9781405976985 by Smakprov Media AB

PLAYLIST

“Endlessness” by Gersey “daydreams” by gnash (featuring julius)

“Lightness” by Death Cab for Cutie

“A Lack of Color” by Death Cab for Cutie

“Save Me” by BTS

“Slow Hands” by Niall Horan

“Cinder and Smoke” by Iron & Wine

“There’s Nothing Holdin’ Me Back” by Shawn Mendes

“Teenage Fever” by Drake

“Meet Me in the Hallway” by Harry Styles

1 Ruby

My life is divided into colours:

Green—Important!

Turquoise—School

Pink—Maxton Hall Events Committee

Purple—Family

Orange—Diet and Exercise

I’ve already completed purple (take Ember’s photos), green (buy new highlighters), and turquoise (ask Mrs. Wakefield for maths revision notes) for today. Ticking something off on my to‑do list is the best feeling in the world by miles. Sometimes, I even write down things I did ages ago, just so that I can cross them straight off again— although I use a subtle grey for that, so that I don’t feel like so much of a cheat.

If you opened my bullet journal, you’d see at a glance that my daily life consists mainly of green, turquoise, and pink. But just over a week ago, at the start of the new school year, I added a new colour:

Gold—Oxford

The first task I noted down with my new pen was “pick up reference from Mr. Sutton.”

I run my finger over the letters with their metallic shimmer.

Just one more year. One last year at Maxton Hall. I almost can’t believe that it’s finally here. In a little more than a year’s time, I might be sitting in a politics seminar right now, being taught by the world’s cleverest people.

It won’t be long until I know whether my deepest wish will come true, and the mere thought makes everything within me tin gle with excitement. Will I get in? Will I be able to study at Oxford ?

I’d be the first in my family to go to university, and I know that I’m lucky that my parents gave more than a weary smile the first time I announced, at the age of seven, that I was going to go to Oxford, and later, that I wanted to study Philosophy, Politics, and Economics.

But even now—ten years later—the only thing that’s changed is that my goal is now within touching distance. It still feels like a dream that I’ve even got this far. I keep catching myself in the fear of suddenly waking up and realizing that I’m still at my old school and not at Maxton Hall— one of England’s most famous indepen dent schools.

I glance at the clock over the classroom’s heavy wooden door. Three minutes to go. We’re meant to be working, but I finished the task last night, so all I have to do is to sit here and wait for this lesson to finally come to an end. I jiggle my leg impatiently, earn‑ ing myself a dig in the ribs.

“Ow,” I mutter; I’d jab my friend Lin back, but she’s too quick and dodges out of the way. Her reflexes are incredible. Presumably because she’s been having fencing lessons since primary school, so she needs to be able to strike like a cobra.

“Stop fidgeting,” she whispers back, not taking her eyes off her paper. “You’re making me edgy.”

That makes me pause. Lin never gets nervous. Or if she does, you’d never tell, and she’d never admit it. But at that moment, I can actually spot a hint of worry in her eyes.

“Sorry. I can’t help it.” I run my fingers over the letters again. I’ve spent the last two years doing everything I can to not just keep up with the others, but to be better. To prove to everyone that I have a right to a place at Maxton Hall. And now that it’s time to start filling in our university applications, the anxiety is almost killing me. I couldn’t help it, even if I wanted to. I’m slightly reas sured that Lin seems to feel the same.

“Have the posters arrived, by the way?” Lin asks. She squints over at me, and a strand of her shoulder‑length black hair falls into her face. She brushes it back impatiently.

I shake my head. “Not yet. Should be here this afternoon.”

“OK. Shall we put them up tomorrow after maths, then?”

I point to the bright pink entry in my bullet journal, and Lin nods in satisfaction. I glance back up at the clock. It’s a real effort to stop my legs from jiggling again. Instead, I start to put my pens away, as subtly as possible. All their nibs have to point in the same direction, so it takes me a while.

I don’t put the gold pen away though; I slip it solemnly through the thin elastic band around my planner. I twist the lid so it’s fac ing the front. Only now does it feel right.

When the bell finally goes, Lin jumps up out of her chair faster than I’d have thought humanly possible. I raise my eyebrows at her.

“Don’t give me that look,” she says, slipping her bag over her shoulder. “You started it!”

I don’t reply, just put the rest of my stuff away with a grin.

Lin and I are the first to leave the room. We hurry across the west wing of Maxton Hall and take the next left.

I spent my first weeks here getting constantly lost in this huge building and ended up late to class more than once. I was so em barrassed about it, but the teachers kept on reassuring me that most new arrivals at Maxton Hall do the same. The school is like a castle. There are five floors; south, west, and east wings; and three other buildings for subjects like music and IT. There are countless corridors and shortcuts to get lost in, and you can’t be certain that every staircase comes out on each floor, which is enough to drive you insane.

