Sophie
me, burning like a brand for hours. It’s not even like it’s the first cruel thing he’s said to me—it’s just that my thick skin always softens over the holidays, leaving me weak and exposed to his barbs.
The first blow of the year is always the hardest to take, but I’ll toughen quickly.
Because only the tough survive Spearcrest.
I’m distracted for the first half of the day, but I immediately cheer up at lunch when I spot Araminta Wilson-Sing and Audrey Malone. They are sitting in our patch of grass west of the campus, by the big oak trees near the old Greenhouse. They wave me over and I hurry towards them, my heart suddenly lifted.
They are my only friends in Spearcrest—they are the ones who picked up the pieces of me after Evan destroyed our friendship.
The two people who make life here bearable.
“Sophie, how did you ever manage to get this tall?” Araminta exclaims when I reach them.
Araminta is short and curvy and full of this super feminine energy. Her parents are both in politics, and they probably hope she’ll follow in their footsteps, but if I’m honest she’s too good for politics. Too beautiful, too lively, too sincere.
“I told you milk was good for you,” I tell her, sitting at her side.
She pulls a face, but before she can lecture me on how disgusting cow milk is, Audrey wraps us both in her arms and squeezes, knocking our heads together.
“I have missed you girls. So. Bloody. Much!”
Audrey is probably one of the smartest students in the school. She’s wiser than most adults I know. If I ever need advice, she is my go-to.
We eat lunch in the grass near the sixth form dormitories, doing our best to catch up. After I finish eating, I lie back in the grass with my head on Araminta’s lap, listening to Audrey. She’s telling us about some exotic older guy she’d met on holiday.
“An older man, Audrey?” Araminta asks salaciously. “You have to be careful with those. You know they only want one thing.”
“And boys our age don’t?” Audrey retorts, rolling her eyes. “At least older guys are more subtle about it. They know how to woo a girl.”
“Woo?” Araminta cackles. “Who are you, Jane Austen?”
I melt into easy laughter. When they’re not around, I always get this horrible sense of urgency, like I’m running out of time. Like everything is going to go wrong.
But around the girls, all the worry fades. It’s still there, just out of focus. Mum and Dad are always reminding me of how hard I’m going to have to work for even a fraction of the opportunities Spearcrest kids are going to have, but Araminta and Audrey make me feel like I’m one of those Spearcrest kids.
It’s only an illusion, but a lovely illusion. The illusion of belonging.
“How about you, Sophe?” Araminta asks.
I shrug. “Same as usual. Went to visit Mum’s family in Yorkshire. Saw some old castles. Read books. Researched universities. Nothing quite as exciting as Audrey’s scandalous affair.”
“I’m sure there’ll be plenty of opportunity for scandal this year,” Araminta says, waggling her eyebrows. “The Young Kings are running out of time on their bet to shag every girl in the year group before final exams.”
I prop myself up on my elbows, my good mood suddenly evaporated. “God! I forgot they said that!”
“At the end of Year 11, remember?” Araminta cackles. “Such a power move.”
“Such a dick move, more like,” Audrey says, shaking her head. “You couldn’t pay me to go near one of them. I’m done dating little boys.”
“They’re not so little anymore,” I mutter. I used to be taller than most boys in my year, now the Young Kings are all taller and bigger than me.
“Alright, between us girls,’ Araminta says, whispering loudly, ‘if you had to have sex with one of the Young Kings, who would it be?” She doesn’t wait before continuing. “I’ll go first. Luca. He’s the biggest arsehole of them all, but that’s because I reckon he’s the most insecure. He wouldn’t want anybody to spread the rumour he’s shit in bed, so I think he would make an extra effort to make me come.”
I choke on my own breath.
“Araminta!” I stare at her in horror.
Audrey is laughing so hard she’s making my head bounce on her lap. “You really came prepared with that analysis, Minty,’ she says. ‘I can tell you’ve given this some thought.”
“Well, I’d rather be prepared,” Araminta says with a shrug. “Besides, it’s our last year at Spearcrest, and my last year in the UK. I can’t waste it.”
She has a point. I nod reluctantly, even though sex with Luca sounds like the most disgusting thing I can imagine.
