2. Charity Hall
2
Charity Hall
Sophie
Lunch is exactly what I expected: an expensive restaurant where prices aren’t listed, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the high street, drinks before, with, and after food.
Disagreeable banter, lazy laughter.
When Maximilian invited me, I didn’t realise he meant breaking away from the entire DART cohort.
Now, sitting in a blue velvet booth with them, I can’t help but worry—how soon can I leave without making an enemy of them?
Maximilian, casting a glance at my black coffee and turkey sandwich, sinks back into the corner of the booth.
He’s taking up more space than he needs, one arm thrown over the back of the couch, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles next to mine.
Every time he moves his feet, they tap against my ankle; he doesn’t apologise.
“How ascetic of you,” he says, gesturing at my plate.
“Afraid to indulge? Or—” He lowers his voice mockingly.
“You’re not watching your figure, are you?”
Dahlia, sipping her martini, doesn’t even glance at me.
“She’s not fat. ”
“I didn’t call her fat,” Maximilian says, still watching me.
I sip my coffee, distracted, mind working, senses overwhelmed.
The restaurant smells of truffle oil and expensive perfume and musky leather and chilled martinis.
The windows frame the high street like a jewel box, the sunlight and buildings glistening, a pristine, expensive display, casting moving dapples of light across the table.
How soon can I make an excuse to leave without offending them?
If I leave too early and hurt their precious feelings, then I’ll have endured this for nothing.
The sacrifice needs to be worth it.
“Don’t make comments on her body,” Dahlia is saying.
“I didn’t comment on her body,” Maximilian replies.
“I commented on her order.”
“Why did you all apply for the DART programme, then?” I cut in, tired of letting them speak over me like I’m barely even here.
I gesture at their drinks.
“Apart from the alcohol, obviously.”
Unsurprisingly, Maximilian is first to answer.
He leans back in his seat, toying with the signet ring on his pinkie.
“To prove they’d let anyone in.”
I force a neutral expression, but my stomach twists with cold antipathy.
Of course he’d think that.
For someone like Maximilian, even ambition is just another rich kid game.
“Right,” I say, tilting my head.
“How generous. Giving someone else the chance to feel like a total failure.” The jab is subtle, but I see his expression falter for a fraction of a second.
It’s not much, but it’s enough to soothe the repressed disdain in my chest. “Good line, anyway.”
Anthony snorts without looking up from his phone.
Dahlia raises her martini glass and takes a little sip, dark eyes darting between me and Maximilian, whose smile tightens, the glint in his eye sharpening.
His eyes are a pale shade of brown, almost grey, and devoid of any warmth.
“Lines,” he says, leaning back in his seat, “are for those who don’t have natural charm to rely on.”
“Or a trust fund,” I add in my sweetest tone.
Maximilian’s eyes move over me slowly, as though he’s properly noticing me now.
My skin crawls, and I resist the urge to cringe instinctively away in my chair.
“So what’s your plan once you breeze through law school, then? Clerkship? Big Law?”
Dahlia rolls her eyes and answers my question herself.
“Max isn’t going to work a day in his life.”
“And Dahlia’s gonna fuck her way up to the top,” Maximilian says, eyes finally sliding away from me.
“Only if your dad lets me out of his bed,” she replies tartly.
Then, turning her large dark eyes back to me, she says, “I’m here because I want to do corporate law. You can’t change the world without capital, and you can’t gain capital without learning how to manipulate it.” She turns back to Maximilian.
“Your dad taught me that last time, right after he came on my face.”
Maximilian’s veneer doesn’t crack—it dims, a little, darkens—and he smiles at Dahlia, showing picture-perfect teeth.
“Therapy’s going well, huh?”
Dahlia huffs, shaking her head slightly, smooth hair bouncing against her cheeks and chin.
She looks older than the rest of us but so beautiful it hurts.
Ignoring Maximilian, she turns back to me.
“So what about you?” She curls her lip in what I would describe as the exact opposite of a smile.
“You’ve come to Harvard to, let me guess, save the world?”
My stomach is in knots.
I hate this, I realise.
I hate this lunch, these rich kids, their grotesque iteration of friendship.
The laughter, the clinking glasses, the pointed remarks—it all feels false, overwrought, suffocating.
My legs bounce beneath the table, restless with the urge to run, to get out of here.
But I force myself to stay still, to endure the moment.
I’ve gotten through worse.
“Nothing wrong with wanting to help others,” I tell Dahlia, because she’s staring at me, and I can’t just sit there and say nothing.
Dahlia and Maximilian exchange a glance, not even bothering to conceal the rolling of their eyes.
They might barely like each other, but their friendship is at its strongest when it’s based on their common disdain for others.
Nothing new here.
Anthony, finally looking up from his phone, says, “I’m here for the same reason as you, Sonya.”
“Sophie.”
“Sure.”