However confusing it was at first, I know the buildings like the back of my hand now. I’m pretty sure I could even find my way to Mr. Sutton’s office blindfolded.

“I wish I’d got Sutton to write my reference too,” Lin grumbles as we walk down the corridor. There are Venetian masks adorning the wall to our right—the work of last year’s A‑level art students. As always, I’m amazed by all the playful detail in them.

“Why’s that?” I ask, making a mental note to ask the caretaker to put the masks away safely before the Back‑to‑School party at the weekend.

“Because he’s liked us since we worked on the summer ball last year, and he knows how dedicated and hardworking we are. Plus, he’s young and ambitious, and it’s not that long since he was at Oxford himself. God, I could kick myself for not thinking of that.”

I stroke Lin’s arm. “Mrs. Marr was at Oxford too. Besides, I bet it looks better to get a recommendation from someone with more teaching experience than Mr. Sutton.”

She eyes me sceptically. “Are you regretting asking him?”

I just shrug. At the end of last term, Mr. Sutton picked up on how desperate I am to get into Oxford and said he’d be happy for me to pick his brains, ask him anything I wanted to know. He didn’t study PPE, but he was still able to give me heaps of insider information, which I devoured greedily and later noted down care fully in my journal.

“No,” I reply in the end. “I’m sure he knows what to put in.”

Once we reach the end of the corridor, Lin and I are heading in opposite directions. We agree to speak later and say a quick goodbye. I glance at my watch—1:25— and pick up the pace. I’m due to meet Mr. Sutton at half one, and I don’t want to be late. I hurry past the tall Renaissance windows, through which the golden September light floods into the hallway, and squeeze past a group of students in the same royal‑blue uniform as me.

Nobody takes any notice. That’s how things are at Maxton Hall. Everyone wears the same uniform—blue‑and‑green tartan skirts for the girls, beige trousers for the boys, and tailor‑made blazers for everyone— and yet there’s no mistaking the fact that I don’t really belong here. Everyone else comes to school with ex pensive designer bags, but my green backpack is so threadbare these days that I’m constantly expecting it to rip. I try not to let myself be intimidated or fazed by the fact that certain people here act like they own the entire school just because their families are rich. To them, I’m invisible, and I do everything I can to keep it that way. Just keep your head down. So far, so good.

Eyes lowered, I push past the others and take one last turn to the right. Mr. Sutton’s door is the third on the left. There’s a heavy wooden bench between his and the neighbouring office, and I glance down at my watch again. Two minutes to spare.

I can’t wait another second. Resolutely, I smooth out my skirt, straighten my blazer, and check that my tie is where it should be. Then I knock on the door.

No answer.

With a sigh, I sit down on the bench, looking both ways down the corridor. He might just be getting some lunch. Or tea. Or cof fee. Which reminds me that I’ve drunk too much caffeine already today. I was antsy enough as it was, but Mum had made too much, and I didn’t want to waste it. Now my hands tremble slightly as I take another look at my watch.

It’s half past one. On the dot.

I look down the hallway again. Nobody in sight.

Maybe I didn’t knock loud enough. Or—and the thought makes my pulse race—maybe I’ve made a mistake. Maybe I’m not meet ing him until tomorrow. I tug frantically at the zip on my back pack and pull out my planner. But when I check, everything’s correct. Right date, right time.

I close my bag up again and shake my head. I’m not normally this out of it, but the idea of not getting into Oxford only because I messed something up on my application is freaking me out.

I force myself to calm down. I stand up, walk back to the door, and give a firm knock.

This time I hear a sound. Like something being knocked to the floor. Cautiously, I open the door and peek into the room.

My heart skips a beat.

I did hear something.

Mr. Sutton is there.

But . . . he’s not alone.

There’s a woman sitting on his desk, kissing him passionately. He’s standing between her legs with both hands around her thighs.

The next moment, he grips her tighter and pulls her to the edge of the desk. She groans softly into his mouth as their lips melt to gether once again, then buries her hands in his dark hair. I can hardly tell where one of them stops and the other begins.

I wish I could tear my eyes away from the two of them. But I can’t. Not when he slips his hands farther under her skirt. Not when I hear his heavy breathing or her quiet sigh of “God, Graham.”

By the time I’ve shaken off my state of shock, I’ve forgotten how to work my legs. I stumble into the room, knocking so hard into the door that it slams into the wall. Mr. Sutton and the woman leap apart. He whirls around and sees me in the doorway. I open my mouth to apologize, but the only sound that emerges is a dry choke.

“Ruby,” Mr. Sutton says breathlessly. His hair is messed up, his top buttons are undone, and his face is flushed. He looks like a stranger, not like my teacher.

I feel a hellish heat flood my cheeks. “I . . . I’m sorry. I came to collect . . .”

Then the young woman turns around, and the rest of the sen tence sticks in my throat. My mouth drops open and my whole body runs ice‑cold. I stare at the girl. Her turquoise‑blue eyes are at least as wide as mine. She jerks her head away and fixes her eyes on her expensive heels, stares at the floor, then looks helplessly up at Mr. Sutton— or Graham, as she just sighed.

