Sophie
January feels like being hit by a freight truck over and over again. In between coursework piling up, preparing for the next volley of exams coming up in February and university application deadlines, there’s not a second of the day I’m not spending either working or worrying about how much work I have left to do.
On Sunday, I get two unexpected texts: the first one is from Freddy.
“Hey, Sophie. Just a quick text to let you know we all miss you loads here at the Little Garden. Would love to meet for a coffee and a catch-up sometime, if you fancy it—and if you have time. I know how busy you must be at the moment, but maybe I can cheer you up—I know seeing you would definitely cheer me up x Freddy.”
A flurry of emotions burst to life. I have to read through the text five times before I can take in its full meaning. I decide to give myself the afternoon to think about it and figure out a reply, but soon get the second text, this time from my mum.
It’s summoning me off-campus for a small dinner tonight with her and dad.
My heart sinks when I read her text. We rarely see each other during term time, and my parents don’t usually make exceptions to rules unless something’s happened.
When the taxi drops me off outside a small restaurant in Fernwell, I half-expect my parents to be waiting inside with news that a relative has died. I enter the restaurant with my heart in my mouth, more nervous about seeing them than the bad news I’m anticipating.
I spot them straight away: Mum’s dark eyes and Dad’s worried face. They sit across from one another, not exchanging a word, Dad tapping his fingers against the white tablecloth, Mum sipping nervously on her white wine.
My heart drops like a crashing meteorite through my chest at the sight of them, leaving behind a crater of familiar emotions. Guilt, fear, anxiety.
“Hi Mum, hi Dad…”
They both stand up to hug me and I take a seat with them. Smooth jazz plays in the background, and the restaurant is lit softly and well-decorated, but the atmosphere is stifling. I breathe deeply, and can’t seem to fill my lungs with air.
“Sophie—how are you, my love?” Mum says.
My eyes sting at the question. I’m not upset and she’s not even really said anything, so why do I have the sudden urge to cry? But it’s not like I’m going to be telling Mum and Dad about everything that’s happened, so I swallow back the lump in my throat. “Um, fine, Mum. Just busy with schoolwork.”
“I can imagine,” Mum says.
My mind scrambles for reasons I’ve been summoned here. Did Mum and Dad end up finding out about my job or about me getting in trouble with Mr Shawcross? Did they hear I didn’t do as well as last time in my Maths exam? Did they somehow find out I lied about Christmas and wasn’t staying with Audrey?
“So,” Dad says with painful awkwardness. “How’re university applications going?”
My heartbeat falters. I squirm uncomfortably in my chair.
“They’re fine. My form tutor said the applications are strong and my personal statement is perfect.”
“Yes,” Mum says with a smile. “I bumped into Theresa in the staff room, she was full of praise.”
I gulp and wait.
“She was particularly impressed that you’re applying to so many Ivy League universities.”
There it is.
I wait.
“I hadn’t realised you were applying to universities in America,” Mum says, her voice airy. “I thought the plan was Oxbridge?”
“I’ve applied there, too,” I mumble.
“Right, yes, well done, honey.” Mum sips her wine and smiles again. “Are the Ivy Leagues in case you don’t get in?”
I hesitate, licking my lips.
“You have to believe in yourself, Sophie.” Dad says, patting my arm. “You’re working so hard, all your teachers are telling us so. Neither of us can imagine you won’t get into Oxbridge.”
I know this is the time to tell them I want to go to Harvard, but for some reason, the words stay stuck in my throat, coagulating into a thick lump. No matter how much I try, I can’t seem to spit it out.
“You are an ambitious girl, Sophie, you’ve always been.” The fondness in Dad’s smile somehow is worse than if he’d been angry. “There’s nothing wrong with having ambitious backup plans. But university is expensive, even with student loans, especially in America. And a lot of your classmates will also be attending Oxford and Cambridge. You can’t underestimate the power of having strong connections. I know you miss your old school sometimes, and I know Spearcrest hasn’t always been easy for you, but remember, all its advantages are there for you to reach out and take.”
He stops and they both look at me with expectant smiles, as if waiting for a response. So I force one out. “I know Spearcrest is a great opportunity.”
The waitress arrives and takes our orders. After she walks away, Mum reaches across the table to touch my hand, which is fisted around my napkin. “We just want what’s best for you, Sophie. You know this, don’t you?”