“I mean we’re all going to fuck some arseholes at some point in our lives,” Araminta adds. “I might as well get mine out of the way. Set myself up for success.”
This time, even I have to laugh.
“Audrey,” Araminta continues, “who would you pick?”
Audrey thinks carefully, tapping her manicured fingers against her lips, and ends up answering, “Sev Montcroix.”
We all groan.
“He’s so… pretentious and moody,” Araminta winces. “So… I don’t know, full of himself.”
I nod. “Not to mention a total fuckboy.”
“The word you’re looking for is French!” Audrey exclaims. “That’s what you guys are trying to say. That’s what the problem is. He’s so French.”
“Yeah, too French,” Araminta says, “besides, I heard a rumour he’s engaged now.”
“Engaged?” I cover my mouth. “Imagine being the poor girl who’s going to have to put up with his pissy attitude and fuckboy behaviour for the rest of her life.”
The bell rings, drowning out the girls’ giggles. I reluctantly leave the comfort of Araminta’s lap, grabbing my bag as I get to my feet.
Araminta grabs my wrist.
“Not so fast, Sophe! You owe us an answer.”
“I would tell you,” I say, “but I genuinely have to go!”
“Liar!” Araminta exclaims, pointing an accusing finger at me. “You just don’t want to tell us.”
I pull a letter from my backpack and brandish it in her face.
“I’m not lying. See? I have to report to Miss Bailey for the academic mentor programme!”
Araminta reads the letter with narrowed eyes and sighs.
“Shit.”
With a smug grin, I take my letter and stomp away, waving at them over my shoulder.
“Whatever!” Araminta yells, pulling out her tongue at me. “We all know who you’d pick anyway! Ev—”
The rest is muffled by Audrey’s hand, but it’s too late. I turn to throw a thunderous glare at Araminta. She gives me a thumbs up.
“We love you, Sophie!” Audrey says warmly.
I pull a face at them and hurry away. Based on how warm my cheeks feel, it’s a good thing they didn’t get to see how red my face probably is.
Not that Araminta is right. She’s just saying it to wind me up because she knows how much I hate him. Still, the disgusting thought of sleeping with Evan Knight follows me like a shadow all the way to Miss Bailey’s office.
Miss Bailey is one of the younger teachers at Spearcrest, and she used to be my English teacher back in lower school. I miss having her because she has this incredible calming influence on everyone around her.
The kind of calming influence I need right now.
When I walk into her office, she’s watering her little collection of ferns and succulents. She’s wearing a cream satin shirt and loose trousers. Her heels are lying abandoned under her desk, and her dark bob is pinned back by tortoiseshell hair clips.
She gives me this huge grin when I come in, and even makes me a cup of green tea when she makes herself one.
“I can’t believe this is your last year,” she says. “I’m never going to be able to replace you in this programme.”
I can’t help blushing a little bit, even though she probably doesn’t really mean that.
The truth is that no matter how hard I work, I’m nowhere near the smartest student in Spearcrest. Still, I’ve done everything in my power to be the best mentor I could be to every student Miss Bailey has ever entrusted me with.
After a quick catch-up chat, Miss Bailey turns towards her computer.
“Right, down to business, then. This year is going to be a little bit different. Normally, I have Year 12s mentor students in the lower schools, and Year 13s mentor Year 12s, but I’ve had some special requests from the governors this year. So…” she looks up at me, widening her eyes, “how would you feel about mentoring another Year 13?”
“Someone from my year?” I say, unable to stop the surprise seeping into my voice.
She nods.
That definitely doesn’t fit well into my plan of keeping myself to myself this year. I don’t feel good about it at all, but Miss Bailey is looking at me with her big hazel eyes, waiting expectantly.
“Alright…” I say. “I suppose I could.”
“Oh, Sophie, that’s wonderful! I know it might be a little awkward for you, but I’ve been put under some pressure to make sure certain students get their target grades.”
“It’s okay, Miss Bailey,” I say.
I can see how hard Miss Bailey works, and I can only imagine the pressure she must be under. Besides, this is my last year. So it might be a bit awkward tutoring a kid from my year, but how bad can it be?
“You’re a superstar, Sophie,” Miss Bailey says, sounding genuinely relieved. “Since you’re doing exceptionally well in your Literature class I’ve paired you with a student who is currently failing Literature.”
