Chapter 3
Despite the fact that this is my third week at St. David’s already, that first-day dread hasn’t budged even a little.
My heart hammers and my palms are slick with sweat at the idea of walking into a space where I know almost nobody, have a more flexible timetable, and am suddenly treated more like an adult than a child, when I really don’t feel very grown-up at all.
It all feels too intense, too free, and I miss my smaller, more contained world of my old school, where the dynamics were fixed and I didn’t have to stumble blindly into a whole new, unknown environment.
I thought, after the first couple of days, I’d get used to it and the dust would settle. I thought I’d have new friends, but all I’ve managed to do is make small talk with some people I sit by in classes, and busy myself with some coursework or notes during my breaks.
There are a couple of sixth form schools in the area, so our group from school inevitably split up a little when it came to studying A Levels before uni, but I stayed signed up for St. David’s even after Jake moved.
I told myself that I liked the idea of a fresh start, even if it meant not being with my old group from school day to day, but deep down I know it’s because St. David’s has a better reputation for art.
Art was always my favorite subject when I was younger, but I’m not naive enough to want to pursue it further—it’s just an easy A to go alongside my English, history, and media classes.
A career in art hardly worked out for my dad, and I’ve seen firsthand the kind of fights and resentment such an unstable choice can cause.
I am starting to regret giving in to the pull of the impressive student art shows and great facilities, though, because the reality is that aside from a few people I didn’t know very well at my old school, I’m stuck somewhere I don’t have any friends at all.
In my head, I know I’m not the only one in this situation.
Everyone in my classes has come from different schools, and we’ve obviously got similar interests if we’re studying the same things, but it’s like I missed some vital memo on that first day.
Cliques began to form, groups banded together, and I’m left on the outskirts, trying to fit in.
I stand in front of my bed now, debating between a pastel yellow top and a lilac shirt, like my life depends on it.
It sort of does.
At my old school, I never had to worry too much about fitting in. Our friend group was established very quickly at twelve years old, bonds forged by trivial things like sharing the same bus stop or being in the same homeroom, and it never really changed much.
And I always had Jake.
So I never really felt like I was missing out on something better when I’d see the cool girls at school. But everything is different now—and I’d be lying if I said I’d never been at least a little in awe of them.
Girls like Evie Price. Pretty and smiley and polished, not the kind of Regina George “cool” that involves snide put-downs and catty smirks.
Evie was never really my friend at my old school, but I’ve seen her around St. David’s and she’s in my art class. She’s got in with a group of girls who are always giggling and gossiping together, linking arms in the corridors and swapping sticks of cream blush and coursework notes.
Everything always looks so effortless and easy for girls like them. Not just when it comes to things like boys and clothes, but…all of it. Friendships, homework, liquid eyeliner, sports, music…
I bet their home lives are a lot less stressful, too.
I bet it’s all so much easier, when you’re above it.
God, I would love to be one of those girls if I could, and now feels like the perfect time to reinvent myself. And why can’t I? It’s just…refining how I present myself, until I believe it, too.
I open Instagram and see Evie’s new group—they’ve already uploaded Stories with their outfits of the day, causing me to promptly scrap both the yellow and lilac tops and pick out a tan turtleneck instead.
It’s too warm for it, really, and I’m sweating as soon as I put it on, my hair a static mess of flyaways, but according to these girls’ social media it’s pumpkin spice latte season, global warming be damned.
I swap my sneakers for a chunky pair of boots, and grab a jacket on my way out. Step one: complete.
Getting in with the girls at school isn’t that much different from immersing myself in the OWAR fandom for Jake. A few small changes here and there, and voilà, everything will fall into place exactly the way it should.
As I make my way downstairs, I hear Mom shouting in the kitchen, “I told you I had a meeting to dial into this morning before we speak to the lawyers—”
And Dad snaps, “What, and I’m supposed to starve just because you’re in a meeting? I’m only here because you needed a lift into town while your car’s in the garage. So much for doing you a favor! Why can’t you just wear your bloody headphones?”
“Because they can hear that stupid blender of yours down the street!” Mom yells back. “As if some headphones would make a difference—”
I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, hand gripping the banister so tight it hurts.
I’m holding my breath, too, and hear the thudding of my own pulse hard and loud in my ears while Mom and Dad carry on bickering.
There’s a clatter of Mom gathering up her stuff and then Dad saying, “Well, what’s the point in that? I’m done, I’m already leaving—”
She hisses back, “Yes, you are,” with such venom that I flinch.
I nab my keys off the hook by the door, and slip out in silence.
—
There’s a Costa coffee shop on the way to school, if I get off the bus a stop early, and this morning I do. It’s part of The Fangirl Project.
Well. The Other Fangirl Project. Not to be confused with The Fangirl Project of becoming a fangirl to get Jake to fall in love with me.
This one is less monumental and life-changing, but it’s still important.
I refuse to get stuck being some weird loner girl on the outskirts for the rest of the school year—or worse still, for the entire rest of high school—so it’s time to change things up.
I’ve learned—mainly through a few overheard conversations, but partly through social media posts—that Evie’s group go to Costa every morning on their way to class.
