THE LUCY PROJECT

The reflection staring back at me in the mirror doesn’t look like me.

Technically, it’s me. Same green eyes, same light brown hair. But wearing a school uniform? That’s new.

It’s my first time wearing one. I’ve been homeschooled my entire life, so maybe that’s why I feel off. Or is that just me?

Briar Hall—that’s the name of the school.

One of the most prestigious high schools in the country, if not the most. The kind of school rich families send their kids so they can grow up to run the world. Or whatever it is rich people do after they graduate.

Buy yachts? Start companies? Inherit board seats from their dads? Must be nice.

My family? Not exactly royalty.

We’re not broke, thanks to Mom’s bakery turning into a surprise success story, but let’s just say we’re new money. Like, still think valet parking is a luxury kind of new. Definitely not on the same level as the people who have summer houses in other countries and horses with trust funds.

How do I know this? Research. The internet exists. I’m not about to walk into some elite brain palace totally blind.

Back to the uniform, I have the same reaction I had last year when I saw my sister—Harper—wearing it for the first time. All polished and perfect. But then again, she always looks like that.

Mom decided it was time for both of us to join the real world, as she called it.

Obviously, Harper went first. She was perfectly ready. Me? I had to do another year of homeschool before I was deemed socially acceptable enough to enter the hallowed halls of Briar Hall.

The uniform is pretty, I’ll admit. It has a certain vibe. Old money, legacy kid, dark academia Pinterest board—you name it. Clearly, they’re not letting us stroll into class in hoodies and sneakers.

It comes with a plaid pleated skirt, a collared blouse, a striped tie, and this tan cape-like jacket that drapes just enough to make you feel like you’re either starring in a historical drama, or about to uncover a centuries-old school conspiracy.

On the right side of the chest is the school’s logo. A bold embroidered BH. Three tiny letters beneath it—BNP.

The same letters also embroidered into the left collar of the blouse.

Blood defines. Name commands. Power endures.

Not ominous at all. Totally normal for a school motto. Definitely doesn’t sound like the opening line to a cult initiation.

Harper warns me constantly that Briar Hall isn’t just some school—it’s the school.

For spoiled rich kids, I guess.

I caught Harper crying in her room more than once. The last time, when I got caught peeking through the door, she looked me dead in the eye and said: “If I didn’t survive that school, neither will you.”

Yay. Can’t wait.

Thanks for the supportive pep talk, Harper. Really sums up everything I need to know about Briar Hall.

Here I am—dressed in full Briar Hall uniform, about to walk into my first real school ever. Exciting.

After triple-checking everything, I pull my hair into a ponytail and tie a ribbon around it, the kind of neat little finishing touch that makes me look like I actually have my life together. Then I look at my face in the mirror and try to smile. You know, to stretch the muscles.

Gotta practice if I’m going to impress new people.

My dimples show on both cheeks, but the left one is deeper. My face can’t decide if it wants to be charming or annoying. Spoiler? Usually both.

My skin’s pale enough to flash red when I’m flustered, which is super inconvenient when I’m trying to act like I don’t care about anything. And I have these faint freckles I don’t actually hate. Mostly because they annoy Harper. She wishes she had them. Even draws hers on with eyeliner like some kind of cosmetic criminal.

To be honest? I’m not too bad-looking.

Once I’m reasonably sure I look presentable, I grab my white backpack from the bed and head downstairs to the kitchen.

“Good morning, Mom,” I say, stepping into the kitchen.

The smell of warm cookies, toasted bread, and fresh coffee fills the kitchen. And underneath that, the soft scent of Mom’s usual perfume as I lean in to kiss her. Lavender mixed with spice. Sounds weird, I know. But that’s just Mom. And trust me, it’s a good smell.

“Morning,” Mom replies, eyes still glued to a cooking magazine.

Classic.

In front of her is toasted bread with chocolate jam spread on top. Don’t judge the head woman of our house. Even at her big age, she still loves chocolate toast. And she doesn’t drink coffee. Like, ever. She has stomach issues and can’t handle caffeine.

