We must have walked this corridor a thousand times, but today it feels different, knowing it’s one of the last times we’ll do it. We emerge into the grand hall at the heart of the school. It sits below ground level, with overlooking balconies tucked into the alcoves, making it feel twice as big as it looks from the outside. The summer sun blazes in through the huge skylight in the ceiling as we descend the ornate stone staircase to join our classmates below. It’s a little quieter than usual because all the Year Twelves went home last week, but there’s still enough of a buzz of gossip to make the room feel full.
Usually we sit wherever we want, but today the hall is divided, the two houses sitting at long tables on opposite sides of the room. Huge plates of food are laid out family style. They’ve gone all out on the catering today, and yet nobody’s really eating.
‘You OK, Bec?’ Chase says as we find our friend staring into the glass cabinet that runs the perimeter of the room. It’s full of hundreds of medals, trophies and ribbons, proudly celebrating a hundred years of academic and sporting achievement.
‘Sorry,’ she says, snapping out of her trance. She’s wearing blue and white shorts – the colours of Sycamore – with a matching crop top, her black hair tied back in a pony. ‘I just can’t believe this was two years ago.’
She points at a photo of her and Chase in their football kit, holding up a trophy. They’re grinning from ear to ear because they’d just won regionals. It was back when they were still room-mates, before Chase came out and moved over to the boys’ dorm. The two of them bonded over their athletic ability and being two of the few students of colour in an overwhelmingly white school. Bec was born in the UK with a mixed South Asian heritage, while Chase moved from Singapore when he was just a kid. They were roommates by chance, but best friends by choice.
‘I swear this literally happened yesterday,’ Chase says, studying the photo.
‘Remember the look on Tiffany’s face when we walked back in with the trophy?’
‘Seething.’ Chase laughs, glancing across the room at her. ‘Absolutely seething.’
Tiffany is sitting at the head of the Hawthorn table in her designer trainers, blonde hair scraped back into a ponytail so tight it negates the need for her monthly Botox. ‘Hottest boy’ Rhys sits on her left, every inch the ‘gay best friend’ she patronizingly describes on Instagram. He’s 6 foot 3 and all muscle, with short brown hair, and dimples that his parents definitely paid for. Ethan sits on Tiffany’s right, the dutiful boyfriend, and she incessantly plays with his hair, as if marking her territory.