Page 8 of Nobody in Particular

But I did meet her. And if the whole reason Molly got to know me in the first place was to fill a vacant spot left by Princess Rosemary? Then I owe her one.

Whatever the hell she did to lose Molly as a friend, her loss is my gain.

FOURDANNI

The next morning, like she promised, Molly comes to my room at exactly 7:10 a.m. to take me to breakfast. The only problem is, I discovered way too late that I have no idea how to do up a real tie, and it’s not as easy to figure out using online tutorials as I thought it’d be. I got so focused on trying to work it out, in fact, I lost track of time altogether, so when Molly arrives, she finds me in my school shirt and pajama pants, with my tie choking my neck like a noose. By the time we finally leave my room at 7:16, I’m stammering “Thank you” and “Sorry” on repeat like they’re the only words I know. The one thing she asked me to do—be ready at 7:10—and I messed it up. Of course I did.

The breakfast line is outside now, snaking single file through the courtyard and up into the dining hall. By the time Molly and I join, we’re all the way back by the fountain, and I whisper “Sorry” a few more times, my cheeks red-hot.

“It’s really fine, I promise,” Molly says, and she’s convincing enough that I back away from the ledge a little. “I factored in extra time because it’s the first morning. We aren’t late.”

The line moves quickly, and it doesn’t take long until we’re in the dining hall. Ahead and to the left are dozens of long wooden tables, and to the right is a serving window. Behind it, a group of six kitchenstaff in hairnets are doling out bacon, eggs, and fried mushrooms, and it’s only when I’m pummeled by the smell of grease and salt and buttered bread that I realize I’m totally starved.

As we get closer to the window I zero in on a skyscraper pile of toast that a harassed-looking woman is topping up with her left hand, while she feeds bread slices through a conveyer toaster with her right. I grab more pieces than I probably need, because I can, because holy shit, this is my life now. A life of perfect breakfasts. The last time I had an unlimited breakfast buffet was a vacation we took to visit my grandparents in Florida when I was, like, nine. And it didn’t look anywhere near as good as this spread.

Our plates overflowing—to put it lightly—Molly and I head over to a table with a few spare seats I think have been saved for us. Molly dumps her plate down and jumps into hugging some of the girls I guess she didn’t get a chance to see yesterday. I stand awkwardly for a second, and then I put my own plate by the empty seat next to Molly. No one’s sitting yet, so I stand behind my chair like the rest of them, drumming my fingers on the wood and hoping I don’t look half as self-conscious as I feel.

Finally, a hush falls over the room, and I look around to see what we’re all going quiet for. In a parade of polished shoes, blazers, and suits, the headmaster, a Black man with close-shaven gray hair and deep frown lines, marches into the dining hall followed by a line of twenty or so girls.

I spot Eleanor—the snobby girl with tanned skin and long curls from Molly’s party who kept talking about how some families were total nobodies—toward the front of the line, and figure these are the prefects. Just as I put that together, I suddenly find myself looking right at Princess Rosemary.

She quickly scans over the girls at my table, and then her eyes lock with mine. It’s only for a split second, but it feels like a weirdly weighted moment. Like everything slows, so that half second feels more like a minute.

She’s pretty. The kind of pretty that makes you forget you’re standing in a room full of people who don’t know you exist, because for a second you’ve forgotten any of them exist right back. Ithink there’s something unfair about that, to be born into that much money and status, and to also be beautiful. And I’m not just jealous because I flopped in at least two, if not three, of those categories. Or maybe I am jealous, who knows. But she is. Beautiful.

Her hair isn’t brown, it’s a thick, glossy chocolate brown that hangs past her shoulders in frizz-free waves. Her eyes aren’t just green, they’re piercing, and expressive enough that you can tell she finds something funny before her mouth even catches up to smile. And I like the way she holds herself. Sitting and standing, she’s self-assured and straight-backed and tall in a way that forces you to look at her. I’m suddenly aware of my own terrible posture, and I try to straighten myself up.