So where does the smell of coffee come from? Harper. She drinks it, and Mom doesn’t mind—as long as it’s not too much. Me? Sometimes. But not in the morning. I’d probably get sick later if I did. Not worth it.

And Mom drinks hot tea. Can you imagine? Chocolate toast with hot tea. She might’ve been British in her past life. Who knows?

“Really, Luce? You’re wearing that?” Harper says, giving me a full head-to-toe scan like she’s a judge on a reality show. “You’re so boring.”

Funny. Because you wore the exact same thing on your first day!

Not that I say it out loud. I could. Sometimes I do. But today I’m aiming for a peaceful morning. Because thinking about my first day is already enough stress. Especially for in introvert like me.

You introvert girlies get it. Right?

“I mean, it’s my first day,” I hear myself say as I sit across from Harper, dropping my backpack onto the empty seat next to me.

Remember when I said this school is where the rich kids go? Yeah—so the uniform? Total formality.

Harper explained it months ago, back when I saw her wearing the uniform in a way that made me do a double take.

Apparently, Briar Hall doesn’t care if you follow the dress code exactly. As long as you’re technically wearing something with the school’s logo on it, you’re fine.

Cardigans, vests, swapping out pieces, color-tweaking—it’s all fair game. Think elite drama series, but make it academic. Like everyone’s trying to get featured on a prep school runway.

But here’s the thing.

The school’s logo is expensive.

Say you have a vest you want to wear as part of your uniform? You can’t just slap the logo on yourself. You have to go through the school’s official website, fill out a request, and meet with someone to get it approved and embroidered. Takes, like, four to five business days. And it costs a lot. Are we surprised?

In my opinion, we don’t even need all that. The school gives us three packs of each seasonal uniform to rotate through. But rich kids will rich kid. Not exactly my business.

Harper is a walking example. She’s wearing a soft pink cable-knit sweater over her collared blouse, with the school’s logo showing like it’s a part of the aesthetic. Her pleated skirt is perfectly pressed, and she’s swapped the usual school tie for a pale silk ribbon, tied neatly at the neck like she was born knowing how to pull it off.

One fact about Harper? She adores pink. Always has.

It’s like she’s trying to be Barbie. But the annoying part? It actually works on her.

Harper’s got that whole effortless thing going. Long blonde hair, perfectly curled at the ends, and those green eyes she got from Mom.

For the record, I got the green eyes too.

Her face? Ridiculous. Clear skin like she drinks expensive water. High cheekbones. A nose that looks Photoshopped. And lips with that soft, natural pout people literally pay for.

Our homeschooled teacher once said we looked alike. Like twins with a different hair. But I never see it.

Harper’s basically a carbon copy of Mom. One look and people just know. But me? I’ve got Mom’s ex-husband in my face too. Not ugly. He’s actually a handsome man. I’ve seen the picture.

Still, I hate it. And it’s not like I’m obsessed with blonde hair, but I hate that I look different. I try not to think about it. About all of it. Unless I feel like ruining my day.

Shit.

I try to scrub the man’s existence out of my brain as I shift in my chair and reach for the toast, some butter, and a few sprinkle cookies that smell like vanilla. Bless you, Mommy!

Mom sits at the head of the table. Always has.

I know in most houses, the seat goes to the man of the house. But we don’t have a man in our lives. Thank God.

Technically, there’s Mom’s sister’s husband. But that’s a whole other story.

Anyway, it’s better to have a competent woman running things than an incompetent man messing everything up. Am I right?

What a surprise that the misogynists don’t agree.

We don’t have a cook in our house. Mom does all the cooking herself, and the baking. She actually enjoys it. No surprise there. Still, it has to be hard—juggling all the house stuff and running a bakery. But somehow, she makes it work. Kudos to you, Mommy!

We have a cleaner come in every now and then to help out. Even though it’s not like we live in a mansion. Just big enough that vacuuming the whole place basically counts as a full-body workout.

