16. Fragile Thing
16
Fragile Thing
Sophie
Winter break comes and goes.
I try not to dwell on it too much.
The loneliness is the most unbearable it’s ever been: every string of fairy lights, every bauble-laden Christmas tree, every garland of paper snowflakes is a reminder of how far I am from home.
I try to make up for it: I put up fairy lights around my window, buy a tiny dollar store Christmas tree.
I gather the snow on my windowsill into a little snowman to watch over my window.
None of it makes me feel better.
Paradoxically, the only thing that helps me through this pit of seasonal depression is the very thing that’s got me trapped here.
The work. With most of my classmates gone home for Christmas, the library is almost always free, and I’m finally able to start catching myself up on everything.
The holiday ends but the winter lingers, overstaying its welcome, snow clinging stubbornly to the streets.
Spring semester begins.
Whatever head start I gained over break is gone within days.
Deadlines stack up before I can catch my breath.
Legal research takes over my life, LexisNexis becomes my second home, Moot Court looms like a black spectre of death, and every class becomes a barrage of hypotheticals.
The numbness is almost comforting.
I wake up early, go to bed late, eat while I work.
No time for anxiety, no time for anything but keeping up.
The days fly by, measured out in casebooks, case pages, the glow of my laptop screen.
Comparative Legal Systems. Corporate Finance.
Negotiation and Mediation.
Exams come and go, and I don’t even have time to celebrate before the next impossible mountain is looming on the horizon.
Because with each passing day, the charity gala in New York looms closer.
Mr Park has mentioned it so many times now that it’s become a phantom presence in the classroom, hovering over our shoulders, shaking its shackles.
Some of us seem more ready than others.
Some students already know many of the prominent figures who’ll be attending.
Alice Liu, an intimidatingly clever Chinese-American heiress, even has an aunt who’s in the association.
Apparently, she had a list of crucial information on all the most important guests who’ll be in attendance.
Some students are trying to enter into an alliance with her, but Alice is a cool and calculated young woman: she’ll only share her information with someone she thinks can give her something of equal value in return.
One afternoon after class, she approaches me while I’m finishing up typing some notes on my laptop.
She stands with one hip leaning on my desk, arms crossed over a stack of pristine books, waiting for me to finish.
When I look up at her, she tilts her head, mirror-smooth black hair shifting on her shoulders.
“Is it true you’re dating Eleanor Knight’s son?”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
“No. We sort of dated while we were in school, that’s it.”
She seems surprised at that, widening her eyes slightly.
“You went to Spearcrest Academy?”
Shit.
Of course these rich kids all know about each other—my fault for not being careful.
I inwardly kick myself, but what’s the point in lying now?
“Yes, I did,” I answer bluntly, packing away my things.
I stand and stare down at Alice, who’s lithe and graceful as a dancer, and a full head shorter than me.
“I’m not dating him, and I don’t know Mrs Knight, or anything like that. So whatever it is you’re hoping I can give you, I don’t have it.” I smile coldly.
“Anything else?”
Alice watches me in silence for a moment.
I hold her gaze. Just like all the other girls in class, she’s drop-dead beautiful, with clear, glassy skin, perfect lips, and ink-black eyes.
She’s wearing no make-up aside from a delicate caramel lip gloss and two tiny flicks of eyeliners to accentuate her eyes.
“I’m Alice,” she says, sticking out her hand and taking me completely by surprise.
I take her hand and shake it.
Her fingers are cool and soft.
“Sophie Sutton.”
“I know.” She straightens herself.
“Mr Park lent me your brief on Palsgraf. Said it was the best example of clarity and reasoning he’s seen in years.”
For a second, I’m too taken aback to respond.
The thought of Mr Park showing my work as a model to other students feels so far removed from the reality of my academic inadequacy that I can’t help but wonder if she’s simply lying.
But Alice continues in an almost dismissive tone.
“Personally, I think Mr Park is biased, but I have to admit your analysis of Cardozo’s reasoning was impressive. Anyway.” She waves a hand; her fingernails are long and fine, white and nacreous.
“How will you be getting to New York for the gala?”
“Train, probably.”
Alice flicks her perfect black hair over one shoulder and shrugs, casual as anything.
“Ugh, okay, well, you might as well ride with me. Give me your phone.”
I hand her my phone, and she types in her number.
She saves her name as Alice Lian Liu, with an emoji of a white rabbit at the end.
When she’s done, she leaves the classroom, two girls rushing to follow her, talking excitedly as they disappear down the corridor.
I stand, completely dumb-founded, my phone still in my palm.
“Making new friends?” a lazy voice says from behind me.
“You’re going to make me jealous.”
I turn to find Dahlia sitting on a desk, legs crossed, toying with her emotional support vape pen.
She’s wearing high-heeled boots that go up to her knees, a tiny skirt and a blood-red sweater, a ridiculous Tiffany diamond necklace shaped like a heart at her throat.
