RUBY
"Here is perfect," Ember says, positioning herself to pose between the hawthorn and the apple tree. Our small garden is completely filled with scattered apples that we still need to collect. However, even though our parents have been asking us for days, in my task notebook, it's not marked in lilac until Thursday: "Collect the apples."
I already know that as soon as Ember and I bring the basket home, Mom and Dad will argue over who gets the larger share. Like every year, my mother plans to make pies and turnovers for people to try at the bakery, while my father wants to prepare hundreds of daringly flavored apple jams. Unlike my mother, he can't let anyone taste them at the Mexican restaurant where he works. This means that Ember and I will once again act as guinea pigs, which would be great for a new tortilla recipe but not so much for apple jam with cardamom and chili.
"What do you think?" Ember strikes a deliberate pose in front of me. I'm always amazed at how well she does it. Her attitude seems natural, and she shakes her head for a moment, causing the curls of her light brown, long hair to fall a little more rebellious. When she smiles, her green eyes literally sparkle, and I wonder how she can be so awake right after getting up.
I haven't even managed to comb my hair and yet, I'm sure my bangs are sticking up stiffly. And my eyes, the same color as Ember's, don't sparkle. On the contrary, they're so dry and tired that I have to blink constantly to try to relieve that annoying itch. It's barely seven in the morning, and I spent half the night awake in bed, mulling over what I saw yesterday afternoon. When Ember walked into my room an hour ago, I felt like I had just fallen asleep.
"You look really cool," I reply, lifting the small digital camera. Ember signals to me, and I take three shots; then she changes her pose, turns to the side, and gives me (or rather, the camera) a glance over her shoulder. The dress she's wearing today has a Peter Pan collar and a striking blue pattern. She swiped it from Mom and made some alterations to fit her size.
Ever since I can remember, Ember has struggled with being overweight and constantly searches for clothes that fit her body. Unfortunately, such clothing isn't abundant in the market, so she has to improvise constantly. When she turned thirteen, she asked our parents for a sewing machine, and since then, she's been making her own clothes.
At this point, my sister knows what suits her well. She has a good eye for it. For example, today she paired the dress with a denim jacket and white sneakers with silver heels that she painted herself.
A couple of days ago, while flipping through a fashion magazine, I noticed a jacket made of material similar to trash bags. I wrinkled my nose and kept browsing, but now I'm pretty sure Ember would rock that jacket like a supermodel and make it a hit. Ember's self-confidence, which radiates not only in front of the camera but also in real life, has not always been this way. I still remember the days when she would lock herself in her room, feeling miserable because her classmates teased her at school. Back then, she seemed small and vulnerable, but over time, she learned to accept her body and ignore what others said about her.
Ember has no problem describing herself as "plus-sized." She often says, "It's like in Harry Potter—people find the name Voldemort terrifying just because they're afraid to say it. The same goes for 'plus-sized'; it's just an adjective, like 'slim.' It's just a word, not inherently negative."
Ember's journey to self-acceptance was long, which is why she started a blog. She wanted to help others in similar situations embrace themselves. For a little over a year now, she has shared her sense of self-satisfaction with people and created a community through passionate articles about plus-size fashion. She serves as a pioneer and source of inspiration within this community.
My parents and I have also learned a great deal from her—she continues to provide us with articles on the topic—and we are incredibly proud of her accomplishments.
After photographing the third pose, I say, "I think we're done." Ember quickly approaches and takes the camera. With a critical look, she scrolls through the images. However, she smiles at one of the photos where she glances over her shoulder.
"I'll keep this one," she says, planting a kiss on my cheek. "Thanks."
We head back home through the garden, carefully avoiding the fallen apples.
"When will you publish the article online?" I ask.
"I'm thinking tomorrow afternoon," she replies, giving me a sidelong glance. "Do you think you'll have time to take a look tonight?"
Actually, no. Today I have to hang up the posters for the weekend party and then continue working on my History presentation. Additionally, I need to devise a plan on how to obtain the recommendation letter without having to exchange a single word with Mr. Sutton again. Just thinking about yesterday—Lydia Beaufort sitting on his desk with him between her legs—makes me want to vomit. And those noises they were making... I try to shake those memories from my head, which causes Ember to look at me in surprise.