Harper snorts as she spreads strawberry jam onto her toast. “Yeah. So?”

Right. I totally forgot she was mocking my choice of uniform five seconds ago.

“Sorry, is it a crime to want to look like a real, normal student on my first day of school?” I say as I pour myself a glass of milk and take a sip.

“You’re lame,” Harper says. I can feel her eyes on me, even though I’m focused on buttering my toast. “Looks to me you gotta work harder to impress people, Luce.”

“I don’t want to impress anyone.”

“Sure you don’t.”

I roll my eyes but don’t bother to respond.

Instead, I take a look out the tall windows lining the far wall of the kitchen. The soft, early morning light pours in. Golden and a little sleepy, catching on the pale wood floors and the big vase of perfectly arranged flowers Mom has set in the middle of the table. The kind that makes the kitchen look like something out of a home magazine.

Outside, the trees are just starting to shift. Not fully red or orange yet. Just hints of gold brushing the edges.

Harper passes me the jar of strawberry jam without a word. She’s finished styling her toast like she’s prepping it for a food blogger’s flat lay. On the other hand? I go full chaos mode.

I have a bit of an addiction to sweet things. Okay, not really a bit. But it’s not a problem. Unless I start dipping my cookies in condensed milk. Again.

As I bite into the sugary masterpiece, Mom finally looks up from her cooking magazine. “Heavens, Luce. I thought your sweet tooth had passed.”

“Definitely not, Mom,” Harper chimes in, grinning. I can basically see the mental image of me, toothless, flashing across her brain in high definition. “She even had a rotten tooth when she was a kid. Remember, Mom?”

There it is. We’re digging up dental trauma before I’ve even made it to school.

Mom chooses not to engage. She changes the subject, still watching me chew like Harper hadn’t said anything at all. “Are you ready, Luce? Like you said, it’s your first day of school. It’s very different from homeschool.”

“Very, very different.” Harper adds.

I take a quick look at Harper. Who, apparently, is also watching me. I swallow and give Mom a convincing smile, the kind I practiced in front of the mirror. “Don’t worry, Mom,” I start. “I won’t take a week off just because the rich kids don’t like me. I’ve got thicker skin than that. Also, kind of embarrassing.”

“Right,” Harper sneers. “Thick skin. You really want to go there, Luce?”

“Enough, Harper.” Mom steps in.

I don’t even have to look to know Harper’s probably wearing that annoyed, angry face.

If I didn’t survive that school, neither will you.

Yeah? Watch me.

Unlike Harper, I’m not going to take a week off the second school starts just because some spoiled rich kids refuse to acknowledge my existence. Besides, I have zero plans to socialize with them in the first place.

I’m definitely not going to become one of their little minions just to look cool.

And if that means I get crowned Loser of the Year, I’ll gladly wear the crown. A little bit dramatic, but who’s judging.

The point is, I have a plan.

I’m going to be a ghost in the walls. Get it?

Be a ghost in the walls. Graduate. Get into a good college. Find a decent job. And support myself.

A solid plan. Yay. Cheer for me.

For the next five minutes, Mom lectures me about the difference between school and homeschool. She pauses to sip her hot tea. I’m not complaining, but she gave the same talk last year when it was Harper’s first day. And I was there. So really, she’s just repeating something everyone at this table already knows.

Unless we invite Mom’s ex-husband.

What the hell? Why would I think about that insufferable man? Kill me.

Then Mom clears her throat.

And somehow, I know what’s coming. I just do. I have a good hunch. It even feels like I was there when the Lord said: “This one gets a sixth sense.”

There’s just one cookie left on my plate when I look up and meet Mom’s gaze. “Be careful not to reveal your wrist, Lucy.”

See that?

This is the part where I say I knew it.

“It’s better if no one notices,” Mom continues, her tone soft but firm. “You don’t want people getting the wrong idea. Always remember to keep it covered. You understand, Luce?”

