The End Defines the Beginning : A Boarding School Coming of Age (Harlow Academy Series Book 1)

by Sarah Appleby

  The monk just raised his two fingers.

  ‘Two hundred dollars,’ the man asked.

  The young monk shook his head.

  ‘Ah, I didn’t offer enough! Two thousand? It must be precious if you’ve brought it here. I’m a sculptor and want to make a work of art from your amazing stone!’”

  The drama in Mr. Phillips’ voice was growing ever more powerful and louder. Emily loved it. He was so passionate.

  “Now, of course, upon hearing this offer, the monk was completely taken aback. He was so excited to tell his master about this amazing story. He rushed back to the monastery before anyone else could say a word.

  ‘Master! You won’t believe it. Someone offered two thousand dollars for my stone! I cannot believe what is happening! Now please, I’ve done as you asked and please, tell me the value of my life.’

  But of course, as you guessed it, the master said, ‘Just one more time. This time, take the stone to the art collector’s shop. And then I promise you, when you return, I will give you your answer.’

  Well, Emily, you know what happened of course! The story of this amazing monk and his super precious stone spread far and wide and immediately, people spotted him with his stone at the art collector’s shop. They just knew it had to be precious.

  They murmured in hushed tones and spoke about this clever monk who knew the true value of this precious stone.

  Finally, one person had the courage to make an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  ‘Monk,’ said the person, ‘How much for the stone?’

  The monk simply stretched out his two fingers without replying.

  ’Twenty thousand?’

  The monk said nothing but shock overcame him. He gasped.

  ‘Ah no… I don’t mean to insult you. Two hundred thousand! Come on monk… I’ll give you two hundred thousand if you give it to me now.’

  The monk was honestly so insane with delight and surprise and such a mixture of emotions that he ran off, leaving the would be buyer thinking that the rock was worth even more and that he had insulted the monk.

  The young monk returned to his elder.

  ‘We could be rich,’ he cried, ‘Someone just offered me two hundred thousand for my stone! Now, I have followed your instructions even though it was crazy! You have to tell me the answer to my question. What is the value of my life?’”

  Emily was on the edge of her seat now, too. What was the value of life? This was going to be good.

  “The elder monk patted the young monk on the head and said, ‘My child, you have already discovered the answer to your own question. The greatest value of your life is like this stone. At the market, you were worth twenty dollars. At the museum, two thousand and at the art collector, you were worth two hundred thousand. The value of your life is determined by where you place yourself to be. The decision is yours to make.”

  Emily was confused.

  “But, I don’t really get it. Surely the story is saying that other people determine our value?”

  “Emily, that stone was the same in every scenario. It was the same stone. The value of that stone was the same everywhere.”

  She thought she understood but this was deep. Mr. Phillips explained.

  “Emily, you are invaluable. You are one in a million… more! A unique gem. But people around you, they can only value you according to what they know, the kind of person they are, the lives that they have lead. And they may not understand you. You have to know your own value. Make your own determination about what your life is worth. Most importantly, surround yourself with people who realize your true worth.”

  A glow built up inside of Emily. This must be what an epiphany is.

  “And also, she said, “I mean, I know this is more literal but, the stone ended up being actually worth a lot. I mean, it taught the monk the meaning of life.”

  Mr. Phillips shook his head and beamed from ear to ear, “I think you’ve got the hang of Harlow, Emily.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  EMILY WALKED OVER to the bookstore, getting excited about the house competitions that were coming up. She had asked her Mom if she could buy a couple of things to dress up in, some proper Harlow kit.

  She and Georgia had spoken with a Lower about it the day before and she had said, “Everyone will be head to toe crimson and grey. If you don’t have any Harlow tees or stuff, pop over to the bookstore because Graves HAS to win this year! And it all starts with looking the part.”

  Emily had butterflies in her stomach just thinking about it. She wanted something to happen on campus that would take everyone’s mind off the latest Conundrum. It had been a couple of weeks and people were still going on about it. And because she was still snooping for more juice about the Beard Hall prep picture, she was listening in on conversations about it she may have otherwise tuned out. She wondered if they could ever publish another story if the campus did cool off.

  Some people thought Pierce should have been turned in. If not to the police then at least to the Dean. The latest ethical debate.

  Some people thought Pierce didn’t do it. This line of thinking was spread mostly by his friends and likely originated with Grayson.

  Some people thought there were still cams out there. A conspiracy theory where people believed there was a whole perverted spy network and that no girl was safe.

  And then there was the big rumor, the most prevalent one of all.

  Emily walked in to the Harlow Bookstore and the tiny fairy bell tinkled her arrival in the small, crowded shop. Books were upstairs and downstairs, one could find Harlow everything, from stationary to mugs, to t-shirts, key chains, hats. The store reminded Emily of the souvenir shops in a Minnesota resort town.

  Emily wandered around admiring the beautiful items. Unlike the tatty, one and done keepsakes of the resort town, Harlow kit was well made and built to last. Emily wished for a moment that she could afford to buy head to toe Harlow armor for the competitions, but she could only afford one sweatshirt. She would have to scour eBay, Poshmark or something to get clothes in the school colors to complement.

