19. Poor Lamb
19
Poor Lamb
Sophie
Before I even know it, the iconic American spring break is upon me.
Everyone in DART has plans: Aspen, St Tropez, Monaco.
Max and Anthony are flying to Dubai in private jets, Dahlia is off to her father’s third wedding, bored before she’s even left.
“You’re so lucky,” she tells me, stretching like a cat after class one afternoon.
“No yacht parties to distract you. You’ll probably be miles ahead of me by the time I get back.”
Although her words feel more than a little double-edged, there’s still a tiny little shard of sincerity in there.
Still, it’s hard not to let her words get to me.
I’ve spent so many years being the outsider, the one without a holiday villa or a passport full of stamps.
At Spearcrest, I learned to be numb to it.
But maybe everyone has a breaking point.
Mine comes when Audrey texts a picture of her and Araminta boarding a flight to Florence.
Their smiling, flushed faces shatter my resolve like a punch through glass.
For one reckless second, I search for flights home.
I don’t even think, I just do it, fingers moving before my brain can stop them.
The prices flash on the screen.
“Oh.”
My own voice startles me, the tiny exclamation echoing in my silent room.
It’s more than double my savings.
Even if I drained my emergency fund, it wouldn’t cover half the ticket.
The idea of calling my parents, asking them for help, flickers through my mind.
I slam the door on it before it can fully form.
I close the tab. My bedroom is dim, rain sliding down the window, shadows lingering long and grey.
What was I even thinking?
I’m not Dahlia, or Alice Liu, or Araminta or Audrey.
I’m Sophie Sutton, a girl who should really have known better than to even think about flying home.
So I do what I always do.
I shove the disappointment down and bury myself in work.
I drink lukewarm coffee and scroll through internship listings.
The competition is brutal, the opportunities slim, and lurking behind all of them is the one option I’ve been refusing to consider.
Knight Media Group.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, then I type it in.
The website floods my screen, sleek edges and gold accents, Evan’s parents staring back at me from glossy press photos, looking cool and composed.
It’s like glimpsing a world through a half-open doorway: internships in New York, London, Paris.
Prestigious placements, the kind of opportunity people would kill for.
The kind that would solve everything .
I wouldn’t have to stress about money.
I wouldn’t have to scrape together rent for the summer.
I wouldn’t have to be alone.
It’s a slippery slope, this line of thinking, but I let myself slip willingly, my mind painting easy pictures.
Waking up in Evan’s apartment, wrapped in his soft cotton sheets, his arm slung over my waist. Commuting to the KMG offices together, pretending it’s just work, just routine—then slipping away in the evenings, tangled in bed, his voice low and rough against my skin.
Going to sleep without having to dread him leaving the next day.
My cursor trembles over the Apply button.
A single click, and this could all be mine.
What would that make me, though?
A girl who couldn’t make it on her own, who let herself be saved by her rich boyfriend.
It wouldn’t even matter if no one knew about me and Evan.
I would know.
And that’s enough to make me slam my laptop shut, pushing it away like it’s burnt me.
Spring break ends without me noticing, campus slowly filling up once more underneath a cool spring sun.
The trees are in full bloom, drifts of petals catching on doorways and bike racks and benches.
Everyone returns well-fed and tanned and hungover; classes resume, the last stretch.
The week before the gala, Alice Liu startles me by taking a seat across from me in the archives library while I’m annotating a case.
Her glassy skin has a subtle tan to it, more dusky than golden, accentuating her black hair and inky eyes.
She’s dressed in an oyster-grey fitted dress, white gold Cartier bracelets stacked on her graceful arms.
I raise an eyebrow, realising she’s not getting her things out of her bag but just sitting with her arms crossed, watching me.
“Yes?” I ask pointedly, keeping my voice low to avoid drawing the ire of the final-year students .
“What time shall I pick you up on Friday?”
My stomach churns.
I’ve been avoiding even thinking about it.
I don’t even know what I’m going to wear.
“You’re the one giving me a lift, so I’ll set off when you do,” I say.
“Just tell me when you want to leave.”
She nods, clearly pleased with this answer.
She tilts her head. “Am I picking you up from Huntington Hall?”
The name Charity Hall hangs unspoken between us.
“Yes.”
She taps impeccable pink nails against her arm.
“You went to Spearcrest, right?”
I catch a sharp breath.
“You already asked me that. Yes, I went there. On a scholarship .”
“I see,” she says.
I narrow my eyes at her and sit back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Shall I make my own way to New York, then?”
Her lips twist into the smallest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Why would you?”
“Because I might not be one of you, Alice, but I know how you all work, how you all think. And since neither of us are stupid, let’s not waste time. I’ll make my own way to New York.”
“You’re not stupid, you’re right,” she says.
She looks me up and down, a shrewd look, like a jeweller appraising the value of a gemstone.
“But you’re wrong: you don’t know how I work or how I think. So you don’t need to make your own way to New York, and actually, you should come get a drink with me at Nadine’s beforehand.”
She stands up, straightening her dress with glacial elegance.
“But I do appreciate that you didn’t waste my time, Sophie, so let me give you some advice, free of charge.” I sit back, suppressing a scoff that’s a mixture of surprise and amusement.
“You’re not some charity case or some weak little victim, so stop pretending you are. Nobody’s buying the poor innocent lamb act. You’re a wolf, and I think you quite like the taste of blood. That’s why I chose you.”
She gives me a pouty smile that looks like a rose but feels like a hundred thorns.
“Five o’clock Friday, at Nadine’s. See you there.”
She strides away in a silvery tinkle of bracelets, leaving me in stunned silence.
I’m still processing her words several hours later when I finally make my way back to Huntington Hall, and I almost miss the parcel waiting for me at reception.
Alone in my room, I open the parcel, hands trembling when I notice the stamps telling me the parcel came from the UK.
Inside, a garment bag is carefully folded and secured with ribbons.
I pull it up and carefully unzip it.
Inside is a simple dress, the designer tag discretely folded away.
I can tell straightaway it’s expensive: I can tell by the fabric, which feels soft yet structured, and by the clean tailoring.
The dress fits my style perfectly.
It’s black and slightly fitted, with a high neck and long sleeves but a sober triangular open back.
It’s the perfect dress for the gala, elegant yet understated, high-quality yet comfortable-looking.
At the bottom of the box, I find a card with a little cartoon bear saying, “Good luck!” I open the card.
My vision blurs with sudden tears.
Mum’s handwriting is a little wobbly, the ink dug deep into the paper, like she was nervous, or like she wanted me to know just how much she meant the words.
I know you said not to send you anything, but we thought you might want something new to wear to your gala.
You’re going to be perfect, Sophie.
You’ve always been.
Love,
Mum and Dad