1. Dead Queen
1
Dead Queen
Sophie
If I hoped that a new country and a new school would make me feel reborn, I’m devastated to find that my first day at Harvard feels exactly like my first day at Spearcrest.
The campus is just as beautiful: old stone, dimmed granite and stately architecture, the trees glistening with the sheen of late summer rain.
It’s eerily quiet, though, with most of the students yet to arrive for the start of the main semester.
Blackstone Hall, the building where I’ll be attending most of my classes, feels particularly deserted, the marble flooring and dark wood benches and arched windows painting a portrait of forsaken grandeur.
It feels strange, almost unsettling, to walk through the vast halls and hear only my own footsteps.
The rest of Harvard Law’s incoming class won’t arrive for weeks, leaving the campus empty save for the fifteen of us.
It’s supposed to make us feel special, but it only makes me feel vulnerable.
Our academic mentor, Mr Park, the coordinator for the DART programme, commands the room the moment he enters.
I sit up straight, gripping my pen.
This is what I’ve been waiting for.
He opens our introductory session with the statement :
“Our programme is unlike anything else you’ve done thus far; you all fought tooth and nail to be here. You competed against the best and brightest, and only a handful of you were chosen. Many of you relied on every scrap of influence and intelligence at your disposal to secure your place. But none of that matters now. Privilege is neither a currency nor a shield in this class.”
The group is deathly silent; I wonder if everyone feels as intimidated as I do.
There’s only fifteen of us in this programme.
A tiny, handpicked cohort assembled here weeks before the rest of Harvard Law’s incoming class.
We’re all under twenty, taking on one of the most academically demanding courses in the country.
But when I look at my peers, I don’t see my own anxiety reflected back at me.
A girl seated at a desk several feet from me shifts ever so slightly, pulling the sleeve of her jumper down to cover the Cartier bracelet on her delicate wrist. Several rows in front of me, two boys, one with red-gold hair flopping over his pale forehead, the other with light brown skin and short black hair slicked back with careful effortlessness, turn ever so slightly to share a glance and a grimace.
I turn my eyes back to our academic mentor.
Samuel Park is in his forties, but he looks like he’s in his early thirties.
He’s clean-shaven, with flawless skin and dark clever eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, and his black hair only has the faintest smattering of grey near one temple.
He’s dressed plainly in black slacks and a grey jumper, but everything about him commands attention.
A Harvard alum, former federal prosecutor and civil rights expert, Mr Park is everything I aspire to be.
I’ve spent nights reading his articles, poring over his books.
Being mentored by him is a privilege I won’t take lightly .
“This is the Direct Admissions for Remarkable Talent programme,” he says.
“You were chosen because someone, somewhere, believed you had what it takes to not just survive but excel here. But make no mistake—this programme will test you. You will be held to the same standards as the rest of Harvard Law.”
I catch my breath.
This programme was advertised as intense, but it’s starting to feel like it’s going to be a fight for survival.
“The law, as it should be, is blind to where you come from. It doesn’t care about your past, your background, or your connections. It cares only about what you do. That’s the principle I built my career on.” His dark, incisive gaze sweeps over us.
“And it’s the principle you’ll be held to here.”
At the end of the class, when everyone is packing away, I hesitate, glancing over at Mr Park, who’s shrugging his jacket on.
Should I go introduce myself to him, ask him some of the questions I’ve jotted down in the margins of my notebook, or would that be considered kiss-ass behaviour?
In Spearcrest, I was a prefect, with a reputation as a teacher’s pet, a snitch, a bootlicker.
I didn’t care about any of their opinions then and I don’t care now.
But I do care about forming good relationships with my classmates here: they’re going to be my companions, rivals and potential colleagues in the years to come.
Maybe I should—
“Hot for a teacher, isn’t he?”
I look up, startled, at the young man who’s just leant down to rest his hand on my desk and speak in my ear.
He’s got pale skin and red-gold hair; the boy from earlier.
I don’t even need to glance at the signet ring on his pinkie to tell he’s about as disgustingly wealthy as any of the Spearcrest kids I’ve known.
“Hot for a lawyer, you mean,” another voice adds.
A girl is standing a bit behind him.
She’s petite and exceedingly pretty, with thick honey-blonde hair and pronounced features, a pearl necklace at her throat.
