ONCE UPON a perfectly polished morning, I awoke beneath the blush-colored curtains of my four-poster bed, the kind that made you feel like a storybook princess had swallowed you whole. The morning sun spilled into my room like a nosy guest, drawing golden stripes across the velvet drapes and tickling my cheeks until I opened one eye.
Ugh.
Too bright.
Too early.
Too… perfect.
"Miss Alice," a soft knock tapped at the door like it was trying not to offend the wood. "Your breakfast is ready. Belgian waffles with lavender honey. Shall I bring it in?"
I groaned dramatically, throwing a satin pillow over my face like the tragic heroine I often imagined myself to be. "Give me five more minutes, Delilah. I need to mourn the death of my dream."
Delilah is one of my maids.
"Was it the one with Prince Theodore again?" she replied sweetly.
"No," I sighed. "This time, I was waltzing with Dwight Carrington. He almost looked at me."
"Almost?" She stifled a giggle. "That's progress."
I tossed the pillow aside and sat up, letting the silk sheets tumble around me like a waterfall of spoiled royalty. "Exactly. At this rate, he'll accidentally brush my shoulder by senior year."
Delilah entered with a tray that smelled like heaven and privilege. She placed it gently on my desk, her eyes sparkling with the kind of kindness I'd never had to earn. "He'll come around, Miss. You're radiant."
"I know, Delilah. Sparkly, expensive, and too much for the average man."
She chuckled. "Then maybe you need someone who can handle a little dazzle."
I smiled, imagining Dwight suddenly realizing that I was, in fact, the love of his life. Perhaps he'd dramatically stand on the cafeteria table and declare his love for me.
One can dream.
I slipped into my usual pastel pink dress—the one with the lace collar and pearl buttons. My accessories were carefully chosen: a glittery headband, matching pink socks, and a butterfly-shaped pin that sparkled whenever I tilted my head. It was a carefully crafted look called: Effortless Elegance with a Hint of Emotional Fragility.
As I twirled once in the mirror, satisfied with the amount of sparkle reflecting off the glass, I whispered to myself, "Today's the day he'll notice. He must."
I took the final dainty bite of my lavender-honey waffle like it was a performance piece. I dabbed the corners of my mouth with a silk napkin monogrammed with a golden "A", pushed back my chair with the softest creak, and stood as the morning sun kissed the pink satin of my dress. My slippers—fuzzy, pastel, and far too delicate for actual walking—padded lightly against the marble floor as I made my way downstairs.
The grand staircase spiraled like a scene from a movie. I imagined a string quartet playing as I descended—not literally, of course (they didn't arrive until Sundays)—but in my head, the music swelled just right. At the foot of the staircase stood the two most powerful people I knew.
My parents.
My dad, Alec, stood in his usual navy blue suit, tailored to perfection, his tie a strict red line down the center of his chest like an exclamation point. His posture was straight, arms folded behind his back as if he were posing for another magazine cover—"The Senator Who Means Business." His hair was salt-and-pepper now, but combed immaculately, not a strand out of place. He had a politician's smile: warm enough for cameras, but with eyes that always looked like they were calculating chess moves three decades in advance.
Beside was my mother, Eve. She wore a fitted cream-colored dress that looked like it belonged in a museum, not a foyer. Pearls glistened at her throat like captured moonlight. Her dyed blond hair was swept into a bun so sleek it looked painted on. She smelled like jasmine and judgment.
"Oh, there's my darling girl," she said in that polished tone of hers, as if every word had been pre-approved by an etiquette committee. "You look divine. Is that the new La Vie en Rose hairband?"
"It is," I replied with a smile, giving my head the tiniest tilt so it sparkled just right in the sunlight.
Dad looked at his watch. "Cutting it close, aren't we?"
"It's fine," I said breezily. "The school bell loves me. It'll wait."
He didn't laugh. He rarely did. Instead, he nodded toward the front door. "The car is ready. Charles will drive you."
At the mention of his name, our loyal driver appeared like a well-dressed ghost from around the corner. Charles wore his usual cap and matching gloves, his expression calm and unreadable. He always looked like he had just stepped out of a noir film, and I liked that about him.
