A titter runs through the class, and Bridget’s cheeks darken; she says nothing.
It shouldn’t feel like a victory, but it does. If Bridget thinks less of me because of what happened, because I had to leave school, then I want her humiliated. If she’s afraid of me because she thinks I killed Alex, well, then my wishes for her become even more uncharitable.
After class I catch up to Ellis halfway across the quad, the September wind cutting through my thin linen shirt and making me shiver; I should have worn a sweater. Ellis, in a turtleneck that looks at least as flimsy as what I’m wearing, hardly seems to notice the cold.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I tell her.
“Do what?” She spares me a sidelong glance. “I don’t want to work with Ursula Prince. It’s as simple as that.”
As simple as that.
Somehow, I don’t think it is.
—
Fall deepens, that chill breeze turning to cold as the leaves go yellow and then scarlet. Only three weeks have passed since school started, but by October, knit tights and cashmere sweaters have made their appearance and I discover all my winter clothes are too large now. I head into town, accompanied by Kajal, of all people, to buy more. We try on tartan skirts and blazers, Kajal examining herself in the full-length mirror with one hand pressed to her flat stomach and her lips curving downward.
“It looks good,” I offer from two steps behind her, still doing up the buttons on my shirt.
She twists to the other side and looks at her reflection in profile. “It’s not very slimming.”
Kajal is already one of the slimmest people I’ve ever seen.
“You look fine,” I tell her. “I like it with the belt—very vintage.” It looks like something every single Ellis cliquer would wear. That’s the part I don’t say.
Not that I have any moral high ground; I’ve piled my dressing room with tweeds and cardigans and jackets that have elbow patches. The difference is that I’ve always dressed like this for fall. Alex used to say I cared more about the aesthetic of autumn than about comfort.
Kajal sighs. “I suppose.”
Even so, she spends another minute staring at herself in that mirror, mouth knotting like she wishes she could take off her own body when she takes off that dress. For a moment I’m reminded of Florence Downpatrick, who’d been my roommate at Silver Lake. Florence had looked at herself the same way—always watching her reflection with narrowed eyes, like she hoped to find something wrong with it, or curling her fingers round her wrist as we sat reading in the common room, seeing how far she could slide those circled fingers up her forearm before they stopped touching.
“It looks good,” I say again, but Kajal vanishes back into the dressing room without responding. I’m left standing in front of the mirror alone.
I avoid my own gaze and look at the clothes instead. The skirt hits past my knees, its dark-blue color drawing out the blue threads in my herringbone tweed blazer. I look like a university professor. I’m thinner than Kajal, but that has nothing to do with dieting and everything to do with the fact I couldn’t keep food down for weeks toward the end of summer. It was as if something in my gut had rebelled against the idea of coming back here, rejecting everything I fed it like it hoped to wither away and die before I had the chance to face Dalloway again.
The way Kajal’s always looked at me takes on new meaning now. Does she think I’m like her? Does she think we’re in silent competition with one another, that my reassurances carry with them the smug satisfaction of victory?
Clara’s in the common room when we return, bags slung over elbows. I try to hide my flinch—before she turned around to look at us, I’d only seen the glint of red hair in late afternoon sunlight and the book perched on her knee. My heart was still trapped between my teeth, Alex’s name pressing against the backs of my lips. I could have sworn it was her.
“Have a good time?” Clara asks, ice frosting her words. I frown on reflex.
“Yes,” Kajal says. “The weather was nice.”
“You might have thought to invite me. I need new winter clothes, too, you know.”
Kajal shrugs. “Sorry.”
She sweeps away toward the stairs without another word. My bags are heavy, and I can’t think of anything worse than staying down here with Clara when she’s in this mood, so I follow.
“What’s her problem?” I murmur to Kajal as we round the steps to the next landing.
“Clara’s new,” Kajal says, and waves a dismissive hand. “Ellis says she’s insecure. She doesn’t think she belongs with the rest of us because we already knew each other from before, and she just…”
Kajal trails off as she reaches her room, tilting her head in a voiceless farewell as she vanishes within.
Clara’s new.But so was Ellis, and these rules didn’t seem to apply to her.
But maybe that’s precisely the problem: maybe Ellis is the one who ensures that you never really fit in.