The iridescent and delicate imperfections of the pearls tell me they are the real deal, but the most telling sign of privilege is in her gaze, the way it’s fixed on Mr Park, lazy and proprietary all at once.
“Do you think he fucks his students?” she asks without bothering to lower her voice.
“Doesn’t every teacher?” her friend says.
“He’s married,” I point out.
The boy and the girl look at each other and burst into sluggish, affected laughter.
“One of us should volunteer to find out,” the boy with the red-gold hair says, his eyes still on me.
He doesn’t even bother to address my point, as if it’s too ridiculous to entertain.
“Are you game?”
My expression remains neutral, but my stomach churns with disgust. I’ve learned how to keep my face impassive around boys like him—boys used to people laughing at their jokes even when they’re not remotely funny.
I stick my hand out between us, completely ignoring his question.
“Sophie Sutton.”
“Is that so?” There’s a scornful note in his voice, but he finally moves back, taking my hand to shake it.
“Maximilian Fitzpatrick.” He points nonchalantly at the girl with the honey-blonde hair, who’s reaching into her purse to pull out a silver vape pen, stopping only to glance at Mr Park as he strides out of the classroom.
“This is Dahlia Lindenfeld—everyone calls her Lin.”
“Nobody calls me that,” she snaps.
He ignores her, pointing behind him.
“And that’s Anthony Rayan Harrington.” The boy from earlier, with the short slicked-back black hair.
He doesn’t bother looking up from his phone.
“Nice to meet you all,” I say, packing my things away.
I want to stand and leave, but the boy with the red-gold hair, Maximilian, doesn’t move back enough to give me space to stand without being right in his face.
“So you’re, what, British?” he asks.
“Yes, I’m—”
“She’s not going to fuck the lawyer,” Dahlia says abruptly, handing Maximilian her vape pen.
Instead of taking it, he catches the tip between his lips, which forces him to move away enough that I can finally stand up.
He sucks and lets out a plume of smoke, watching me as I shoulder my bag.
“The British are too uptight for this kind of stuff,” Dahlia adds, “no offence.”
“None taken.”
“So you think you’re going to be the one to fuck the teacher, Lin?” Maximilian says.
“Thought you swore off sexual scheming?”
She rolls her eyes.
“I never—”
“Hey, let’s get lunch,” the dark-haired boy says, suddenly looking up from his phone.
“I’m hungry and I need a fucking drink after listening to all that stuff. Did you hear, by the way?” He locks his phone and slips it into his pocket.
“Being rich is illegal now.”
“That’s not what he said,” Dahlia snaps .
“Yes, let’s do lunch.” Maximilian glances at me, his grin sharp, practised and commandeering, like the snapping of fingers at a waiter.
“Come on, Queen Elizabeth. We’re supposed to be bonding as a cohort, aren’t we? We’re the golden fifteen—you don’t want to miss out on the fun.”
Ironic how he throws the title of queen at my face, a joke and a dismissal, while himself being closer to royalty than I’ll ever be.
“The queen’s dead, you idiot,” Dahlia says.
“You’re coming, dead queen?” he rephrases with a sneer, glancing at my hands.
“I’m treating.”
I drop my eyes and see what he sees, as if I’m suddenly standing outside of myself, looking down: long fingers, short fingernails, bitten to the quick.
No rings, no polish.
Without even meaning to, I pull my sleeves down as far past my knuckles as I can.
“She’s not going to fuck Park, and she’s not going to fuck you either, you know,” the black-haired boy continues on in blissful oblivion.
“I don’t want her to fuck me,” Maximilian says, finally looking away from me and at the black-haired boy.
“I want you to fuck me, Ray-Ray. Stop leading me on.”
The black-haired boy plucks the vape pen from Maximilian’s lips and walks away with it, calling, “In your dreams, creep.”
Every part of me is repulsed by them, their wealth, their greasy, unpleasant banter.
But refusing might be a mistake I can’t afford to make.
I know all too well what can happen when rich kids take a dislike to you, and I couldn’t bear putting myself through more years of that kind of torment.
So I let Dahlia drag me away by my arm, knowing it’s the safer thing to do.
The DART programme is supposed to foster brilliance, to turn us into the best of the best; right now, I can’t help but wonder if this is the real test: learning how to survive people like them.