I drop it.
I know all too well that the more handsome the smile, the more venomous the bite.
“You’re here to save the world?” I say drily.
“Nah.” He half-tosses his phone across the table, making the glasses and silverware rattle, and leans across to grab half my sandwich off my plate.
“I’m here because I’m just gagging for validation.”
By the time the afternoon seminars end, the sun has gone down, and I’m so drained I can barely keep my knees from buckling.
All I can think of is getting away from here—from all this red brick and wrought iron and these majestic maples and cherry trees, my fellow students, with their Hermes bags and their perfectly blown out hair and their winsome, insincere smiles.
Outside Blackstone Hall, night is beginning to fall.
The sky is darkening, blue to purple-grey, the edges of the clouds gilded with a soft golden lining.
Drifts of wilted petals still blow across the footpaths, reminding me of Spearcrest.
Funny how something can feel both soul-crushingly familiar and yet terrifyingly alien.
“Need a lift, Sonya?”
Anthony appears from behind me, sucking on a vape with a wet, crackling noise, phone in his hand.
I didn’t even hear him approach; my pulse spikes in sudden warning, but I force my face into neutrality.
For once, he’s not looking at the screen, but at me, his eyes weirdly searching.
“I’m alright.” I shake my head.
“I’m not staying far.”
“No?” There’s a weird intonation to his voice.
His accent is very polished and quite posh, a strange mix of Bostonian and British, like a lot of the rich New York kids who went to Spearcrest. “Where are you staying?”
I don’t know why he’s asking; he doesn’t want to know any more than I want to tell him.
I answer anyway, more to end the conversation than anything else.
“Huntington Hall.”
He blows out a fragrant cloud of smoke.
“Oh, Charity Hall?”
He doesn’t wait for the insult to land, like carelessly tossing a grenade over his shoulder.
There’s something unsettling about the way his gaze lingers, like he’s weighing me up in the palm of his hand, trying to figure out whether he should pocket me or throw me to the ground to crush me under his heel.
“Where did you say you went to school again?”
I hesitate.
He didn’t go to Spearcrest, that much I’m certain of.
But there are only so many schools like Spearcrest in the UK—or the world—and it wouldn’t surprise me if he knew people who had gone there.
“Fernwell High,” I lie.
“Looks like it’s about to rain, so I better run. Bye.”
This time, I don’t wait for a good opportunity to leave.
Hands stuffed deep into my coat pockets, I turn and walk away as quickly as I can.
The wind, picking up suddenly, pushes against my back and legs, but all I can feel is Anthony’s stare on me as I retreat.
It doesn’t even surprise me that Huntington Hall is nicknamed Charity Hall: the Huntington family apparently donated it to Harvard specifically to house scholarship students.
The irony is that it’s a beautiful place: old building, tall windows, a courtyard of beech trees, a grand reception hall with an enormous carved fireplace.
Despite its beauty, its halls are unnervingly empty.
Only a handful of students are here this early.
Without the incoming class, Huntington feels liminal and haunting, caught in the strange limbo between past and present, privilege and necessity, charity and expectation.
My room is small and plain, not so different from my old room at Spearcrest, except that it still feels like a stranger’s room.
All my things are still crammed in my suitcase.
I’d only brought the bare necessities: books, toiletries, a few changes of clothes.
No luxuries, no decorations.
I can’t afford those, at least not for now.
Unpacking feels insurmountable, but I force myself to do it anyway.
When I’m done, my desk looks as it always does at the start of term: reading lists, planner, pens, highlighters, waiting for me to meticulously map out the weeks ahead.
I know I should. Mr Park made it clear there won’t be room for mistakes or laziness.
But I just can’t bring myself to do it.
Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the rain that’s started falling outside.
It’s not even eight, but I feel like I’ve been awake for weeks.
All I want to do is sleep.
All I want to do, truthfully, is to not be here .
I crawl into bed, but the unfamiliar sheets are cold, the smells foreign, the silence oppressive.
Everything sinks down on me—the weight of this place, of being so far from home, of knowing I put myself here.
I’m crying before I know it, silent sobs wracking my chest as I bury my face in the pillow, terrified someone in one of the other rooms will hear me.
My phone lights up on the nightstand.
I reach for it, my fingers trembling, to find a flood of texts waiting:
Mum : Hope your first day went well, love.
Call us when you can.
Araminta : Um, the radio silence is getting borderline offensive?
How was the holiday at Casa del Knight?
How’s summer school?
How’s HARVARD? I expect gossip ASAP.
Audrey : Don’t make me beg for updates.
(I’m not above it.)
And then, at the bottom of the stack, a text from Evan.
Evan : Sophie, please.
I’m not angry, I don’t care that you didn’t say goodbye.
I just want to know you’re okay.
A jarring mix of guilt and resentment stabs into my chest. I stare at his name until the screen fades to black.