I don’t think it’s silly, of course.
“No offense, Charlotte, but I don’t feel the need to impress anybody.”
“Oh, please. People like to be impressed. It’s polite. It makes them feel like you care what they think.” I hold up my hand. “And don’t say you don’t care what they think. Of course you do. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
She raises an eyebrow. “When did my little sister get so wise?”
“I’ve always been a total genius, you just never noticed.” I rummage through her clothes, separating them into two piles: keep and donate. The donate pile outpaces the keep pile five to one.
Libby watches me work. “Am I to gather that all of those”—she points at the rapidly expanding pile of concert T-shirts and stretched-out jumpers—“are clothes you’re not going to let me wear anymore?”
“There’s a charity center in town on the high street. We’ll go this weekend, donate all these grungy old clothes, and then buy you new ones. In the meantime, you can borrow some of mine. You and I are the same size—and mine will actually fit. Lucky you!”
“It’s pointless to resist, huh?”
I nod firmly. “This is all for your own good. We’re going to get you started on the right foot here at Sussex Park.”
Operation Libby has officially begun.
six
Libby can’t stop fretting as we walk to lunch.
“Are you sure I look okay?” she asks, biting her thumbnail as she looks down at her uniform.
I scan her critically. The pleated green-and-white tartan skirt looks juvenile on almost everybody, but since Libby is absurdly tall, it falls above her knee and somehow manages to look chic. “You look great.” She’s wearing the rest of the standard-issue uniform—fitted white button-down shirt and V-neck navy jumper—paired with her favorite black combat boots. I’m dying to get her into a pair of ankle booties, but I know better than to rip the plaster off. With Libby, it’s all about baby steps, and I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.
As we walk down the quad, other students smile at the two of us, a few piping up with “Hey, Charlotte!” as I wave and greet them.
“You’re popular.”
“I’m friendly,” I correct her.
“I can’t wait to finally meet all your friends. I feel like I know them with how much you won’t shut up about them,” Libby says. I roll my eyes, but I’m happy to see her back in a teasing mood.
As we walk into the dining hall, Libby’s eyebrows rise. “Holy hell.”
It’s easy to become immune to the grandeur after spending three years here, but the Sussex Park dining hall is a truly spectacular place. I try to see it through her eyes. The ceiling is tall and vaulted. There are four massive gold-and-brass chandeliers. The hall is long and narrow, and at the far end, there are stained-glass windows. It’s an impressive space.
“Follow me,” I say, winding through the tables as more students greet me. “Over there are the hot foods. That’s the salad bar.” I point to an ice cream station. “The dessert runs out by the end of the night, so you’ll be disappointed if you get here too late.”
My group sits at the very back of the room at their usual circular table. “Hey! Meet my sister. This is Libby.”
They look at her curiously.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” says Flossie. “Seems like we’ve been hearing about this famous sister forever.”
“Or at least for a week,” says Georgie, smiling.
India stands up, her waist-length blond hair engulfing my sister as she hugs her. “Libby. Welcome to Sussex Park.” She looks at Alice and Flossie, who stand up and walk over to Libby, embracing her one by one in a receiving line.
“You have a perfect nose,” Alice says to Libby solemnly. “Is it real?”
Libby looks alarmed. “Um, yes?”
“I’m Georgie! Nice to meet you!” Georgie gives Libby a warm hug.
“Didn’t know you had a sister, Weston,” says Tarquin, staring at her legs.
“I’ve only mentioned it a billion times,” I say, rolling my eyes at him. “Thanks for listening.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re visiting?” asks David. There’s a smudge of mustard on his chin, and I discreetly motion toward it. He runs his hands across his face, smearing it further.
“I just transferred in.”
“From which school?” Flossie asks.
“Greene House? In Surrey?”
“One of my cousins went there,” Flossie says. “Thank God you escaped.”
India pulls out the wooden chair next to her, patting it. “Here, Libby. Sit next to me.”
“Have you seen Eds?” I ask, pulling up a chair from a nearby table. “I want him to meet Libby. He texted me an hour ago.”
Everybody shrugs. “I haven’t seen him all day,” India says, taking a sip of her tea.
As the group talks, tossing around jokes and insults, Libby is quiet. She looks around the room a lot, taking everything in and occasionally nibbling on her thumb cuticle. I know her well enough to realize that she’s probably getting overwhelmed.
After forty minutes, Edward is still a no-show. I text him as we leave.
ME: Where r u?
A few minutes later, a response:
EDWARD: Sry, family stuff. Talk later.
I frown. “We should head out,” I say to Libby. She obeys, standing up to leave the dining hall.
“Bye, Libby,” India says. “See you tonight at dinner.”
“Bye!” she says cheerily. “It was nice to meet you all!” Her voice probably sounds normal to everybody else, but it’s higher than usual, which means she’s definitely stressed.
“Watch out for the campus ghost!” Alice calls after her. “His name is Francis. He haunts the library!”
“Is she serious?” Libby mutters to me.
I shrug. “You never bloody know with Alice.”
