I’m still not telling her Dad’s involved, though. It couldn’t be more irrelevant. I mean, yes, there will be that celebration ball at the end of the program for Explorers and sponsors to mingle, but I doubt he’ll be there and if he is, he’ll be too busy vomiting with shame and regret to hold a conversation.
Giselle thinks I’m bonkers, committing to some experimental enrichment program in the woods, but there’s a scholarship and career connections on offer, and only the best are chosen, so here I am: proving once again that I’m the best.
I bear that in mind as I sink—and sink, and sink—into the saggy bed I’ve just been assigned at Sherwood Forest’s Visitor Cabin. This place is basically an old and underfunded dorm with dingy shared bathrooms and decorative logs stuck to the exterior. Across the room, a girl whose name might be Laura, or Aura, or possibly Rory (to say she mumbles would be an understatement) flicks blue eyes at me from beneath her shaggy hair, then looks away.
“Be careful,” Mum is saying on the phone. “Behave yourself. And stick with Brad.”
Oh, yeah. Bradley got in too.
I don’t groan at the reminder because I am very mature, but I do wrinkle my nose down at the dingy brown carpet.
“I know what you’re thinking”—Mum laughs like she can see my expression—“but he’s a good boy, and he’s more cautious than you. Take care of each other. Especially while your wrist is still healing!”
Yeah…about that “wearing a cast for six to eight weeks” thing? Apparently, it’s eight weeks for me. I’ll be free next Monday, a week after this expedition.
Bradley’s fault. Obviously.
“I mean it, Celine,” Mum says, turning stern. “I guarantee Maria is telling him the same thing.”
Not bloody likely. When we stepped off the coach twenty minutes ago, Bradley was already surrounded by people as always, grinning and relaxed, because he managed to make friends during the coach ride while I sat on my own listening to Frank Ocean’s Blonde and texting Michaela. I bet he’s chatting away to his little ginger roommate right now.
My roommate is glued to her phone with an expression that suggests she’s either Googling How to kill your BEP roomie and get away with it or reading really great fanfic.
“I’ll be good, Mummy.” By which I mean: I’ll try my best not to get killed in the night. “I have to go now, okay?”
“Okay, baby. I love you.”
“Love you too.”
Laura/Aura/Rory glances up as I put the phone down and mumbles, “Five minutes till we meet outside.”
I blink. “Are you watching the time for us?”
She shrinks into her gray hoodie. “Um…”
So she’s not a murderer; she’s just shy. Now I feel bad. “That’s…nice,” I clarify awkwardly.
Her smile has a lot in common with a wince.
The BEP has been a whirlwind so far. We hopped on a coach this morning, it took us basically up the road to Sherwood Forest, we were introduced to our supervisors (Zion is an Energizer Bunny with locs, and Holly is basically Kourtney Kardashian), and then we were told to pair off and given fifteen minutes to stow our stuff in our bedrooms and report for duty. I’m not sure how I ended up with Laura/Aura/Rory, but it probably has something to do with her being shy and me being…mutinously silent. In a very confident way. Obviously.
I try to make more conversation and, annoyingly, I find myself thinking of what Bradley would say.
Something obnoxious, probably.
But what comes out of my mouth is, “Cute nails.”
She examines the chipped purple polish, and her razor-sharp nose flushes pink. “Oh. I can never make it stay….”
“Well, who can?” I allow. “But it’s a nice color.”
Her nose blushes pinker. She smiles with a bit more warmth and a bit less terror. Success! I am practically a social butterfly.
“My name’s Celine, by the way,” I say, even though I already told her. I’m hoping she’ll reintroduce herself, and—
Yep. She sits up straighter on her own rickety bed, despite the heavy-looking purple duffel bag planted in her lap, and says, “I’m…Rora.”
Pretty sure I still did not hear that right. “Laura?”
There’s more nose blushing. “Aurora? Like in, er, Sleeping Beauty?”
“Ah. Sorry. That’s a pretty name.”
She snorts. “I mean, it’s…a name.”
I grin. I think we’re going to get on fine.
