Not Just Like Us

chapter three

Oh so I finally got a chance to get a word in. "The Briarwood Eight account?" I act clueless but I already know who they are. They were Odette's former friend group before she died."

She nods excitedly, "Yeah, it's like this Instagram account that details all the parties and events you just need to go to! It also helps give updates on the Briarwood Eight, which I hear needs a slot to fill in." I know this. It's Odette's spot.

"You know what's crazy though?" Brittany's abnormally large eyes bulge at me. There's a long five second pause, so long that I've begun to become concerned with how quiet Brittany has been. "You look exactly like one of the girls that used to be on the account!"

"Oh, I hadn't noticed."

"Yeah, I think her name was Ophelia? O something."

"Odette?" I offer her.

"Yeah that's the one!"

I smile sardonically at Brittany, "That's my twin. She passed away last year."

"Oh," she falters; something akin to empathy passes over her face. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay."

"Well, look at it this way!" She is back in my face, bright smile and all, like a chipmunk on coke. Her red hair bounces in my face. "At least you're a shoo in! You're a legacy, they have to at least invite you to The Circle's mixer."

I feel out of breath and clueless, "The Mixer?"

She nods excitedly as she digs around the lambskin Chanel flap she carries and shows me her phone revealing an Instagram page where they detail an event for this coming Saturday. It's a mixer that will be set in an all-members club in London called Anabelle. It appears to be Invitation Only. I now know my next clue, which is to go to this event. Whether I can swing an invite is up for debate.

"Anyway, are you ready?"

"For what?"

"For the Hall meeting!" she says. "We're gonna meet the prefects for our hall!"

"Oh. Right," I say.

"Doesn't that sound so English? We have prefects," Brittany says. "I can't wait to meet the rest of the girls in our Hall."

She looks at me expectantly. "Yeah. Me neither," I said, forcing a smile.

-

The meeting is being held in the common room, which is on the ground floor. It's a magnificent room, one that seems to be more appropriate to be the drawing room of a grand estate. Priceless art flocks the walls as the girls in Boucheron Hall filter through. When I had come through earlier, the beautiful upholstered chairs and couches with gold trimmings had been placed all around the room, creating nooks for studying and one television-viewing area. Now all the seating has been arranged in a wide V, facing the TV. Dozens of girls crowd on and around the couches and chairs, chatting and laughing. The place is packed and the decibel level is staggering. A thick concoction of perfumes—and scented hair products and scented lotions—choke the air. Even though it's only August, someone has lit the fireplace.

Brittany bounces right into the room and takes a seat on the arm of one of the couches. The girl who happens to be sitting on the couch is the girl who had come into my room earlier that day. Lenore Evans. She is now blocked by the perfect view of Brittany's ass, rolls her eyes and pulls her arm in close to herself.

I decide to hover by the door. There seems to be less of a chance for these sharks to smell fear.

No chance, as Lenore catches my eye and winks.

"Settle down everybody, please have a seat!" A voice rings out. Everyone turns and watches her. My breath sharpens. It's Samara Pryor in the flesh- her halo of blond hair pulled taut in its bun, her tailored school skirt accentuating the curve of her body as she strides in, her pink lipstick expertly applied. Murmurs of awe follow her as she makes her way through the front of the room, her Head Girl badge glinting as the sun streams into the room. As the room quietens, she smiles and snugly pull in the clipboard and pen in her hand.

"I know it's tradition that your prefects are the one who go through the Hall Rules with you at the start of your term but as your Head Girl, I feel like it's uncouth if I did not acknowledge our guest of honor in this hallowed hall. Before any further introduction," her bright, sharp eyes rake through the student body, then at me. A smirk tug at the corner of her lips, "I'll tell you who I am and go over the rules."

She says the last bit like it's unnecessary. Of course everybody here already knows who she is. Her face is on the goddamn brochure. "My name is Samara Pryor. I'm your Head Girl for the class of 2023 and I first like to bid you the warmest welcome to Briarwood Academy."

She pauses and the whole room claps. I join halfway through awkwardly, following everybody along. In a way, she almost has a cult-like presence. Where she speaks commandingly and everyone listens, almost entranced.

"Now onto the rules. I know some of you have heard these before, but bear with me," Samara Pryor sighs, "I have to go over everything. First, let's talk about curfew."

What follows is a long litany of the rules and reguilations, all of which are already listed in the Briarwood Handbook in our dorms. Of course, I had thought that some of them were just for show— to make the parents feel like they were sending us to a nice, strict, no-nonsense school—but it turns out that they are all real and that the school took them very seriously. It's necessary that they'll have to sign in with prefects on the first floor every night before ten. After that, they aren't allowed to leave their floors without express permission from the prefects themselves. There are quiet hours every night from six until nine and they're not allowed inside the common room between classes. Guys are only allowed inside the dorm between the hours of six and nine each night with the doors wide open and then they are only permitted in the common rooms. Once she is done reading us the three-page-long list, Samara looks up at the group and grins at us.

"Now to our most distinguished guest, I would like to formally welcome this year's scholarship honor student. Please give her a round of applause, Miss Odelia Ming."

The whole room turns to look at me. Something — the fire maybe, its hissing and popping, the smell of its heat, its stark illumination — makes me think, for the first time in years, of the tarot cards. Ava's grim expression when she had seen Odette's fate. Like she knew she would die at Briarwood when she accepted the scholarship. You are going to get an opportunity of a lifetime.

Say no, Ava had told her. It's a warning sign, a red herring. Say no, turn back now. My dad's words are tumbling in my stomach. Another warning sign.

I just have the strangest feeling that I'm never going to see you again.

-

if you're getting that creepy crawly feeling let me know, i'd love to hear!