I know her. Specifically, I know her red‑blond, perfectly waved ponytail that bobs around in front of me in history.

Which Mr. Sutton teaches.

The girl who’s been here making out with her teacher is Lydia Beaufort.

I feel dizzy. And like I’m about to be sick.

I stare at the two of them and try desperately to delete the last few minutes from my memory—but it’s impossible. I know that, and Mr. Sutton and Lydia know it too, as I can tell from their shocked faces. I take a step back; Mr. Sutton comes toward me, his hand outstretched. I stumble again, just about keeping myself upright.

“Ruby . . .” he begins, but the roaring in my ears is louder than ever.

I turn on my heel and run. Behind me, I can hear Mr. Sutton saying my name, considerably louder this time. But I just keep running. And running.

2 James

Someone’s pounding a jackhammer into my skull.

That’s the first thing I notice as I slowly wake up. The second is the warm naked body lying half on and half off mine.

I glance to one side, but all I can make out is a mane of honey‑ blond hair. I don’t remember leaving Wren’s party with anyone. To be honest, I don’t even remember leaving the party at all. I shut my eyes again and try to summon up images of last night, but all that comes to mind are a few disjointed scraps: Me, drunk on a table. Wren’s loud laughter as I fall off and land on the floor at his feet.

Alistair’s warning gaze as I dance right up close with his big sister, pressing hard into her arse.

Oh, fuck.

Cautiously, I lift my hand and stroke the hair off the girl’s face. Double fuck.

Alistair’s going to kill me.

I sit bolt upright. A stabbing pain shoots through my head, and for a moment everything goes black. Beside me, Elaine mumbles something incomprehensible and rolls onto her other side. At the

same time, I realize that the jackhammer is actually my phone, buzzing on the bedside table. I ignore it and hunt for my clothes off the floor. I find one shoe close to the bed and the other right next to the door, beneath my black trousers and belt. My shirt is on the brown leather chair. I pull it on, but when I go to do it up, I discover that a couple of the buttons are missing. I groan, seri ously hoping that Alistair isn’t still around. I don’t need him see‑ ing either the wrecked shirt or the red scratches that Elaine’s bright pink fingernails left on my chest.

My phone starts to buzz again. I glance at the screen and see my dad’s name. Great. It’s almost two on a school day, my head feels like it’s about to explode, and I’ve almost certainly had sex with Elaine Ellington. The last thing I need right now is my dad’s voice in my ear. I reject the call.

What I do need is a shower. And clean clothes. I slip out of Wren’s guest bedroom and shut the door behind me as quietly as possible. On my way downstairs, I encounter the wreckage of last night— a bra and various other items of clothing are hanging over the banisters, and the hallway is scattered with cups, glasses, and plates of uneaten food. The stench of booze and smoke hangs in the air. Nobody could miss the fact that a party was going on here until just a couple of hours ago.

I find Cyril and Keshav in the sitting room. Cyril’s dozing on Wren’s parents’ expensive white sofa and Kesh is sitting in an arm chair by the fireplace. A girl is cuddled in his lap; her hands are buried in his long, black hair; and she’s kissing him passionately. When Kesh breaks away from her for a moment and spots me, he throws his head back and laughs. I flick him the finger in passing.

The huge French windows are wide‑open into the Fitzgeralds’ garden. I step out and wince. The sunlight isn’t particularly bright,

but it feels like a stab in the temples all the same. I glance around cautiously. Out here looks no better than in the house. Worse, if anything.

I find Wren and Alistair on pool loungers. Each of them has his hands linked behind his head, and their eyes are hidden behind shades. I hesitate for a second, then stroll over to them.

“Beaufort,” says Wren cheerfully, pushing his sunglasses up into his curly black hair. He’s grinning, but I can see how pale his skin looks despite the tan. He must be about as hungover as me. “Have a good night?”

“Can’t quite remember,” I answer, venturing a look in Alistair’s direction.

“Fuck you, Beaufort,” he says, not looking at me. His hair shines golden in the afternoon sun. “I told you to keep your hands off my sister.”

I’d been expecting that. Unimpressed, I raise an eyebrow. “I didn’t force her into bed. Don’t act like she can’t make her own decisions about who she wants to shag.”

Alistair pulls a face and mumbles incomprehensibly.

I hope he’s going to cool it and not hold this against me forever, because it’s not like I can turn back time. And I’m not in the mood to justify myself to my mates. I spend enough time doing that at home.

“Just don’t break her heart,” Alistair says after a while, looking at me through the mirrored lenses of his aviator glasses. I can’t see his eyes, but I know they’re more resigned than angry.

“Elaine has known James since she was five,” Wren points out. “She knows exactly what he’s like.”

