Chapter 9. Ophelia
OPHELIA
Professor Maguire is Professor Bancroft’s replacement, and though they both look like the kind of people who stay up late, excitedly counting down the days until bin collection day, the similarities end there.
The new childhood social psychology lecturer seems to enjoy his job, waving a stick in front of a chalkboard like an orchestra conductor who’s taken something.
With any luck, I won’t murder this one.
The lecture hall is comically dark, the brass sconces kicking out a soft orange glow that doesn’t touch any of the corners of the room. The wind is whistling through the rafters above us, and I’m sure the entire back row is asleep.
I type away at my coursework essay while Maguire talks, wrapping up the final lecture of the day. For all Sorrowsong’s ugly parts, I love the work, and when the teachers aren’t trying to kill me, they truly are the top of their field.
A notification pings through on my lockscreen.
Unknown
Nice laptop. Did your rich boyfriend give you that?
What?
I spin around where I sit, surveying the faces illuminated by screens. I bounce from person to person, waiting for someone to meet my eyes, to slip up, to give themselves away. I turn to face the front, but every open laptop I can see is open on the course notes.
My eyes drop to the only other way someone could’ve seen me: a huge arched stained glass window at the front of the room. The world beyond is too dark to make anything out.
Did your rich boyfriend give you that?
They sound almost … jealous. Jealous of Alex? Jealous of our relationship?
Or … jealous that I chose Alex? My breath catches in my throat as I shut my laptop, haphazardly tossing my things into my bag and hurrying out of the lecture hall and into the tunnels beyond.
The door to the Cortinar halls is ajar when I reach it, slipping through the gap and into the warm, rich interior of the common room. Shawn Miller is exactly where I hoped he’d be, laughing with his finance buddies whose foreheads are all as shiny as their loafers.
“Who’s your victim this time, Winters?” asks a girl by the door.
“Fuck you,” I bark back, just about ready to leave this castle and never return.
Shawn’s smile fades when he sees me approaching, the chatter around their little circle of chesterfield sofas dwindling to an awkward silence.
He manages to find his smug expression again, running his eyes up and down my muddy boots and oversized track pants. “Wow, Winters. You look … you know Halloween isn’t until October, right?”
I give him a sweet smile, silently hoping his snickering friends burst into flames. “Weren’t saying that when you were begging me for a second date, were you?”
His smirk melts into a snarl. “What do you want?”
“To talk. Alone.”
He laughs. “And end up in a trash bag in the trunk of your car?”
“With all these witnesses, Shawn?” I ask, like he’s three years old. My patience has frayed beyond its limit. “Not the sharpest crayon in the box, are you?”
He scoffs, muttering something to his friends that has them howling with laughter. “We can talk in here.”
“In private,” I grit out, and someone wolf whistles behind us.
“I’m not going to take you back,” he says, crossing one ankle over his knee and leaning farther into his seat.
“Investment advice as foreplay doesn’t really work for me, so the feeling is mutual.”
“If you want to chase the market and miss the best entry points then be my guest,” he says, his mouth tipping up like he’s just landed a great burn.
He’s even more hopeless than I thought.
“Are you following me?”
“You’re a psycho. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Are you texting me?”
“How much spare time do you think I have?”
“Your father is friends with Cain, right?”
His eyes narrow on me. “What are you accusing me of?”
“Are you sending me anonymous texts?”
“You’re beyond hope, Winters,” he mutters, knocking back the whisky in his glass.
“And you’re pissed that I chose Alex.”
“Delusional,” he snorts, but I’m distracted by the unmistakable sound of a helicopter flying over.
God, no. Why now?
Whatever I wanted to say back gets stuck in my throat, blocking my airway.
I vaguely hear declarations of “Oh my god, she’s really going to do it. She’s going to lose it” and “Shawn, you’re a dead man, mate.”
It rattles my bones, that awful, jarring sound.
I stumble back through the ring of students watching us, trying to drag air into my lungs. My heart is beating so fast that it feels like it might give out, like it can’t keep this rhythm for a minute longer.