"It will be a pleasure," I say hastily, sliding next to her toward the living room.
I can't look her in the eyes. If she notices my dark circles, she'll immediately know something is wrong, and the last thing I need right now is for her to ask. Not when the muffled moans of Mr. Sutton continue to echo in my ears, no matter how hard I try not to listen.
"Good morning, sweetheart." I startle at the sound of my mother's voice and quickly attempt to regain a normal expression on my face. Or at least whatever expression one has when they haven't caught their professor fooling around with one of his students. Mom approaches me and kisses my cheek.
"Is everything okay? You look tired."
Apparently, I need more practice at putting on a normal expression.
"Yes, I just need caffeine," I murmur, allowing her to lead me to the breakfast table.
She fills a cup of coffee for me, and before placing it in front of me on the table, she strokes my head. Meanwhile, Ember approaches Dad to show him the photos I took. He immediately sets aside his newspaper and leans over the screen. His wrinkles deepen as he smiles.
"Very beautiful."
"Do you recognize the dress, dear?" Mom asks, placing her hand on his shoulder and leaning over his back.
Dad lifts the camera, and behind the lenses of his reading glasses, his gaze becomes reflective.
"Is this... Is this the dress you wore for our tenth anniversary?" he asks, turning his head to look at Mom, who nods. Mom and Ember have a similar build, which is why my sister had plenty of clothes at her disposal when she started her sewing machine career. At first, Mom would get sad when Ember sewed poorly and half-ruined the dresses, but that rarely happens now. She loves the wonders Ember creates with her old dresses and blouses.
"I've tailored it and sewn a collar," my sister says as she sits at the table and pours some oat flakes into the bowl Mom has set out.
A smile appears on my father's face.
"It looks very nice," he says, taking Mom's hand and pulling her close for a tender kiss.
Ember and I exchange glances, and I know she's thinking the same thing: yuck. My parents are so in love with each other that it's nauseating at times. But we take it in stride. And when I remember what happened with Lin's family, I appreciate the fact that mine is intact. Especially because we had to work hard to protect the strong bond that unites us.
"Let me know when you've posted the article," Mom says after sitting next to Dad. "I want to read it right away."
"Okay," Ember replies with her mouth full.
We need to hurry if we want to catch the school bus on time, so I understand why she's devouring her food like this.
"But you'll take a look first, won't you?" Dad asks, turning toward me.
Although a year has passed, my father still views everything related to the blog with skepticism. He distrusts the internet, especially if one of his daughters shares images and thoughts there. Ember had a hard time convincing him that a fashion blog for plus sizes was a good idea. Nevertheless, she started her blog, Bellbird, with such determination and courage that my father had no choice but to allow her to continue. His only condition was that I—as the sensible older sister—would read the blog articles first and check the images before she posted them, to ensure that no private details of our life ended up on the internet.
However, his fears are unfounded. Ember works carefully and professionally, and I admire her for all she has already achieved with Bellbird in such a short time.
"Of course," I say, spooning oat flakes into my mouth and washing them down with a good sip of coffee. Now it's Ember who looks at me with disgust, but I ignore her. "I'll be coming back a little late today, just so you're not surprised."
"Is there that much commotion at school?" Mom asks.
'If only you knew...' I'd love to tell Mom, Dad, and Ember what has happened. I know I'd feel better afterward. But I can't. My home and Maxton Hall are two separate worlds that don't go hand in hand. And I've sworn to myself never to mix them. That's why no one at school knows anything about my family, and my family knows nothing about what happens at Maxton Hall. I set that boundary on the first day of school, and it was the best decision I could have made. I know Ember gets angry because I'm so closed off, and I always feel guilty when my parents can't hide their disappointment when I respond with nothing more than a 'fine' to their question of 'How was your day?' But my home is my oasis of tranquility. Here, what matters is family and loyalty, trust and love. At Maxton Hall, only one thing counts: Wealth.
And I'm afraid of damaging our peaceful home if I bring those matters from there.
Not to mention that it's none of my business what Mr. Sutton and Lydia Beaufort have. I would never betray them. The fact that no one at Maxton Hall knows anything about my private life works because I strictly adhere to a rule I've set for myself: 'No matter what, avoid drawing attention.' For the past two years, I've put all my efforts into becoming invisible to most of my classmates and going unnoticed.
