She looks out the window. “Maybe it does.”
I throw up my hands in frustration. “What do I know? The only two people who are in this relationship are you and Edward. I can’t read his mind—even if I can kind of read yours.” At this, she smiles a little bit. “But it seems like you make each other better. You guys just fit. I think you have two options. You can just walk away and be sad and say, ‘Boo hoo, oh, well, I guess it just wasn’t meant to be,’ and cry into your Weetabix. Or you can say, ‘Hey, idiot. You’re wrong and here’s why. I’m the best thing that ever happened to you. Wise up and stop feeling so damn sorry for yourself. And, by the way, my sister is awesome.’”
Libby starts laughing. “Is that a direct quote? Should I take notes?”
“Something like that,” I say. “Use your Libby words. Make it pretty.”
I skip my classes, spending the entire morning with Libby huddled together in her bed under the covers and watching old episodes of The Vampire Diaries on Netflix. I can’t pay attention to Elena and Damon, though—I’m too busy trying to figure out who’s behind that article.
At lunchtime, I drag myself out of bed.
“I’d stay here with you all day, but I’m starving. If I don’t have a sandwich, I might literally die. Do you want to come with?”
“I’m not hungry,” she says. “Wait, actually—bring me some fruit?”
“I’ll bring you an entire bucket.”
I stop by my room to change quickly into the uniform and then walk out of the building clutching my phone.
“Smile, Charlotte! How does it feel to sell out everybody close to you for fame?”
I turn around and see the camera lens, long and menacing, before I see the tiny man behind it hiding in the bushes. The clicks come fast and furious—click, click, click, click, click, click, click—the lens rapid-fire snapping before I have time to move.
“What are you . . . ? Stop!”
I look around wildly for protection, but there’s nobody in sight. Nobody but me, and a short, wiry man with a ponytail who seems hell-bent on getting a photo of me looking upset. He steps out from behind a tree, still hiding behind the camera, click, click, click, click, click.
“Did it hurt when Edward dumped you for your sister?” he calls.
I’ve watched enough Sky TV documentaries about celebrities like the Kardashians to realize that he’s trying to coax me into a reaction for a dramatic, high-paying photo. Adrenaline rushes through me—what a low-life scumbag, preying on a teenage girl for a photo paycheck. I want to sneer back, “Does it hurt when you wake up in the morning and you’re still you?” but I know the worst thing to do would be to show any emotion at all. Instead, I plaster a stony look on my face, throw my shoulders back, and march forward, my head held high. I ball my hands into fists so that he won’t see they’re shaking. As soon as I get to the dining hall, I’ll report him. When I leave, I’ll sneak out the back.
As furious and panicky as it makes me, it also gives me a little insight into what Edward must have been dealing with his entire life. No wonder he’s so paranoid about his privacy.
The sound of the camera fades into the distance—the photographer no doubt hiding to score another photo later—and I finally feel safe enough to look down at my phone, turning the ringer on.
Oh, shit.
I have forty-seven text messages, fifteen Kiks, six WhatsApp messages, a voice mail from Bill, and three missed calls from my mother. One of the texts is from Robert.
ROBERT: Bill just called me. I saw the article. You okay?
I shoot him a quick text back.
ME: Yeah. Paparazzi just found me but I survived. Can we meet up later?
ROBERT: Absolutely. Just tell me when and where. Whatever you need.
ME: Thanks x
I open Instagram. I’ve gained more than twenty thousand new followers in a single morning. There are so many comments on my last photo—a random selfie of me before track practice—that they blur together. They’re all from strangers: @EmmaBlaineSmith Ohhhh shiiiit ur sis is gonna b sooooo mad!!!!!
@kittykatzmeow1294 @yellowjackfever93 did u see this? this is the article from sun today I was talking about. She dated prince Edward before her Sister @Planet_Ging_Love Is this article 4 real? U sold out your sister for publicity?
@bdkanon6807 Hii Charlotte!!!! Signed up for ur mailing list!! Can’t wait 2 download ur app it sounds so cool!!!
@MadisonGreen99 Never seen a person more self-absorbed than her. And her family is no better. Social climbing trash. Prince Edward had better run.
@apps4u76969 Want to gain more followers? Follow us here! You’re guaranteed to get one hundred new followers PER DAY!
@Minimeeee she is gorgeous and ur all just jealous
@Minimeeee u wish u could all be with a prince like charlotte n b so smart her app is dope charlote i love u pls follow me back pleeease @Lollipop21marine Seriously, you are disgusting. It’s people like you who make Prince Edward and the other royals feel like they’re living in a cage.
@tm_marie22 Lb first
@kraykke You’re a pathetic social climber. Hope you enjoy all your new Instagram followers, because you will never be queen.
If the comments weren’t so horrendous, I might laugh. Who are these people?
But even though I know that they don’t know me, don’t know the truth, and obviously don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, finding myself as the target of a social-media firestorm hurts. I should still be riding high from the triumph of my track win. Instead, I feel sick to my stomach reading all the hate and anger directed at me through my phone. It’s like somebody has scraped the bottom of the Internet barrel and dumped the sludge on my photo feed.
I’ve been tagged in an Instagram post. I know I’m probably going to regret it, but I can’t stop myself from clicking on it.
It’s a screen grab of a tweet. The tweet says, “A little birdie told me that Charlotte Weston is the ‘secret’ source behind @theSUN article about her new app.” The person who screen grabbed it and then tagged me on Instagram has posted only one word of commentary: #Obviously.
I open the Twitter app and search for the tweet.
It has 418 likes and has been retweeted 793 times.
My head is pounding. Mum calls again, but I press divert. I need sustenance before I can deal with her—before I can deal with any of this.
She leaves a message. I don’t listen to it.
I walk into the dining hall apprehensively. I’m expecting heads to swivel, glares darting in my direction. But nobody really looks up. Everybody is too busy focusing on their food, their friends, their own personal dramas to pay me any attention as I load up my tray. I’ll report the photographer later.
But then I arrive at my table, and it’s a very different story.
“What are you doing here?” Flossie asks, her eyes narrowing.