The Quiet Restoration of Charlie Carter [ON HOLD]

3 | Follow the leader

As I dawdle my way from the tram stop to school, the decorative scrollwork and spear-shaped finials of Crowther Hall's main gates loom before me in all their wrought iron glory. Above the distinctive school emblem of a rose entwined with a 'C' and an 'H', an engraved metal ribbon boldly declares: 'Virtus victrix fortunae'.

For the better part of five years, I've walked under that black and silver sign without giving it much thought. But this morning –six months since I was last here– it occurs to me that Crowther's motto is as much steeped in pure ancient Latin bullshit as it is in nineteenth-century tradition.

In real life, virtue is not the victor over fate. 

My family is proof positive of that.

Monday morning has dawned bright and oppressively hot, and like my grey and navy school dress and mandatory wool blazer, thoughts of Sophie chafe and itch in a way that's hard to ignore.

Every instinct tells me to run, and run I would, if not for Odette. She's leaning against the tuckpointed red brick fence, in the exact spot where we agreed to meet, and I still kind of owe her for the whole 'I-accidentally-swapped-spit-with-the-guy-you've-been-crushing-on' disaster.

As soon as she spots me, Dette swings her school bag over her shoulder and rushes to my side. "You look great, Char," she says, pulling me in for a quick hug.

She's totally lying. I saw myself in the bathroom mirror this morning and none of it was great. Months of not being hungry have hollowed out my cheekbones and dulled my ash blonde hair. My hazel eyes are flat and underscored by dark shadows of exhaustion; my freckles stand out like warning lights against pallid skin. I look like a zombie having a bad day and I know it. Odette knows it too but I think she's hoping that if she just keeps acting like things are normal, eventually they will be. I can't really blame her. Part of me is hoping for that too.

Grabbing my hand, Odette drags me down the drive towards the gothic, grey grandeur of the main school building and the old towering oak tree guarding its front doors. Correction – towards the oak and the fifty or so students congregated around it.

My pulse leaps with the first flutterings of pure panic. I'm not sure I can do this.

"You can do this, Char," Odette whispers fiercely like she can read my mind (and let's face it, she's Odette, so she probably can). "You have to. It's time." She tightens her grip on my hand and pulls me forward.

Officially, school doesn't start for another three days and most of the teachers aren't even back until tomorrow. But today is 'Leaders' Day' –that glorious Crowther tradition requiring this year's school, house and extra-curricular captains to spend our last day of holiday freedom talking uniform duty rosters, joint assembly agendas and co-school events with the leaders of our brother school, St Jude's.

Lucky, lucky us.

Before you go getting weird ideas about me being some sort of future trailblazer of the free world, let me assure you that I'm only here because my sister is not and because my best friend is the school captain. Yes, when she isn't drinking jelly shots and hooking up with amateur DJs, Odette is a model Crowther girl, loved by teachers and students alike. She's also a classical pianist, head of the debate team, and a fair to middling rower. If I didn't love her, I'd be forced to hate her on principle.