Rich Awkward Kids, but kids all the same.
In any case, the road is leveling out now, and the school is suddenly rising up before us, just like the website only . . . real.
In front of me.
The pictures didn’t do it justice. It’s all cream-colored stone against the green, rising up four stories, a long gravel drive in front, windows blinking in the sun.
“Oh, wow,” I breathe, and Mr. McGregor looks over at me, a twinkle in his eyes if I’m not mistaken.
“Aye,” he agrees. “She’s a sight.” Then he sighs, brows drawing together. “Used to be my family’s home, ya ken, but now I just work here, shuttlin’ you lot about.”
I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just sort of hum in agreement and turn my attention back to the school.
There are a bunch of students milling around on the lawn, some in uniform, some not. I’m still wearing my jeans and T-shirt, since my uniform is supposed to be waiting for me in . . .
Pulling my backpack into my lap, I take out the email I printed out. Room 327, I read, my fingers moving over the numbers. My room. The room I’m going to live in for the next year.
With another girl.
That’s one of the weirder parts of this whole boarding school experiment—living with someone else. I was an only child up until eighteen months ago, and I’ve never shared a space with someone else like this.
Still, good practice for college, right?
Mr. McGregor pulls the car up to the front of the school, where there are already kids heading in, dragging huge roller bags. I have a massive suitcase of my own in the back of the Land Rover (gotten on sale at TJ Maxx, thank you very much), and before I know it, I’m standing there in the huge front hall of Gregorstoun, the handle of the bag in my hand.
It’s chaos, people weaving in and out, and I look around, trying to take it all in, a mix of nerves and jet lag making me feel more anxious than I’d anticipated.
I’m mostly surprised by how many boys there are. All kinds of boys. Boys who look about twelve, boys who tower over me as they make their way into the house. There must be five boys for every one girl, and I wonder just how many of us applied to be part of Gregorstoun’s first female class.
The ground floor still looks like someone’s house. There are paintings on the wall, little tables full of bric-a-brac, and soft carpets underfoot.
Ahead of me, a wooden staircase spirals upward, and, swallowing hard, I head toward it, lugging my bag behind me.
There are no elevators—or lifts, I guess they’d call them here—so I definitely get my cardio in hauling everything I own up to the third floor.
It’s a little less chaotic up here, and dimmer. There are fewer windows, and the carpet feels almost moldy as I creep along it.
Ew.
But I find room 327 easy enough, and when I open the door, there’s no one in there.
Standing on the threshold, I face two twin beds, one dresser, and a desk on either side of the door. In fact, if you open the door all the way, it hits one of the desks, and for some reason, I decide to go ahead and claim that side of the room. That might endear me to my roommate, right? Picking the crappy side?
Pulling my suitcase all the way into the room, I sit on the little bed with its scratchy white sheets and green wool blanket.
I’ve done it. I’ve come to Scotland, and I’m here for the next year.
Before the enormity of what I’ve done can fully sink in, I whip out my phone, pulling up FaceTime to call Dad.
He answers almost immediately, and I grin with relief to see him there in the living room.
“You made it!” he enthuses, dark eyes crinkling at the corners, and I nod, spinning my phone around so he can see my room.
“Living it up in the lap of luxury, obviously,” I say, and Anna pops her head in.
“Oh my god, it’s so . . . quaint,” she says, raising her eyebrows, and I wave at her.
“If quaint means a little creepy and small, then yes!”
She frowns slightly, leaning closer to Dad’s phone. “Millie, if this isn’t—” she starts to say, but then the door to my room flies open again, thumping hard against my desk.
“No,” a voice insists. “This is not what was agreed to.”
A girl steps into the room followed by a man in a dark suit, and just for a second, my family and my phone are totally forgotten.
It’s not cool to stare, I know that, but this is literally the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.
She’s taller than I am, and her hair is gold. Like. Literally gold, like dark honey. It’s held back from her face with a thin headband, and that face . . .
I realize while looking at her that beauty is more than just the way your face is structured, the weird quirks of DNA and societal norms that make us say, “This nose is the best nose,” or “This is why I like this mouth,” or whatever. This girl has clearly won a genetic lottery, don’t get me wrong, but it’s not just that—it’s that she seems to glow. Her skin is so smooth and luminous I want to stroke her face like some kind of weirdo. I’m not sure she would even know what the word “pore” means. Does she follow one of those intense ten-step skin routines? Has she found magical sheet masks made of pearls?
Maybe this is just what being rich does to your face.
Because there’s no doubt this girl is also very, very rich. Her clothes are simple—a sweater and jeans tucked into high leather boots—but they practically smell like money. She smells like money.
Also, only rich people can curl their lips the way she’s currently doing at the guy in the suit who followed her in. Her dad? He looks a little young, plus it’s hard to imagine that a guy with heavy jowls and pockmarked skin could possibly be related to this actual angel of a girl, standing there with a Louis Vuitton bag in the crook of her elbow.
“Your mother—” the man starts, and she throws up her hands.
“Call her, then.”
“Pardon?” the man asks, his heavy brow wrinkling.
“Call my mother,” she repeats, her voice carrying just the softest Scottish burr. Her chin is lifted, and I can actually feel tension vibrating off her.
“We were told—” the man says on a sigh, but she’s not giving in.
“Call my mother.”
On my phone, Dad scowls. “Everything okay?” he asks, and I glance back at my new roommate, still imperiously repeating “Call my mother” every time the man tries to speak. And now I realize he’s pulled his phone out, I assume to call her mother, and she’s still saying it, over and over again, like a toddler.