even deeper in a funk—however, for some reason, it cheers me up. It’s like the weather is on my side by matching my mood.
Inside the dining hall, I’m loading up my plate with food, about to head back to my room—lunches belong to Libby and Edward, of course—when India appears next to me.
“Hey. Come sit with us.”
“What about Libby and Edward?”
“They’re not coming today. Come sit!” she repeats. They must be off campus—the weekend lunch invitations are getting more and more frequent.
I follow her to the table, where everybody makes a big show of seeming happy to see me.
“Hi, Charlotte!” says Alice.
“Hey!” Flossie says, smiling.
“Lunch together like old times—yay!” says Georgie. She elbows Oliver, who plasters a smile onto his face.