“Of course,” I say. I saw it coming, but my skin still goes cold. “I wouldn’t want to traumatize the civilians on my first day in the real world, Mom. Or trigger a school-wide wellness assembly.”

“I’m serious, Lucy Ellison,” Mom presses her lips together. “This isn’t something to joke about. Don’t turn it into one.”

Clearly. Morrigan Ellison is always serious when she starts using full names.

“We know those marks were just from an accident. Wild cats, right?” Mom continues. “But no one is going to believe that. Honestly, sometimes I don’t even believe it. But what else could it be? Nothing else makes sense. And the last thing you want is people thinking something’s wrong with you. I don’t think I could handle that.”

“What do you think people are gonna think when they see those marks, Mom?” I ask.

“Drugs, Luce. They’ll think you’re using drugs.”

Oh. Right. Because obviously, that’s so much better than the truth.

“But they’re just scars,” I mutter.

I know it sounds dumb, but I can’t help saying it.

“They are,” Mom says. “To you. To me. Even to Harper. But people don’t see them that way, Lucy. They’ll assume the worst. You don’t want that. I don’t want that.”

I look back down at my last cookie. I hate that her stare still gets to me. But it does. Then I look back up and meet her stern gaze. When I speak, it’s barely more than a whisper. “No, I really don’t want that, Mom.”

“I know,” Mom nods.

Then she breaks our stare, and reaches for her phone. Right where she left it on top of her cooking magazine, probably about to text her assistant about today’s plans.

I take a quick look at Harper. Who, apparently, is also busy with her phone now.

My sister can be a bitch most of the time, but even she has a line she won’t cross. Which is exactly why, in the deepest part of my heart, I still love her.

“Lucy?” Mom says, putting down her phone. Here we go again. “Did you cover them with foundation? Or concealer?”

“I—”

“Doesn’t matter, I suppose. As long as you don’t roll up your sleeve, you’ll be fine.”

Know that it takes a lot in me not to turn around. Go back to my room. Lock the door. And return to the safe little bubble of homeschooling.

Jesus Christ.

Like the good daughter I am, I give her a reassuring smile to ease her worry. “Yes, Mom. Don’t worry. I know what to do.”

“I just need you to understand, Luce,” Mom gives me a small, tired smile. “I really don’t want my youngest getting hurt. Especially not on your first day out there, meeting new people.”

Honestly? A little too late for the hurt part, but I nod like I understand her. I really do.

But the thing is, I don’t need a reminder.

What’s carved into the skin on my wrist? I could never forget. Those marks—the ones I made myself, with steel—are the reason I’m still here.

Still breathing.

Funny how the thing that saved me is also the thing I have to hide. And I don’t expect people to understand. That’s fine. It wasn’t for them.

I have a lot of battle scars on my wrist. Left wrist, to be exact. Probably because I’m right-handed.

The kind I made to quiet whatever chaos was running through my head at the time. And they’re not pretty to look at. The chaos or the scars left behind.

Mom believed me when I said I got scratched by a wild cat. Or fell. Or slipped on something sharp. Maybe she just wanted to believe. And honestly, I’m glad she does. That way, I don’t have to tell her the truth. The one I’m not, and probably never will be, ready to share.

Or maybe that’s her way of coping. I don’t know.

Mom gets up from her seat, phone in hand. “Alright, girls, time to head out. We don’t want Lucy to be late on her first day of school.”

She leaves the kitchen, her heels clicking across the wooden floor.

A moment later, Mom’s voice floats in from the living room. “I’ll be waiting in the car. Don’t make me wait too long.”

I take one last sip of milk, then stand as I grab my backpack. But Harper? She’s touching up her makeup. Compact in hand, pulled from her pink handbag like this is a brunch date, not school. But I’m not surprised.

I don’t even realize I’ve been staring until I catch myself watching her reapply her lip gloss. Like I said, my sister’s very pretty. The prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. But, please, keep it a secret.

As if she can feel me watching, she looks up. Clearly done with her touch-up.