"Thank you, Dad," I said sweetly, planting a kiss on his cheek, which he accepted with a brief pat on my shoulder—his version of affection.
Mom stepped forward and gently adjusted a strand of hair that didn't need adjusting. "Don't let your skirt wrinkle. First impressions matter."
"I've been making first impressions since I was five," I said.
"And yet some people still find ways to look sloppy," she replied, casting a meaningful glance toward the front page of the morning paper, where another politician's daughter had been photographed wearing sneakers. Tragic.
With one last twirl of my dress, I turned toward the door as Charles opened it. Outside, the sky was blue and expectant, the driveway sparkled with dew, and our long black car waited like a royal carriage. I glanced back at my parents—the poised power couple frozen in place like marble statues in an art gallery. Always elegant. Always composed. Always perfect.
And I…
Well, I was their masterpiece.
Their polished little pastel pearl.
At least, that's what I told myself.
Even if sometimes, I didn't feel like I belonged to them at all.
"Have a productive day, sweetheart," dad said, already halfway through checking his watch again.
"And remember, darling," mom added without looking up from her magazine, "it's not just about being the best. It's about appearing effortless while doing it."
I nodded, stepped outside, and smiled as the door clicked behind me.
***
The school courtyard shimmered in the morning sun, golden rays bouncing off polished cleats and the glistening biceps of teenage football players. It was what I liked to call the best part of the school day—when absolutely nothing educational was happening, and I could sip strawberry bubble tea while pretending not to watch Dwight Carrington toss a football like it held the secrets of the universe. I sat beneath the shade of the rose trellis with my two usual friends—Maribelle, who believed her eyeliner was a personality trait, and Cecily, who once cried when someone wore the same jacket as her. Both of them, like me, wore the uniform regulation with strategic flair: pink skirts shortened by half an inch, matching pastel cardigans, and personalized name pins because… obviously.
"Oh my gosh," Maribelle sighed, twirling a lock of her blonde hair, "Dwight looks so sweaty today. It's giving… rugged wilderness."
"He's totally peaking in high school," Cecily added with a dreamy smile. "But like, in a hot way."
I nodded, sipping the last bit of tapioca pearls from my cup. "He's basically a Greek god with better lighting. I'm giving it two weeks until he realizes I'm the only girl in this school who understands his tortured soul."
"He doesn't even know your birthday, Alice," Maribelle whispered.
I shot her a look. "That's part of the mystery. He'll want to find out."
But before I could dive into another daydream where Dwight carries my books and defends my honor in front of the lunch line, the bell rang.
Ugh. Reality.
We gathered our things and made our way to Modern World History, the most tolerable class thanks to Mr. Hartford's soft voice and unusually sharp jawline for a man who taught about treaties and revolutions. I flounced into my seat, front row center, of course, and crossed my legs with practiced grace. Maribelle and Cecily sat behind me, already scribbling hearts into the margins of their notebooks.
Just as I was about to recite my usual charming "Good morning, Mr. Hartford," the door opened—and he wasn't alone.
"Class," he announced, straightening the collar of his tweed blazer, "we have a new student joining us today."
I blinked.
The room blinked. And into the fluorescent glow of Room 3-B stepped what could only be described as a thundercloud in human form.
She wore all black. Black boots. Black skirt. Black blazer. Black ribbon in her hair. Her hair, by the way, was raven-dark and pin-straight, hanging over one eye like she had something to hide—or like she'd just walked out of a Victorian ghost story. Her eyes were sharp, her lips pale, and her skin looked like it hadn't seen the sun since birth. She didn't smile. She didn't wave.
She just… nodded.
"Please welcome Harriet. Harriet Withers."
"Is that… velvet?" Maribelle whispered behind me.
"She looks like she reads Latin for fun," Cecily whispered back.
I tilted my head and narrowed my eyes. Harriet didn't even glance at me. Not once. She just walked to the empty seat in the back of the room and sat down like the rest of us weren't even there. Strange. So very, very strange.