If I were to tell someone about Mr. Sutton or take that matter to the school principal, it would cause a scandal. I can't risk it, especially now that I'm so close to achieving my goal.
Lydia Beaufort and her entire family—especially her horrible brother—are precisely the type of people I need to keep miles away from. The Beauforts run England's largest and oldest gentlemen's clothing store. They're not only involved throughout the country but also at Maxton Hall. They even designed our school uniform.
No. I won't even consider arguing with the Beauforts.
I'll act as if nothing has happened, plain and simple.
When I smile at my mother and respond in a hushed voice that it's not a big deal, I'm aware of how forced my answer sounds. So I'm even more grateful that she doesn't insist and simply serves me another cup of coffee.
School is dreadful. I try to concentrate, but my mind keeps wandering. Between classes, I'm terrified of running into Mr. Sutton or Lydia in the hallway, so I dart from one classroom to another.
Lin glances at me more than once, reminding me to stay composed. The last thing I want is for her to bombard me with questions I can't answer. Especially when I'm quite sure she didn't buy the excuse I gave her yesterday—that I made a mistake with the time, which is why I still don't have the letter of recommendation.
When the last class ends, we head to the school office together to pick up the posters that arrived by mail yesterday. I would have preferred to go eat—the rumbling in my stomach during Biology was so loud that the teacher even turned to look at me—but Lin suggested that we hang a couple of posters on the way to the cafeteria to save some time.
We start in the auditorium, where we put up the first poster on one of the columns. Once I'm sure the tape is holding, I step back a few paces and cross my arms.
'What do you think?' I ask Lin.
'Perfect. In this spot, anyone who enters through the main door will notice it.' She smiles at me. 'You've done a great job, Ruby.'
I continue staring at the elegant, sinuous black letters announcing the back-to-school party. Doug really managed to create a fantastic graphic design. The text, combined with subtle golden specks on a silver background, looks both classy and glamorous, yet modern enough for a school celebration.
Maxton Hall is known for its legendary parties. We celebrate everything here: the start of the school year, the end of the year, the foundation anniversary, Halloween, Christmas, New Year's, even Headmaster Lexington's birthday. The events committee's budget is staggering. But, as Lexington always reminds us, the image we project with these successful events is priceless. Because Maxton Hall's parties, theoretically, aren't just for the students. They're meant to attract parents, sponsors, politicians, and wealthy individuals who fund our school and, with their support, ensure that students receive a top-notch education, start life in the best possible way and end up directly at Cambridge or Oxford.
When I entered school, I had to choose an extracurricular activity, and the events committee seemed like the best option: I love planning and organizing, and in this area, I can work from the background without my fellow students paying much attention to me. I hadn't expected to enjoy it so much. Nor did I expect that, two years later, I would be sharing the team leadership with Lin.
Lin turns toward me with a wide smile on her face.
'Isn't it so good to know how this year, no one tells us what to do?'
'I don't think I could have endured one more day under Elaine Ellington's orders without losing it and punching her in the face,' I admit, and Lin chuckles. 'Don't laugh. I mean it.'
'I would have liked to see that.'
'And I would have liked to do it.'
Elaine was an unbearable, authoritarian, dishonest, and lazy boss, although I would never have harmed her, of course. Besides, I don't have a favorable opinion of violence; it would have violated my own rule of trying my best not to draw attention here.
But anyway, that's all resolved now. Elaine has finished her studies and left school. And the fact that the rest of the team disliked her dictatorial style as much as we did was evident when they chose Lin and me as her successors. Something that still seems unreal to me.
'Shall we hang up the other two posters and go eat?' I ask, and Lin nods.
Fortunately, when we enter the dining hall, the rush hour has long passed. Most students are heading to afternoon classes or enjoying the last rays of sun in the school garden.
There are only a few occupied tables, so we get the option to grab a good spot by the window.
Nevertheless, I avoid taking my eyes off the lasagna as I balance my tray through the room. Only when I've sat down and placed the posters on the chair next to me and my backpack on the floor do I dare to look around. No sign of Lydia Beaufort.
