Because Illumen Hall is my home. Much more so than my mum’s tiny council flat. And the time had finally come where I didn’t have to share that home with anyone else; I was going to get my own space – Lola’s old room. I’d always envied it, and I hoped, in the aftermath of her passing, it would help me feel close to her.
That was until Mrs Abbott asked me to volunteer to share that space with Audrey Wagner. The American.
It wasn’t really a request – it was a demand and, if Mrs Abbott demands, you do not contest.
‘How long have you been coming to school here?’ she asks my back. I exhale loudly through my nose as I continue to empty my bag. When I don’t respond, she keeps going. Ugh, can’t this girl take a hint?
‘I don’t know how y’all can live in a place like this. I feel like I’m in a freakin’ museum.’ Her accent grates on my nerves, but I’m curious enough that I turn round to face her again.
She smiles really widely so that I can see every tooth in her mouth. Her teeth are extremely symmetrical and almost glimmering white; I’m a little jealous. Her eyes are a shade of blue that reminds me of a china doll and, although her hair is down and rained on, it’s tousled and beachy and looks effortlessly boho.
She seems so innocent and earnest. Is this what they mean by Southern charm? I realign myself. I don’t need to be friends with this girl, but the history of Illumen Hall is one of my favourite subjects and I can’t resist. ‘This part of the building is actually pretty new – Victorian, I think?’
Her jaw drops. ‘Isn’t that, like, a hundred years old?’
I roll my eyes. ‘You want old? We’ve got a building here that dates back to 1487.’
‘Wow. We have some buildings from the 1800s in Savannah – that’s the town I’m from – and that’s considered … really fucking old.’
I suppress a smile. Maybe not so sweet and innocent after all.
I spin round abruptly. I came here to claim my bed and I’ve done that now. I have too much work to do this year, too much to focus on, and plenty of friends like Harriet, Tom, Max and Teddy; I don’t need another. She’s already ruined my year by turning up, and I don’t want to like her. I plan on us just sharing space and being civil to one another. I walk towards the door, but, as soon as I do, she’s on her feet.
‘Hey, well, maybe you can show me around? You seem to know a lot about the place. And I promise I’m a great room-mate. I can make killer s’mores with a candle and a fork …’
I frown. ‘What’s a s’more?’ I ask, despite knowing full well.
‘Oh, you don’t have those here? They’re delicious. Toasted marshmallow and chocolate between two graham crackers …’
‘Gram crackers?’ This is too easy.
She trips on her tongue. ‘Like, uh, a kinda cookie-type thing?’
I wait, one eyebrow raised.
Her shoulders slump. ‘You don’t have those either?’
I shake my head. ‘But that sounds like just the kind of skill you need around here – you’ll fit right in,’ I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
‘You’re hilarious,’ she says, her eyes tightening at the corners. Our senses of humour are clearly very different. This interaction is starting to feel awkward even for me.
This girl really has no idea what she’s letting herself in for. I know the reason Mrs Abbott asked me to offer up my room is because she thought I’d take her under my wing and make sure she’s buckled up for the ride that is sixth form. Maybe last year I would have. But that was before the horrifying event on the beach a couple of months ago. Before Lola. Before my privacy became more important to me than ever before.
Be kind. Mum’s words ring in my ears again. I grit my teeth. ‘I’m sure s’mores are great,’ I say with an exaggerated sigh. ‘All this talk of food has made me hungry. Want me to show you how to get to the dining hall? We have a welcome assembly in a few hours, so you’ve got time to grab something to eat first.’
‘Are you sure?’ She tentatively picks her bag up off the bed. Maybe I really put her off with that s’mores banter. She pauses, her eyes scanning the room.
‘You coming or what?’
She bites her lower lip. She looks afraid and it sends a shiver down my spine. What does she have to be afraid of?
‘You said something when you first came in. That this room was cursed? What did you mean by that?’ She’s staring at me now.
