Uh, Brad? Mid-conversation?
Oh yeah. I put my completely reasonable amount of righteous Celine-hate aside and say something relevant. “I think Minnie’s gay.”
“What?” Jordan squawks. “Like, you have a feeling she’s gay, or—”
“As in, I heard she was gay.” Also, my gaydar is excellent and she’s giving solar-powered rainbow strobe lights, but I won’t mention that.
“Oh.” My best friend droops.
“Hey, I could be wrong. How do you know her, anyway?”
He sighs. “She’s in my Lit class this year. She said something this morning about, like, toxic canon and how literary gatekeeping being intertwined with heartless cisheterosexist white supremacist capitalism has poisoned Western creative culture.” Jordan’s usual monotone is ever so slightly animated, which means he’s foaming at the mouth with fascination.
“All right, Minnie Digby. I bet everyone loved that.” This school is not the most progressive. By which I mean: this school sits at the edge of a conservative borough and half of our classmates parrot everything their posh parents tell them.
“Mrs. Titherly wanted to strangle her,” Jordan says dreamily. Maybe he’s in love. Maybe Minnie’s bisexual like me, and he has a chance. After all, Jordan’s cute—I know some girls don’t like short guys but I’m hoping Michaela is too enlightened for that. In ten years’ time, I could be at their wedding telling a story about this moment.
I can see it now: my suit is impeccable and all my best-man jokes land perfectly. Celine is the maid of honor but she’s sadly absent because I snuck into her room and turned off the alarm on her phone. And then I locked her door from the outside.
I snort discreetly and tell him, “If you like the girl, say something.”
“Like what?”
“Like, ‘Hey, Minnie, I also hate Dickens. Let’s get pancakes.’?”
“Bruh. Not Dickens. Everyone loves Dickens.”
Well, that can’t be true. I had to read A Tale of Two Cities last year and almost clawed my own eyes out.
“Anyway.” Jordan is back to gloom. “I don’t know if I like her. I just wanna know what you think of her.”
“And then what? You write a letter to her parents asking if you can take her to a museum?”
He laughs. “Screw you.” The school bell shrieks, and we groan in tandem. “What d’you have next?”
“Philosophy.” Which it’s too damn hot for. Existential crises should be saved for rainy days; happy sunshine just undermines the whole vibe. “You’ve got a free period, right?”
“Yep.”
I beam at him. “Walk me to class, bestie.”
“Nope. I’ll see you at soccer practice.”
Ugh. “Jordan. We’ve talked about this. You cannot keep calling it soccer.”
He snorts. “Well, I’m not about to call it—”
As if on cue, a football whips through the weeping willow’s leaves and slams between us.
“Pack in the gossip, ladies,” Donno calls, jogging after it.
“Hey.” Jordan scowls. “Don’t call us that. You’re supposed to be the team captain.”
“Yeah, and I’m using motivational language to get you off your arse.” Donno holds out a hand to help me up. Being friends with him is like having a poisonous pet snake who loves you so much they only bite you once a year. When I was thirteen, he saved me from feeling like I was completely alone. Now I’m seventeen and he gets on my damn nerves, but he’s got my back, so I’ve got his. Even if he occasionally makes it difficult.
“You in Taylor’s philosophy class?” Donno asks as he hauls me to my feet.
“Yeah, why?”
“Me too.” He claps me on the back and jogs off to the rest of our group.
“I thought you were in different classes?” Jordan asks.
“We were last year.” Apparently, the schedule’s changed.
Even knowing that, I don’t put two and two together until I’ve trekked across campus and reached Mr. Taylor’s room. If Donno’s tiny Philosophy class has merged with mine, guess who I’ll be discussing Voltaire with this year?
Celine Bangura.
I stand in the doorway and stare at her like a creep. She doesn’t notice me because she’s talking to Sonam Lamba, so for once, I’m watching her smile instead of scowl. There’s some kind of rose-colored makeup on her chubby cheeks which stands out against her dark brown skin. Her braids are long and fine and pool on the table, almost black with a few neon-green strands that frame her face.