I lead Libby out the doors and toward Powers Hall, the humanities building. It’s a three-story redbrick behemoth with white trim, white windows, and Greek Doric columns outside the entrance.
“Looks like you’re not going to meet Edward for a while,” I say.
“That’s okay. I’ll meet him soon.”
“You’ll love him, Libs, I promise.”
“Cool. Can’t wait.” She seems distracted. Her excitement from earlier in the day seems to be slipping away as reality sets in.
I lead Libby inside the doors, smiling and responding briefly to people who say hello. We climb the marble steps to the first floor, where I stop her outside the class. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m sure.”
“Do you want me to pick you up after class?”
She pauses. “I appreciate it, Charlotte, but you don’t have to worry about me so much. I’ll be okay. I promise.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll see you later this afternoon, okay? Text me when you’re ready and we’ll meet up. Sound good?”
She waves me off, and I walk upstairs one more floor to history class.
After class, Edward texts me to meet up outside Powers Hall. He engulfs me in a hug, his arms warm. “Sorry. I’ve had a hell of a day.” Around us, I see students shooting us curious glances. I’d be curious, too, if I saw Prince Edward hanging on some girl.
“Me, too,” I say, throwing my bag over my shoulder. “Let’s head into town—just hang on one sec so I can text my sister.” I pull out my phone and tell her to meet us by the front gates in five minutes.
We walk through campus, exiting the brass gates at the end of the sloping driveway.
“So she’s finally here? How’s she doing?”
“Good! A little overwhelmed, but she’ll manage.”
“It’s a lot, I’m sure—transferring into a new school your last year, leaving all your friends, having to adjust to a new place. She’s lucky to have you here.”
“Thanks. I just want her to fit in. We’re kind of different.”
Libby’s fifty feet away, standing beyond the brass gates looking at us. She’s still wearing her uniform, but she’s thrown her favorite army jacket over it, slouching with her arms folded across her chest. Her hair is pulled back into a loose bun, a pen stabbed through the topknot to hold it in place.
“Is that her?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“I see what you mean. She seems quieter.”
“Yeah. She doesn’t let her hair down right away. But she’s hilarious once you get to know her, I promise.”
“Cool.”
“You two will love each other,” I say, raising my voice as I call out, “Hey, Libs! Hope you weren’t waiting too long.”
“It’s all good! I came here right after class.”
“How’d it go?”
“Not bad. Decent teachers, interesting class discussion, lots of student engagement—two thumbs up.” She looks back and forth between Edward and me. “Hi,” she says, smiling and sticking her hand out. “I’m Libby.”
He smiles at her, shaking it. “Hi back. I’m Edward.”
I have to restrain myself from saying, “Yeah, I think she knows who you are.”
“Well!” I clap my hands together. “Now that we’re all acquainted. Ice cream?”
We turn right and walk up the high street, passing boutiques, cafés, and restaurants while making our way toward the ice cream shop.
“How are you finding Sussex Park?” Edward asks her.
“Too soon to tell,” she says, “but so far, everybody seems nice.”
“Everybody?” I say. “Even Tarquin?”
Edward starts laughing. Libby smiles as she looks back and forth between the two of us. “Was that the guy with the floppy hair at lunch?”
“That’d be the one,” I confirm.
“Tarquin,” Edward says, shaking his head, more to himself than to us.
We walk into the ice cream shop and place our orders. There’s an awkward silence while we each collect our cones and then pay.
“That looks delicious,” Edward says, lamely attempting small talk while gesturing toward Libby’s cone.
“Would you like a bite?” she asks, offering it to him.
“More of a choc man myself.”
She gestures to the cone in his hand. The chocolate is beginning to run down the side of the cone. “I see.”
“But thank you so much.”
“Well, this conversation is riveting,” I joke. “Shall we go outside and debate the merits of sprinkles versus fudge?”
We exit the ice cream shop, walking to the end of the high street and sitting on the edge of a fountain. A few tourists notice Edward and begin gesturing excitedly.
“I think you’ve been spotted,” Libby says.
He reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a white baseball cap with a giant maroon D emblazoned across the front.
“That must be so weird,” she says. “Always being recognized.”
I look up at her in alarm. We’re not supposed to talk about the elephant in the room. Edward’s friends have an unspoken agreement that we pretend to ignore who he is. Libby’s just being her normal, straightforward self, but I’d assumed she would cool it with Edward.
He scratches his head before pulling on the cap. “Yeah. It is.” He pauses, adjusting the cap low so that his eyes are hidden. “I’m used to it by now.”
“That’s good,” she says.
“But it still sucks.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” She takes another small bite of her ice cream. “But it’s the trade-off, I guess.”
“Trade-off?”
“Your bargain. You get more than others, so it’s only fair that you have to give something up in return, like your privacy. Don’t you think? And you can actually do something good and meaningful with your life—unlike most people. You’re lucky, but not for the reasons that everybody thinks. That’s all just shiny stuff. It doesn’t matter in the end, and you’re not really better than anybody else because of it.”
Crap. This is not how I wanted things to go down.