Wren’s right. Elaine and I both knew what we were getting into last night. However little I can remember, I can still hear her

breathless voice in my ear: This is only happening once, James. Only once.

Alistair doesn’t want to admit it, but his sister is out for just as much fun in life as I am.

“If your parents find out, they’ll be announcing your engage ment any moment,” Wren adds wryly, after a while.

I scowl. My parents have wanted to marry me off to Elaine Ellington for years— or any other daughter of a rich family with a huge inheritance. But I’m eighteen, and I’ve got far better things to do than waste time worrying about who or what will come along after my A levels.

Alistair snorts equally disdainfully. He doesn’t seem too keen on the idea of me as the newest member of his family either. I press a hand to my chest with mock sorrow. “That almost sounds like you don’t want me for a brother‑in‑law.”

Now he pushes the shades up into his curly hair and glares at me through dark eyes. He pushes himself up from the lounger as slowly as a big cat. He might be slim, but he’s strong and quick, and I know it. I’ve experienced it often enough in training.

The way he looks at me, I know what he has in mind.

“Watch it, Alistair,” I growl, taking a step back.

It happens faster than I can blink. Suddenly we’re face‑to‑face. “I told you to watch it too,” he retorts. “Not that you took any notice.”

The next moment, he shoves me hard in the chest. I stumble back, straight into the pool. The landing smacks the air out of my lungs, and for a moment, I’m totally disoriented. The water rushes in my ears, and underwater, the pounding headache is all the worse.

But I don’t swim up right away. I let my body go limp and hold

myself still, face down. I stare at the tiles on the bottom of the pool, which I can only vaguely make out from here, and count the seconds in my head. For a moment, I shut my eyes. It’s almost peaceful. After thirty seconds, I’m starting to run out of air, and the pressure on my chest is increasing. I let one last, dramatic bub ble of air rise to the surface, wait some more, and then . . .

Alistair jumps into the pool and grabs me. He drags me to the surface, and as I open my eyes and look into his shocked face, I have to laugh out loud, even as I’m gasping for air.

“Beaufort!” he yells in disbelief, lunging for me. His fist con nects with my side—bloody hell, he packs a punch— and he tries to get me in a headlock. Seeing that he’s smaller than me, that doesn’t turn out the way he planned. We wrestle for a moment in the water, then I get a grip on him. I pick him up easily and throw him as far as I can. Wren’s laughter sounds in my ear as Alistair sinks with a loud splash. As he resurfaces, he stares at me for a moment, so angrily that I burst out laughing again. Like all the Ellingtons, Alistair has the face of an angel. However hard he tries to look menacing, his hazel eyes, blond curls, and fucking perfect features make it impossible.

“You are such a wanker,” he says, spraying water at me.

I wipe my hand over my face. “Sorry, mate.”

“OK,” he replies, but splashes me again. I spread my arms out and let him. Eventually he stops, and as I look at him, he shakes his head.

Now I know we’re cool again.

“James?” says a familiar voice.

I whirl around. My twin sister is standing on the edge of the pool, blocking out the sun. She wasn’t at the party yesterday, and for a moment, I think she’s here to make my life hell for skipping

school with the lads. But then I look properly and shiver: Her shoulders are slumped, and her arms hang listlessly at her sides. She won’t meet my eyes, just stares at her feet.

I swim over to her as fast as I can and clamber out of the pool. Regardless of how wet I am, I take her forearms and force her to lift her head and look at me. My stomach flips. Lydia’s face is red and swollen. She’s been crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, holding her a bit tighter. She goes to turn away, but I won’t let her. I grip her chin so she can’t avoid my eyes.

Hers are swimming with tears. My throat goes dry.

“James,” she whispers hoarsely. “I’m in deep shit.”

3 Ruby

“Right here is perfect,” says Ember, stopping between the gorse and the apple tree.

There are apples all over our little garden, which need picking up. But even though our parents have been nagging about it for days, pick up apples isn’t in my diary, in purple, until Thursday. I know perfectly well that the moment Ember and I bring the baskets into the house, a fight is going to break out between Mum and Dad over who gets more. Like every year, Mum’s planning to bake cakes, pies, and turnovers, and set them out as tasters in the bakery, while Dad wants to make hundreds of jars of crazy‑ flavoured jam. Unlike Mum, he doesn’t have so many willing taste‑ testers at the Mexican restaurant where he works. Unfortunately, this means that Ember and I will probably have to stand in as guinea pigs. If it were a new tortilla recipe, that would be great, but not when we’re talking apple, cardamom, and chili jam.

“What d’you think?”

Ember strikes a practiced pose. I’m constantly surprised by how good she is at this. Her stance is relaxed, and she gives her

head a quick shake to make her long light brown curls tumble just a little more wildly. When she smiles, her green eyes positively sparkle, and I wonder how it’s possible to be this wide‑awake so soon after getting up. I haven’t even managed to comb my hair yet, and my straight fringe is sure to be sticking up toward the sky. My eyes may be the same colour as Ember’s, but they’re certainly not sparkling. They’re so tired and dry that I have to keep blinking in an effort to stop them from stinging.