  Bending down to the bottom shelf of sweatshirts, Emily dug around for a size small. The whole female population of Harlow campus had been in to purchase gear because there seemed to be nothing smaller than a large.

  Just then, Emily heard some voices on the other side of the aisle.

  “It’s got to be Emily,” said one girl.

  “Yeah, she’s totally loose. She’s been after loads of guys this term… Grayson, Xander… Also, it’s so obvious because who else has Pierce been with this term? I mean, if the cams were discovered this term, they must have been placed this term. They couldn’t have been in the dorms over the summer,” said another girl.

  Emily contemplated letting them walked away. She wanted to hide her face and hoped they didn’t enter her aisle.

  “Yeah, listen if you get around the guy scene that much something bad is going to happen. I mean, I’m not saying she deserved it or anything but play with fire and you might get burned,” said the first girl.

  Suddenly Emily stood up straight. Her bravery astounded even her and the three girls all shared startled faces.

  Emily walked around to the aisle the gossip queens were in and the girls hadn’t moved a muscle. Emily didn’t know either of the girls personally.

  One she knew was a Lower and the other she thought was an Upper. She had never shared a class with them, a dinner with them, a laugh with them. And here they were, thinking they knew so much about her.

  “Hey,” was all that Emily could muster.

  The girls said nothing. But their faces relaxed, and they attempted to act normally, and as if nothing had happened.

  “So…” said Emily, and she outstretched her hand, “I’m Emily.”

  The girls looked at her hand, confused, so Emily emphasized that her hand was out as a greeting by shaking it.

  The girls looked at each other and took Emily’s hand, one by one, shaking it.


  “What are your names?” Emily asked.

  “Adrienne.”

  “McCartney.”

  Emily tried not to be distracted by the last name as a name. There were so many of those around here.

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you. For the first time,” Emily said, trying not to sound defensive but also making her point.

  The girls tried to keep their cool. But it was as if they had just been tapped with a stun gun.

  “Anyway,” Emily said, “I just wanted to say that if you want to get to know me, I live in Graves. You can pop by anytime. I mean it.”

  The girls were still silent. It didn’t appear that they were going to say any more so Emily crouched back down in the sweatshirt aisle.

  Only then did she notice her flittering heart and sweaty palms. She tried not to smile to herself but truthfully; she felt proud.

  She sifted one more time through the sweatshirts. It was her lucky day. One medium way at the back. That would work.

  Emily went to the counter, paid for the sweatshirt she felt lucky to have found and left with a fairy tinkle bell echoing behind her.

  Adrienne and McCartney looked at one another.

  “Do you think she actually heard us?”

  “Of course she did,” said McCartney, staring at the door where Emily just left.

  “Well, she was pretty nice about it.”

  McCartney was still staring at the door.

  “Yeah, you know, she really was…”

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  THE REST OF the term raced by at Harlow.

  Emily sat in her room, next to her big suitcase, packing to go home from Christmas. She folded sweaters and stuffed socks into the empty spaces like her Grandpa had taught her. Almost a month. She would be at home for almost a month.

  Looking around her room at Harlow, she knew the transition back would be hard. She would share a room again with Katie, for starters. But there were so many things that Emily worried about.

  She and Xander had become inseparable. She would really miss him. Her friends back home would have moved on and in to new social circles. Would she slot in with Grace’s new Roosevelt High friends or Maddie’s West Lutheran gang? Maybe she would sit around lonely, face timing Xander, who had it even worse. After being in Singapore for middle school he probably wouldn’t have ANY friends back home.

  But he would be in Lapland. And probably off skiing in their chalet in the White Mountains. Everyone at Harlow would be off doing magical things and making memories. Georgia would fly all the way to France to snowboard, her parents wanting her to brush up on her French at the same time. Most of the Harlow students would have stories to tell about their epic Christmas breaks, newly unwrapped designer clothes would circle the Harlow tables and iPhones and gadgets would all have an upgrade. Upon returning, Emily was bound to feel ordinary all over again.

  But now she had Mr. Phillips. And she had Xander, who proved his friendship a million times over this term. He had become precious to Emily; she knew his worth. Emily smiled to herself as she thought about Mr. Phillips’ monk and the stone story. It worked both ways. Not only did Emily need to define her own worth, she needed to value other people. Make it known how special she thought they were.

  She went to her desk to take out her gift for Xander. She didn’t have much money to spend, so she thought long and hard about how to give him something meaningful. She had found a patch online. Xander loved patches and had sewn, or someone did anyway, a bunch of them on to his backpack. He mostly had his favorite bands.

  Emily had found a handmade patch on Etsy. It was a guitar, multicolored, and inside of it were scrolled letters reading: “Come Waste Your Time With Me.” They were lyrics to a Phish song, a band that Xander totally loved.

  Emily went over to her desk and grabbed the Christmas card she had gotten for Xander. This, too, she picked out with care. It was a throw back to their first day meeting, at Gateway. Snoop Dog was on the front in a Santa outfit and it said, “Twas the night before Chrizzle. And all through the Hizzle. Not a creature was stirring. Not even a Mizzle.”

