“Sorry, what?” I splutter. “A party? You?”
“Will you lower your voice?”
Good point. I continue winding her up at a lower volume. “An illicit, illegal, after-hours—”
“It’s not illegal, Bradley, come on.”
“We can’t be in each other’s rooms after curfew,” I remind her.
“Yes,” she says tightly, “I realize that. But Zion says they can get a cake from Tesco Express for after dinner, but anything more is out of the question because then everyone would need one for their birthdays. Obviously I said no because that sucks, and anyway, I don’t want to invite everyone—”
Ah, the sheer Celine-ness of that statement. Some things never change.
“—so I thought we could just have a very small but very good secret surprise party, except I don’t go to that many parties and obviously you do.” Her tone implies that my regular presence at social gatherings is unspeakably disgusting, but I let that slide.
“Let me get this straight. You—you—are planning to break the rules to make sure Aurora has a decent eighteenth birthday. And you’re asking me to help.”
Celine is wary again, like I might laugh, or refuse, or bite her. I’m not going to do any of those things. I couldn’t if I wanted to, because I’m too busy grappling with this unwelcome reminder of what a good friend she can be. She doesn’t care about people easily, but once you’ve got her, you’ve got her.
Until you give her up.
There’s a hollow space in my stomach that feels a lot like regret.
“Well?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
“I don’t know,” I say, folding my arms, drawing this out. She wants my help. She wants my help. “What’ll you give me in return?”
“Here.” She opens her hand and blows softly across her palm. I feel her breath against my cheek.
The hollow in my stomach sort of…hops, like a little kid on a playground. Am I breathing loud? Or is it just the trapped air in this tent? “What…what was that?” I ask. My tongue feels heavy.
She smiles, so sweetly. “Those were all the fucks I had to give, Bradley.” Then she shows me her middle finger and goes to crawl out of the tent.
I’m laughing so hard, I can barely speak. “Of course I’ll help. Celine! Come on, come back.”
The miracle is, she does.
CHAPTER SEVEN
CELINE
What does not-enemies even mean? Clearly it’s a matter of opinion, but I know my stance: there’s a lot of people in this world, and you can’t just categorize them as yes or no, friend or foe. There must be shades, gradients, in-between phases, because absolute trust leads to absolute heartbreak. You can’t pull the rug out from under me if I’ve barely stepped on it in the first place.
All of which is to say, Brad and I might be not-enemies, but that doesn’t mean we’re friends. I should keep him well beyond arm’s length.
Instead, I asked him to arrange a party.
Minnie: …You asked WHO?
Celine: Well he’s the only person I know here!!! I had no choice!!!!!!
Minnie: FT me it’s urgent
Celine: NO. I will see you next week Michaela
Minnie: WHAT IS IN THE WATER OVER THERE
I don’t know! It just happened! The last party I organized was Michaela’s seventeenth and all I had to do was get us tickets to an under-eighteens night at Rescue Rooms and buy her some birthstone jewelry. I think she had a good time at the club, but there’s no Rescue Rooms in the woods, and I don’t have time to buy Aurora a birthstone—
And Brad goes to parties constantly, according to a few clips I might have accidentally seen on a friend of a friend’s Instagram Story, so asking for his help made sense. Letting him take over the entire thing completely, however, makes no sense at all.
Now it’s Friday night, I have no idea what the plan is, and I’m trying to explain to Aurora why she shouldn’t take her makeup off yet even though we’re both in our pajamas and it’s way past curfew.
“But I’ll get foundation on my pillow,” she says doubtfully.
“So don’t lie down,” I advise.
She looks at me like my head’s fallen off. “It’s bedtime, Celine.”
Well, yes, it is. And she seems pleased enough with the card I made her and the gluten-free cream cakes I managed to trade off of Mary (RIP to my sparkly chili-shaped hair slide), so perhaps the whole party idea is way OTT and I’ve made a mistake. I’m wondering how to tell Brad this entire thing is off when someone knocks very, very quietly at our door.
Crap. It’s too late. I cast a nervous glance at Aurora as I tiptoe to answer it. She is a Scorpio; I know she has hidden depths.