“Failing?” I wince.
How can someone fail English Lit? I’m pretty sure all you have to do to pass is just read the books.
Miss Bailey sighs. “Unfortunately, yes. Except that failing is not an option this student’s parents are willing to accept.”
“I can imagine.”
“I’ve scheduled your sessions for Tuesdays and Thursdays, six in the afternoon. How do you feel about that?”
I check my planner. In between chess club, my study timetable, and the lower school book club I run, my time is already slipping away from me. Still, it’s too late to turn back now, and I have every intention of getting into every university I apply for, and this is my ticket.
“Alright, Miss Bailey, that’s fine, I’ve made a note.”
“You absolute angel!” Miss Bailey exclaims, typing into her computer. “You’re quite possibly saving my life! Alright, I’ve booked you in. You won’t start until half-term, so you get to have those afternoons for yourself now.”
I nod and make a note of that too. Miss Bailey beams at me. “You remind me so much of me when I was your age, you know.’
I try to hide how much it pleases me to hear this. I tuck my hair behind my ears, a little self-consciously, then put my planner away and stand.
“If I grow up to be like you, Miss Bailey, I would be pretty proud.”
She laughs.
“What! A boring old English teacher! No, you’ve got a much more impressive future ahead of you, I can tell. Well, have a good term, my darling.”
“Thanks, Miss Bailey.”
I stop at the door.
“Who will it be, by the way?”
“Your lucky tutee?”
I laugh.
“Yes, my lucky tutee.”
“Mm,” she checks her computer. “Evan Knight.”
My entire body becomes entombed in ice.
“Who?” I ask even though I heard perfectly well.
“Evan Knight,” she looks up from her computer. “Do you know him?”
The ice of which I am now made cracks and shatters into splinters. I can barely move.
“No,” I say weakly. “See you later, Miss Bailey.”
And then I run away, trying to keep the bits of me together long enough that Miss Bailey doesn’t see me fall apart.
And then all the pain from Evan’s words this morning, from every cruel thing he’s ever said to me, and the oldest pain of all, the pain of betrayal, all come rushing back like a blow.
The First Time Sophie Met Evan
at Spearcrest and it’s been raining the entire time. I know because I spend almost every lesson with my gaze out of the window. I stare at the looming tree line, the dull wall of shapeless clouds, the mist clinging to the corners of the building like a tepid breath on a cold day.
A voice pulls me back to reality. It repeats a question for the third time.
I sigh and turn. “No, my parents aren’t cleaners.”
“Oh.”
The girl next to me has long, perfectly curled hair, thick eyelashes, and clear skin. She doesn’t look like the Year 9s in my old school used to look. She definitely doesn’t look like me. Her manners are polished and she speaks with a sort of thoughtful confusion which I’m sure allows her to get away with a lot.
“But they do work for the school, right?” she asks.
When my parents finally convinced me to go to Spearcrest (well, not so much convinced me as forced me) they promised me nobody would ever find out they work for the school.
“Won’t the kids there wonder why a normal person is going to their school?” I’d asked as a naive Year 8.
“They are normal kids,” my parents said, “their parents are just wealthier than other people’s. That’s all.”
Of course, they were lying.
Spearcrest kids are so far from normal I don’t even count them as kids at all. Most of them don’t even look like teenagers. They look polished and synthetic, like robots created to look like teenager but with every setting turned to a hundred. They are tall and lithe and athletic, eerily beautiful. Blinding white teeth, glassy skin, doll-like eyes.
Not just the girls, but the boys, too. Even in Year 9, they are already showing the outlines of muscles, and they walk with a cocky strut that indicates their place in the world, somewhere above everybody else.
When I look at the Spearcrest kids, I don’t see teenagers, or peers.
I don’t even see people.
So, most of the time, I don’t look.
I sit with my elbow on my desk and my chin propped in my palm. I gaze outside, dreaming about what my life will be like when I get to leave this place. I’ve only been here for three weeks, and I already can’t wait to be gone.
All I have to do, I keep reminding myself, is to be patient and bide my time.
Of course, that’s easier said than done.
“If your parents aren’t cleaners,” the girl next to me continues. “Then what do they do exactly?”
I weigh my options. Answer, or keep ignoring her?
