Chapter 2: Weight of Silk

Reader Address: You might think it’s better to be special than to be ordinary. I used to think that too. But let me tell you something about being special: everyone notices you, but no one sees you. There’s a difference. It’s a difference that will destroy you if you let it.

The morning of my first day of junior year, I woke up to the light filtering through the curtains, pale and golden and indifferent. I lay in bed for a long moment, listening to the sounds of the house waking up around me—the soft footsteps of the staff in the hallway, the distant clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the muffled voice of my mother speaking on the phone somewhere in the vast expanse of the estate.

I didn’t want to get up. I didn’t want to face another day of being the doll.

But I had no choice.

The door opened, and the staff filed in. Wendy was at the front, as always, her expression professional and kind. She smiled at me. “Good morning, dear. Ready for your first day?”

Ready. I’d never been ready for any day. But I nodded, because nodding was what I did.

The ritual began. The bath, the drying, the lotions and powders. The hair, the makeup, the endless layers of clothing. By the time I was dressed, I felt like I was wearing a suit of armor—beautiful and heavy and impossible to move in.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The dress was pale blue, with a fitted bodice and a full skirt. It was beautiful, elegant, expensive. It was everything my parents wanted me to be.

In the reflection, I was completely, utterly naked. My body was slim and young and vulnerable, untouched by the layers of fabric that covered it in reality.

I stared at myself for a long moment. Then I looked away.

Stratford Academy sat on a hill overlooking the Charles River, its Gothic Revival architecture a testament to the wealth and privilege of its students. The campus was sprawling and beautiful, with manicured lawns and ancient oak trees and buildings that looked like they belonged in a European cathedral.

I’d been attending Stratford since kindergarten. I’d never known anything else. But that didn’t mean I felt like I belonged.

The first day of school was always the worst. The other students would stare at me as I walked through the halls, my formal dress a stark contrast to their standard uniforms. They would whisper and point and laugh. They would call me names—Doll Face, Princess, Freak. I’d heard them all before.

I walked to my first class, my head held high, my expression blank. I’d learned to hide my feelings behind a mask of indifference. It was the only way to survive.

In the classroom, I took my usual seat—alone, isolated, surrounded by empty chairs. No one sat next to me. No one wanted to be associated with the freak.

I opened my textbook and stared at the pages without seeing them. I could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on me, and it was suffocating.

At lunch, I sat alone at a table near the back of the cafeteria. I’d stopped trying to make friends years ago. It was easier this way. Easier to be invisible than to be rejected.

I watched the other students as they laughed and talked and shared their food. They were ordinary in the best way—messy and loud and unselfconscious. They didn’t have to perform. They didn’t have to be perfect. They could just be themselves.

I wanted that so badly it hurt.

I pulled out my phone and pretended to text, just so I wouldn’t look completely pathetic. But there was no one to text. I had no friends.

That’s when I saw them.

Two girls at a nearby table, laughing at something on one of their phones. They were ordinary—not the prettiest, not the richest, not the most popular. But they were happy. They were connected.

I felt a pang of longing so intense that it nearly brought me to my knees.

I’d like to tell you that the next part was easy. That I mustered up the courage to go over and introduce myself. That I won them over with my charm and wit.

But that’s not what happened.

What happened was that they came to me.

It was a week after the first day of school. The September sun was warm, but the air carried the first hint of autumn. Stratford’s campus was buzzing with the energy of new beginnings—students rushing between classes, teachers organizing their rooms, the smell of freshly cut grass drifting through the windows.

I was sitting in the library, hunched over a history textbook, when I heard footsteps approaching. I looked up, and there they were—the two girls from the cafeteria.

The bold one spoke first. “Hi. I’m Ivana. This is Lilian. We’ve noticed you. You always look so ... alone.”

I felt my face flush. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

Ivana didn’t wait for me to respond. “Do you want to sit with us? At lunch, I mean. We’re not going to bite.”

I stared at her, waiting for the punchline. But it didn’t come. They were serious.

“Okay,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

That was the beginning.

Ivana and Lilian were my first real friends. They didn’t care about the dresses or the money or my parents’ status. They cared about me.

The first time I sat with them at lunch, I was terrified. I expected them to make fun of me, to reveal that it had all been a joke. But they didn’t. They just talked—about classes and teachers and the school’s terrible food. They made me feel like I was just another student, like I wasn’t different at all.