Hinges squeak, carpet sticks, and I grunt as I wrestle with the ancient handle. Then Sophie and Raj pop their heads into our room. I have very little idea what Brad’s planned (he’s been annoyingly secretive), but I assume these two are part of it, because Raj cranes his neck to look past me, lays eyes on Aurora, and grins. “All right, birthday girl?”
“What are you doing here?” Aurora whispers, getting up. “It’s well after curfew. We’re supposed to—”
“Live a little,” Sophie advises firmly. Her hair has given up on the sleek and glossy vibe, and her pajamas have Lilo and Stitch on the front, but nothing else has changed since we met during orienteering—she’s still intimidatingly athletic and exudes bad-bitch energy, and I love it. “Aurora, come on,” she says with authority, and after a moment’s pause and a questioning glance at me, Aurora does indeed come on.
I ignore a tiny wobble of rule-breaking anxiety and follow.
The corridor is dark, dashes of moonlight jumping through the infrequent windows. I can’t hear anything but the standard, ghostly howl that deserted woodland locations do so well. We creep and crab-walk through the halls, coming to a dorm near the back of the building, where Raj gives a soft, rhythmic knock like we’re sneaking into a speakeasy. The door creaks open to reveal a slice of warm light and Thomas’s thin, freckled face. “What’s that knock for?”
“It’s code,” Raj says.
“Code.” Thomas snorts like a very cut-glass-sounding horse. “Hey, happy birthday, Rory.”
“Erm,” Aurora says.
“Hi, Celine.” He grins at me.
I wince and attempt a wave. Then the door opens fully and…
For a second, my jaw drops and my heart rises. This is…this is so cute I might die. There’s a purple HAPPY BIRTHDAY banner strung up on the wonky curtain pole, blankets and pillows piled on the floor, pink and purple paper butterfly confetti everywhere. One of the beds is covered in cans of Coke and Sprite and packets of popcorn, and on the desk, there is a single can of gin and tonic beside a Tupperware box. Brad is perched on the second bed in blue, button-up pajamas and a beaming smile. He did this. Because I asked him to.
“Oh my God,” Aurora says, her voice a whisper. “Is this for me?”
Correction: I meant that Brad did this for Aurora, obviously. Well, good. She looks so happy, I raise my phone and take a picture—which, yeah, Celine, what a great idea: document your rule-breaking with photographic evidence. I honestly can’t stand myself sometimes.
But she’s really pretty when she smiles, so I take another one and then I take one of the whole bedroom for good measure.
“Is that alcohol?” Sophie demands.
“For legal reasons,” Brad says, “I can neither confirm nor deny.”
Raj says, “I had no idea Aurora’s birthday was an issue of legal contention,” and Aurora giggles.
Then Brad blurts out for absolutely no reason, “This was Celine’s idea, by the way.”
What? Why isn’t he taking credit? I glare at him, suspicious. He smiles sunnily back. Aurora’s nose turns fire-engine red and her eyes get very big and—
“Celine.”
—she holds out her arms and emotes all over me. I bear it heroically and try not to panic about liking her so much after less than a week of acquaintance.
The truth is, I realize, as we all curl up on the floor and the snacks are shared out, that I like almost everyone in this room too much. And by the way they talk to me and hand me the Vanilla Coke when I ask and so on and so forth, I think they…maybe…like me too?
It’s strange, because for me, building friendships usually takes a few months. And a great deal of exertion. And maybe a cappuccino or five to keep my energy up, and also, the people I befriend have to be okay with the fact that I am excessively sarcastic and frequently mean, which most people are not okay with at all.
So this whole situation? Way too easy.
“Celine,” Bradley says from beside me. “It’s a party. Stop glaring at the wallpaper.”
I try not to jump—when did he get off the bed?—and take a sip of my Coke. Everyone else is focused on Aurora. No one’s watching us. “This is…really great,” I whisper. “You did…good. Th-thanks.”
He leans in closer. He smells like the Dove soap my mum bought in bulk on sale last month. “What was that?”