If I ignore her, she might eventually leave me alone. Or she might keep pestering me, which is what she’s doing right now.
If I answer her, she’ll have to leave me alone.
I turn to give her a look. “They are administrators.”
She gives me an innocent look, wide doll eyes and mouth open in a pink O.
“So… like secretaries?”
I sigh. “Sure.”
She leaves me alone after that, but by the end of the week, everybody at school thinks my parents are cleaners.
Of course by that point, I have bigger things to worry about.
Like my mattress being soaking wet every night when I go to bed, handfuls of mud and leaves smearing the blankets.
Or my school books getting ritualistically defaced, my pencils snapped and my notes torn to shreds.
Or having my breakfast dashed into the bin and my drinks knocked over every time I refuse to butter the bread of the upper school girls.
Telling my parents isn’t an option: they already know. They even warned me about this. “They will expect you to prove yourself to them, Sophie. You mustn’t crack. You must show them how strong you are.”
So I do my best not to crack, but something’s got to give.
For me, stress comes in the form of a horrific acne breakout, my inner distress destroying me from the inside out. Add to that the fact I’m the tallest girl in our year group, and there’s literally no hiding.
One day, a Year 11 girl spots me when I’m standing outside a classroom waiting for my lesson. She’s tall, as beautiful as a model, her face picture perfect. She stops, her features twisted with disgust, and says to me, “You have got to be by far the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Spearcrest must really be letting just anybody in nowadays.”
I don’t cry at that, but I do cry that weekend, when my parents tell me I’ll be spending every weekend until half term break in school to “make friends and build connections.”
I do end up spending every weekend in school, but each day is spent hiding in dark corners of the library, the study hall, empty classrooms. Anywhere I can find where I don’t have to speak to anybody.
It works, for a while.
Until Period 5 on a glum Wednesday afternoon.
Our English teacher, Miss Willard, pairs everybody up to read a scene from the Shakespeare play we are studying. I close my eyes and wish with my entire soul that I could disappear from Spearcrest, disappear from this world.
But Miss Willard, relentless as a machine, calls out, “Miss Sutton and Mr Knight.”
I might spend all my time avoiding the other students, but even I know exactly who Evan Knight is. He’s one of the most popular boys in our year group: rich, sporty, flashy.
The golden boy of Spearcrest, he draws attention to him wherever he goes.
He’s hard to ignore because he’s one of the only boys who is as tall as I am. His head is a shiny cloud of golden curls. But I keep my eyes firmly fixed out of the window, forcing him to come and sit next to me. I only look at him when it can no longer be avoided.
He’s looking at me with a smile. His bright blue eyes meet mine, and then drop, sweeping over my ravaged cheeks. Students are prohibited from wearing make-up, and even though this seems to be a rule everyone ignores, my parents took it seriously. I wasn’t even allowed to bring a concealer or half a tub of cheap foundation.
So my spots are raw and red and exposed for all to see, and Evan isn’t exactly trying his hardest to pretend he doesn’t see.
“You have got to be by far the ugliest thing I’ve seen in my life,” I think to myself, imagining his thoughts.
But he doesn’t say this. Instead, he passes me a copy of the scene we have to read together and says, “What are we doing, then? I have no idea what any of this says.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Did you not read the teacher’s notes?”
His blue eyes widen. Because of his curly blond hair and his boyish face, he looks like a cupid painting on a Valentine’s Day card. “What notes?”
Reaching into my bag, I pull out my English folder. “Those notes. The ones Miss Willard said to study before we start the play.”
He peers at them with an expression of confusion which tells me he has never seen those notes before in his life.
“Um, I don’t think I got those,” he says, brushing his hand through his hair.
He definitely got them. I’m tempted to say as much to him, but I make a tactical choice not to. So far, Evan Knight hasn’t said a single cruel, unkind or hurtful thing to me, and I’d like to keep it that way as long as possible.
“Well,” I say, my stomach clenching uncomfortably. “I can, uh… I can explain it to you, if you want. Before we start with the reading. Then we’ll both know what we’re doing.”
And Evan Knight does something totally unexpected.
He looks right into my eyes, gives me a bright, genuine smile, and says, “Yeah, that’d be awesome. Thanks, Sophie.”
