Chapter 1 6 September 2016
Hannah pressed her lips together and made a vow right then and there to fly beneath the radar.
Her scholarship was contingent upon maintaining a B+ average and staying out of trouble.
And she had goals that exceeded the requirements of her financial aid: getting into UPenn’s prestigious communication programme, with a focus on journalism.
She’d worn her Annenberg Scholar sweatshirt – a prized possession since she was thirteen – nearly to threads.
Her best friend Grace had her heart set on UPenn too, premed, and a year from now, they’d be roommates.
Starting their next chapter together. Prescott Academy was a means to an end, a single year of her life to be spent among the offspring of New York’s socialites and business tycoons while her parents saved for her college education and she built up the academic résumé practically required for admission to the Ivies without legacy status or a big, fat gift.
The kind her parents could never afford.
Hannah’s stepmom Yoko was an immigrant rights attorney; her job had brought them to New York at the end of the summer.
Her dad Brian was the newly minted Director of Development for a fine arts museum downtown.
They made enough to cover the Millers’ not-insignificant rent on a three-bedroom in Soho, but far from what it would take to enrol two daughters at Prescott at full sticker price.
Yoko had become sold on Prescott for the girls, and among the many preparatory academies in the city, it was one of the few that offered scholarships based on a combination of aid and merit, to students at any point in their academic career.
‘This girl’s family’ – Ami jabbed a finger at her phone screen – ‘owns five yachts. Five. And this kid’ – she scrolled to a new post and pointed again – ‘graduated last May. He’s a freshman at Princeton now, and he’s only fifteen.’
Hannah tore her eyes away from Ami’s Instagram, stomach tossing in protest. If their scholarships hadn’t panned out, they would have enrolled in public school downtown – which maybe would have been for the best, Hannah privately wondered.
But here they were, walking briskly down the Park Avenue sidewalk, her new flats pinching her toes and sweat collecting beneath the armpits of her blouse and too-warm blazer.
She was tall, her body a collection of long lines and sharp angles offset by the brown curls that billowed behind her in feral waves.
Standing out in a crowd – both literally and figuratively – rarely bothered her, but right now, she’d far prefer to blend in.
‘It’s called The Upper Edge.’ Ami was still chattering about the Instagram account. ‘Whoever runs it is basically the Prescott whisperer. I’ve been catching up on all the old posts. It’s pure gossip gold – and kind of mean. But like, in a fun way.’
‘Which is exactly why I plan to stay off my phone today.’ They were two blocks from the Prescott gates. ‘And you should too.’
Ami threw her an exaggerated scowl. She was Japanese American on her mom’s side, and like Yoko, she was petite with glossy, jet-black hair. The siblings didn’t look a lot alike, but the expression was pure Miller.
Hannah returned her sister’s glare and picked up her pace. Express train be damned, she did not plan to show up late on her first day.
As Hannah arrived at the front gates, Prescott Academy’s hierarchy revealed itself like a flower in bloom.
Freshmen tucked away, already inside. Sophomores and juniors on the sidewalk or slouched against the gates.
And seniors – the queen bees and their kings, anyway – at the fountain, an enormous, circular thing swallowing the entire front courtyard.
Four minutes remained before the first bell. She paused and leaned against the cool, stone lip. You’ve got this. Just breathe.
Ami was a block behind, straggling, probably still on her phone.
Hannah inhaled deeply and took in her new classmates.
Among the mostly white faces were a handful of Black, Latino and Asian kids.
Everyone wore a version of the Prescott Academy uniform, but their accessories whispered old money: heirloom pearl studs, grey cashmere scarves and aged leather backpacks from Goyard and Smythson.
She swallowed, hard.
‘Hey, you. Curls.’ Standing just within view, in the shadow of the fountain, was the most stunning girl Hannah had ever seen.
She had delicate shoulders and wrists, very long legs and wavy red hair spilling halfway down her back.
Her wide-set eyes sparkled, a warm cinnamon brown.
Instead of the Prescott Academy plaid skirt, she had paired her blazer with charcoal grey cigarette pants and four-inch heels.
A kind smile lit up her face, and she motioned to Hannah with long, pale fingers.
Hannah raised her hand to her chest. Me?
The girl laughed and nodded.
