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3
Thick beams of sunlight stream through the elegant stained glass windows of the main hall, painting the cold flagstone floor yellow. The change in weather unnerves me, like I’m constantly on the back foot. Arabella leads us through the huge wooden doors, her chin raised with determination. Heads swivel as we arrive, and over a hundred pairs of eyes track our every move.
We’re the only girls in an all-boys school.
Even at the head table, Headmistress Baxter is the only woman. I try to get a good look at our teachers — they’re all soold, aside from one guy at the very end with long sandy hair and a bright, sunny smile. He’s in a passionate discussion with the older man beside him, gesticulating furiously. I tilt my head to the side, trying to figure out what they’re talking about.
That’s when something sharp jabs my temple.
Snorts and giggles erupt beside me.
Arabella and the others have already crossed the hall to take their seats near Headmistress Baxter, as far away from the rest of the school as possible. I bend down and pick up the object, curious.
It’s a paper plane.
There are words written on the wings.
Fly back home, Yank bitch.
Beneath these words is a jagged sketch of a snowflake.
I try to avoid the fact that the handwriting is incredibly neat. There’s a pretty, decorative quality to it that’s surprising from a boy. Instead, I raise my eyes over to the direction the plane originated and find my gaze locked on Rory.
Of course.
The son of the PM has nothing better to do than to promote his father’s anti-immigration policy.
But when our eyes meet, it’s like being jolted. His gray eyes darken as he watches me. He’s sickeningly handsome in his well-cut blazer, his caramel-colored hair flopping over his forehead as though he’s the aloof male lead in a British romcom. He’s surrounded by the younger boys, all of whom are tittering among themselves and avidly observing my expression. It’s weird. I get the feeling he’s some kind of Peter Pan figure to them, lording it over his tribe of Lost Boys.
“Jessa,” Arabella hisses, waving me over to their table.
I turn back to the paper plane. I don’t think I’ve seen anything so pathetic before. They’re going to be mighty disappointed with my lack of response. With my face giving away nothing, I crumple the paper into a ball and toss it back in their direction.
As I cross over to the girls, there’s a sudden agonized wail from behind me.
“Miss, miss! She hit me!”
My heart sinks.
Play stupid games, Jessa…
Last night, while being kept away by the wild winds swirling around the tower, I devised three personal rules to follow at Lochkelvin:
Work hard.
Stick with the girls.
Stay out of trouble.
But as Headmistress Baxter sweeps over to us in a heartbeat, analyzing the situation with her hawk eyes, I get the feeling that the third one is about to be winched out of reach.
“Is this true?” she snaps, glowering at me and the twelve-year-old boy currently clawing the side of his face to make it look even redder.
“They threw—”
“She threw this at me!” The boy produces the paper ball from his pocket, thrusting it under Headmistress Baxter’s nose. But there’s something different about it. It looks heavier than before.
Baxter unwraps the crumpled paper and a shiny black stone clatters to the floor.
