My spine stiffens when I realize how close I am to becoming one of them. Lingering here, on the edge of their group, it’s clear what I want. A moment of his time would feed me for weeks. I’d have so much to think about back in my quiet room between bouts of studying.
Two of the girls bend their heads together and snicker, and I feel red-hot embarrassment creep up my neck.
Without another thought, I turn and run back in the direction I came from, forcing myself to slow down only after a passing branch tears into my cheek.
Chapter Two
Lainey
St. John’s is a campus overflowing with ivy and stone and carefully trimmed boxwoods, and its traditions date back a hundred years. The girls play field hockey, the boys row and fence. There’s a stable of horses for those who choose to play polo, and every year during homecoming week, there’s a lacrosse game between current students and alumni. The buildings are ancient, creaky, and dark. There’s a draft in winter time and an enduring heat in the summer. The architecture is of another era, not exactly intuitive. I’ve been lost here before, more than once. I took a turn down the music hall and ended up in the kitchens. A cook shooed me away with a ladle.
In the center of campus is the main lawn, where the boys’ and girls’ dorms face each other, separated by a few yards of grass. I’m up on the fourth floor, in a room on the corner with a roommate who despises the very air I breathe. She’d rather I keep quiet, or better yet, not exist at all.
She’s called her friends into our room this afternoon. They’re talking as if I’m not here, even though I’m perched on my bed, working ahead on some pre-algebra homework.
“I can’t believe how big my boobs are now,” Blythe says, admiring her body in the full-length mirror mounted to her closet door. She’s only wearing a bra and underwear.
“I’m insanely jealous.” Nellie sighs. “But there’s hope for me still. My mom says she didn’t get boobs until she turned fourteen.”
“God, that’s forever. Here, I have a good push-up bra that should help until then.”
I have no need for push-up bras. My body is changing in spite of my internal protests.
Like a weed sprouting through cracks in concrete, puberty seems hellbent on having its way with me. Fortunately, it’s easy for me to hide my burgeoning body beneath my school uniform. My arms and legs are still spindly thin. With a sweater on, I look younger than thirteen even. I’m glad—I’m in no hurry to grow up.
Blythe and her friends, on the other hand, would love nothing more than to pass for twenty-five. She’s tearing through her hanging clothes, searching for the sexiest thing she’s got so she can take a selfie and make sure her ex-boyfriend sees it. She should have no trouble finding an outfit that meets that requirement.
Blythe’s closet is overflowing, though none of it can be worn out and about on campus. We’re allowed to wear whatever we want on the weekends as long as we’re going off campus, but even those clothes have to fit within certain dress codes. However, if you’re eating in a St. John’s dining hall or studying in one of the libraries, even if it’s midnight on a Saturday, you have to be in uniform.
I don’t have any “weekend” clothes.
I have three pairs of Chanel ballet flats, all the same style in navy, black, and nude. I’m allowed a pair of tennis shoes only for tennis, a pair of riding boots only for riding, and one pair of sandals. My school uniform is altered by my grandmother’s personal tailor. Every morning before class, I tuck my crisp white button-down shirt into my knee-length plaid skirt. On top, I wear the school’s cashmere cardigan. I own enough of everything that I can send it all out for laundering once a week and still find another hanging in wait in my closet.
I wear my thick dark brown hair down and pin straight, even in summer. Though most girls have abandoned it, I still wear the coordinating plaid headband every once in a while to appease my grandmother. She’s not here on campus, but she has loyal spies everywhere. I was shocked when I was speaking to her on the phone last year and she told me she didn’t think it was ladylike to keep my hair up in a messy bun every day for class.
I didn’t bother asking how she knew. The Davenports are a legacy family here at St. John’s, and my grandmother is on the board of regents. She has regular phone calls with various members of faculty including the headmaster and lead administrator. I wouldn’t even put it past her to have someone posted here, watching me at all times. Their full-time job is to report my hairstyles and whether I had jam or butter on my toast that morning. Today she’s done a ponytail, and I’m sorry to report, but she switched it up and chose cream cheese today. For that, they’re likely paid over six figures, plus benefits. It makes me laugh to consider it. The absurdity of this life gets the better of me sometimes.