After some more chitchat about the lighting in here (fluorescent but still abysmal), the pillowcases (thank God we both brought our own), and the tiny desk crammed in under the window (that chair does not look stable; accidental injury is extremely likely), I tighten the silk scrunchie holding back my braids and we head out.
Unfortunately, we bump into Bradley in the hall.
“Celine,” he calls, peeling off from his new group of adoring fans (seriously, how does he find these people?).
I sigh, not slowing my steps as we wind through the narrow and twisty corridors. The cabin should be called the Warren. “What?”
“Slow down,” he says, practically skipping beside me. “I wanna talk.”
Aurora, based on her wide-eyed alarm, has correctly identified Bradley as Shiny and Annoying. “I’ll…see you outside,” she manages, and hurries off toward the open front door. I watch her escape with utter longing.
Then I turn on Bradley and put a hand on my hip. “Now look. You’ve scared off my roommate!”
He blinks, all big brown eyes and pouty lips. “Why would she be scared of me?”
This is such a ridiculous question, all I can do is throw my hands in the air and splutter, “For God’s sake. What do you want?”
“What’s your room like?” he asks.
“Shitty. Why?”
He sighs, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “I was hoping yours might be better so we could swap.”
This is so outrageous it quite literally steals my breath.
He continues to talk while I quietly asphyxiate. “Anyway, I wanted to talk about your roommate. You guys made friends?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just nods. “That’s good. She can keep an eye on you.”
My breath comes back all at once. “I beg your pardon?”
He shrugs. He’s wearing a Nike tracksuit, powder pink on the right side and baby blue on the left. “I made friends, too, so they can keep an eye on me.”
Okay, that’s making even less sense. “Once again,” I say, folding my arms over my chest, “I am forced to beg your pardon.”
“Aw, Celine,” he replies sunnily. “You don’t have to beg.”
This is the thing people don’t get about Bradley: he makes these earnest, slightly dim comments, and they genuinely do not realize he is being a total cow.
I narrow my eyes. “You know what? Since we’re talking, let’s make one thing clear.”
“Oh good,” he murmurs, “she’s making things clear.”
“While we’re here, Bradley Graeme, I do not know you.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Well, that’s gonna be awkward. I already told Thomas you were my cousin.”
“What?! Who the hell is— Why would you tell someone I’m your cousin?”
“He’s my roommate,” Bradley says, “and I told him that to explain why he should not ask you out.”
“What?” The word is so high-pitched, it’s possible I shatter my own eardrums.
Bradley winces. “What? We’re supposed to be looking out for each other!”
“What the fuck, Bradley?”
“You basically are my cousin!”
“I’m not your cousin, Bradley!”
He has the audacity to look annoyed, with his arms folded and this crease between his eyebrows that says I’m being unreasonable. “Well, whoever you are, you don’t want some guy chatting you up while you’re busy impressing Katharine Breakspeare!”
He is technically right—I can’t be bothered with distractions right now—but that just pisses me off more, because how dare he accurately guess what I do or don’t want?! “You do realize Katharine isn’t going to be here, right?”
“Fine,” he huffs. “Then you don’t want him chatting you up while you’re impressing Katharine’s holy representatives on earth.”
“That is not funny.” That was very funny. I hate him. “You are the most unbelievably arrogant—”
Someone clears their throat. Loudly. We both whip around to find the Energizer Bunny, Zion, waiting for us by the door with a disappointed expression and a leather-encased tablet. “You’re missing the introductory meeting, guys.”
Oh shit. First day, first meeting, and one of the supervisors catches me wasting time with Bradley Goddamn Graeme. Perfect. Just perfect. I am going to eat at least five sticks of broccoli at dinner as penance.
“Gosh, sorry,” Bradley says in the kind of sweet, genuine apology I have never managed to achieve (not since I turned ten anyway). My own voice sounds sarcastic at the best of times, never mind when following Bradley’s Earnest Angel routine, so I just wince and follow them outside, where the wind is doing its best to inject us all with thousands of tiny ice needles.