“Let’s get one thing straight,” Harper says, slipping her compact and lip gloss back into her handbag. “Don’t talk to me at school. Don’t even look like you know me. When we’re in the car, tell Mom to drop you off at the gates. You can walk from there.”

Oh. Okay. Sure.

She’s as pretty as she is mean.

Makes me think of Lucifer. You know, God’s favorite angel turned villain? Supposedly the most beautiful, but also the most evil. And I’m totally not comparing. We don’t even know for sure if Lucifer was mean. Evil? Sure. Mean? No idea. I personally haven’t met the guy, so I really can’t judge.

I’m just saying—why can’t people be as pretty as they are kind? Is that, like, a sin now? Did the Lord just stop making that combo?

“You’re not exactly the proud sister I want to parade around school either,” I say. “But we literally have the same last name, in case you haven’t noticed. People will connect the dots.”

Harper rolls her eyes. “Then don’t tell them that.”

“Wow. Genius. Can’t believe I didn’t think of that myself.”

“Seriously? Why do you always have to make everything a joke?”

“Relax, Harps,” I give her my sweetest fake smile. “I’ve got a plan. And it doesn’t involve joining The Plastics of Briar Hall. Not that it matters. Isn’t being blonde one of the requirements?”

“You’ve always been the funny one between us,” Harper says with a fake laugh. “But don’t get too excited, Luce. It’s not like anyone’s going to talk to you. Certainly not in that uniform.”

And when she stands, I finally notice the tall white boots she’s wearing. The kind that look so expensive they probably belong on a runway, not a high school hallway.

I look down at my own shoes. Simple black loafers—Prada. They’re actually secondhand. But hey, they’re still Prada.

When I look back up, there’s a smirk on Harper’s beautiful, angelic face. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Then she walks out of the kitchen like she owns the world. Heading to the front where Mom’s already waiting in the car. I watch her for a second. Then I follow.

Briar Hall, here I come. Let’s get this over with.

💌

Briar Hall is a castle. Or at least it looks like one.

Like it was built for kings. Or villains. Or villainous kings with a flair for drama.

The building has towers. You read that right. Towers. The kind you’d expect to see Rapunzel sulking in if she ever got bored of braiding her hair. Two of them, side by side, standing there like they’re ready to shoot lightning bolts at anyone wearing last season’s loafers. Which, in this case, would be me.

It looks old because it is old. Obviously.

Founded in 1891 by some guy whose family name was Whitaker. I don’t remember his first name. It was probably something dramatic like Horace or Bartholomew. Or maybe it was a woman. But let’s be real. It was 1891. Different world. Weird priorities. Questionable mustaches. And not exactly the golden age of feminism.

Either way, he’s not my grandfather, so I don’t feel bad about forgetting his name.

Have I mentioned it’s huge? You could probably guess that. I said it looks like a castle. Or maybe it’s actually a castle. I should probably ask around later. Wouldn’t want to miss out on the full Briar Hall experience.

But yes, it’s huge. Even from the gates, where I’m standing right now, which is nowhere near the building, you can tell.

Why am I standing at the gates?

Harper and I reached an agreement back in the kitchen—remember? I asked Mom to drop me off at the gates so I could walk in, like some of the students I see doing now.

Mom was reluctant. Understandably. The walk is long. And by the time I reach the building, I’ll probably be sweaty and half out of breath. Okay, not really. Unless I run like a lion’s chasing me. But it’s better than having the school watch me climb out of a car with Harper.

Maybe they won’t care. But I’m not about to risk my plan.

As I’m walking in, busy staring at my surroundings and trying not to look too lost, the roar of sports cars’ engines slice through the air. Startling me. The engines are loud. Obnoxiously loud.

Seeing all kinds of shiny luxury cars driving through the school gates is already blowing my mind as I walk. But what really gets me to stop and stare?

The sports cars.

