Nobody in Particular(10)
Rose glances sideways at Eleanor while the headmaster rattles off the names of the prefects, and I’m pretty sure they hold some sort of silent 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.
Does she even know?
If I’m hoping to get some clarification, I’m shit out of luck, because at that moment Eleanor bounces up behind Rose and pulls her to a couple of empty seats at the far right of the room. They sit down together and Rose promptly lays her head on her desk to sleep, using her arms as a cushion, and the spotlight on me goes out with a blink.
And now, I don’t know what’s worse. Being ridiculed, or being nothing.
FIVE
ROSE
Every ounce of my energy is focused on suppressing the urge to rest my head on the headmaster’s desk while I wait for him to come into the room. It’s rather a lot more difficult than it sounds. That is, I suppose, the inevitable outcome of being awake for almost thirty-four hours, minus a devastatingly brief nap. There’s only so far you can travel fueled by caffeine and self-preservation.
Last night was the Royal Renaissance Gala, which is held every year on the birthday of my great-great-grandmother, Queen Alarice. It is, as its name implies, a Renaissance-themed charity gala, in which the richest of the rich wear Renaissance-inspired couture and faff around marveling at the preserved period pieces on display and the courtly dance ensemble, all while a madrigal choir drones on in the background.
Purportedly, its main purpose is to raise funds to restore historical landmarks and promote cultural heritage—causes that were apparently dear to my great-great-grandmother’s heart—but it’s not lost on me that it’s currently viewed as a chance to put a night of socializing down as a tax write-off by most, if not all, attendees.
This year, it fell on a Sunday—the Sunday I was meant to move into my room at Bramppath, no less—but that certainly wasn’t a good enough excuse for me to miss it as far as my parents were concerned. After all, one cannot host the Royal Renaissance Gala sans the full suite of royals, can one? Anarchy would surely reign. Vive la révolution!