Celine: virginity is a social construct and I have opted out
Celine: wait.
Celine: HE’S NOT MY BOYFRIEND MICHAELA
Minnie: hahahaha ok celine
I roll my eyes and close our chat because we’re on the bus to Glen Finglas for the final expedition in Scotland—and after the last few months of normal life, I need to get back in the BEP zone. I need to be at my Breakspeare Explorer best. I need to not have a heart attack, and if Michaela keeps accusing me of a relationship I can’t have, it’s highly likely cardiac arrest will follow.
The fact is, Brad and I are not dating. We have been hanging out a lot, and touching a lot, and it’s true that I am unfortunately in love with him, but that doesn’t make us dating. I decimated any chance of that. It’s February, which means I have a mere seven months to get over this teeth-aching obsession with him, take my frankly ludicrous feelings of love down the much safer avenue of loving friendship, and get used to the fact that come October, we’ll be too far apart for our secret, 100 percent platonic make-out sessions to continue.
Minnie fantasizing about things that will never happen really doesn’t help.
Aurora’s sitting next to me drawing a scary-good picture of a thistle in a leather-bound notebook with thick, creamy pages, so I open my camera app and turn my attention to her. “Hey, Rory.”
She clocks my phone and holds her open scrapbook in front of her face. “Celiiiiine.”
“What? You look cute!”
“No, I don’t. The presence of any camera within a ten-meter radius makes my facial muscles freeze in a very awkward position. This is a fact,” she says firmly. “It’s been scientifically tested.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, then duck down so I can get a shot of the Great British countryside passing us by.”
“Of course,” she says. “I live to serve you. My spine is foldable anyway, for your convenience—”
I snort and push her back against the seat. The idyllic view from our window involves a potholed main road, a traffic queue that consists mainly of red Ford Kas and gray Vauxhall Astras, and a fenced off, barren field in which a single skinny goat gnaws on what looks like a large pair of knickers.
I grimace and let Aurora sit up. “Never mind.” And then, like an incredibly dim moth to an incredibly bright flame, I turn toward the seat across the aisle. Toward Brad.
“Hey,” I say casually. “Smile.”
He cuts off his conversation with Raj, looks at me, and lights up like a bulb. Soft lips, strong teeth, eyes dark like a secret. Something swoops in my stomach, which is a completely normal occurrence; sometimes my stomach swoops around Minnie too. Usually with dread, after she tells me about a joint Halloween costume or a new makeup technique she wants to practice on me, but still. Swooping happens.
“What are you doing?” Brad asks, all innocent, while twinkling at my phone like a professional sparkler.
“I’m going to make a BEP TikTok.”
“Oh yeah,” Raj says, leaning forward. “You’re internet famous.”
“Not really,” I mutter, but Brad’s talking over me. “Yeah, she has thirty-two thousand followers. She made this video about trees recently that went viral.” He turns away from the camera. I can see the precise, diamond parts in the vivid dark of his hair, and the sharp angle of his jaw shifting as he talks, talks, talks about me. “It was, about, like, how all the trees in the world are baby trees. There used to be bigger trees with trunks like volcanoes. Like mountains! But they all died and the ones we think are big are actually just saplings growing back….” He trails off, shifting in his seat, rummaging through the pockets of his jeans. “Hang on, I’m not explaining it right. I’ll show you.”
I am gobsmacked.
Then Aurora leans over my shoulder and murmurs, “Three minutes of Brad footage. That’ll make an excellent TikTok.”
I blink, scowl, and lock my phone. “Aren’t you supposed to be drawing?”
By the time we arrive at Glen Finglas, it’s getting dark. We pile off the minibus in a jumble of excitement and nerves, and as we’re herded into the campsite, it becomes more and more obvious who’s gone from the group—and who’s been added. There’s a new supervisor, an older East Asian woman with graying hair and an expression of boredom to rival Holly’s. I have no idea why they’ve brought someone new in because when I count heads, I find there’s only nine of us Explorers left.