It’s only just gone seven and I spent half the night lying awake, fixating on what I saw yesterday afternoon. When Ember came into my room an hour ago, it felt like I’d only just fallen asleep.

“You look great,” I say, raising the little digital camera. Ember gives me a nod and I take three photos, after which she changes her pose, turns aside, and throws me— or rather the camera— a look back over her shoulder. The dress she’s wearing today has a black Peter Pan collar and a striking blue design. She nicked it off Mum and altered it slightly, to give it a waist.

Ember’s been overweight for as long as I can remember, and she regularly struggles to find fitted clothes that work for her shape. Sadly, the market isn’t exactly flooded with them, and she constantly has to improvise. Her first sewing machine was a thirteenth‑birthday present from our parents, and since then, she’s sewed her own clothes, the way she likes them.

These days, Ember knows exactly what suits her. She’s got a great eye for street style. Today, she’s teamed her dress with a denim jacket and white trainers with silver heels, which she painted herself.

A couple of days ago, I was flicking through a fashion maga zine and spotted a jacket that looked like it had been made out of bin bags. I wrinkled my nose and hastily turned the page, but now

that I think about it, I’m pretty sure Ember would rock that jacket like a supermodel.

That’s a lot to do with how self‑confident she is, both on cam era and in real life.

It hasn’t always been like that though. I still remember the days when she hid in her bedroom, heartbroken over being bullied at school. Ember seemed small and vulnerable back then, but over time, she’s learned to accept her body and ignore what anyone else says about her.

Ember has no problem describing herself as “fat.” “It’s just an adjective,” she says anytime anyone’s surprised by her choice of words. “Like ‘slim’ or ‘thin.’ It’s only a word, and not a nega tive one.”

It was a long road for Ember to learn that, which is why she started her blog. She wanted to help other people in a similar sit uation to accept themselves. For more than a year, Ember has been telling the world that she considers herself beautiful the way she is, and her impassioned posts on the subject of plus‑size fashion have built up a whole community with her as the pioneer and in spiration.

Mum, Dad, and I have learned loads from her too—not least because she keeps sharing articles with us— and we’re so proud of what she’s achieved.

“I think one of those should be good,” I say, once I’ve photo graphed her third pose. Ember comes straight over and takes the camera from me. She clicks through the images, wrinkling her nose critically. But one of the ones where she’s looking back over her shoulder makes her smile.

“I’ll go with this one.” She plants a kiss on my cheek. “Thanks.”

We walk back through the garden to the house together, trying

to step between the windfall apples. “When are you putting the post up?”

“Monday afternoon, I thought.” She gives me a sideways glance. “Think you’ll have time to check it over this evening?”

Not really. After school, I have to stick up the posters for the party at the weekend, and then I have to work on my history essay. And I have to come up with a way to get my reference with‑ out ever having to speak to Mr. Sutton again. Just the thought of yesterday— Lydia Beaufort on his desk and him between her legs—makes me feel nauseous again. The sounds they were making . . .

I try to shake the memory out of my head, but that only makes Ember stare at me in surprise.

“No problem,” I say hastily, pushing past her into the living room. I can’t look Ember in the eye. If she spots the bags under my eyes, she’ll know that something’s wrong, and if there’s one thing I don’t need right now, it’s her asking questions.

Not when I can’t get Mr. Sutton’s muffled groans out of my head, however hard I try.

“Morning, love.”

Mum’s voice makes me jump, and I hastily try to get my face under control, to look normal. Or whatever you look like if you didn’t just catch a teacher kissing a pupil.

Mum comes over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Are you OK? You look tired.”

Seems like I need to work on my looking‑normal face.

“Yeah, just need caffeine,” I mumble, letting her guide me over to the breakfast table. She pours me a coffee and strokes my hair before setting the coffee down on the table in front of me. Mean while, Ember goes to show Dad the photo I took of her. He im

mediately puts down the paper and leans over the screen. He smiles, deepening the slight lines around his mouth. “Very pretty.”

“Recognize the dress, darling?” Mum asks. She leans over him from behind, putting her hand on his shoulder.

Dad brings the camera closer, and his eyes look thoughtful behind his reading glasses. “Is that . . . Is that the dress you wore on our tenth anniversary?” He looks at Mum over his shoulder, and she nods. Mum and Ember have the same basic body shape, so at the start of Ember’s adventures with the sewing machine, she had a few clothes available to experiment on. In the beginning, it made Mum sad if Ember messed up and pretty much destroyed the dress, but that hardly ever happens now. These days, she’s thrilled by everything that Ember can conjure up out of her old dresses and tops.

“I gave it a waist and a collar,” says Ember. She sits at the table and pours cornflakes into one of the bowls that Mum’s got out for us.

