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Chapter Two
October 15th, 2018
Nothing could’ve prepared me for the moment when the black town car swung around the final bend of the long sweeping oak-lined driveway that led the way to my new school.
Westchester Preparatory Academy looms in front of me, a mass of towering grey stone turrets and ornate leaded windows. I gazed up at twelfth-century gothic architecture at its finest - I didn’t need the handbook and prospectus on my lap to know that. The school has stood for nearly a thousand years, although it hasn’t been a private finishing school for the country’s elite the whole time. It was breathtakingly beautiful in its grandeur, the hundreds of leaded windows sparkling in the late summer sun. I wasn’t fooled by its beauty though - to me, there was always a dark, sinister feel to this style of architecture, and I never loved it the way my twin sister Lizzie had.
No, West Prep had been Lizzie’s dream, not mine - for so many reasons - and yet here I was, enrolled in the place that she’d loved, but come to despise. I take a deep breath as the car slows to a stop outside the main entrance. Thinking of Lizzie in this place is like a knife twisting in my gut; it’s something I have to get used to, but I can use the pain to steel myself. Nine months. Two and a half terms. I can do this. Whatever West Prep wants to throw at me, I’m ready. But I’m going to throw shit back at it, tenfold.
Before exiting the car, I look down and make sure to adjust my uniform. Keeping up appearances here is everything. The outfit was surprisingly okay as far as dress codes go. My black heeled shoes are so shiny; I can see my reflection in them. I quickly check my stockings for runs - thankfully none - and straighten my school skirt. The skirt is a short black knife pleat with a single purple stripe around the hem which mirrors the purple of the school logo and the piping on my blazer. The upper school students - those in the last four years at West Prep - are given the choice of blazer colour: white or black. I’d opted for black, where Lizzie’d gone white. It is little details like that which had set us apart. She was always in the light, whereas I prefer the dark. I feel like our blazer choices match our personalities perfectly. Plus, I can’t run the risk of anyone noting the similarities between us - hence my now dyed blue-black hair and a new identity. I’d spent the summer tanning my usually pale skin so that it now glowed a golden bronze. Our facial similarities were easily disguised with insanely expensive semi-permanent makeup and clever contouring. Lizzie and I may not have been identical twins biologically, but based on looks, we may as well have been. The only giveaway of the link between us now would be our bright green eyes. They weren’t inconspicuous, but no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get on with coloured contacts. So I’d have to make do and hope that no one got close enough to notice. To be fair, people rarely looked that closely, and no one ever saw anything they weren’t looking for. No one would be expecting a dead girl’s surprise twin sister to show up at school nearly two years later, so I figured I’d be okay.
I quickly check my appearance in my compact mirror: my makeup hasn’t smeared or smudged; there’s nothing stuck in my teeth; my thin black crossbow tie’s straight against my starched white blouse. I’m ready. Nearly two years in the making to carry out this scheme, I was more than ready.
I slide out of the town car and stare up at the imposing building that towers in front of me. The vehicle had passed under an ancient stone archway and pulled into a paved quad area. Broad steps lead up to two enormous dark wood doors with ornate ironwork hinges and a knocker. Doors which are currently shut. ‘What a welcome,’ I think to myself before I turn to help the driver get my stuff from the boot of the car. Appearances may be everything here, but I’m not about to let the driver unload my luggage like a servant. Not while I still have working limbs of my own.
Once unloaded, I turn at the sound of the massive doors opening, straightening and smoothing my waist-length hair behind my ears. I catch sight of the new dark shade of my hair out of the corner of my eye and struggle not to blanch. It’s really going to take some getting used to after being nearly white-blonde like Lizzie my whole life. I spent most of yesterday in the salon getting the hair makeover. My hair took so long that they threw in a manicure, pedicure and eyebrow wax, so I was polished to perfection. Lizzie would definitely approve of the more groomed me, although I doubt the so-dark-it-looks-black nail polish I’d selected would’ve been to her pink princess taste. I smile imagining her reaction to this new me.
“Raven Deighton? Welcome.” The headmistress in front of me couldn’t look less welcoming if she tried. She said my name like it left a bad taste in her mouth. Dressed head to toe in stern starched black clothing with her grey hair scraped back into a face-lift bun, she looked like an archetypal Victorian school ma’am and a villainous one at that. Lizzie had said as much herself, and she rarely said a bad word about anyone. Lizzie was sweet like that. I’m more...honest? Lizzie always said I was straight-talking, but I mostly get called a bitch by everyone else. Whatever. Sticks and stones and all that.
“Headmistress Archer, thank you. It’s a pleasure to be here. Thank you for accepting me under these unusual circumstances.” I plaster a fake smile on my face and climb the steps to shake her hand. I could schmooze like the rest of them. I’m not a stranger to the lifestyle of the West Prep students - my Grandma’s family name afforded me legacy status, and I knew the power that would bring – I’d just been trying to avoid using it my whole life. Now I was going to have to play the game. And I was going to have to win it.
The school didn’t usually allow students to transfer in for their final year, let alone once the term had already begun. It’s mid-October and half-term is only a week away. I’m about seven weeks behind with my studies. But my grandmother made a sickeningly large donation to the school, which allowed me particular special treatment it would seem. It’s a struggle not to gag at the hypocrisy, but I can’t complain: said hypocrisy is allowing me to be here to carry out my plan.
