Chapter One
Sixteen years ago
Ordinary girls never get Prince Charming. If you happen to be an invisible girl next door, then aiming for an A-list guy will only get you laughed at. And I got laughed at enough already without making a bigger fool of myself.
So running to school in my usual cargo trousers – faded at the knees – a loose, chunky jumper and with chipped muddy fingernails, the last thing I expected was to bump into Prince Charming.
And not just any bump – I totally ran smack into him.
Not any old Prince Charming, either: Osian James, the new boy, the tennis star with magic dust all over him.
I was late because I had a gift for Miss Gibson. I’d been growing this little plant for several weeks, waiting for it to blossom. Finally, today – the last school day before Christmas – it had.
So, running through the school gates, I didn’t see Osian leaning against the brick pillar, half hidden. I just heard his angry voice saying something about it being too short noticeto cancel. He snapped something like, ‘Fuck off,’ and swivelled away from the wall into me.
Crash, bang, and I went flying, face down on the gravel, books scattered. Dark soil sprinkled everywhere.
No!
No, no, no!
I scrambled up on my knees to rescue the small potted plant.No, oh God, no!I cradled the fragile stem, hanging by a narrow strip of green. Broken like my heart.
“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” he asked.
When I didn’t answer, he hunkered down to my level. “Oh no, it’s broken.”
Well of course it’s broken, you stupid, arrogant, entitled git.
Osian James had rocked up at Hampton Mannor School last October, two weeks after the start of term.
Anyone else –anyone– would have stayed an outsider, forever. Look at me: two years since I transferred here, but I was still the new girl. Yet, ten minutes after Osian got here, he got welcomed into the most exclusive clique in school – we called them the Verbiers because they were always showing off about ski weekends in Switzerland. They didn’t even talk to the likes of me. Yet they were falling over each other trying to copy his Welsh phrases, saying ‘by here’ or ‘now in a minute’ like he did, and correcting everyone about his name: “It’s O-Shahn. It’s Welsh.”
People are legitimately unfair.
Girls one-upped each other to prove they were special to him:
“He took me to watch him play.”
“I went to his house; he has all these trophies in his room.”
“He kissed me goodnight.”
“We kissed for a whole minute. Nonstop.”
My bestie, Tricia, and I had retaliated by ignoring him: “O-sea-ann who?” As if we couldn’t remember how to pronounce his name.
But that didn’t mean I wanted him to see me like this, with tears falling down my cheeks, smeared with mud from my broken plant.Excellent!
“Can it be fixed?” he asked.
Fixed?What did he think, we could, like, glue it back?
“It’s not a tennis racquet.”
“No. I see that,” he said, all calm. He didn’t snark back. “I’m really sorry. Can I buy you another?”
I shook my head. “I grew it from a small cutting.” I wiped my cheek, smearing more mud on it.