Basically, she looks the way she always does—like a terrible, horrible person who I absolutely can’t stand.
“Sorry,” she’s saying to Sonam, “I can’t. I’m busy Thursday night. Actually, you might want to look at this.” She riffles through her bag. “It’s for an enrichment program run by Katharine Breakspeare. Do you know her? You should come.”
Now, Sonam is a very cool girl, so I’ve never been able to figure out why she and Celine are friends. Celine’s judgmental; Sonam’s infinitely chill. Celine wants to be superior to everyone; Sonam is a violin genius with epic purple glasses who stomps around in these incredible goth boots, which makes her superior to Celine (who just stomps around). And finally, Celine thinks she’s the queen of the universe, which is why it’s pretty funny to hear Sonam tell her, “Nah.”
“But it’s going to be great,” Celine insists. “The BEP has an excellent reputation. If you get in, you could add it to your uni applications—”
Trust Celine to bring up university applications on the first day of school. I bet she’s only applying to Oxford or Cambridge or, like, Harvard, and she’s convinced she’s going to get in because she’s so smart and so special and—
“Ah, Bradley!” Mr. Taylor notices me, his apple cheeks flushed pink by the heat. “I do believe you’re the last passenger on our most noble voyage of philosophical discovery.”
Everyone looks up at me. I snatch my eyes away from Celine like she’s the sun. “Er, yeah. Hi, sir.”
“Well then,” he booms in a Shakespearean voice that doesn’t match his bony frame. “Come in, come in, don’t delay! Sit down, and let’s get started.”
Mr. Taylor’s a great guy, so I would love to do as he asks. But the only open seat is right next to Celine.
CHAPTER TWO
CELINE
If I’m going to study law at Cambridge next year (which I definitely am), I need at least an A in Philosophy. That’s the only reason I don’t climb out of Mr. Taylor’s window when I see Bradley standing in the doorway.
He looks at me and visibly winces, like I’m dog poo or something. His mate Donno, who is deeply annoying but usually easy to ignore (much like a gnat), snickers from across the room. “Bad luck, Bradders.”
My cheeks heat. With the burning hellfire of rage, obviously.
People like them—“popular” people who think sports and looks and external approval are a valid replacement for actual personality—ironically don’t have the social skills to deal with anyone outside their golden circle. I should know. Once upon a time, back when I was young and clearly going through some stuff because my decision-making matrix was severely off, I used to be best friends with Bradley Graeme.
Then he threw himself headfirst into the gelatinous beast that is popularity and was sucked away and transformed. Now he might as well be a slimy, shiny alien. I look him in the eye and let him see all my disdain.
Bradley discovers the tiniest fragment of a spine somewhere within himself, storms over, and sits down next to me. Actually, he throws himself resentfully into the seat and smacks me in the face with his deodorant. Or his aftershave. Or whatever it is that makes him smell so strongly of just-cut grass. School chairs aren’t wide enough to cope with my thighs, and he manspreads like a walking stereotype, so our legs bump for a literally sickening second before I snatch mine away.
“Celine,” Sonam whispers, leaning into my left side. “Stop looking at him like that.”
“Like what?” I whisper back, but I already know what she means. I have this small problem where my feelings leak out of my face, and my feelings are often intense.
“If he turns up dead tomorrow, you’re going to be arrested.” Considering Sonam’s permanently solemn expression, black-on-black fit, and the way her lanky limbs barely fit under the table, this is like receiving an ominous tarot reading from a goth spider.
“You guys are crap at whispering,” Bradley butts in, “just so you know.”
I jerk in my seat, appalled that he would have the gall to speak to me so casually. For God’s sake, we are enemies. There are rules to this sort of thing. He’s not supposed to address me unless he’s calling me a know-it-all or challenging me to a duel.
“Don’t blame me,” Sonam murmurs back. “It’s Little Miss Lungs over here.”
My jaw drops. “What is this betrayal?”
Bradley grins and ignores me completely. “Hey, Sonam.”