A smile spreads over Dad’s face. “It’s turned out really well,” he says, taking Mum’s hand. He pulls her down until their faces are level and then gives her a tender kiss.

Ember and I look at each other, and I know she’s thinking the same as me: yuck. Our parents are so in love that it can make you a tiny bit sick. But we bear it with dignity. And when I think about what happened to Lin’s family, I know how lucky I am that mine is still together. All the more so as we had to work hard for the strong connection that binds us.

“Let me know when your post is online,” Mum says once she’s sat down next to Dad. “I want to read it right away.”

“OK,” Ember replies through a mouthful, gobbling it down because we’ll have to hurry to catch the bus.

“You will check it first though, won’t you?” Dad asks me.

Even after a year and more, Dad’s still dubious about Ember’s blog. He doesn’t like the internet, especially when it’s his daughter putting pictures and stuff about herself out there. It took Ember a long time to convince him that a plus‑size fashion blog is a good idea. But Ember’s thrown so much heart and soul and bravery into Bellbird that Dad had no choice but to agree. His only condition is that I—her sensible big sister— proofread Ember’s articles and check the photos before she posts them to make sure no details from our private lives end up on the internet. He doesn’t need to worry. Ember is very careful and professional, and I admire her for what she and Bellbird have achieved in such a short time.

“Of course.” I wash my own spoonful of cornflakes down with a large gulp of coffee. Now Ember’s the one looking revolted, but I ignore her. “I’ll be a bit late back today, just so you know.”

“A lot on at school?” Mum asks.

If only she knew.

I wish I could tell Mum, Dad, and Ember what happened. I know I’d feel better for it. But I can’t. Home and Maxton Hall are two separate worlds that don’t belong together. And I swore to myself that I’d never mix them. So nobody at school knows any thing about my family, and my family doesn’t know about any thing that happens at Maxton Hall. I set that boundary on my first day at the school, and it was the best decision I ever made. I know that Ember often gets irritated by how secretive I am, and Mum and Dad can’t always hide their disappointment quickly enough when they ask me how my day was and I just answer “OK”—I feel so guilty when that happens. But home is my oasis of calm. The things that count here are family, loyalty, trust, and love. Whereas at Maxton Hall, all that matters is money. And

I’m scared that bringing that stuff back here would shatter our peace.

It’s none of my business what Mr. Sutton and Lydia Beaufort get up to together, and I’d never rat on them. Nobody at Maxton Hall knows anything about my private life, but that only works because I stick firmly to the rule I set for myself: Just keep your head down! I’ve spent two years making myself invisible to most of the school and flying under their radar.

But if I told anyone about the thing with Mr. Sutton, or went to Mr. Lexington, the head, it would create a scandal. I can’t risk that, not now that I’m so close to my goal.

Lydia Beaufort, her entire family, and especially her arsehole brother, are exactly the kind of people I want to keep at arm’s length. The Beauforts run the oldest and grandest menswear com‑ pany in the country. They’ve got their fingers in all kinds of pies, especially at Maxton Hall. They even designed the uniform.

No. No way am I messing with the Beauforts.

I’ll just act like nothing ever happened.

I just smile at Mum and mumble, “Nothing much,” but I know how fake it must look. So I’m grateful that she doesn’t insist, just pours me more coffee without comment.

School’s a nightmare. I’m terrified of bumping into Mr. Sutton or Lydia in the corridors between lessons, and I practically sprint from one classroom to the next. Lin gives me several funny looks, and I make an effort to pull myself together. The last thing I want is for her to start asking questions I can’t answer. Especially seeing that I don’t think she bought my story that I got the date wrong and that’s why I haven’t got my reference yet.

After our last class of the day, we go to the school office to gether to pick up the posters, which finally arrived in the post yesterday. I’d prefer to go to the dining hall first—my stomach was rumbling so loudly in maths that even the teacher turned to look at me— but Lin said we should save time by sticking a few up along the way.

We start in the school hall and attach our first poster to one of the huge pillars. Once I’m sure the sticky pads will hold, I take a step or two back and cross my arms. “What do you think?” I ask Lin.

“Perfect. Everyone will see it the minute they come through the doors.” She turns to me and smiles. “They’ve turned out really smart, Ruby.”

I study the looping black script announcing the Back‑to‑School party a while longer. Doug’s done a great job on the graphics—the combination of the lettering, the subtle golden sparkles, and the silver background looks grand and glamorous, but modern enough for a school party.

Maxton Hall parties are legendary. At this school, we have them for everything—new academic year, end of term, foundation day, Halloween, Christmas, New Year, Mr. Lexington’s birthday . . . Our budget on the events team is eye‑watering. But, as Lexie keeps reminding us, money can’t buy the image conveyed by suc cessful events. In theory, the parties are for us students. But really, the main aim is to impress parents, donors, politicians, and anyone else with the money to support our school, to give their children the best start in life and a direct path to Oxbridge.