Across from me, Lin unfolds her planner and starts reviewing it while sipping her orange juice. On the pages, I see Chinese characters, as well as triangles, circles, and other symbols. I marvel once again at the system she uses, much cooler than the colors I work with. Still, I remember a time when I asked her to explain the meaning of each symbol and how she used it for different events. Within half an hour, I had lost the big picture and thrown in the towel.
'We forgot to leave a sample poster in Director Lexington's drawer,' she murmurs, tucking her black hair behind her ear. 'That's the first thing we need to do after we've eaten.'
'Of course,' I reply with my mouth full.
I think I have tomato sauce on my chin, but I couldn't care less. I'm ravenous, possibly because, except for a few oat flakes, I haven't eaten anything since yesterday afternoon.
'Today, I still have to help my mother prepare an exhibition,' Lin says, pointing to a Chinese character. Some time ago, her mother opened an art gallery in London, which is doing well, but Lin often has to lend a hand, even during the week.
'If you have to leave early, I'll hang up the rest of the posters myself,' I offer, but she shakes her head.
'When we took on this job, we agreed to share the workload fairly. Either we do it together, or we don't do it at all.'
'Understood,' I reply, smiling.
At the beginning of the school year, I told Lin that I didn't mind occasionally taking care of part of her work. I enjoy helping others, especially my friends, even though there aren't many of them. I'm aware that Lin's situation at home isn't easy, and she's often expected to do more than is fair, especially considering the numerous school responsibilities she juggles. But Lin is at least as diligent and stubborn as I am, which is probably one of the reasons we get along so well.
It's almost a miracle that we found each other. When I arrived at Maxton Hall, Lin hung out with completely different groups. During lunch breaks, she sat at a table with Elaine Ellington and her friends, and it never occurred to me to approach her, even though we were both on the activities committee. I had noticed a couple of times that she was just as meticulous with her task notebook as I was.
Then her father caused a major scandal, resulting in her family not only losing their fortune but also being shunned by the circles they used to frequent. Suddenly, Lin was alone during breaks. I don't know if her friends no longer wanted anything to do with her or if she was simply too embarrassed by what happened. However, I do know what it feels like when you lose all your friends abruptly. It happened to me when I left my old school in Gormsey to come here. I felt overwhelmed by the high demands of classes, extracurricular activities, and the fact that everyone here was so different from me. Initially, I struggled to maintain my connections from Gormsey. My friends made it clear what they thought about it.
Nevertheless, I now understand that a true friend doesn't constantly mock you just because you're involved in school. I've brushed off words like "brown-noser" and "know-it-all" with a smile. Lin and I have become each other's support, and our bond is stronger than ever. We share the workload, and together, we navigate the challenges of Maxton Hall.
Although I don't find them amusing, I also know that someone's inability to understand that you're in a special situation has nothing to do with friendship. Not once did they ask how I was or if they could help.
Seeing how fragile those friendships were hurt me deeply, especially because at Maxton Hall, there was no one who wanted to associate with me or even noticed my presence. I don't come from a wealthy family. Instead of designer bags, I have a backpack from six years ago; instead of a shiny MacBook, I have a secondhand laptop my parents bought me before the school year started. On weekends, I'm not at the trendy parties everyone talks about the following week; for most of my classmates, I simply don't exist. It works for me now, but during the first two weeks, I felt terribly lonely and marginalized. That changed when I met Lin. What brought us together wasn't just the fact that we had similar experiences with our friends; it was also that Lin shares my two biggest passions: she enjoys organizing her life, and she loves manga.
I can't say for sure whether we would have crossed paths if her parents hadn't gone through what they did. But even when I sometimes sense that she misses the time when she enjoyed fame here and hung out with people like the Ellingtons, I'm grateful to have her.
"Go to the principal's office and hang the posters in the library and learning center on your way," I suggest. "I'll take care of the rest, okay?"
I raise my hand. For a moment, it looks like she might object, but then she smiles gratefully and gives me a high-five.
"You're the best."
Someone pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. Lin turns pale as milk. I furrow my brow as she looks at me with wide eyes, then at the person who has taken the seat next to me, and back at me.