I take a deep breath, working hard to maintain my calm exterior. I don’t want her to feel comfortable. I want her to leave. ‘Oh, that … didn’t Mrs Abbott tell you? The last girl who lived in this room drowned.’
3
Audrey
Well, that’s morbid. I shudder. We lock eyes for a few long moments. She’s already in her school uniform, a shiny badge with the letter P engraved on the front pinned to her lapel. With her tanned summer skin, neatly trimmed dark bob and slight frame, she might look unassuming at first, but her words pack a punch.
And I definitely don’t need to hear any more about a drowning.
‘You know what? I think I’ll find my own way around. I mean, it’s a school. Not exactly an escape room. See you later.’
I don’t think this is what Ivy expects. Her shoulders tighten. I’ve never seen someone go so still. But, just as quickly, she shrugs. ‘Suit yourself.’
I expect her to at least point me in the direction of the dining hall, but she flounces off without another word. I take a deep breath. Without knowing it, I’ve been picking at the edge of my nail polish and, if I continue, it will lift off – along with the top layer of my nail. I force my hands apart, curling my fingers inside my palm. This chick – this school – does not get to mess with my manicure.
It can’t be too difficult to navigate my way around this place.
There’s an old-fashioned lock on the door in addition to the hotel-style key-card entry, but I wasn’t given a key, so I slip my laptop underneath the bedsheets and close the heavy door behind me. With no real point of reference, I choose to walk in the opposite direction to the one I came from with Mrs Abbott.
God, I really hope everyone in this place isn’t as unpleasant as my room-mate. I’m used to being popular – I want people to like me. I can already feel myself trying to think of ways to earn Ivy’s friendship. Her bag was pretty old and shabby, and I have at least three like it back home I could bring her to replace it …
No, that was the old Audrey. The one who bent over backwards for people like a master yogi of friendships. And where did that get me? Contorted into knots that proved impossible to untangle. I’m not gonna do that again.
When the hallway opens up into another grand atrium, with staircases leading off in different directions, I open Snapchat to send Lydia a selfie. I pose, leaning up against the polished banister, trying to get as much of the grandeur of the hall in as possible (while still looking cute). I add a series of heart-eye emojis to the image, and hit send. There’s a heavy weight on my chest. I miss her so much.
Well, I miss the Audrey and Lydia of six months ago. Before everything changed. I shake my head. This is my fresh start.
The sound of voices drifts up from the stairs below, which I guess means other students are starting to arrive. My stomach flips at the thought of meeting new people. It has to go better than it did with Ivy, or else this is gonna be a very long final two years of high school – or sixth form, as they call it here. I check my image in the screen. My eye make-up, carefully applied this morning, is smudged at the corner. I dab at it with my ring finger.
‘Better not let the housemistress see that, or you could be in a lot of trouble.’
The deep voice makes me jump and my cellphone slips from my hand. I squeal, the inevitability of what’s about to happen registering even though I know I can’t react quick enough to stop it. The phone bounces on the gleaming steps once, twice …
It comes to a stop at the feet of the guy who interrupted me. I stumble down the stairs after it, my flip-flops slapping loud
ly. He drops to one knee and scoops it up, then presents it to me in an exaggerated manner. ‘M’lady,’ he says. ‘Your iPhone.’
I don’t even have time to register whether he’s hot or not (normally my first priority). I snatch my phone from his open palm, ignoring his wry grin, and turn it over.
I groan and slump on to the step. A spiderweb of cracks splays across the top corner of the screen, with one jagged line spreading down to the bottom. Even though I know it’s stupid, that it’s just a phone – easily replaced with a quick email to Dad – I have to bite down on my bottom lip to stop tears welling up.
The guy sits down next to me. ‘I hear that’s seven months of bad luck.’
I roll my eyes. ‘That’s mirrors, not phone screens. And don’t you mean seven years?’
‘Seven years is for an actual mirror. This is a digital version. Moves faster.’ He waits for a beat – maybe expecting me to laugh or something. But I’m still in shock. ‘You know, I could fix that for you,’ he says.