Nine.
We each have a one in three chance at the scholarship, except those chances aren’t equal—they depend partly on our practice score. And I don’t know what mine is.
Not for the first time, I curse my father with the force of a thousand suns. Hey, I’m supposed to be feeling my feelings, and raging frustration is most definitely a feeling.
A gloved hand bumps against mine. In the low light, Brad is all eyes and shadowed cheekbones that point me directly to his mouth. The tip of his tongue slips out to wet his lower lip. I remember this morning, when he dragged me around the back of the minibus and ran his tongue very slowly over my lower lip, and something in my stomach clenches like a fist.
Brad taps a finger between my eyebrows. “That’s better.”
I feel slightly dazed. “What?”
He nudges me. “Come on.”
Sunny Days Campsite is a long, thin stretch of manicured land sandwiched between an eldritch-looking forest and a dark, gently flowing stream. Holly and Zion herd us like cats past rich old people in their campervans toward the plots reserved for us. I spy a dad sitting with two kids outside a tent, pointing up at the moon already visible in the purple-stained sky. One tiny corner of my heart twists.
I’ve been thinking since—December.
Since I saw my dad.
I’ve been thinking that I need someone to talk to, and since I refuse to dump any more of my feelings on Minnie or Brad or Mum or Giselle, maybe that someone should be a professional? To help take care of my feelings. Like going to the dentist. Like Brad said.
I don’t know. It’s just an idea.
The air is cold and damp and about as miserable as you’d expect Scottish air to be in late winter. We blow on our icy fingers and gossip as we trudge over.
“Where’s Thomas?” Aurora asks.
“He texted me,” Raj says. Then he whips out his phone, adjusts imaginary spectacles, and takes a stab at Thomas’s private school accent: “?‘Not got the time, to be quite honest,’?” he recites solemnly. “?‘Exams are coming sooner than you think and freezing one’s balls off in the woods is not conducive to success.’?”
“He never said conducive.” Sophie snorts from my left.
“Oh yes,” Raj assures her, “he did.”
“Where’s Allen?” I ask.
It’s Aurora who answers quietly. “I heard he was caught last expedition having sex with someone in the laundry room. Apparently, they used a Mars bar wrapper and a rubber band as protection.”
There is an appalled silence before I say firmly, “Well, that can’t possibly be true. Who on earth would have sex with Allen?”
For some reason, Brad finds this hilarious.
“Right, Breakspeare Explorers,” Holly announces, her determined monotone carving through the chatter. “Here we are. First: allow me to introduce an additional supervisor, Rebecca. Since this expedition covers such a large area, she’ll be joining me and Zion as your emergency contacts. Get her number from one of us before the end of the day, understood?”
We all mumble obediently. Brad says, “Hi, Ms. Rebecca!” because of course he does.
Our new supervisor blinks, then cracks a cheek-creasing smile. She has cute little gap teeth that do not match her stark silvery hair and frown-creased forehead. “Hello, young man,” she says, charmed.
Holly is clearly disgusted with Rebecca’s lack of resistance. She moves swiftly and severely on. “This campsite will be your home for one night only so Don’t. Get. Comfortable. You have the rest of the day to put up your tents in groups of two or three and get settled in.”
Sophie stamps one booted foot against the concrete-hard ground and mutters, “Christ alive, Hol, not asking for much.”
From the front of the group, Zion shoots us a stern look. (Sophie’s voice does carry.) I straighten my spine and adopt a serious expression to show I’m a responsible Explorer who respects our supervisors and is ready for anything.
Bradley catches my eye and mouths, “What’s up with your face?”
“The camp’s water pumps are over here,” Holly tells us, stabbing her arm out like a very tan signpost who does a lot of Pilates. “Dispose of rubbish in the appropriate bins over here. Toilets and showers are here.”