I stare at her. “You want me to join Ivernia’sdebutante ball?”
“It’s not a debutante ball.”
It’s essentially turned into one. Ladies of Polite Society was supposed to be a historical organization focused on the cultural learnings of the 1800s, but it’s shifted into a coming-out ceremony (and not the queer kind) with heavy nods to the high-society roots from which it came. Long ago, it was about class and social status and wealth and matchmaking, and though matchmaking is no longer a focus, the rest still stands. Participating in the program allows students to give back to the community, sure, but the presentation ball based on the era’s formal debutante season continues to be elite and expensive for no reason. The entire concept feels outdated.
“I’d rather take the detention. Or demerit,” I say, realizing this is the first time in my life I’ve not only acted out but refuted Ellerby’s request.
She looks up, surprised by the firmness in my voice.
This would be so much easier if I disliked Headmistress Ellerby. Ivernia isn’tjust a jobto her like it isn’tjust a boarding schoolfor me. It’shome. We’ve always seemed to understand this about each other.
I’ve appeased her over the years because we share the same vision. She wants this place to be more than a school for rich kids whose parents can foot the bill as easily as purchasing a bag of pretzels from the supermarket. She’s fought hard to increase scholarships for students who couldn’t otherwise afford it, evencreating an alumni-funded tuition assistance program. It’s part of the reason that I never decline an opportunity to speak to alumni, because as someone whose mother is a library director and whose father taught astronomy at the local community college later in his career, there was never a time my family wasn’t budgeting—especially with three kids. Jared and I couldn’t have gone here if it weren’t for this generosity.
It’s why I work hard to stay in the top twenty ranking. At a boarding school this academically competitive, valedictorian and salutatorian are so out of reach, they may as well lie in another galaxy. Top twenty is achievable with hard work. It’s also why I didn’t object to a feature on the Ivernia website, despite how I looked like I was mid-sneeze in the picture captured by the school’s photographer.
But as much as I like Ellerby, I don’t get the sense she’s ready to let me off easy.
“This is not a negotiation,” she says. “If you don’t complete this program, you won’t graduate.”
A whoosh of fear drops like a deadweight in my gut. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m extremely serious.” She hands me the flyer, and I have no choice but to accept it. “The first meeting is next week. It’s led by one of our new teachers, Mrs.Vidar-Tett. She’ll report your attendance.”
I make a huge show of folding the paper into a tiny square before slipping it into my pocket. “Why this, specifically?” I say,attempting to keep the bitterness out of my tone. I still respect her even if I don’t agree with her. “Other than to torture me?”
The corners of her lips rise. It’s so subtle that I barely catch it. “I think I’ll let you figure that out yourself,” she tells me. “But I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t believe you could get something positive out of it.”
3
“I’m not going to sayI told you so,” Analiese says as she splits a dinner roll in half. “But what did I say?”
“You’re not helping,” I groan.
We’re in the dining hall, sitting at our usual table beside one of the arched windows overlooking the main quad. The last of the late summer sun sighs a weary breath as it acquiesces to the wash of gradient darkness. Wisps of blushing pinks and muted oranges bleed into obscurity. Inside it smells of roasted garlic and warm bread, a juxtaposition to the thickening chill that’s muscled its way over the Adirondacks.
Analiese shoves a bite of bread between her lips. “You’re not in A&P.” She swallows before continuing. “And now you’re forced to join the worst student org, which takes time away fromThe Herald.”
I scrape my spoon against the bottom of my soup bowl and purposefully avoid her gaze. I’ve written forThe Heraldfor the last three years because that’s what Analiese wanted us to do, despite the fact that I started as the worst writer on the staff. That’s not hyperbole. The notes I’d get were longer than the US Constitution, and I once caught two editors rock-paper-scissoring over who had to give me feedback.
“So obviously not an option anymore,” Analiese’s saying. She’sabandoned her roll to flip through her planner. “When are we going to find time to hang out? Because this is our last year together, and not only do I have to keep a perfect GPA, but I also have to uncover a groundbreaking story.”
A knot of tension eases in my chest. I’ve wanted to quitThe Heraldfor a while, especially now that I’m being forced to join Ladies of Polite Society. What Ididn’twant was to disappoint Analiese. At least this punishment has offered me a graceful out.
“Back up,” I say. “What’s with the groundbreaking story?”
“I need something that sets me apart when applying for colleges so I can seal my place at NYU.” She points her fork at me accusingly. “Meanwhile you’ll beBridgerton-ing it up in hoop skirts and tiaras.”
I don’t even know where to begin.
“First of all,” I say, “you’re going to find a story because you’re Analiese Jacobson, and it will be incredible becauseyou’reincredible. I mean, you could write about the new fertilizer they’re using on the quad, and it’d be the most riveting thing anyone’s ever read.”
Her mouth slips into a smile. Flattery can yank Analiese right out of a stress spiral. She’s the daughter of multimillionaires, her mother an entertainment industry executive and her father an e-commerce founder for a huge online shopping platform, so for her, standing out is difficult when the bar of success is sky-high.
“Second of all,” I continue, “might I remind you I didn’t ask for this?”
“And might I remindyou,” she tosses back, “that I said volunteering for Capture the Flag was a terrible idea?”
Simmering irritation flits through my veins as my eyes tick to Sumner. He’s eating with the rowing team a few tables over, which is odd since he’s not part of crew. His hands gesticulate wildly, a motion that causes his frames to slip down the bridge of his nose. He pushes them into place and laughs at something I can’t hear.