Now he has my attention. I blink as I take him in for the first time. He is hot, a white guy with a thick mass of brown hair, warm honey-brown eyes, sharp cheekbones and a chiselled jaw. He’s wearing his school blazer over a shirt and jeans, which already makes him better dressed than any of the Georgia boys I’m used to hanging out with, who were never out of board shorts and loose T-shirts. His eyelashes are so long, the tips brush his brow bone. I smile. ‘You can?’
‘Well, new girl, this actually makes things easier.’ He reaches into his inside blazer pocket and pulls out an old iPhone in a cheap Pokémon cover. ‘Take this. We can change the cover,’ he adds.
I arch an eyebrow. ‘What are you, some kind of black-market phone dealer?’
He laughs, and the sound echoing off the grand atrium walls is so loud it makes me cringe. The school feels almost like a church, so it’s as if his laughter is desecrating its sanctity. But he doesn’t seem to notice. Maybe, once you’re used to this place, you can be as loud as you want. ‘Not like that. Here, we’ve done this all wrong. I’m Theodore.’
I smile. ‘Audrey.’
‘Ah,’ he says.
‘What does “Ah” mean?’
He blushes, and the pink from his cheeks seems to spread all the way up into his hairline. It’s cute. ‘You’re Ivy’s new room-mate.’
‘Oh, so you know Ivy?’
‘Everyone knows Ivy,’ he replies. His lip quirks at the edge. ‘So, let’s say fifty quid for the phone?’ He waggles the Pikachu device at me.
I stand up, suddenly uncomfortable. I’m not gonna buy some crappy old phone from this guy. I grip my broken one like a shield. ‘I’m good. I’ll keep this one.’
‘Oh no … you don’t get it. Everyone needs a –’
‘I’ll be fine.’ I move down a few stairs.
‘Well, if you change your mind, I hang around in the SCR most of the time.’
I nod, but I have no idea what or where the SCR is. I just wanna get out of there. So far, at Illumen Hall, I’ve met three people – and they’ve all weirded me out. This is not what I expected.
I race down the stairs, only to be engulfed by a wave of students entering through a set of heavy double doors.
I dart one last glance back up, but Theodore’s gone. For the best, I think. After all, my break-up with Brendan is still fresh. In fact, I have a voice note from him I haven’t listened to …
I shake my head, dispersing thoughts of the hot English boy I just met and the even hotter guy I left behind in the States. This is supposed to be my new start.
No drama with guys.
No bitchy friends.
And definitely no more drownings.
4
Ivy
‘Enter each row from the left-hand side, please, and fill the seats all the way to the front …’ I gesture towards the wooden chairs by the stage as students bumble into the assembly hall, one behind the other, whispering and gossiping. There’s a low buzz of excitement in the air from the new intake, mixed with first-day-of-school nerves. Everyone else is more sombre than usual, especially when they see what’s on the stage. It’s enough to shut up even the chattiest of people.
I try to keep my eyes off it, and remain focused on the task at hand.
Being a prefect, you’re entitled to a lot of perks, but they come with eye-wateringly boring responsibilities – like overseeing the students filing into assembly every week. I know … surely able-bodied humans are capable of taking a seat in an orderly fashion? Well, turns out not so much. If we left them to it, it’d be chaos. It’s exhausting watching the newbies wobble around like lost sheep, and having to herd them like a sheepdog is really draining my bank of enthusiasm on this gloomy evening.
When I snap loudly at a first year who decides to jump a chair like he’s practising his hurdles, Mrs Abbott gives me one of her ‘looks’, her piercing grey eyes narrowing as she watches how I control the situation. I send her a sharp smile back, making sure to give my most flattering and charming teeth-baring grin, which is then acknowledged with an eyeroll. Mrs Abbott and I have a very complex relationship. I don’t think she approves of my background – but she can’t deny that I earned my place here. We grate on each other like bickering relatives, but I always manage to win her over somehow.
