Nobody in Particular(9)
FOUR
DANNI
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 kitchen staff 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. I think 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.”