Hitching my bag over my shoulder, I make my way to the door, pausing when I pass her.
“I thought there was nothing wrong with being noticed?”
She smirks.
There’s a dullness to her eyes that tells me she’s tired despite her relaxed posture, and she’s playing with her vape with the repetitive movements of a nervous habit.
“No, you’re right. And Alice Liu, of all people? Nice work. You’re just collecting rich admirers at this point.”
“Don’t worry, Dahlia,” I say, more on impulse than anything else, “you’re my favourite rich admirer.”
Something flickers on her face at my words, something murky that might be smouldering anger or a strange, sensual satisfaction.
It doesn’t matter, because I don’t wait for her response.
I leave without looking back.
I try not to think about the gala, but it ticks in my brain like a countdown clock.
No matter how much I try to push it away, the dread settles deep, infecting every thought.
A couple of weeks before the event, my phone vibrates on my desk.
Mum and Dad.
I stare at the screen.
I’ve dodged their calls for weeks.
I know they’re waiting for an update, waiting for proof that their daughter is thriving at Harvard.
There’s only so long I can avoid them.
I swipe to answer.
“Hi, Mum.”
“Sophie!” Mum’s voice comes through, a little too loud, too bright—overcompensating.
“How are you? Did exams go well?”
“I’m fine,” I say, but the words feel hollow even as I say them.
Why can’t I bring myself to tell them I miss them, that I miss home?
Because it would feel like admitting I’m a failure.
“Exams went well, I think. I did the best I could.”
“Of course you did. You always do.”
There’s a faint clatter of dishes in the background.
I picture her standing in our tidy kitchen, still in her work cardigan, phone wedged between her shoulder and ear.
My heart clenches. I picture home : the big blue couch and peace lilies, the Christmas tree still up in a corner of the living room, Dad frowning at The Daily Telegraph ’s cryptic crossword.
As if she can hear my thoughts, Mum adds, “Your dad’s here too. Honey, say hello.”
“Hello, Sophie.” Dad’s deep voice is as reserved as always.
Maybe he’s as nervous to speak to me as I am to speak to him.
He hesitates before asking, “Are you… are you doing alright? Are you well?”
“I’m fine,” I say again, and quickly change the subject.
“How’s everything back home?”
Mum fills the silence with updates: work, the house, the same predictable routine.
But there’s a strain in her voice, the unspoken question lurking beneath: How are you really?
Then, tentatively, she says, “Do you need anything? Money for books, clothes—”
I swallow hard.
I should tell them I miss them.
That Christmas was unbearable without them.
That I sat in my room and built a tiny snowman on my windowsill.
Instead, I blurt out, “There’s a gala coming up soon. In New York.”
“A gala?” Mum perks up instantly.
“What kind of gala?”
“It’s organised by the Harvard Law School Alumni Association. It’s supposed to be a good networking opportunity.”
“Oh, Sophie, that sounds amazing,” she says, her enthusiasm bordering on relief.
“You’ll make a great impression, I just know it. Do you have something to wear? Are you sure you don’t need us to send you anything? We wanted to send you money for Christmas, only—”
“No, it’s fine,” I say quickly.
I hadn’t thought about what to wear—something else to feel anxious about now.
“I’m sorting it out, don’t worry. ”
“Make the most of it, Sophie,” Dad says.
“Events like that can be life-changing.”
Their words settle heavily in my chest. Make the most of it .
They mean well, I know they do, but sometimes their pride feels like a fragile thing, like it hinges on my success.
I think of how much I’ve struggled, how hard I’m fighting just to keep my head above water, and a lump rises in my throat.
Before we hang up, Dad adds, “You’re a brave girl, Sophie. I hope you know how proud we are.”
I whisper, “I know.”
I hang up and set my phone down on the desk, staring at the darkened screen, throat so tight I can hardly breathe.
The walls feel too close, the air too thin.
My thoughts spiral: the gala, the pressure, the crushing weight of expectation.
Max and Dahlia watching, waiting to see if I fail or if I become exactly what they suspect I am.
My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out everything except the suffocating certainty that I can’t do this .
The air feels thin, like I’m not breathing right.
My hands are trembling, but I curl them into fists, trying to get a grip of myself.
I grab my phone; it almost drops from my shaking fingers.
I don’t want to feel like this, and I don’t want to be alone, and I’m sick of being tired and lonely and sad.
My fingers hover over the screen, over the name I want to call, the face I want to see.
I know what I should do: call Audrey, text Araminta.
But I don’t want to talk .
I want him .
Guilt tells me I shouldn’t call him, that I can’t just reach out to him when I need him.
Caution tells me not to lean on him.
But my need is a hungry monster, swallowing everything in its wake.
I type the message quickly, before I can second-guess myself.
Sophie : Come stay the weekend?
And, on impulse:
Sophie : Need you.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Evan : Anything for you x