Headmistress Archer makes a dismissive gesture with her hand and motions for me to follow her inside.
“Leave your things, they will be delivered to your room.”
I follow her without a word. There’s no way I can lug all that stuff with me anyway. I may not have brought many personal items from home, but my new look wasn’t exactly low maintenance, so I hadn’t packed light. Who knew pretty rich preppy girls needed so much crap when they lived in a uniform five days a week? For me, keeping up the strict beauty regime was going to be my toughest challenge. Finding the school bullies and ruining them in comparison? Piece of cake!
I follow the headmistress into the school atrium and am pleasantly surprised by how light and airy it is. With all the grey stone I’d expected it to be dark, damp and dingy, but it isn’t. Light wood floors and an abundance of natural light flooded the wide-open space. It looks cosy and welcoming. In front of me, a vast stately staircase sweeps upwards, splitting in two opposite directions halfway up. On the ground floor, adjacent corridors run behind the stairs, and large double doors are immediately to either side of me. To my left, the doors are open to reveal the cafeteria - although it looks more like a fine dining restaurant - currently empty but already set up for this evening. I guess all the students are still in class. The headmistress turns right and heads to the other set of the double doors, unlocking them with a single gold key on a pale blue velvet ribbon. She replaces the key back into her pocket and opens the door, slipping inside. I follow closely behind her.
She takes a seat behind the large wooden desk which dominates the room and motions for me to do the same. The leather bucket chair is less comfy than it looks, so I perch on the edge of the seat and wait.
“Welcome... Miss Deighton. Here is your room key.” She slides a golden key similar to her own but with a deep green velvet ribbon across the desk towards me. “You have your handbook and prospectus already. In your room, you will find a more detailed file of the rules and expectations while you are here. You need your house tie pin. You are in Rowan House. Here you are.” She hands me a deep green gemstone pin that’s about the size of my thumbnail. It's many polished facets sparkle in the light as I turn it over to remove the gold push backing so I can attach it to the centre cross of my necktie.
While I’m doing that, she continues, “I have switched out your swimming elective for Krav Maga at your grandmother’s insistence. She has arranged for a world-class instructor to join you during your timetabled sessions, although he cannot begin until after half term. This means you will have to train by yourself in the martial arts hub for this week. Your class schedule is here,” she pauses to slide that across the desk to me too, “and I have arranged for one of our prefects to show you around. He should be here shortly. Do you have any questions?”
I shake my head no, leaning forward to take the key and schedule from her as a knock sounds at the door.
“Very well,” she sighs. “Enter.” The door opened, and a friendly smile enters the room. Seriously, I don’t notice anything else. His smile’s so big and so full, teeth absolutely perfect and gleaming. “Ah Michael, you are right on time. Thank you for volunteering to look after Miss Deighton. I trust you will take good care of her?”
“Absolutely Headmistress Archer!” Somehow the boy beams even brighter at the headmistress before holding out his hand to me. “Hi, I’m Michael. Pleasure to meet you.” He oozes confidence.
Now that I can drag myself away from his smile - seriously it’s infectious, my lips were turning up, and even the headmistress looks less dour in his presence – I’m able to notice more about him. He looks like a model straight from the pages of a Ralph Lauren advert. He’s tall and lean, but with broad shoulders and muscular arms. His skin’s sun-kissed - judging by his West Prep rowing sweatshirt, I guessed from hours spent out training in the sun - and his short dirty blonde hair is lightly spiked upward in a deliberate, oh-so-carelessly tousled kind of style. He’s gorgeous in a rich-preppy-athletic sort of way. Totally Lizzie’s type. Bright blue eyes sparkle as I make eye contact with him. Damn, I’ve probably been staring too long. Say something Rae.
“Hey, I’m Raven. Thanks for offering to show me around.” I take his hand, and he shakes it gently, but his grip is firm. I find it a bit weird, to be honest, that one of my peers is shaking my hand. Maybe he’s just trying to impress the headteacher.
“No problem.” He smiles at me again and pulls me to my feet, tucking my arm into the crook of his elbow. Whoa, gentlemanly. But still weird. “Shall we go?” I nod, mute, and allow him to guide me out of the office. “We’ll stop by your room first and go from there.”
We exit the office and take the stairs, choosing the right set when they split off. Michael leads me along the first-floor landing, my heels sinking into the luxuriously plush carpet, explaining that final year students are given the luxury of the top floor. At the end of the corridor, he calls for the antique lift, and we step in- me somewhat apprehensively- rising to the top level. The silence between us is comfortable, but I’m eager to talk to him.
“Michael, I-” he squeezes my forearm cutting me off.
“Wait until we’re in your room.”
I nod. He’s right. I have no idea who’s around or listening, and I can’t be too careful. No one can know that Michael and I are already sort-of acquainted.
The elevator doors ping open, and I can breathe again. I hastily exit the lift then foolishly have to wait for Michael to lead the way. I notice as I follow him that there are fewer doors up here and that they’re more spaced apart then seems reasonable. About halfway along, Michael comes to a stop in front of room 11, and I smile at the Angel reference. I slip the key into the lock, and we step inside. The apartment is breathtaking. Even more beautiful than the place Lizzie’d described in her letters all those years ago. I hear the click of the door closing and the turning of the lock, but I pay no mind as my senses greedily drink in the sight before me.
