Chapter 3 9 September 2016 #2
Hannah swallowed a smirk. Ami’s new student liaison was a quiet girl named Sybil who had taken Ami to the guidance office to get her schedule on the first morning, then dutifully escorted her to every single class until Ami had kindly suggested she could find her own way around.
Madison’s approach to the job was more social dictator than tour guide.
‘And if I don’t?’ Hannah asked.
Beside them, Ami gasped. Madison’s eyes narrowed, and Hannah waited for the inevitable threat – she’d be on her own, cast out from the in crowd before the end of her first week at Prescott. Maybe that was for the best.
Instead, Madison’s lips curled into an amused little smirk. ‘You’ve got more iron in your blood than the average transfer, Hannah Miller. That’s interesting.’
The two girls stared at one another, neither intending to be the first to break eye contact.
‘I’ve never been one for follow the leader,’ Hannah said, voice betraying none of the nerves bunched in her stomach.
‘Interesting,’ Madison said again. ‘We’ll see how that works out for you.’
Was that a challenge? Before Hannah could respond, Madison spun on her heel and headed back into school.
Hannah let out a long breath. Had she really just stood up to Madison, and won? Or would Hannah’s constitutional inability to keep her mouth shut come back to bite her? She adjusted her uniform skirt and squared her shoulders.
‘I can’t believe you just did that,’ Ami whispered.
She shrugged. Either she’d earned Madison’s respect or torched one of the few connections she’d made at her new school. Time would tell.
Her eyes trailed to Alex, but he’d already switched on his phone and begun scrolling. Clearly, his sister’s mood swings were de rigueur in the DuPont household.
‘I’m heading in too,’ she told Ami, then took off towards the doors.
Hannah’s phone buzzed and she pulled it out of her backpack as she walked, a bit apprehensive the text would be Madison, doubling down on her challenge.
But it was Grace – Hannah’s best friend from home.
Grace had been filling her messages with regular updates from the first week of senior year at Hannah’s old high school.
They made her homesick, but she craved them all the same.
Sorry I missed your call last night. Jillian’s having Cade drama – again. FT tonight?
Quickly, Hannah texted back.
Yes please. The people here are so incredibly extra. I need a normalising dose of Cadian drama.
Hah. I’ve got you.
Also, I need to know EVERYTHING about private school. Do the kids really live in penthouses? And get chauffeured to school?
Hannah stepped through the school doors.
Before she could respond (yes, and yes), she ran almost head on into Bash Beaumont, who was rounding the corner from the direction of Prescott’s main administrative suite.
It was the domain of Ms Renee Caldwell, the Head of School, and her directors and deans.
Beside Bash was Beatrice Whitmore, another Prescott senior and Bash’s friend since early childhood.
Beatrice was tall and thin, her skin a deep ebony and her eyes crisp brown pools.
She wore her naturally curly hair swept up in a wide fabric headband in the classic Prescott charcoal grey.
Like Madison, she favoured cigarette pants to the grey-and-red plaid skirts.
‘Avoiding the courtyard frenzy?’ Bash asked.
‘I just came from there. What about you?’
Beatrice responded first. ‘Yeah, no thanks. Prescott’s thirstiest blatantly pointing fingers and slut-shaming Gemma Phipps while Elle and Theo sit there like two fallen rulers who don’t know they’ve lost their crowns? It’s sad.’
‘Someone should rescue Elle,’ Bash muttered.
‘You know it can only be you,’ Beatrice said. ‘Anyone else, Madison will have their head on a pike by sixth period.’
Bash rolled his eyes. ‘She gets away with murder because this entire school lets her.’ He turned to Hannah. ‘Let me guess, she told you to ice Elle out?’
‘Something like that.’ Hannah folded her arms across her chest. She felt bad for Elle, but maybe she deserved it.
In her mere four days at Prescott, Elle had been snarky and flat-out unkind to Hannah on more than one occasion, making it clear that Hannah’s status as a scholarship student positioned her in an undesirable grey area within the Prescott hierarchy.
Not old money or new money. Just boring middle class.
Then again, Madison’s friendly advice had been interlaced with barbs; this morning alone, she’d called Hannah’s backpack ‘tragic’ and her haircut ‘a choice’.
‘Don’t let Madison bully you because you’re a Fellow,’ Beatrice said.
‘A what?’ Hannah asked.
‘A Fellow,’ Bash repeated. ‘You know, a scholarship kid.’
Hannah’s brows arched.
‘It’s meant to sound elegant,’ Beatrice said. ‘Short for Founder’s Fellowship Scholar. But everyone knows it means “not full-pay”. Sorry.’
She didn’t sound especially apologetic.
‘Got it,’ Hannah said.
‘You should know,’ Bash added, ‘that most Prescott students look down on the Fellows. But a few might try to take you on as a pet project.’
‘Madison’s my liaison,’ Hannah said. ‘Presumably, there’s some requirement to spend time with me.’
‘It’s a résumé builder, for sure,’ Beatrice said. ‘But Madison sees you as a fascinating specimen – so far from rich, you can’t even pretend to fit in. That’s the only reason she’s still talking to you.’
A dry laugh escaped Hannah’s throat. ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s about to end. I pissed Madison off in the courtyard earlier, and for all her faults, I think Elle could use a friendly face.’ She looked from Beatrice to Bash. ‘You coming?’