Hannah glanced over her shoulder to see Ami arrive at the gates. She should go back, make sure she got through the doors, but… her little sister was social, an optimist, fearless. Ami would be fine.
Hannah gritted her teeth and walked towards the redhead instead, returning her smile.
‘Madison DuPont,’ she said, extending a slender hand. Her rose gold manicure was flawless. ‘Welcome to Prescott.’
Immediately, Hannah was enveloped in Madison’s golden glow. She took Madison’s hand in hers. ‘Hannah Miller.’
‘I know who you are. I’ll be your new student liaison.’
‘Liaison?’
Madison’s smile turned serious. She took Hannah by the shoulders and spun her to face the school’s broad front doors.
‘Prescott isn’t just any high school. It’s the top private academy in New York, and without the right social standing, your academic achievements will be meaningless.
Anyone can graduate with straight As if they put their mind to it.
It’s who you know that will get you places.
And lucky for you, I’m here to make sure you meet the right people. ’
Hannah nodded doubtfully, taking it all in.
She would be in New York City for a short twelve months before returning to Pennsylvania for college.
Making friends wasn’t at the top of her priority list, nor was social climbing to whatever rarified places Madison had in mind…
but it might get boring fast to not know a single overprivileged soul at Prescott.
‘Come on.’ Madison motioned to her friends, who were fixing Hannah with curious stares from their station at the shadiest part of the fountain. ‘I’ll introduce you, then we need to get inside.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘Mr Harris has a real stick up his ass about punctuality.’
Madison’s equally beautiful – and surely equally rich – friends threw Hannah little waves. Maybe her first day of senior year wouldn’t be so forgettable after all.
Stepping inside the Kingsley Room felt less like walking into a high school auditorium and much more like entering a Harvard lecture hall.
The walls were panelled in honeyed oak; the windows high, arched and hung with heavy drapes.
Amphitheatre-style seats were upholstered in rich burgundy velvet. Toto, we’re not in Pittsburgh anymore.
The senior boys had accessorised their Oxford shirts with sterling silver cufflinks, engraved with Prescott’s PA in loping script.
Their loafers were Italian leather, their haircuts expensive.
The girls wore delicate diamond bracelets and monogrammed cashmere cardigans.
Hermès scarves from Grandmummy’s closet were tied around the handles of vintage Celine totes.
Hannah looped her fingers through the straps of her backpack, a sturdy canvas thing from Target, and glanced down to her plain black flats. On the way out the door this morning, her stepmom had assured her daughters that uniforms were the best thing about private school.
‘The kids may be rich, but you’ll all be dressed the same.’ Obviously, things had changed since Ms Hiroto-Miller had attended private school in the ’80s.
‘After today, we’ll be split into our seminar groups for first period,’ Madison explained, placing four fingertips on Hannah’s unadorned wrist and snapping her from her thoughts. ‘But the first morning back, they herd us together, the flock returning to the master.’
With her chin, Madison motioned to the front of the hall, where a teacher stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked too young to be the master of anything.
‘That’s Mr Harris, AP English and head counsellor for the senior class,’ said a girl with unblemished light brown skin and relaxed brown hair pulled into a high, glossy ponytail.
She stepped between Hannah and Madison. Hannah had met Elle Harrington briefly outside, at the fountain, but the introductions had been a bit of a blur.
For the first time, she really took Elle in.
She wore her pleated skirt at regulation length – two inches above the knee.
Her blouse was pressed, and she wore a grosgrain ribbon tie at the collar.
Her high ponytail had been neatly pinned in place with two gold clasps.
Whereas Madison’s beauty was ethereal, effortless, Elle’s was polished to perfection – not a single hair or pleat out of place.
Madison gestured to the teacher, Mr Harris. ‘Some of the girls think he’s cute, but don’t let his boyish looks fool you. He’s a real stickler for the rules, and he does not hand out As. If you ask me, he’s a bore.’
Elle giggled. ‘Besides, he’s short. And needs a shave.’
‘He can’t shave.’ Sebastian Beaumont, who everyone called Bash, apparently, was beside them now, adjusting a vintage Rolex around his thick wrist. ‘Otherwise Ms Caldwell – our Head of School – might mistake him for one of the students.’ His lips curled into a sneer.