Someone is filming. Someone asks me if I’m okay.
I stagger out the door and collapse against the wall outside. They’re right about me. I am losing it. This place is my downfall. These people are my downfall.
I just want my dad.
I’VE HARDLY LEFT my room in two days. I’ve hardly moved a muscle. I haven’t really eaten anything, either, except the four stale biscuits I found in my tote bag.
Instead, I’ve discovered scrolling.
Turns out, I can get off my high horse, because I’m not above getting addicted to short form content, after all.
I don’t know how long I watch people making slime, falling over, cooking on weirdly big outdoor grills, making depressing, low calorie versions of my favorite foods.
Craving a cinnamon roll? Add a teaspoon of cinnamon into cottage cheese, it tastes the exact same, the cheery blonde on my screen says to me.
Jesus Christ, life is bleak.
I’m halfway through watching a man trim a horse hoof when Colette calls, interrupting my fun.
I hit decline, opting instead to search Alex’s name on various social media platforms to see if he’s gone outside in short-shorts recently. Humble enough to scour the internet, too proud to say, Hey, Alex, I need a picture of your thigh tattoos for scientific purposes.
But when I search, it’s me that comes up. My least favorite photo of myself, climbing out of the pool at that stupid swimming meet in Manchester.
At least the videos of my spectacular meltdown in the Cortinar halls have vanished.
I zoom in on the picture again, into the backs of my thighs. I’m convinced I don’t really look like that. Surely I don’t look like that.
The caption of the post says it better than I could.
Alex Corbeau-Green and this thing???? make it make sense.
I hate them. I hate everyone. My tears are angry, sliding down my cheeks that I’m sure must have valleys carved into them by now.
I forward it to Colette.
Ophelia
Help me to not look like this, please.
Colette
Pick up the phone, you idiotic fool
Ophelia
Let me wallow in peace
I hear rattling from the door a few minutes later.
I stay silent, refusing to escape the warmth of my duvet.
Except it just keeps going on. And I hear the handle being pushed down. More rattling. Handle again. Some frustrated cursing. Handle again.
But I just cannot be bothered to move. Rest in peace, Ophelia—killed by the world’s shittest burglar.
Finally, the door unlocks, and I grab my mug, ready to throw it at the head of whoever comes through the door.
The door swings open, and I draw my hand back.
Colette shrieks, and I drop the mug onto the side table just in time. “Whoops. Sorry.”
Concussion avoided, she crosses her arms and takes in the state of me. The biscuit wrapper, the pile of tea mugs. The tissues on the side table, the screwed-up cardboard from when I ran out of tissues and just used the box. “Good grief, Ophelia.”
“Leave me alone.”
“No. Absolutely not. Get up.”
“Leave me alone!” I shout, and the false humor I try to inject into my voice doesn’t even begin to cover the sadness.
Colette starts swanning around the place in her long, white trench coat and white fluffy hat, stuffing my belongings into a bag.
“What are you doing?”
“We’re going for a girls’ weekend! In London! It’s going to be so fun. We’ll get you some clothes, eat nice food, get away from Sorrowsong for a bit.”
“No.”
“Please? I’d love it, too. And it gives me an excuse to miss my weekend visiting my stepdad. He’s … he’s really found a second wind on the whole choosing me a husband thing.”
“I’ll be your husband.”
“I’m very expensive,” she says, putting her twenty-thousand-euro handbag onto my desk as though to prove her point.
“Count me out of the running, then.”
She perches on the bed and opens up my phone, quickly deleting the screenshot of the nasty post about me, and closing down all my apps.
“Where will we stay?”
“I picked the best hotel, don’t worry. I wouldn’t put us up somewhere bad. The spa is one of the best.”
“That’s really, really, not what I’m worried about.”
“It’s my treat.”
“Colette.”
“We’re sharing a room, so it’s like a sleepover! And we’re stopping at a cute hotel in Sheffield, too.”
She holds out her hand, all smooth, moisturized skin and baby pink nails. Reluctantly, I slide mine into hers and let her pull me out of my pit of despair.