Page 13 of Nobody in Particular

It’s kind of like being given a spell book and a wand. Music’s theclosest thing we’ve got to practical magic, and I’m finally about to level up after more than a year of being stuck and stagnant.

I think I love it here.

And as much as I appreciate a good compliment sandwich, I’ll admit it makes things ten times sweeter when, at the end of the lesson, Caroline leans back so she can get a better look at me and says, “I see why Bramppath wanted you. You’ve got a lot of talent. I think with some work, you could really go far.”

I’m pretty sure if I smiled any bigger she would’ve been tempted to throw in another critique to knock me down a peg again. As it is, she gives me a stern look up and down, like she’s trying to measure me up for something. I guess I pass, because she gathers up her stuff for the next lesson and walks me to the ballroom door. “How are you settling in?” she asks as we go, her fingertips fluttering down the edges where her rose-gold hijab meets her face. You know a room’s huge when you have to make small talk to fill in the time it takes to cross it.

“Really good, thanks.”

“Have you had the chance to meet anybody yet?”

“Yeah, I have a few friends.”

At least, I think I do. There’s Molly for sure, and Harriet, and Eleanor seemed surprisingly okay with me at dinner last night. Though there’s a chance she was just being nice because I was with Molly, and Harriet is actually my residential assistant—the older student assigned to look out for the girls on the floor with things the teachers don’t need to be bugged over. Lost key cards, spare tampons, that sort of stuff. I read on the Bramppath website that RAs get a discount on their fees in exchange for the trouble of the role, though, so I guess you could argue Harriet’s being paid to be nice to me.

“Already?”

“Mostly Molly Kwon.”

“Oh, you’re friends with Molly? How is she coping?”

I’m thrown by the question. With me, or with fifth year? “Fine, I guess. It’s only been a couple of days.”

Caroline laughs, and even that’s musical. I wonder if my laugh’s musical. I’m pretty sure it’s not. Actually, I’m pretty sure I laugh likea donkey. “No, I mean, after everything that happened in Amsterdam a few months back,” she clarifies.

I guess my blank look gives me away, because before I’ve even come up with an answer, Caroline goes on. “Sorry, I assumed you knew. It was national news here. I suppose it didn’t make it to America, huh?”

She’s looking at me like I just told her I didn’t know trees have leaves or something. Is it weird that I don’t know national news involving a group of girls I just told her I’m friends with? Maybe? But if it’s something that happened months ago, how would I know about it? It’s not like I online stalked everyone as soon as I met them. Is that a normal thing to do? Searching up your new friends? Maybe it is when your new friends are influencers and royalty.

“By the way,” Caroline says, slicing through my thoughts, “let me know when you want to prepare a piece for the performance evenings.”

I wince. Every Friday after dinner, a Bramppath student apparently gets up in front of the whole school and performs something. Poetry, a monologue, a piece of music, a dance. It’s my worst nightmare. Getting up in front of my peers and exposing myself? Giving them something to judge me on and laugh at me about? I’ll pass. But I don’t tell Caroline that just yet. She can spend a little longer blissfully unaware that her newest piano student has a limited future in music at best.

Back in my room, I open my laptop with a weird sense I’m doing something illegal. Skin prickling, I close my door and draw the curtains. I’m not exactly sure how hard it’s going to be to figure out what I’m looking for—after all, what if a story comes up that looks like it’s big news, but isn’t actually what everyone’s talking about? But I figure I’ll just type in what I do know and hope for the best. And what do I know?Molly Kwon. Amsterdam.

And go.

I shouldn’t have worried I might not know which story is the right one. It’s immediately obvious. About a million results pop up, from every news outlet in the country. I scan the list with a sinking feeling.

TEENAGE BOY DIES FROM OVERDOSE WHILE PARTYING WITH PRINCESS ROSEMARY

PRINCESS ROSEMARY AMONG LAST SEEN WITH TEEN BOY BEFORE HIS OVERDOSE DEATH

FRIEND OF INFLUENCER MOLLY KWON FOUND DEAD AT PARTY IN AMSTERDAM

NO CHARGES LAID AGAINST PRINCESS ROSEMARY FOLLOWING YOUNG BOY’S OVERDOSE DEATH, THE PUBLIC DEMANDS ANSWERS

THE PALACE ADDRESSES DEATH OF TEEN BOY WHO DIED DURING A “WILD, DRUG-FUELED BENDER” WITH THE CROWN PRINCESS ROSEMARY

I open article after article, until I have a lineup of tabs so narrow I can barely click on them, and then I get to reading.

Sometime later, I sit with one hand covering my mouth, staring at my computer screen. I don’t exactly know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. How is it possible that something this screwed up went down a few months ago, and Rose and Molly—plus Eleanor and Harriet, too—are just going about their day-to-day business like life’s normal? I mean, if it weren’t for the cold war between Rose and Molly, I wouldn’t have even known anything was off.

When I finally pull myself together, I text Molly right away. Maybe it’s weird to message your friend out of the blue to tell them you know about their pretty recent trauma, but ultimately, I figure it’s weirder to know about the trauma while pretending you don’t, so, bite the bullet, I say.

Molly texts back asking me to go up to her room, so I do. On my way, I pass Rose’s closed door, and I slow down a little. I wonder if she’s inside.

What I just read… article after article tearing into her, blaming her for everything, questioning her character, her personality, herintelligence, dissecting her life to use as evidence that she’s unfit, untrustworthy, uncontrollable… it was horrible. It was really, seriously awful to read. I can’t imagine what it must be like for her to see people saying that stuff about her day in and day out.

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