with that name to be anything but?
It was Tuesday afternoon. This meant only one thing: hockey with Eugenie Beaufort.
Eugenie Beaufort was a grade-A bitch. Her mother was a screenwriter Aurora had never heard of but was apparently famous in the UK. She walked around as if she owned the place, while her devoted troop of followers—weak-chinned girls who nodded and yah-yahed to everything she said—trailed her like puppies. Her dislike for Aurora seemed to be instant. Whenever they shared a lesson, Eugenie would glare at her from across the room. Whenever she ate lunch by herself in the dining room, Eugenie was gossiping and looking over, laughing and sneering with her friends. One night Aurora had found a dead spider in her bed, and some of the girls she shared with had collapsed in tinkling laughter—the next day they were sitting with Eugenie. Aurora didn’t care: they were morons. What was more, they were fakers. Eugenie was always rattling on about how she’d hung out with Prince William and Kate Middleton the previous summer on a snowboarding holiday, an acquaintance Aurora could tell was exaggerated because Eugenie went on about it in a way she wouldn’t have to if they were, like, her real friends. The stories Aurora herself could tell about the rich and famous … Whatever, it didn’t impress her, she was way over it. She doubted half the girls had even heard of some of the stuff she’d done to Hollywood’s celebrity cocks. Let them suck on that if they wanted scandal.
Aurora had never cared much for sport and wore a lacklustre expression as she changed into her Goal Defence bib.
Within minutes Eugenie Beaufort was attacking her legs.
‘Fuck off,’ Aurora told her as they locked sticks.
‘Fuck off yourself,’ Eugenie hissed. Her dark hair was plastered unattractively over her forehead. She was one of those girls to whom team sports meant everything. Winning was the be-all and end-all. Aurora was already thinking about when they could finish so she could sneak into the bushes for a joint. Maybe if she broke Eugenie’s shins she might get suspended.
‘OW!’ Eugenie howled out in pain as Aurora’s hockey stick slammed into her. She lifted her leg and clutched it at the knee, hopping up and down.
‘Oops, sorry,’ said Aurora sweetly. The fat Games teacher came panting over and blew her whistle unnecessarily close to Aurora’s ear.
‘Off!’ she blasted, red-faced and angry as she pointed to the sides. Eugenie appeared satisfied, as if being sent off mid-match was the worst fate she could imagine. Aurora didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. That was the punishment? She’d have to come up with something far worse if she was going to make it home within the month. Her phone call to Tom last week had been rushed and unsatisfactory—her father had a spa session he was loath to miss—and despite her declaration that St Agnes was worse than death row (mainly because there was no chance of a lethal injection at the end of it), her tearful pleas and impassioned begging that eventually descended into a litany of I hate you!s, he had remained firm: she was to see out her first two terms and then they would rediscuss. Yeah. Like that was going to happen.
On the bench was a girl she hadn’t seen before. She had long straight black hair, pale skin and a compact, petite body.
‘How come you’re out?’ asked Aurora moodily as she slumped down.
‘I don’t like exercise,’ said the girl, not bothering to look up. She was reading a book, and when Aurora peered over she saw it was written in another language.
‘What’s that?’ she asked, sipping from a bottle of water and crossing her legs. She thought she spied Mr Faulks loping into the Science block and adjusted her bib to reveal a little more flesh.
‘It’s a book,’ the girl said flatly. This time Aurora noticed the strong accent.
‘You’re French?’
‘Bravo.’
Aurora kind of liked her blatant lack of interest—it piqued her own. ‘I’m Aurora Nash,’ she said, sticking out her hand.
Finally the girl looked up. She was startlingly pretty, with a perfect white complexion, blood-red lips and cat-like green eyes.
‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘The loud American.’ She frowned. ‘Is your tan real?’
Aurora was unoffended. ‘West Coast sun, baby.’ She withdrew her hand and sat back. ‘You should get some.’
‘I don’t like how it looks.’
‘Thanks very much.’
The girl returned to her book.
‘Sport sucks for me, too,’ Aurora said. ‘How come you get off?’
‘I refuse to do it.’
‘Sounds like a great tactic.’
The girl flipped her book shut. ‘I am exempt from these lessons. My parents have a doctor friend—he wrote me the diagnosis.’
‘Which was?’
She shrugged. ‘Simply, I am not a team player.’
Aurora laughed with genuine amusement. ‘What are you, then?’
‘I’m me.’
She raised her left brow. ‘Does “me” get high?’
The girl narrowed her eyes. ‘Do you imagine you can be my friend?’
Aurora pulled up her scratchy, fashion-bankrupt socks. ‘I don’t care either way.’
‘Because I’m not here to make friends.’
‘Suit yourself.’
They sat in silence for a bit, watching Eugenie Beaufort roar and pump the air with her fist whenever her team scored a goal.
Aurora noticed the girl didn’t reopen her book. After a while she turned to Aurora. ‘I’m Pascale Devereux,’ she said, and held out a small, pale hand.
Aurora took it. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘You will be.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because now you have,’ said Pascale, ‘things around here are about to get a lot more interesting.’
17 Stevie
Stevie took the part. How could she not? There it was, laid out before her, the role thousands of girls had dreamed of. Including Bibi Reiner.
‘B, this was meant to be yours,’ Stevie said when the role was formally offered. ‘You wanted Lauren. I wasn’t even supposed to be here.’
Bibi kept her smile in place. She was not the sort of girl to begrudge a friend’s success, even if her pride stung. Stevie could never know why she’d wanted the role so much, why she’d had her heart set on a gig free from Linus Posen’s grip—she probably thought it was just another failed audition. Bibi was used to rejection, wasn’t she?
‘Take it, Steve,’ she said, giving