I’m talking actual sports cars. Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins, even the occasional Porsche 911 or Audi R8, just casually pulling in like it’s not the most insane thing I’ve ever seen.

That’s a surprise. I didn’t know they actually brought those kinds of cars to school. Like, casually? Sure, I figured they probably had them sitting in garages bigger than my house. But driving them here? To school? Insane.

I’ve always liked sports cars. Even though I can’t drive yet. Not that I could actually afford one.

Do they even sell those secondhand? And if they do, can you get a payment plan that lasts, like, forever?

One thing about me? I used to love F1.

It’s the sport where they drive fast cars. Probably too fast to be legal anywhere else. But that’s kind of the point.

I rooted for Lewis Hamilton to break every record in the book. But instead, it became the era of Max Verstappen. For the record, I don’t hate Max. I was just a loyal fan who wanted her favorite driver to win.

But after watching Lewis lose so many times I lost count, I stopped watching.

I didn’t need a stranger disappointing me. I had enough people doing that in real life.

Honestly? I still check the internet for F1 stuff from time to time. You know what they say. You can take the girl out of the phase, but you can’t take the phase out of the girl. Something like that.

And this year, from what I’ve seen, Max isn’t leading the championship. Again, I really don’t hate the guy. But it kind of feels like some ancient curse has finally been lifted.

Let’s not be weird, Luce.

While still staring at the sports cars, I spot Mom’s—pulling out after dropping Harper off at the front entrance. The school only has one gate, so it’s easy to track who comes and goes.

Our car? A Lexus ES 350. Mom bought it to celebrate the bakery’s success and finally get rid of the 2006 Toyota Corolla that’d been around for as long as I could remember.

Harper still hates our new car, even though it’s luxury enough. She wanted a Ferrari. Probably still does. I won’t lie, I do too. Still, I’m fine with our car. The old or new. I wouldn’t have minded either way. As long as it works, I’m good.

But I still would’ve asked Mom to drop me off at the gates. Not because I’m embarrassed. Because people notice bad cars. It would’ve drawn attention. And my plan? Dead on arrival.

The sports cars have stopped pulling in, so I start walking again, toward the building that still feels way too far from where I’m standing.

Then I hear a girl’s voice beside me. “You’re new?”

I take a quick look to my left to see her, but I don’t stop walking.

From what I can gather, the girl has long, black, curly hair that falls freely around her shoulders. Eyes that look brown, yet green. Hazel. She’s wearing the same uniform I am. The official one. That’s comforting.

There’s a smile on her face, though maybe that’s just the shape of her lips.

Not hearing me answer—because I forgot, clumsy me—the girl adds. “I saw someone staring at the sports cars like they were museum pieces, so I got curious. Most of us are kinda over it by now, but turns out I was right. New face.”

Huh. She’s kind of smart for that. And she’s also pretty. Have I mentioned that?

Not in a flashy, influencer kind of way. But in a quiet, almost unfair. The kind of pretty that doesn’t even try.

She has soft features that make people assume she’s quiet, or sweet, or writes poetry in the margins of her notebook. And she doesn’t even look like she’s wearing any makeup.

And instead of answering like a normal person, I’m just walking next to her, thinking all these thoughts, like she’s Edward Cullen who could hear them, so I don’t have to use my mouth. Get it together, Luce!

I clear my throat. “I’m sorry?”

“Why are you sorry?”

“I—I mean, no, I’m sorry. What?”

I should’ve had water at breakfast earlier instead of just milk because now I’m dying of thirst. I have a water bottle in my backpack, but I’m not about to stop, dig it out, and take a sip like I’m in the middle of a hiking trip.

“What?”

“What?”

“I mean—what?”

I’m confused by this whole what situation, so I stop walking and turn to face her. Because she’s stopped, looking right at me. We both have that confused look on our faces.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.

“Nah. You’re good. Don’t worry about it,” she says, smiling. “I was just being nosy.”

“And I was awkward,” I say, returning her smile. “It’s my first day.”

“I figured. Transfer?”

“Homeschooled.”