My words are now a thick, glutinous lump in my throat. Words like: if you wanted what’s best for me, you wouldn’t have kept me trapped in this hellhole for all these years. If you wanted what’s best for me, you wouldn’t have forced me to endure bullying, mockery and insults all this time. If you wanted what’s best for me, you’d actually ask me what I want for once.
But I don’t say anything.
Ultimately, I know Mum and Dad mean what they say. They do want what’s best for me. They have offered me an opportunity not many people like me get to have. They’ve always worked hard to make sure I’d be looked after and never have to worry.
It would be easier to say everything I want to say if they were worse parents. But they’re not.
So I swallow everything back until I’m suffocating, until I can barely eat through the lump in my throat. When it’s time to go home, I thank them, hug them, and leave with my words still stuck in my throat.
I wake up the next morning exhausted and shaky. I’m off my game for the rest of the day: I turn up too late to catch breakfast in the dining hall, I’m distracted in my Maths lesson and my free period is spent rereading the same few sentences of my book of critical theory on Austen. I arrive for my Literature class ten minutes early, so I lean back against the wooden panelling of the wall, letting my head fall back and wondering whether I could sleep standing if I just closed my eyes.
Before I can close my eyes, I catch a glimpse through the glass door of one of the other classrooms. I recognise Mr Houghton, gesturing passionately as he explains something to his students. Moving slowly and carefully so nobody notices me, I peer inside the classroom. It’s definitely a Year 13 class; I recognise most of the students. It doesn’t take me long to spot Evan.
He’s easy to spot, with his bright hair shining like a beacon in the morning sunlight, but that’s not the reason I notice him.
I notice him because every single student in the class is bent over their desks, diligently taking notes as Mr Houghton speaks. Every single student—apart from Evan.
His exercise book isn’t even open, his copy of Persuasion sitting closed next to it. His elbows are propped against his desk and his chin rests on his fists. He’s staring out of the window.
I watch, frozen in fury, as Mr Houghton says something that makes all the students bend forward to annotate their book. Evan, though, just sits completely still, staring out of the window. He doesn’t even glance at Mr Houghton.
After all this, after everything… Why am I even shocked that Evan doesn’t actually give a shit about Lit? It’s not like I believed his blatant lies about wanting to improve. I knew he was lying then, so why am I so shocked now?
Seeing it with my actual eyes, how little he cares and how blatantly he lied to me, somehow brings everything into crystal clear focus for me.
All the work I’ve put in this year—all the time wasted on him just so he can do nothing at all. Evan is exactly what I always knew he was: a spoilt, selfish, deceitful arsehole with not a thought to spare for anyone or anything that isn’t him.
A strange calm settles over me.
I sit calmly in my Lit class until the end, and then I calmly walk over to the other side of the building and knock on Miss Bailey’s door. She calls me inside, and I sit down across from her. I tell her I can no longer tutor Evan, and that if there is no way out of tutoring him then I would like to resign from the academic mentoring programme.
Miss Bailey immediately goes into a state of panic.
“Oh, no, Sophie, there’s no reason to quit!” she says, throwing up her hands. “I know you asked me to find somebody else for Evan, and I’m so sorry I didn’t! I’ve been so busy—but that’s no excuse, I know. No, there’s absolutely no need to quit the programme.”
She reaches for her glasses, which are resting next to a box of chocolate biscuits, and checks her computer. “Right, let’s see what we can do.”
I sit rigidly facing her. An icy sort of triumph fills me. I’m finally going to be free. After today, I never have to see Evan, speak to Evan or think about Evan ever again. It doesn’t exactly solve all my problems, but it’s exactly what I need: a symbolic victory against an untouchable foe.
“Right, well, Beatrice has just started tutoring Zachary Blackwood. He’s on target to achieve his predicted grade but he wants to achieve top marks in Literature since he’s applying to read Literature and Classics at Oxford. I suppose you could take Zachary and Beatrice could take Evan?”
I’m only swapping one Young King for another, but at this point, I’d take Luca Fletcher-Lowe, the devil himself, if it meant getting away from Evan.
“That’s fine.” I take a deep breath, trying to project assertion and determination. “I would like to start straight away, please.”
Miss Bailey nods. “Well, Beatrice has been telling me she doesn’t think she can help Zachary much since he’s already doing pretty well, so I’m sure she won’t mind. Alright, I’ll let everyone know what’s happening, hold on.”
She makes a note in her planner then puts her pen down and looks up.
“Are you alright, Sophie?”
