Page 13 of Spearcrest Knight

“God…” Audrey mutters, shaking her head. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to tell Miss Bailey I can’t tutor him.”

“Are you going to tell Miss Bailey the truth?” Araminta asks, wide-eyed.

“What truth? I hate Evan Knight because he’s horrible and fake and a complete loser? I can’t say that to Miss Bailey, it would sound so pathetic.”

“Just tell her he’s a bully,” Audrey says.

Now it’s my turn to raise my eyebrows at her. “Because reporting bullying in Spearcrest has a history of going well and not at all having negative consequences…”

The truth is that Spearcrest as a schooldoeshave a zero tolerance for bullying.

So reporting bullying does mean the school will challenge and punish the bully. But that bully will be back at one point or another, and they will have the full force of very angry, very wealthy, very powerful parents behind them.

And that’s when your life can become a living hell.

Not something I would risk, especially not this year. I’ve done my suffering here. Now it’s time to stay under the radar and plan my escape.

When I go to her office on the first Monday of the new half-term, I stay as vague as possible and do my best to simply dodge the situation.

“Miss Bailey, if it’s not too much trouble, I was wondering if it would be possible for me to get a different tutee.”

Today, Miss Bailey is wearing a green silk blouse and black velvet culottes. She looks radiant in the pearl-grey morning light drifting through her windows, but as soon as she hears my request, her face drops.

“Oh, no Sophie, can you not tutor Evan anymore?”

“I…” Luckily, I’ve prepared an array of excuses. “I’m nowhere near the best student in Literature. I think another student who is achieving better grades might be better suited to tutoring him.”

Miss Bailey shakes her head.

“Sophie, you’re one of the only mentors in the programme also taking English Literature. You're also an Oxbridge and Ivy Leagues candidate, which is going to go down well with the parents. Not that it’s at all your responsibility to worry about that, of course!”

She looks at me with an expression of worry bordering on panic.

“It’s just that…” I mumble, feeling completely ashamed.

“Of course, you shouldn’t need to worry about any of that," Miss Bailey repeats, holding up her hands. "I’ll just have to find someone to replace you, that’s fine—that’s fine.” She’s half mumbling as she scrambles between her computer and her planner, making notes, talking distractedly. “Okay, I will sort this out.” Then she looks up beseechingly. “Any chance you would mind just doing the mentoring sessions while I look for somebody else to replace you? One or two weeks, that’s it.”

The terror of having to mentor Evan for even a single session makes war with the devouring guilt of the stress I’m causing Miss Bailey, each trying to overcome the other.

In the end, I say, “Of course, Miss Bailey, no problem.”

The words spill from my mouth before I even have the time to shove them back behind my teeth. Already, a sunray of hope is lighting up Miss Bailey’s face.

“Oh, thank you so much, Sophie! I genuinely appreciate this, I hope you know I don’t take your work and kindness for granted,” she points her pen at her computer. “I promise you I will sort this out as soon as possible.” She grabs a thick manila folder and passes it to me. “Here are all the details for the session tomorrow. Thank you a thousand times, Sophie.”

She is beaming with such genuine gratitude I can’t regret giving in to her. I leave her office feeling like I did the right thing, and simultaneously so sick with nerves I’m nauseous.

I slump against the wall next to her door. The corridors of Spearcrest, with their chessboard tiles, tall windows and arched ceilings, normally feel cavernous, but right now they seem to be closing in on me.

I shut my eyes and take deep breaths, reminding myself this is the last year. The last year of having to endure the whims and caprices of rich kids.

The last year of trying to survive Evan Knight.

Thatevening,whenI’mback in my dorm room after a very long, very hot shower, I climb into bed and finally open the manila folder Miss Bailey gave me. There are photocopies of some of Evan’s essays (tragic), notes from his Literature teacher about the topics and skills he needs to focus on and some textbooks.

There is also a printed map with an address written on a post-it. I frown, looking closer, then scramble for a note. Sure enough, I find instructions in Miss Bailey’s elegant handwriting on the back of the map.

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