“I’m getting hot,” I say, pointing across the street. “Let’s go over there in the shade.” I stand up, dusting off my skirt. I look back and forth between the two of them in alarm, not sure how Edward will react to Libby’s bluntness. I’ve never heard anybody talk like that to him before. I wonder if he has, either.
He looks her full in the face. “I never said I was better than anybody else. And I certainly don’t think it.”
“Good,” she says, nodding emphatically. “Charlotte would never be with somebody arrogant. I knew there must be more to you than meets the eye.”
“One hopes,” he says, standing up. “I might still let you down. But I’ll do my best.” He chomps into the cone.
My eyebrows are practically at my hairline. I can’t believe Edward is taking this so good-naturedly.
We finish our ice cream and walk back to campus. Edward’s phone rings and he excuses himself, walking a few feet away to take the call. I hear him say, “Yes, Mum,” and realize he’s talking to Queen Madeline.
“Are you having a brain aneurysm?” I hiss.
“What?” she asks.
“Maybe you can wait a full hour after meeting him before going on the offensive with the insults.”
“I wasn’t being insulting.”
“Are you serious? You called him arrogant. You said he wasn’t impressive at first glance. You said he wasn’t better than anybody else and implied he’s stuck-up. Jesus, Libby. People skills. Learn them.”
Her face reddens. “I didn’t mean anything by it, Lotte. I wasn’t trying to insult him, honestly.”
She looks over at Edward, who is listening intently and nodding, saying, “Yes . . . Yes . . . I understand . . . You don’t need to remind me . . . I’ll be there . . . Of course,” over and over.
“It must be stressful being him. He seems kind. I feel sorry for him, actually.”
“You feel sorry for Edward?” I snort. “Now you’ve officially lost your marbles. Shh, he’s coming back.”
He walks back to us, smiling tightly. “Sorry for that. Shall we?”
“Everything okay?” I ask him.
“Mmm-hmm,” he says. I’m not convinced but don’t want to press him further.
Suddenly, Libby stops. She pivots on one heel and says sharply, “Edward. Charlotte. Follow me right now.”
We follow her, looking at each other wide-eyed as she whips around the corner and then turns into a village shop.
“Have you lost it?” I ask her. “What’s with all the MI6 stuff?”
“There was a photographer,” she says. “Hiding behind the fountain in the town square.” As she’s talking, a heavyset balding man rushes by, looking frantically right and left while holding a camera. He passes by the shop without spotting us.
Edward lets out a sharp puff of breath. “I didn’t even see him. Thank you so much. I hate the bloody paparazzi.”
“I figured,” she says.
As we walk back through the campus gates, I feel a pebble in my shoe. My leg is a bit sore from hockey practice, so I stop walking, hopping on one leg to excavate the piece of gravel from my ballet flat. I look ahead, about to catch up with Libby and Edward, when I stop in my tracks.
They’re walking side by side, their steps in sync. While I’m always racing to catch up with Edward’s long strides, Libby’s three extra inches of height help her walk smoothly, calmly, unhurriedly next to him.
Libby looks back, realizes I’m behind them, and stops, putting her hand lightly on Edward’s shoulder to halt him. They both turn to face me, waiting for me to hurry and catch up.
After dinner with the group, Libby and I head back to Colvin to watch the telly together. The common room is empty, so we spread out on either side of the sofa, our legs and feet draped over each other. It reminds me of how we used to watch television together when we were little: jammed against each other l
ike conjoined twins, despite the entirety of the rest of the large sofa.
“You survived!” I say. In the background, a Friends rerun flickers—one of our favorites.
“I survived,” she repeats, sounding exhausted.
“Thoughts? Concerns? Questions?”
“To answer all three: no, yes, and a billion.”
We laugh, eventually lapsing into silence as a car advert comes on showing two sisters driving in an Audi together.
“This is cool, isn’t it?” I say. “You and me together during the school year.”
“It feels like summer,” she nods, smiling. “Except with way more homework.”
“Ugh, don’t get me started on homework. I need to figure out what I’m going to do for my graphic design project.” The only two classes I enjoy are graphic design and history. Graphic design is basically an hour of playing around on the computer, and history is just stories and old gossip, really. “I love that class, but man is it a ton of work. We’re doing mobile design now. I want to create something fab.”
“Why don’t you create that app you’re always talking about?”
I love Viewty, but their search functionality is terrible. I’ve been looking for an app that combines beauty with design DIY, and what few things I’ve found are equally lame. Libby has been on my case for over a year to create it myself.
“Like that’s even possible.”
“It is,” she insists. “You’re so talented. And it’s not like your professor expects you to get it perfect. But start small, do your best, and take it from there. You never know.”
I pull out my iPhone, quickly scrolling through Viewty. I couldn’t do anything, like, professional, but I could probably make something decent for class. I close the app again, setting the phone down on my stomach.
“So young,” I say. “But so wise.” We giggle.
After another half an hour of Friends reruns, Libby starts yawning. “Do you mind if I go to bed?” she asks. “I’m sorry, but I’m knackered, Lots.”
Her yawn is contagious. “No worries. Let’s go up.”
Romancing the Throne Page 7