I turn slowly and find myself face to face with turquoise blue eyes. Like everyone else at school, I recognize those eyes, but I've never seen them up close. They belong to a distinctive face with dark eyebrows, pronounced cheekbones, and a pretty mouth that twists with arrogance.
James Beaufort has just sat down next to me. And he's looking at me.
Up close, he seems even more dangerous than from a distance. He's one of those who act as if Maxton Hall belongs to them. And that's exactly how he appears: upright, self-assured, with his tie perfectly in place. The familiar school uniform fits him impeccably, as if it were tailored to his body. It must be because his mother designed it. The only thing that doesn't quite fit is his tousled reddish-blond hair, unlike his sister, who always has a flawless haircut.
"Hey!" he says.
Have I heard him speak before? Yes, shouting during lacrosse matches or when he's drunk at Maxton Hall parties, but not like this. His "hey" sounds confident, matching the gleam in his eyes. He acts as if it's entirely normal to sit next to me during the lunch break and strike up a conversation. Yet, we've never exchanged a single word. And it should stay that way.
I glance around cautiously and swallow hard. Not everyone, but a couple of heads have turned our way. It's as if the camouflage I've worn for the past two years has shifted slightly. This isn't going well, this isn't going well, this isn't going well.
"Hello, Lin, would it bother you if I stole your friend right here from you for a few minutes?" he says without taking his eyes off me for a second. His gaze is so intense that a shiver runs down my spine. It takes me a moment to process what he said. Then I turn my head toward Lin, attempting to convey wordlessly that I am bothered by this, but she doesn't look at me—she's focused on James.
"Of course not," she mumbles. "Go ahead."
I manage to lift my backpack off the floor, and then James Beaufort places his hand on my lower back and pushes me out of the dining hall. I quicken my pace to free myself from his touch, but even afterward, I can feel him there for a while—as if he burned my skin through the fabric of my jacket. He leads me around the grand staircase in the foyer and stops behind a spot where our peers, entering and exiting the dining hall, can't see us.
I already know what he wants. Given that he hasn't even looked at me once in the past two years, this must be related to the affair between his sister and Mr. Sutton.
When I'm sure no one can hear us, I turn toward him.
"I think I know what you want from me."
His lips form a faint smile.
"Do you?"
"Listen, Beaufort..."
"I'm afraid I must interrupt you at this point, Robyn." He takes a step toward me. I don't retreat; instead, I stare at him with raised eyebrows. "You'll forget as soon as possible what you saw yesterday, understood? If I find out that even the slightest comment slips from your lips, I'll make sure you leave the school."
He places something in my hand. Dazed, I look down and tense up when I realize what it is: a thick stack of fifty-pound notes. I swallow with a dry mouth. I've never held so much money before.
I lift my gaze. James's arrogant smile says it all. It unabashedly conveys that he knows just how much I might need that money. And that it's not the first time he's bought someone's silence. His gaze and overall demeanor fill me with an incredible rage.
"Are you for real?" I ask through clenched teeth, lifting the stack of bills; I'm so angry that my hands tremble.
His gaze becomes thoughtful. He reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket, pulls out another bundle of bills, and hands it to me.
"Up to ten thousand," he says. I look at the money in bewilderment and then back at his face. "If you keep your mouth shut until the end of the semester, we'll double the amount. If you manage it until the end of the year, we'll quadruple it."
His words echo in my head, and my blood boils. There he is, standing in front of me, tossing ten thousand pounds at my feet, wanting to silence me like it's nothing. As if this is what you do when you come from a wealthy family. Suddenly, it's crystal clear: I can't stand James Beaufort. I detest him. Him and everything he represents.
His carefree lifestyle, without consideration or fear of consequences.
When you carry the Beaufort name, it doesn't matter what you do—Dad's money will fix everything somehow. Meanwhile, I've been busting my ass for two years just for a tiny chance of getting into Oxford, while for him, high school is a leisurely stroll. It's unfair. And the more I look at him, the angrier I get.
My fingers tighten around the bundle of bills. I grit my teeth and tear the thin paper strips that hold it together.
James furrows his brow.
"What..."
Suddenly, I raise my hand and throw the money into the air.
James meets my unwavering gaze, a twitch in his jaw his only reaction. As the bills flutter down slowly, I turn on my heel and walk away.