I nod and stand. “A lot better now, Miss Bailey, thank you.”
“Did something happen between you and Evan?”
I smile. “Nothing I can’t handle. And now that I’m done with him, I don’t even have to worry about it.”
“Right…” Miss Bailey says with a slight frown. “Well, if you ever need to talk, you know where to find me.”
“Of course. See you later, Miss Bailey.”
I leave, walking on air. I can’t even remember the last time I felt this free and happy. To celebrate, I allow myself to actually have lunch instead of eating as I work. I fill my plate with food and go find the girls, who are sitting in the dining hall since it’s too cold to hang out outside like we usually do. Araminta is in the middle of a story, and both Audrey and her jump when I appear in front of them with a bright grin.
“Oh my god, Sophie, you look insane!” Audrey exclaims. “Are you ok?”
“I’m in a good mood,” I explain, taking a seat next to them and grabbing my knife and fork. “I’m in a really good mood.”
“Your timing is good, too,” Audrey says. “Guess who Araminta spoke to yesterday?”
Araminta stares at me with huge eyes and I stare back. She seems to be awaiting my guess. “I don’t know… Mr Ambrose?”
“Mr Ambrose?” Araminta says, frowning. “Why on earth would you guess him?”
I shrug. “Make-up?”
Make-up is technically against the rules, although teachers are generally pretty lenient. Mr Ambrose, though, is a stickler for his school’s rules, and Araminta doesn’t know the definition of a natural look. Today, she’s wearing purple eyeshadow, glitter under her eyes, and a sort of witchy violet lipstick. But she laughs and shakes her head.
“No, you idiot. Not Mr Ambrose.”
“Think somebody in our year,” Audrey says. “Somebody you feel strongly about.”
“Evan,” Audrey says to me, rolling her eyes.
I raise my fork in the air. “Let me stop you right there. I have literally just come back from Miss Bailey’s office after officially resigning from tutoring him.”
“What? Really?”
“As of today, I’m not wasting a single more minute of my life on him.”
Araminta leans forward across the table, lowering her voice. “Do you not want to hear what he said to me?”
I shrug. “I imagine something either creepy or stupid. Either way, I could not give less of a fuck if you paid me to.”
“You’d be surprised,” Audrey says.
“You genuinely don’t want to know?” Araminta asks, eyes wide.
I nod. “I genuinely don’t. In fact, I would rather listen to you describe having sex with Luca Fletcher-Lowe in excruciating detail than talk about Evan for one more second.”
Araminta lets out a peal of shocked laughter. “Don’t be disgusting!”
“You did say you would have sex with him out of all the Young Kings,” Audrey points out.
“Yeah, but not actually!” Araminta says with a grimace. “He’s so creepy—I’m pretty sure he might be an actual psychopath. I heard a rumour he likes tying belts around girls’ necks when he fucks them—that shit is far too advanced for me. Anyway, as if I even have the time right now.”
“Yeah,” Audrey agrees. “Back when they made the bet I don’t think they realised how stressful and busy upper school would actually get. I saw three of the Young Kings in the study hall the other day, and they weren’t even fucking about. They were genuinely working.”
“It’s those university applications,” Araminta groans as she peels open a muffin. “I don’t know about you guys, but they felt like a real wake-up call to me.”
Talk turns to university applications. After this year, we might all be scattered across the world, and that unspoken fact hangs over the conversation like a dark cloud.
It reminds me I have other things to worry about than Evan—a lot of other things. And to my relief, I don’t think about him for the rest of the day, I don’t even think about him that night, and manage to sleep well for once. And I don’t think about him in my classes the next day, and I don’t think about him all the way until Friday afternoon.
Because on Friday afternoon, I’m sitting in the study hall working through a pile of Maths past papers when the door slams open. I jump, almost dropping my pen, and look up with a frown.
In the doorway is Evan. He’s out of uniform, wearing his swim team sweatshirt and dark shorts. Despite that ridiculous outfit, his presence radiates light and heat, and the way he stares around the room is ferocious, almost intimidating.
His eyes find me, and he surges forward like a predator springing into a leap to chase its prey.
“Everyone out, now!” he roars.
His voice, deeper than I’ve ever heard it, sounds like a man’s, not a boy’s. It fills the cavernous space beneath the vaulted ceilings. Without question or complaint, everyone in the study hall grabs their books and bags and scrambles towards the door.
Then, there’s just silence, and me, and Evan, facing each other across the bleak space of the study hall.