When I started here, I had to pick an extracurricular activity, and the events committee seemed the best choice. I love planning and organizing, and I can hide in the background without my

classmates taking any notice of me. I didn’t expect it to be this much fun though. Or that, two years later, I’d end up co‑running the team with Lin.

She turns to me, a broad grin on her face. “Isn’t the way no body gets to boss us around this year the best feeling in the world?”

“I don’t think I could have lasted another day under Elaine Ellington’s rule without punching her,” I reply, which makes Lin giggle. “Don’t laugh. I’m serious.”

“I’d have loved to have seen that.”

“And I’d have loved to have done it.”

Elaine was a terrible team leader—dictatorial, unfair, and lazy— but the truth is that I’d never have hurt her. I’m not the violent type, and besides, it would have broken my rule against attracting attention.

But it doesn’t matter anymore. Elaine’s done her A levels and left the school. And the fact that Lin and I were elected as her successors proves that the rest of the team hated her bossy style just as much as we did. It still hardly feels real though.

“Let’s get these two up and then have something to eat,” I sug gest, and Lin nods.

Luckily, by the time we get to the dining hall, the queue’s gone down. Most people are heading to their afternoon lessons or soak ing up the sun on the grounds. There are plenty of empty tables, so we get a good spot by the windows.

Even so, I keep my eyes fixed on my lasagna as I carry my tray through the room to our table. I only dare look around once I’ve sat down with the rest of the posters on the chair beside me and my backpack on the floor. Lydia Beaufort is nowhere in sight.

Lin opens her planner on the table opposite me and studies it while sipping her orange juice. I can see Chinese pictograms,

triangles, circles, and other symbols on the pages, and yet again I admire her system, which looks way cooler than the colours I work with. But then I remember the one time I asked Lin to explain what they all mean and what she uses them for; half an hour later, I’d given up even trying to understand.

“We forgot to put a sample poster in Lexie’s pigeonhole,” she murmurs, stroking her black hair behind her ear. “We’ll have to do that after lunch.”

“No problem,” I say through a mouthful. I think there’s tomato sauce on my chin, but I don’t care. I’m starving, probably because all I’ve been able to eat since yesterday is a few cornflakes.

“I have to help Mum with an exhibition after school,” Lin says, pointing to one of the Chinese words. Her mother recently opened an art gallery in London. It’s going well, but Lin often has to help out, even on weekdays.

“If you need to head out early, I can put up the rest myself,” I say, but she shakes her head.

“When we took this job, we agreed to split the work fairly. We do this together or not at all.”

I smile at her. “OK.”

At the start of term, I told Lin that I don’t mind doing some of her share now and then. I like helping other people. Especially my friends—I don’t have that many. And I know that her home situation isn’t always easy and that she often has to take on more than she can really manage. Especially considering how much schoolwork we have this year. But Lin is just as ambitious, and just as stubborn, as I am—that’s probably one of the reasons we get on so well.

It’s almost a miracle that we found that out. When I started at Maxton Hall, she moved in very different circles. In those days,

she’d spend her lunch breaks sitting with Elaine and her friends, and it would never even have occurred to me to speak to her, de spite the fact that both of us being on the events team meant I’d clocked that she’s just as keen on journaling as me.

But then Lin’s father created a genuine scandal, and their fam ily lost not only all their money but also their friends. Suddenly, Lin was alone at break times—I’m not sure whether people didn’t want anything to do with her anymore or whether she was too ashamed to speak to them. But I do know what it feels like to sud denly lose all your friends. It was the same for me when I moved here from my old school in Gormsey. I felt overwhelmed—higher academic standards, the nonschool stuff, the fact that everyone here was so different from me— and at first I couldn’t manage to keep in touch with people from home. My friends there made it pretty clear what they thought of that.

Looking back on it now, I realize that true friends don’t just laugh at you for wanting to get involved with things at school. I used to laugh off names like “nerd” and “smartarse,” but it wasn’t really funny. And I know that it’s not real friendship if they don’t even try to understand what you’re going through. They didn’t ask even once how I was, or if they could do anything to help.

But back then, it really hurt to see those friendships break up like that, especially as nobody at Maxton Hall wanted anything to do with me either— or even noticed me. I’m not from a rich family. I have a six‑year‑old backpack, not a designer bag, and a second hand laptop, not a gleaming MacBook. I don’t go to the weekend parties that the cool kids spend the whole next week discussing— for most of my classmates, I simply don’t exist. These days, I like it that way, but my first few weeks at Maxton were lonely, and I felt very isolated. Until I met Lin. Our experiences with our friends

aren’t the only thing we have in common. Lin also shares my two biggest hobbies: She loves organizing stuff, and she loves manga.

I have no idea if we’d have got to know each other without the business with her parents. But although I sometimes get the feel ing she misses the days when she was a somebody here and hung around with people like the Ellingtons, I’m glad to have her.