  Emily opened it and wrote inside:

  Merry Christmas, Xander! I hope you have an amazing time back home. Thanks for wasting your time with me. I can’t wait to do that some more in that in the New Year…

  Emily paused at the closing. Should she write “Love, Emily?” “See you soon, Emily?” “Sincerely, Emily?” She finally settled on:

  Xoxo, Emily

  Emily put the patch into the card’s envelope and sealed it with a lick. She planned on slipping him the little gift into his PO Box. She texted him to make sure he checked it one last time before leaving tomorrow. She slipped on her shoes and grabbed her coat, throwing a scarf loosely around her neck.

  Emily walked over to the Academic Quad in the freezing, frosty air. Her breath puffed out visibly and the path was icy. She rushed as her packing had taken longer than expected but she had to get to PO before her last class.

  She was excited to post Xander’s gift but also apprehensive. It was kind of putting herself out there. A bit fluffy. But Mr. Phillips really encouraged her to be sincere and even allow herself to feel vulnerable. He told her that people needed to know how you feel about them. And that being honest about that would help her grow, whether or not their reaction was positive.

  Emily reached the Harlow post office and welcomed the rush of warm air. After the dry, biting atmosphere of her walk over, it felt humid inside.

  The Harlow PO had been quite the surprise for Emily. She hadn’t thought for a second before leaving Minnesota and embarking on this adventure that a post office would be one of buildings she would love the most. But, her grandmother had sent her quite a bit of mail since she left for Harlow. It felt as though Emily had about three letters a week from her.

  She looked around at the hundreds and hundreds of tiny little boxes, each locked with their own miniature key. This room had taught her a lot. It taught her that email isn’t as nearly awesome as an old-fashioned letter. It taught her that handwriting contains a thousand feelings; it could loop its graphite lines around you and draw out any emotion. It taught her that even after travelling hundreds of miles, a letter can still smell like Shalimar perfume.

  When Emily left home, she had felt unloved, small and lost. Her mother’s mental departure after Andy’s death had left a lonely hole in Emily’s heart. Being away from home, her mom had no choice but to communicate with her more openly, if not, they would have completely fallen apart.

  Emily’s mom wrote letters less frequently than her grandma but they were laced with desperate emotion. Emily knew that she was important to her mom. She knew that her mom valued her. Though it was a slightly frightening attachment. One letter read:

  Dear Emily,

  I imagine by now you have made a million friends. You have always been my social butterfly spreading joy wherever you go. Things aren’t the same here without you. None of us realized how loud you were until you were gone! Haha.

  But truly, you are one in a million. I feel so proud to talk about your achievements whenever the girls at work ask. I have a dream daughter in you.

  It’s very, very hard to have you gone. But I know, like you said, that this is for the best.

  Love, Mom

  There were times after Andy died that Emily had felt he had been the only child that mattered. When he died, it was as though the most fundamental brick in a Jenga game had been pulled. But these little pieces of paper that arrived in the mail every week told her otherwise.

  Mr. Phillips made one of his glorious smiles when Emily told him about the letters.

  “Make sure you take the time to write back to people who write to you,” he said.

  “I always pop them a text when I get the letter,” she replied.

  “Emily, this is a real chance for you to build your relationships with people back home. Letter writing has been proven to be therapeutic and to strengthen relationships. It will allow you all to be
more open and vulnerable with your feelings. A text Emily… a text is sent out immediately and can get a response immediately. Letters allow us a chance to think before we speak and to think before we respond.”

  There was one last piece of mail in her box when Emily opened it. It was a simple postcard with an outline of the state of Minnesota and a heart in the middle of the state. On the back it simply read:

  Dear Emily, Minnesota can’t wait to have you back. And neither can I! Have a safe flight. We’ll bring some Pearson’s salted nut rolls to the airport! Love, Grams

  Emily smiled. Pearson’s candy made the trip worthwhile.

  She stuffed the card into her backpack and headed over to one of her last classes.

  There was a light dusting of snow on the ground. Emily stuck to the paths as she, like the rest of the girl students, refused to give up their ballet flats. She had rather hoped some girls would change into chunky boots or something more robust after Christmas break because some days she thought she’d get frostbite on her toes.

  Her class was across the quad, and she rushed to make it there. Into the Academic building, she ascended the worn, marble steps and pushed open the well crafted doors. She rushed through the hallways to get to Room 110. Throwing herself into a seat around the large, oval table Miss Addison nodded her head at Emily as she sat.

  The class was Experience of Religion. All preps had to take this class as a first year requisite. Emily found it a bit strange at the time but as it turned out that debating the existence of God and discovering her own belief systems, or sometimes arguing for the sake of it, was really fun. It stretched her mind and her debate skills.

  The last book of the term was a holocaust book called “The Choice,” by Edith Eger. The first half of the story was a grueling read. Eger left nothing and yet everything to the imagination. Most of the preps in the class couldn’t stop talking about the details: how Eger had to dance for Mengele, how they all starved, helped each other… the horror of being released from Nazi imprisonment and then still not knowing if they had the strength to make it to freedom. It was thrilling and horrific at the same time.