I’m too embarrassed to ask outright if I can sit with them at lunchtime or something, but we can totally strike up conversation on more neutral territory, I’m sure of it.
It’ll be like a rom-com meet-cute, only with less romance and hopefully no spilling an entire coffee over someone’s white shirt.
I run the risk of being late for my media class, but when I get there and see some of the girls chatting near the end of the counter, most of them with cups in hand already, I know I’m making the right decision.
After all, what’s five minutes and a disappointed look from a teacher compared to two entire years of loneliness?
Evie isn’t there, though, and she was going to be my way in. Even if we weren’t friends at our old school, we were friendly enough. What am I going to do now? I feel too far in to bail.
My palms are clammy and my chest feels tight, but there’s no Jake to save me now, with all his exuberance and openness and charm so I can follow his lead. I’m going to have to do this for myself.
Hell, if I can go to an OWAR convention, I can do this—right?
I join the queue, trying to look casual even though my eyes dart in their direction every few seconds. I’m sure they must be able to hear my heart thundering from all the way over there, and I fight to keep from readjusting my stance to appear my most cool and carefree, while feeling anything but.
Finally, though, I get a bite.
One of the girls glances my way as she talks, and we make eye contact.
Even though that was always my intention, I flush, feeling caught out.
She lifts a hand to wave, and smiles. “Hey! Carys, right?”
“Um.” I clear my throat, but say, “It’s Cerys, actually,” and hope it doesn’t sound like I’m shouting across the café.
She pulls a face, somehow looking embarrassed but unbothered at the same time.
Her name is Daphne—“like Bridgerton! And I’m, like, perpetually late to stuff, so my mom’s always yelling at me to make haste, lol!
” as I heard her proclaim in our media class at the beginning of term—but she has a look more reminiscent of a Love Islander than a Regency-era duchess.
Today, she’s in an oversized cream sweater and khaki leggings, and her hair is slicked back in a neat bun.
The other girls have done their hair the same way.
I pat down the flyaways that I never quite got under control around my own ponytail.
She’s even got the knack of outlining her lips with lip liner to make them appear bigger, which I tried copying a few days ago and had to scrub off immediately.
While she looks glamorous, I felt like a clown.
I’ve practically got a mental file on all of the group from seeing them around campus (and from stalking on social media).
Daphne is very much into the clean-girl aesthetic; she’s willowy, with long black hair and pale skin that’s flawless, thanks, she claims, to her very well-documented-on-Instagram nine-step Korean skin care routine.
There’s Nikita, a curvy brunette who reposts a lot of snarky, sarcastic memes, is a die-hard Married at First Sight fan, and tends to wear a pop of color with her beige-and-black-toned outfits; today, it’s a high-necked green sweater. Yesterday, it was a pair of red boots.
Evie, of course, I already know, but I looked her up on socials all the same.
Blond and petite, but with a far curvier figure than I have, in a way that makes her look dainty instead of flat or boxy.
She’s very into beauty influencers and fashion hauls, and alters her style often.
Lately, she seems to have taken Daphne’s and Nikita’s lead, like I have.
And then there’s Chloe, who has the exact opposite of a resting bitch face.
She does a lot of show jumping and horseback riding, and is usually clad in thick leggings and tall, worn boots, even if her glasses are Versace.
Her dark hair is often braided, and it must take her hours to get the styles looking so intricate and neat.
Quite honestly, I don’t know where they all find the time to put so much effort into how they look, every day before school. It’s sort of awe-inspiring.
“Cerys,” Daphne corrects herself, still smiling at me. “Right! I’m sorry. We have media studies together, right? Cute sweater, by the way.”
Nikita adds, “Love the shoes. I’m obsessed. Are they thrifted?”
“Oh, um…sort of. They were my mom’s.”
“Vintage! Ugh, I wish my mom had taste like that.”
Chloe jokes, “I wish my mom didn’t have such hideously big feet, so I could actually borrow her shoes!”
“Oh nooo,” Daphne says. “Not boat feet!”
“Never mind boats, they’re like cruise liners.
” Chloe gives a melodramatic eye roll that makes everyone laugh, and then it’s my turn to order from the barista.
I try not to glance their way for approval, but order a pumpkin spice latte.
I’ve only had one once before; Jake hates them, and I still remember him choking and sputtering after trying mine, how he claimed he could still taste it a week later.
The girls carry on chattering without me, resuming their conversation, but I’m pleased when they wait for me to get my drink before Nikita says to me, “Ready to go?” and I get to join them for the walk to campus.
I sit by Daphne and a couple of her friends in media studies, and afterward, even though I’m the first to history and take my usual seat, Nikita comes to sit next to me when she arrives, and then I end up going to lunch with her to join the others.
Evie smiles brightly when she sees me there, waving me over enthusiastically as if we’ve never been anything but close.
It feels genuine, and I let myself be swept into the fold, trying not to give away how much I could cry with relief at how easy and straightforward this turned out to be.
I’m sweating inside my turtleneck and boots, and I don’t know how they all look so cool and unbothered in their own sweaters and layers, but it’s so worth it to be included.
I knew I just had to find a way in.
If only things were this easy with Jake.