"She's kind of… spooky," I whispered, loud enough for the nearby desks to hear.
"She's kind of iconic," someone whispered back.
Mr. Hartford cleared his throat. "Now that we're settled, let's proceed with the pre-test I mentioned yesterday. Please answer all questions honestly and without assistance. No pressure—it won't be graded."
After the papers were being disseminated, I filled in each answer with the confidence of a girl who had flashcards organized by historical era and color-coded sticky tabs on her textbooks. The French Revolution? Child's play. Post-war treaties? I practically wrote one in a dream once. When I turned in my paper, Mr. Hartford glanced at it and smiled. "Excellent work, Miss Whitlock."
I beamed. Praise was my oxygen.
When the rest of the class submitted theirs, Mr. Hartford took a moment, scanning a few sheets with raised brows and nods.
"I must say," he said, looking impressed, "several of you did quite well. In fact, one of you received a perfect score."
I sat straighter. Of course I did. Naturally.
He continued. "Near-perfect, Miss Whitlock. Very impressive. However…"
However?
"…there was one paper with a slightly higher mark."
The class murmured. My stomach did a strange, unpleasant twirl. He held up a single sheet of paper with a small, deliberate smile. Then our teacher looked at Harriet with a smile as the room fell silent.
My mouth may have dropped open, just slightly, but I recovered with a very dignified, "…Really?"
Harriet didn't react. Not a smirk. Not a twitch. She sat there like a marble statue—dark and unreadable—as if beating me on a test meant absolutely nothing to her. It was offensive.
Harriet? Her?
I turned slowly to look at her. She sat at the back of the classroom, alone. She hadn't spoken a word since the start of the period. Her eyes were on her desk. Her posture unbothered. As if none of this mattered. Mr. Hartford handed her back the test. She took it without a word. Without looking up.
I faced forward again, but the blood had begun to drum in my ears. A few more students turned their heads toward her. One or two whispered something unintelligible. I didn't hear what they said. I was too busy replaying the announcement in my mind.
She had scored higher than me.
I mean, it wasn't just the score. It was the way it contradicted everything I believed about my place here. I had built a version of myself—a standard—and Harriet, the girl with dark eyeliner and even darker moods, had upended it before even finishing her first day.
When the bell rang, I stood too quickly. I collected my books without speaking and waited, pretending to adjust the strap of my bag until the classroom emptied. Harriet left without a word, sliding past the rest of us like smoke. She didn't meet my eyes. When the last student stepped out, I approached Mr. Hartford.
He was organizing his folders and didn't look up when I said his name.
"Mr. Hartford?"
"Yes, Alice?"
I hesitated. Not because I didn't know what I was going to say, but because I wanted to choose my words carefully.
"I just wanted to ask about the pre-test."
His brows lifted slightly, and he offered me a half-smile. "It was well done. Like I said—excellent."
"Right," I said. "But… I was just wondering. About Harriet's score."
That smile of his faded just slightly. "What about it?"
"Well," I said, carefully, "she's new. She didn't have the textbook yet. And she hasn't been in class for any lectures."
"True," he said, folding his hands. "But it was a diagnostic. Based on prior knowledge. Not material we've covered yet."
"Still," I added quickly, "it's unusual, isn't it? To get a perfect score without context?"
Mr. Hartford gave me a look—not stern, but not amused either. A measured expression. "Are you suggesting she cheated?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
Yes. That was what I was suggesting. But hearing it out loud felt clumsy.
"I just think it's odd," I said. "I mean… no one else scored that high. Not even me."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Maybe Harriet is just that smart."
The words landed heavier than they should have. Not because of what he said—but because of how plainly he said it. As if the idea shouldn't surprise me. As if I should accept it as fact.
I looked down at my test paper in my hands. My proud 97. The handwriting I'd worked on since I was nine. The notes I took in pastel highlighters. The margin doodles that made it mine. Maybe Harriet was that smart. But the thought made something small and sharp twist inside me.
I nodded, too quickly. "Of course. I just… wanted to ask."
Mr. Hartford gave a small smile—warmer now, but clearly ready to move on. "Try not to let it bother you."
