Page 7

All I can think of is getting away from here—from all this red brick and wrought iron and these majestic maples and cherrytrees, my fellow students, with their Hermes bags and their perfectly blown out hair and their winsome, insincere smiles.

Outside Blackstone Hall, night is beginning to fall. The sky is darkening, blue to purple-grey, the edges of the clouds gilded with a soft golden lining. Drifts of wilted petals still blow across the footpaths, reminding me of Spearcrest.

Funny how something can feel both soul-crushingly familiar and yet terrifyingly alien.

“Need a lift, Sonya?”

Anthony appears from behind me, sucking on a vape with a wet, crackling noise, phone in his hand. I didn’t even hear him approach; my pulse spikes in sudden warning, but I force my face into neutrality. For once, he’s not looking at the screen, but at me, his eyes weirdly searching.

“I’m alright.” I shake my head. “I’m not staying far.”

“No?” There’s a weird intonation to his voice. His accent is very polished and quite posh, a strange mix of Bostonian and British, like a lot of the rich New York kids who went to Spearcrest. “Where are you staying?”

I don’t know why he’s asking; he doesn’t want to know any more than I want to tell him. I answer anyway, more to end the conversation than anything else.

“Huntington Hall.”

He blows out a fragrant cloud of smoke. “Oh, Charity Hall?”

He doesn’t wait for the insult to land, like carelessly tossing a grenade over his shoulder. There’s something unsettling about the way his gaze lingers, like he’s weighing me up in the palm of his hand, trying to figure out whether he should pocket me or throw me to the ground to crush me under his heel.

“Where did you say you went to school again?”

I hesitate. He didn’t go to Spearcrest, that much I’m certain of. But there are only so many schools like Spearcrest in theUK—or the world—and it wouldn’t surprise me if he knew people who had gone there.

“Fernwell High,” I lie. “Looks like it’s about to rain, so I better run. Bye.”

This time, I don’t wait for a good opportunity to leave. Hands stuffed deep into my coat pockets, I turn and walk away as quickly as I can. The wind, picking up suddenly, pushes against my back and legs, but all I can feel is Anthony’s stare on me as I retreat.

It doesn’t even surpriseme that Huntington Hall is nicknamed Charity Hall: the Huntington family apparently donated it to Harvard specifically to house scholarship students.

The irony is that it’s a beautiful place: old building, tall windows, a courtyard of beech trees, a grand reception hall with an enormous carved fireplace.

Despite its beauty, its halls are unnervingly empty. Only a handful of students are here this early. Without the incoming class, Huntington feels liminal and haunting, caught in the strange limbo between past and present, privilege and necessity, charity and expectation.

My room is small and plain, not so different from my old room at Spearcrest, except that it still feels like a stranger’s room. All my things are still crammed in my suitcase. I’d only brought the bare necessities: books, toiletries, a few changes of clothes. No luxuries, no decorations. I can’t afford those, at least not for now.

Unpacking feels insurmountable, but I force myself to do it anyway. When I’m done, my desk looks as it always does at thestart of term: reading lists, planner, pens, highlighters, waiting for me to meticulously map out the weeks ahead.

I know I should. Mr Park made it clear there won’t be room for mistakes or laziness. But I just can’t bring myself to do it.

Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the rain that’s started falling outside. It’s not even eight, but I feel like I’ve been awake for weeks. All I want to do is sleep. All I want to do, truthfully, is tonot be here.

I crawl into bed, but the unfamiliar sheets are cold, the smells foreign, the silence oppressive. Everything sinks down on me—the weight of this place, of being so far from home, of knowing I put myself here. I’m crying before I know it, silent sobs wracking my chest as I bury my face in the pillow, terrified someone in one of the other rooms will hear me.

My phone lights up on the nightstand.

I reach for it, my fingers trembling, to find a flood of texts waiting:

Mum: Hope your first day went well, love. Call us when you can.

Araminta: Um, the radio silence is getting borderline offensive? How was the holiday at Casa del Knight? How’s summer school? How’s HARVARD? I expect gossip ASAP.

Audrey: Don’t make me beg for updates. (I’m not above it.)

And then, at the bottom of the stack, a text from Evan.

Evan: Sophie, please. I’m not angry, I don’t care that you didn’t say goodbye. I just want to knowyou’re okay.