She makes a face, like she just cracked the code. “Ah. That explains the awkward. I must be the first real human interaction you’ve had in, like, years.”

“You’re totally right,” I mumble.

She laughs. “Yeah. I know I am. But hey, it’s fine. Totally normal. I almost had a panic attack my first day too. Not from the people or anything, but the sports cars. Those engines are loud. Annoyingly loud.”

Then her face lights up. “Wait. Look at that. Dimples! You have dimples.”

Oh.

I’m smiling without even realizing it.

There’s something weirdly fascinating about watching someone talk out loud. I spend so much time having full conversations in my own head, I forget I’m allowed to use my mouth.

The girl keeps staring at my dimples like they’re some kind of science experiment. It makes me a little embarrassed. Which makes me laugh. Which only makes them show more.

“That smile with the dimples? Yeah, you’re definitely God’s favorite.”

I shake my head, wanting to disagree. But instead, I hold out my hand. “I’m Lucy. Lucy—Luce. You can call me Luce. What’s your name?”

“That’s a pretty name,” she says, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she takes my hand. “I’m Sofia. I really don’t have a nickname. But some people call me Fee.”

“Do you mind if I call you Fee?” I ask.

Sofia links her arm with mine. “As long as you don’t use it to make fun of me.”

I shake my head, horrified. “I would never.”

“Good. Let’s walk before the bell rings.”

So we start walking side by side, like we already were.

Sofia’s the kind of girl who’s as pretty as she is kind. She’s warm. The kind of warm that matches her smile. And I don’t mean body-heat warm. You get what I mean.

She talks about the school, which I mostly already know about from Harper and my internet deep-dives. But I don’t interrupt.

And somehow, because I’m not alone, I don’t feel so tired from walking.

Okay, that’s a lie.

No offense—I love walking with a friend. But that doesn’t make me feel numb. I absolutely feel it, the burning in my legs. Thankfully, we’re close to the building now. I don’t want to interrupt her to ask if we can sit on one of the benches. The ones I’m guessing the school thoughtfully provides for walkers like us.

Second fact about me? I’m not an exercise person. If I’m being real, I love being in my bed. Horizontally.

Then it hits me. Sofia is a friend. My friend.

I might’ve actually just gotten myself a friend. Really? Me? Shit.

I suppose it’s fine. Even ghosts in the walls get to have at least one friend. Right?

As we get closer to the building, it’s now clear to me that it hasn’t seen a single drop of paint since paint was invented. Honestly? That kind of commitment is impressive.

It’s just stone. Endless, cold, weather-beaten stone. Rows and rows of windows stare down like judgmental eyes. The whole building is basically daring someone to suggest a makeover. Go on. Try putting up a pastel accent wall here and see how fast the ghosts of Briar Hall slap you.

The parked cars came into view next. Lined along the stone path on both sides, like they’re posing for a group photo in front of it. Same luxury and sports models I’d seen gliding through the gates. Some students are stepping out of the driver’s seat like it’s completely normal. They clearly drove themselves.

If I were them, I wouldn’t let some old man who doesn’t know anything about sports cars drive mine either. Others? They have drivers who wait in those cars all day. Poor old men.

Sofia’s quiet beside me now. Probably staring at the same thing I am.

“That’s a lot of cars,” I say. “Expensive ones.”

“I know. It surprises me every time. But it’s normal for them,” Sofia says casually. “Rich kids, I mean. They’re different from people like us.”

“Oh. Right. Very different.”

“Sorry, I—I thought you weren’t one, since you’re walking?”

I should’ve realized.

The students walking in? They’re the scholarship kids. The ones who don’t have a car to drive to school. Sofia mentioned she came by bus. I just didn’t realize until now that it’s a school bus that stops at the gates, so the students riding it can walk the rest of the way. Because they’re not privileged enough.

How could I not realize?

There’s a boy in a navy blazer with shiny gold buttons and a hoodie layered underneath, like he’s about to launch a fashion blog. A backpack that’s more designer than functional. Another one in a sweater, oversized on purpose.

