The Thursday after our first BEP expedition, I’m back in the Beech Hut (was school always this bland and gray?) trying to halt Minnie’s meltdown. “I’m sure you did amazing yesterday.”
“And I’m sure I didn’t.” Her voice is quiet because it’s midafternoon and the building’s at least half full, but she’s shouting at me in spirit if not in volume. Her eyes are wide. Her hair is especially big today and vibrating with panic. “I was about as graceful as a newborn giraffe.”
I blink. “Is that…bad, or…?”
She throws up her hands and sinks into a patented Michaela Digby sulk: crossed arms and a toddler-like scowl. Not that it’s unwarranted: Edge Lake is one of the best dance schools in the country, and Minnie’s been nervous about her audition for months. “I’m doomed. Mr. Darling was right. They’re going to reject my application, and I won’t have the grades for a proper degree—”
“Dance is a proper degree,” I say firmly.
“—and I’ll die alone under a bridge. Probably before twenty-five.”
I like Mr. Darling (kind of) but if he doesn’t stop being so negative all the time, he’s going to send us all into a collective depression. “Rubbish. You must be hungry. Do you want my emergency Mars bar?”
“I’m in turmoil, Celine,” she growls. “How could anyone eat at a time like this?”
I shrug and take the chocolate bar out of my pencil case. “Suit yourself.”
She snatches it out of my hand. “I didn’t say no.”
“Good. Now, Michaela.” I’m supposed to be answering comments on my latest TikTok (reviewing a selection of mood rings from various questionable internet stores), but I lock my phone and put it facedown to show her I mean business. “I don’t want to hear another Mr. Darling quote out of your mouth,” I tell her seriously. “Okay? Is that the energy you want to sully your consciousness with? Mr. Darling’s?”
Minnie shakes her head and takes a bite of the Mars bar.
“I should think not. No wonder you felt giraffe-like yesterday! His bad attitude was poisoning your mind.”
She nods, a little more hopeful. “That’s true. That’s very true. I’m not a giraffe. It’s all his fault.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You are a swan. A beautiful, beautiful swan. Like Normani.”
“Yes,” she murmurs. “It’s okay, Michaela. You are a Normani swan.”
I pat her shoulder. “Now, why don’t we walk into town and see if Sonam and Peter are still at Starbucks?”
Minnie brightens up like a lightbulb. “Frappes?” she asks around a mouthful of caramel.
“Frappes.”
“Celiiiiine. You’re the best.” She gives me a chocolatey kiss on the cheek. I wipe it off, pack up my things, and we head out, walking past my latest conspiracy theory.
Bradley Graeme is sitting at Top Table, as always. And he’s flawless, as always, with his twists shining and his clothes immaculate but effortless, and an adorable (objectively speaking, I mean) furrow between his eyebrows as he highlights the crap out of what appears to be a history textbook. Since we got back to school, we’ve barely spoken because I no longer know how to speak to him. I should be desperate to prove my who-is-Bradley-really theory, but I’m not sure which outcome I want. If he’s always been the best friend I remember, that means—
But if the way we were during the Sherwood expedition wasn’t real—
My stomach churns.
So that’s us these days: near-silent. No arguments in Philosophy, no bitchy comments in the halls. You’d think we were ignoring each other, but whenever our eyes meet, he gives me this tiny, tentative smile and says: “Hey.”
And I reply, helplessly, “Hey.”
And then we lapse into a silence I don’t know what to do with.
Which is why I’ve decided to just focus on school.
Unfortunately, Minnie has followed my gaze and there’s a speculative gleam in her glitter-adorned eyes. “Are you ever going to tell me how the forest thingy went?”
“I did tell you,” I say firmly. I told her it was fine. “Are you ever going to tell me why you’ve been texting Jordan Cooper all day?”
She smiles sunnily, her earlier mood evaporated. “Well, he’s in my English class. And since his best friend’s been acting weird and my best friend’s been acting weird…”
“Brad’s acting weird?”
“Brad, is it?” she repeats, pouncing like a panther in sparkly Doc Martens. “I see. Fighting off bears in the woods must forge a powerful bond.”