“OK then. You go to Lexington and put up the posters in the library and the study centre on the way. I’ll do the rest, OK?”

I hold out my hand for a high five. For a moment, Lin looks like she wants to say something, but in the end, she smiles gratefully and claps my hand. “You’re the best.”

Someone pulls out the chair beside me and drops onto it. Lin turns pale. I frown as she stares, eyes wide, from me to the person sitting next to me, and then back to me again.

I turn very slowly— and find myself looking straight into a pair of turquoise‑blue eyes.

Like everyone at this school, I know those eyes, but I’ve never seen them up close before. They belong to a striking face with dark brows, high cheekbones, and an arrogant, handsome mouth.

James Beaufort is sitting next to me.

Looking at me.

From close up, he looks even more dangerous than he does at a distance. He’s one of the guys who act like this school belongs to them. And he looks like it does too. He’s perfectly poised and self‑ assured, his tie is perfectly knotted and straight. The uniform is pretty ordinary, really, but on him, it looks amazing, like it was made to measure. Which is probably because his mother designed it. The only thing about him that isn’t precise is his hair—unlike his sister, he prefers a messy style.

“Hey,” he says.

Have I ever heard him speak before? Yelling across a lacrosse field or drunk at an event, yes. But not like this. His “hey” sounds friendly, and there’s a spark in his eyes. He’s acting like it’s per fectly normal for him to sit next to me at lunch for a chat. But it’s the first time we’ve ever exchanged words. And I’d rather keep it that way.

I look around cautiously and gulp hard. A few heads have turned our way. It feels as though the cloak of invisibility I’ve been wearing the whole of the last two years has slipped a little.

Not good, not good, not good.

“Hey, Lin. Mind if I borrow your friend a minute?” he asks, not breaking eye contact with me even once. His eyes are so in tense I get shivers down my spine. It takes me a while to process what he said. The next moment, I turn to stare at Lin, trying to tell her without words that I would mind that, but she isn’t looking at me, only James.

“Sure,” she says, “no worries.”

I just about have time to grab my bag off the floor before James Beaufort’s hand is on my lower back as he steers me out of the dining hall. I speed up a touch to get away from his hand, but I can still feel the warmth of it, as if it had burned through my blazer onto my skin. He leads me past the huge staircase in the lobby and doesn’t stop until we’re well out of sight of anyone going in or out of the dining hall.

I can imagine what he’s after. He hasn’t even looked once at me in the last two years, so this must have something to do with his sister and Mr. Sutton.

It’s only once I’m certain that no one can hear us that I turn to him.

“I think I know what you want from me.”

His lips twist into a slight smile. “Do you, now?”

“Listen, Beaufort . . .”

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to stop you there, Robyn.” He takes a step toward me. I don’t flinch, just look at him, eyebrows raised. “You’re going to forget whatever you saw yesterday imme diately, got that? If I find out that you’ve uttered even a single word about it, I’ll get you kicked out of this school.”

He presses something into my hand. Dazed, I glance down and stiffen once I see what it is.

In my hand, there’s a heavy bundle of fifty pound notes. I gulp. I’ve never held this much money before.

I look up. James’s superior grin speaks volumes. It’s clear that he knows exactly how much I could use the money. And that this isn’t the first time he’s bought someone’s silence. Everything in his eyes and his whole stance is so smug that I’m suddenly furious.

“Are you serious?” I ask through gritted teeth, holding up the money. I’m so angry, my hand is shaking.

Now he looks thoughtful. He reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer, pulls out a second wad, and holds it out to me. “I can’t go higher than ten grand.”

Stunned, I stare at the money, then back at his face.

“If you keep your mouth shut until the end of term, we can double it. Till the end of the year, we’ll quadruple it.”

His words echo in my head, over and over again, and the blood boils in my veins. Standing there like that, tossing ten grand at my feet and trying to keep me quiet. Like it’s nothing. Like that’s just what you do when you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. Suddenly, one thing is very clear to me.

I can’t stand James Beaufort.

More than that. I loathe him. Him and everything he stands for.

The way he lives—with no respect or fear of consequences. The name Beaufort makes you untouchable. Whatever you do, Daddy’s money will somehow sort it out. While I’ve been working my arse off for the last two years just to have a chance at a place at Oxford, school for him is just a walk in the park.

It’s not fair. And the longer I stare at him, the angrier I feel. My fingers cramp around the notes in my hand. I bite my teeth together and rip off the thin paper band holding the bundle to gether.

James frowns. “What the . . .”

I jerk up my hand and throw the money in the air.

James meets my stoical expression with an iron glare; his only reaction is a throbbing muscle in his jaw.

As the notes slowly float to the ground, I turn and walk away.

9781405976985

PENGUIN BOOKS

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Mona Kasten

For Lucy

PLAYLIST

1

Ruby

2

James

3

Ruby