There’s that gnawing question again. Was she laughing with me at the party, or at me? I’ve been thinking about it on and off since talking to Molly about her yesterday, and I keep coming to different conclusions. I wonder if she does that on purpose? Fashions herself into an answer that keeps changing?

The headmaster and prefects line up along the head table way up at the other end of the dining hall. From his place in the center of the table the headmaster adjusts his gold-rimmed glasses and speaks to us in a slow drawl.

“Good morning, everyone, and welcome to your first day at Bramppath. Most of you are familiar faces, but I also see many new ones. To students who have been here before, welcome home. To students just starting with us… welcome home. For those of you who haven’t met me yet, my name is Alistair Unley, and I look forward to making your acquaintance shortly.”

He pauses for the room to clap before he goes on.

“Before we begin our meal, I would like to introduce you to our prefects and head girl. You will hopefully get to know them all on a personal level by the end of the year. They are to be both respected and trusted. If you have any issues or questions, please feel free to approach them if you see them around the grounds. They will undoubtedly be able to assist you to the highest standard.”

Rose glances sideways at Eleanor while the headmaster rattles off the names of the prefects, and I’m pretty sure they hold some sort ofsilent conversation. And quietly, so quiet that, if I weren’t right next to her I wouldn’t have heard it at all, Molly scoffs.

“Finally, I invite you all to join me in the morning prayer.Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto.”

I guess it’s Latin, even though I don’t know for sure, because I can’t speak it. In my defense, I’m pretty sure this is the first time in my life I’ve heard a real live human speak Latin. It’s usually reserved for movie villains in my experience. I guess it’s a Catholic thing? Henland is super Catholic. Like, when I told Rachel I was moving here, when she was done freaking out at me for abandoning her, she got really serious and said, “Maybe don’t tell people you’re bi there. It might not be legal.” I’ve checked, by the way, and it is legal, but that doesn’t mean it’s chill. I don’t know if I’d trust any country where people speak Latin all over the place to be casual about bisexuality. It’s just a bad sign.

“Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum.”

As he finishes the last word everyone scrambles to sit down, and thank god for that, because I’m so hungry my stomach actually hurts. Right after the scraping and squeaking of chairs stops, suddenly the room explodes with noise. I jump and look around to figure out what the hell is going on. We’re not eating yet—that much is obvious. Everyone in the room is stamping their feet on the ground as hard as humanly possible, yelling and calling out at the tops of their lungs while they go. Most people are turning in their seats toward the entrance, where a beetroot-red-faced girl who looks about thirteen or fourteen rushes in, her shirt buttons all uneven and her tie untucked.

“If you’re late, you get singled out,” Molly explains when the banging finally chills out. The younger girl manages to wrench her chair free and sits down to a chorus of laughter. “She’s an idiot to be doing it on the first day. The headmaster will have it in for her now, you watch.”

Finally, it’s time to eat, and I could almost cry with happiness. Then, I could almost cry again, because the eggs are perfect, and the bacon is perfect, and the toast—well, the toast could’ve actually used a few more seconds, but I’ll take it. If breakfast is always like this, I decide, I can handle anything the school throws at me and I still won’t regret attending.

The morning’s high note continues when I find out I have Molly in my classical studies class, and we find seats together in the back of the room. Second period—modern history—I spend sitting alone, trying to ignore the long stares I keep receiving. Seriously, anyone would think they’d never seen a scholarship kid before. Molly said the uniform would blend me in, but I’m fielding contempt launched at me from every direction like missiles. Am I giving myself away somehow? Because my dark blond hair doesn’t have buttery highlights, or because my bracelet is stainless steel instead of white gold?

Or do they just see whatever it was about me that made people hate me last year at school?

In biology, I get there early so I can hide at the very back of the classroom. I cover my mouth with my hands and lean my elbows on the table, watching as the students pour in and their eyes catch on me, always hanging there for a bit too long.

Then, I see a familiar face among the sea. Rosemary enters, her eyes puffy and unfocused. Like everyone else—because I have a spotlight on me or something, apparently—she notices me. Then she hesitates, long enough that for a wild second I almost think she’s going to sit next to me. She likes me. She likes me not.

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