The new Year Sevens are pretty funny to watch. They gawp at the size of the hall, the faded gold-etched names of the head boys and girls and their prefects listed on mahogany plaques around the wall, going all the way back to the mid-eighteenth century. My name is up there this year under ‘Prefect’, etched in sparkling new gold leaf. But one name is conspicuously missing from this year’s head girl spot. And Araminta Pierce’s is there in its place.
Instead, Lola’s full name is written beneath a large photo projected on to a screen at the back of the stage. Even in black and white, you can see her skin glowing and her eyes sparkling. Lola would have hated that photo. She’s perfection personified in it, right down to the stray perfect curl in her blond hair that looped just above her ear. But, by the end of last year, she’d shaved an undercut into her long blond locks, and her eyes were rimmed with kohl so black it made her light blue irises seem translucent. And then there was that magpie tattoo.
Everyone – even her best friends – had been shocked by that.
The words underneath the photo read:
DOLORES RADCLIFFE
FOREVER IN OUR HEARTS
They make me catch my breath. It still doesn’t seem real. In all my years at this school, we’ve never been struck by any sort of tragedy – not of this magnitude.
There’s an easel onstage too, draped in a red velvet sheet. I half expect Lola to burst out from underneath it, laughing, like it was all a big prank.
If she was still here, everything would be so different. This assembly would be joyful, not sombre. I’d have been by her side, running her errands, while she did her head-student duties. I never minded grabbing her coffee in the morning or helping her with her coursework because it meant I got to spend time with her – and being around Lola instantly increased your credibility. She was so alluring, so effortlessly beautiful that basically everyone fancied her. But it wasn’t just her aesthetic that made her so magnetic. She was warm and charming and every word that rolled off her tongue left an impact. Her laugh had you smiling so hard your jaw would ache. Being in her orbit was a joy as pure as being on the beach, listening to the waves, sand between your toes and a cold cider in your hand.
It all feels so empty without her.
I turn round, blinking, and usher the last of the older students into their seats. It’s been weeks – an entire summer – since Lola’s death and many sunsets, hook-ups, break-ups and tropical Kent showers. Time carries on ticking.
I feel a stab of jealousy at the sight of fellow students who appear fine. Smiling and greeting each other like it’s a normal first day back, as if Lola’s death hasn’t shattered them like it has me. My vow had been to try and start the school year without
letting it affect me too much. But it’s clear, from how I feel seeing Lola’s face once more, that’s not going to happen.
I take my own seat at the end of a row, next to Teddy. He’s the other prefect for Helios House – and my boyfriend. Sort of. He gives my knuckles a squeeze and I brush his fingers, but don’t make eye contact. That might just send me over the edge, and I don’t want to break down right now.
There’s a clip of heels on the wooden stage, and I close my eyes for a second.
Mrs Abbott walks to the centre of the stage and fiddles with her microphone. I watch as Araminta and the new head boy, Xander Tamura, stand beside Mrs Abbott like her bodyguards. A student is playing ‘Stuff We Did’ on the piano at the side of the stage. The song is from the Disney film Up, one of Lola’s favourite films, and a really beautiful, delicate piece to play. I’ve played the piano since I was old enough to sit at one and now I teach other boarding students at weekends.
Teddy whispers, ‘Didn’t you and Clover play this song together once? That kid isn’t doing it as well as you two.’
‘Yeah, we did.’ I smile at the mention of Clover. She’s two years below me – my fledgling – and I’ve taken my task of mentoring her very seriously. She’ll be somewhere backstage, adjusting the lights and pulling on cables, probably wearing some outspoken, sweary T-shirt under her blazer. How she gets away with that I don’t know, but I admire her gutsy attitude. Everyone knows Clover. If there’s a protest on the grounds about the amount of water the school uses or the fact that the canteen doesn’t provide enough plant-based options, you can guarantee Clover will be fronting it, with some sort of elaborate signage, and sometimes – on the rare occasion it’s not locked in her office – Mrs Abbott’s megaphone.
The Magpie Society One for Sorrow Page 2