Of course it’s allowed. There’s the school’s logo—embroidered in like a stamp of approval.

Don’t get me started on the girls. We’ll get a headache.

Sofia and I? We’re wearing the official uniform. The one on the school’s website. Which is code for scholarship student, incoming.

Harper once accused the scholarship kids of wasting the school’s money, or something equally awful. As if they don’t have the same rights as the ones with daddies who own hedge funds. I disagreed. We had a fight about it.

Because seriously? School—no matter how prestigious—should be free. Education should be free. It’s a basic human right. People need—billionaires, millionaires, rich people in general—to wrap their tiny little brains around that concept.

We have public schools, where it’s free, they say. But let’s be honest, it’s not the same. Not the same teachers. Not the same resources. Not the same opportunities.

It’s not fair.

I don’t realize I’ve gone completely still. Stopped in my tracks, quiet.

Sofia blinks at me, eyes wide. “Luce? Are you? One of them? You are wearing Prada.”

As if on cue, I look down to see them. Should I not have worn them? Too late.

“They’re fake,” I say, looking back up. I don’t even know why I’m lying. “And seriously, if I were one of them, you think I’d be walking? Please. I’d be too busy showing off my Ferrari.”

“Really?” Sofia doesn’t sound convinced.

“Really,” I shrug. “My mom sells bread. I’m pretty sure Prada is a luxury I can’t afford. Especially not for a pair of loafers.”

“But they don’t look fake to me.”

“What?”

It makes me look down to see the loafers again. How do people even tell the difference between real and fake ones? Is it because they’re shiny? I know mine is not fake. But that’s not the point.

“Yeah, Luce. I’m telling you—those look legit,” Sofia gives me a look as I look back up. “You sure they’re not?”

“They’re not.”

“You’re telling me the knockoff’s better than the original now?”

One question. How did we even go from talking about school to my loafers? All in the blink of an eye?

“I didn’t say that,” I stutter. “They just look that way because my mom washes them every day. She’s kinda obsessed with appearances. They’re cheap, but if you take care of them, they look expensive. You know. Like furniture.”

“Furniture?” Sofia repeats.

“Yeah,” I say quickly. “Furniture. The knockoff kind? Sometimes looks way better than the designer stuff. You ever seen those videos?”

“You literally just disagreed that the knockoff can’t be better than the original, but now you’re agreeing with me?”

“I—what?” I manage.

Then I see Sofia’s face shift. There it is. She’s laughing. Like she just watched one of those ridiculous cartoons. No offense because I love them too. But what the hell is going on?

“You should’ve seen your face,” Sofia says, still laughing. “I’m just messing with you, Luce. I wouldn’t even know the difference between real and fake.”

My face probably looks horrified.

Sofia nudges my arm. “Honestly, it checks out. If you were one of them, you wouldn’t be walking with me. Or walking, period. And definitely not wearing that uniform. I mean, the school’s logo alone costs, like, half a paycheck. Briar Hall isn’t exactly subtle about their old-money nonsense. But hey, at least they’re generous with their scholarships.”

“Yeah. Definitely.”

I don’t really know what to make of this situation, so I laugh.

“Come on. I’ll help you find your class, Luce. First day nerves are bad enough without getting lost. What class are you starting with again?”

“Thank you, Fee. It’s—” I pause. And before my brain can stop me, I continue with something that’s not even an answer to her question. “Fee, I—I don’t have a dad.”

Sofia, who’d been looking down at my loafers, looks at them again. Like she’s hoping another look might magically tell her if they’re real or fake. Her mouth opens and closes like she’s not sure what to say. Honestly, same.

I don’t even know why I said that.

Sofia’s eyes find mine. “Oh. Shit. I’m sorry.”

Yeah. Right. That’s probably the right reaction to something ridiculous I just blurted out.

Good job, Lucy. A point for making it a whole fifteen minutes before getting weird.