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Beside me Julian has leaned back in his chair, and I'm so completely aware that he is still looking at me. “Nice to meet the real you, Ellise.”

Not Bow-Peep.

Ellise.

I don’t respond because I don’t trust what would come out if I did.

My bow is still on the floor. I refuse to bend down and pick it up.

I am going to kill Julian Thorne. Or, maybe spontaneously combust in this chair.

At this point, either outcome would be a relief.

2

Julian

Mathias is discussing harmonic dissonance with the enthusiasm of a man who has been discussing harmonic dissonance for thirty years and has made his peace with it.

I am still slightly drunk and am not making my peace with it.

My head is fucking pounding.

It’s Josh’s fault. The one drink—which we knew was never going to be, became several that ended with us leaving Stave at two in the morning. That was already a questionable decision, but what happened after, back at the townhouse with Nancy was pure recklessness.

And now I am here. Belrose Academy, Upper West Side. Manhattan. A century old building nestled into one of the most expensive streets in New York City. I have had approximately one hour of sleep, my stomach is making its feelings known, and I am a few sentences away from putting my head on this desk and letting them file whatever grievance they like.

Fuck it.

But then there’s her.

Six inches to my left, rigid enough to snap is Ellise Vance, Belrose’s ‘Golden Girl.’ The type of put-together that takes enormous effort and is designed to look effortless. She isn’t just trying to be perfect, she is suffocating under the intense weight of it. She’s been staring at the board with a ferocity that borders on fucking psychotic since the moment I sat down, and I know without looking that she is totally aware of every single thing I am doing.

She always is.

That’s the thing about Ellise Vance. She works so incredibly hard at not looking at me. Maintaining that level of composure must be exhausting. I watch her in my peripheral vision, looking for a crack, anything—some form of emotion would do. But there seems to be nothing beneath the ‘perfectness’ of her.

She is pretty. Genuinely, pretty. Irritatingly pretty.

Bright blue eyes, long wavy chestnut hair, the kind of look that makes people assume that she is an angel who can do no wrong. I noticed that the first week of first year, and I have been finding reasons to dismiss it ever since. Nobody can be that perfect.

But then there are the outfits. God. The outfits. Plaid skirts that are always the right length, just above the knee, ribbed tops, corset dresses and knitted jumpers over collared shirts, and these awful block heeled, patent leather boots.

And then, there is the bow. There is always the bow.

It’s perfectly tied and sits in her hair, always immaculate. The irony of it is not lost on me. She is a violinist. She plays with a bow. She wears a bow. The entire Ellise Vance experience is, apparently, bow-themed. The first time I noticed it, I thought it was fucking hilarious.

The idea arrived fully formed and ready to go, and I deployed it immediately, because the look on her face the first time I said Bow-Peep was the most satisfying thing I had witnessed at Belrose in those first few weeks.

She hates it. Everytime I use it, she pretends she can’t hear me.

It’s pathetic and childish, but I use it anyway. It’s my nickname for her.

I reach out and flick her bow. I know what I’m doing. The question is why I keep doing it. Why, in a room full of people who give me their attention, do I keep directing my own back to her—the one person who responds to me with pure disgust. She obviously hates me.

“Miss Vance. Mr Thorne.” Professor Mathias announces.

I lean back as Golden Girl freezes beside me.