I smiled back, because that's what I was supposed to do.
Then I turned and left the classroom.
The hallway was already mostly empty. Sunlight poured in through the high windows, painting squares of gold onto the floors. My footsteps echoed faintly against the tiles as I walked.
***
The ride home was unusually silent. Charles usually played soft classical music—something dramatic with violins, preferably—but today the car hummed in a respectful hush, as if even the speakers were afraid to disturb my bubbling fury. I stared out the tinted windows, arms crossed, the weight of a humiliating morning still burning in my perfectly blushed cheeks.
It was like something out of a tragic short story.
"She probably spends her nights whispering to skulls," I muttered under my breath.
"Pardon, Miss?" Charles asked politely from the front.
"Nothing," I snapped, before softening.
We passed by the same rows of manicured hedges and grand gates that marked the way to our estate. A towering mansion of old white stone, trimmed with ivy and flanked by iron lampposts that probably cost more than most people's college tuition, came into view. It looked like something from a presidential fairytale. A castle built on policies and promises. The entrance hall then welcomed me with its usual stillness. Oil paintings watched from their gilded frames. Light streamed down from the stained-glass dome overhead, casting soft color onto the marble floor. Everything was too perfect. Too still. Too hollow.
I climbed the staircase without a sound.
By the time I reached my bedroom, the door felt heavier than usual. I didn't slam it. That would be childish. But I did close it more firmly than necessary—a gesture of punctuation, not tantrum. Inside, everything was as I had left it: symmetrical and curated. The bed was made, the air faintly floral. My uniform hung from its hook, still smelling of faint jasmine and old pencil lead. My books were stacked precisely on the desk.
I dropped my bag by the edge of the vanity and sat on the bed. For a moment, I just sat. The events of the day played themselves back in frustrating detail—Harriet's name on Mr. Hartford's lips, the silence in the room, the surprise in everyone's eyes when they realized someone had outscored me.
Her.
I rubbed my hands together, pressing my palms until the skin blanched. The heat in my face hadn't left. My thoughts were orderly in appearance but chaotic underneath, like papers shuffled into a drawer without reading. How could she have known all the answers? She'd only arrived this morning.
I closed my eyes. Took a breath. Exhaled slowly.
And then, for reasons I couldn't explain, I sighed. Quietly. No drama. No gasps. Just the quiet unraveling of a tightly wound thread. Pressure pressed from the corners of my eyes and slid down, unchecked. I wasn't even angry at first—I was confused. The kind of confusion that bruises pride more than it touches logic.
What was it about Harriet Withers that unsettled me? Was it just the test score? Or was it the way she seemed to occupy space without effort—silent, composed, unbothered by the noise of the world?
And yet… she had looked at me. Once. Briefly. With those sharp, steady eyes that made you feel like you'd been seen more than you wanted to be.
I wiped at my cheek with the back of my hand, irritated by my own reaction.
But then—
A noise. Soft. Barely there. Like the brushing of glass against wood.
I looked up. Across the room, on my nightstand, my snow globe was trembling. Not rolling, not tilting. Just… vibrating in place. My breath caught. I blinked once. Twice. The perfume bottle beside it was moving too, the crystal cap rattling slightly against its base. My jewelry tray, where my rings and hairpins rested, began to hum with a fine tremble. Like everything on the surface was caught in a current I couldn't feel.
I sat perfectly still. The floor wasn't shaking. The ceiling wasn't creaking. I looked toward the chandelier—motionless. No sway. No draft. Nothing else moved in the room. Only the items on the nightstand.
And then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped.
I rose, cautiously, and crossed the room. The air felt… different here. Thicker, almost. Like the space near the nightstand held a charge. I reached out a hand, hesitant, unsure of what I even expected to feel.
Nothing.
Just still air. Ordinary objects. Everything exactly where it belonged.
I stood for a moment longer, waiting—almost hoping—that it would happen again. That I hadn't imagined it. But everything was still. The globe. The perfume. The tray. All unmoving now. I sat back on the edge of my bed, eyes never leaving the nightstand.
What was that?