“There are no bears in England, Michaela.”
“Then what’s with the nickname?” she asks.
“Bears,” I confirm. “There were so many bears. We were inundated.”
“Yeah,” she says dryly. “I bet.”
I clutch the straps of my rucksack tight as we pass slowly by Top Table. I don’t care if Brad says anything. I mean, I don’t mind if he does, but if he doesn’t, it’s really no skin off—
He looks up from his textbook. “Hey, Cel.”
If I smile, the way he does so naturally, people might infer something pathetic and needy that screams ABANDONED EX–BEST FRIEND DESPERATE TO BE REINSTATED, which is honestly light-years from the truth. I have a best friend and I love her. The way I was with Brad back then…I don’t want it back.
But I don’t want to brush him off, either, so I nod and reply, “Hey, Brad.”
Unfortunately, he’s not at his table alone. The popular crowd is largely present and accounted for, from Jordan Cooper to Max Kill-Me-Now Donovan. He sits at the head of the table like a king, one overbearing arm around Isabella Hollis’s slender shoulders. When Brad talks to me, Donno’s colorless lizard eyes narrow. He lets go of Brad’s ex-girlfriend, turns in his seat, and says with a smiling earnestness that couldn’t be more fake, “Hey, Cel. Are you okay?”
I falter. What’s his game? Despite being a notable flea on the hide of the school ecosystem, Donno is usually sneaky when making his most obnoxious comments. “Yeah?” I say finally.
He pouts and touches his cheek, all curious sympathy. “Looks like you have some kind of rash there.”
Ah. I can only assume he’s talking about my freckles.
Yes, my fake freckles. I know, I know. They’re cute, okay? Everyone does it. Isabella Hollis is sitting right next to him with cheeks bright pink like she’s been slapped and brown eyeliner splotches across her nose that are nowhere near as artful as my (incredibly subtle and totally realistic) few dots, but I’m the one everyone’s staring at. I’m the one Donno is sneering at. I straighten my spine—
“Fuck off,” Michaela snaps before I can get there.
He holds up placating hands. “Whoa, whoa. What did I do?”
“Nothing,” I tell him coolly. “Ineffectuality is your defining trait.” Hardly my most scathing comeback, but Minnie snickers loyally. I should leave now; I should sweep out of here without a backward glance. It’s what I usually do, because even looking at people for too long suggests you care, and I don’t. I don’t care about anyone or anything but the people I love and the accolades I’ll win over the course of my life.
So why does my icy gaze wander across this table to Brad?
On the way, I see a few surprises. I was expecting a sea of snide faces to match Donno’s, but half the people at his table haven’t even glanced up from their phones. Of those who have—Isabella seems slightly confused, or torn, or something wishy-washy that I have no time for because she was born with a spine, she got it for free, why should I care if she pretends it doesn’t exist? Jordan is throwing Donno a look so filthy I’m surprised no one in the vicinity has died, and Brad—
Brad has put down his history textbook and is saying, “Max. Don’t be a dick.”
BRAD
When I was younger, I decided I would never lose a friend again.
Growing apart is one thing—but that gut-wrenching shift of loving someone today and hating them tomorrow? I couldn’t do it twice. Couldn’t even stand the thought. So I vowed to stick by the people who stuck by me, because life is about learning not to repeat your mistakes.
But the older I get, the more I realize mistakes are complicated.
Me and Donno have been mates for years now and I never thought of him as a bad guy. He always makes mean comments, yeah, but only to his friends, and we don’t really mind because we all know why. We’ve been to his house. We’ve heard how his dad talks to him and we know that his mother is gone. So maybe Donno is a bad guy, but trust me; he could be so much worse.
The thing is, I wish he would be better.
He looks sharply at me after that dick comment. “What’s your problem?” he asks, half laughing, playing it down. “It was just a question.”
I remember what Celine said to me in the forest: What the hell was someone like me going to do, sitting next to Max Donovan? I thought she was calling him boring. “What’s your problem?” I demand. There are little sparks flying off the edge of my voice like a blacksmith forging a sword.