The last time I stayed at a hospital—the only time, actually—they took my tonsils out. This time, they put bandages all over me, give me medicine, and say I’m under observation. An old nurse with a Glaswegian accent I barely understand tells me I’m a verra lucky boy because I have no broken bones. I would consider cracked ribs broken, but okay, I guess? It’s hard to care too much about details when you are wallowing in a pit of despair—which is also very hard to do when you’ve been put on a sunshine-yellow-painted pediatric ward because you are still seventeen, but I manage anyway.
“Feel up to eating yet?” Zion asks. He’s been asking every ten minutes for the last several hours.
“No,” I mutter. I am too sad to eat. Also, I feel really nauseous. But it’s mostly the sadness.
“There’s jelly,” he cajoles.
“No.” I look him in the eye. “Thank you.”
He sighs. His dreadlocks sway mournfully.
First, Celine doesn’t want me, and now I won’t get a scholarship. The first part feels like my heart’s been ripped out and the second fills the hole left behind with burning but impotent rage. Why did I have to fall down the bloody hill? Running away from Celine, no less. I’m furious with myself. In fact, I’m so busy glaring at my crisp white hospital sheets, it takes me several seconds to notice my actual mother waltz into the ward. By the time I recognize her presence, Dad’s already followed her in. Then comes, horror of horrors, Mason. Just like that, three-quarters of my immediate family stride past the rest of the beds on the ward and surround mine in a cocoon of overloud questions and not entirely unwelcome concern. Someone draws the curtains all around us, and it begins.
“My baby!” Mum wails. “What happened?”
“Look at you!” Dad says, horrified. “Is someone seeing to my son?” He looks around like a nurse might crawl out from under the bed. “Hello?” He’s wearing a suit underneath his wool coat. Mum is wearing—oh God—scrubs underneath hers.
“Did you come from work?” I demand.
“Of course we did!” Mum says, outraged. “No child of mine will suffer alone in some foreign country!”
“Mum,” Mason sighs, “it’s Scotland.”
I notice, even with my blurrier-than-usual vision, that he’s wearing his Forest Academy uniform. “Did you leave practice for me?”
“Obviously not.” Mason snorts, just as Dad says, “No, he skipped it. By the way, your sister wanted us to FaceTime you when we arrived, but—”
“I told her it probably wasn’t a good idea,” Mum finishes. “You have a concussion.” She pauses, then repeats as if riding a fresh wave of horror: “A concussion!”
Zion chooses this moment to stand up and intercede. “Mr. and Mrs. Graeme, hello, we spoke on the phone.”
“Ah!” Dad has found someone to question. “What’s happened here, then? How did he fall? Bradley is not reckless. He is typically very careful. So I’m not entirely sure—”
I zone out. It’s incredibly easy. I have a lot to think about, like worrying a loose tooth.
When I start paying attention again, Zion has escaped and Mason is eating my jelly. “Hey,” I say. “That’s mine.”
“Come and take it, then.”
I would, but there’s a tiny kernel of worry in the back of my mind regarding the possibility of minute but potentially deadly spinal damage that the doctors missed but that I could make worse if I move too much and I don’t want to give that worry any ammunition. I have erected an emergency shield in my head for all my unwanted thoughts to bounce off of, but that sort of thing can’t last forever, and I don’t have the energy to be mindful or take care of myself or whatever you want to call it. I am exhausted.
“Stop tormenting your brother,” Mum says, and Mason huffs.
“How are you feeling, kiddo?” Dad asks. There are deep grooves bracketing his mouth, and it’s entirely possible his hair got even grayer since I last saw him. My fault. Mum’s expression is tight, too, her eyes shadowed behind her glasses for all she’s trying to smile. I know they’re worried about me, but the honest answer is that I feel vile in every sense of the word and I bet I will for a long, long time.
So what’s the point of mincing words? You know what trying to keep people comfortable gets you? Heartbreak. “I feel terrible. I didn’t finish the expedition, I won’t get the scholarship, and—” I can’t say anything about Celine. I won’t. I swallow it down like jagged glass. “My ribs hurt, and my head hurts and I skinned my hip really bad and it feels gross and I’m—” About to say something I maybe shouldn’t but desperately want to because why the hell not? “I’m not going to study law.”
There is a long pause. Then Dad says, “Come again?”
I suck in a shallow breath and look up from the sheets. At his face. At Mum’s confusion. Back to Dad. “I’m not studying law. In October. I did something.”
There’s another pause. Then my brother snickers. “Oh my God. What did you do?”
I lift my chin and say firmly, “I applied to study something else.”
Dad appears to be frozen. Mum asks carefully, “Applied to study what, sweetheart?”
“Um. English.”
Dad is still frozen. I am slightly (massively) concerned.
Mason is laughing so hard he’s clutching his stomach like a cartoon, my jelly abandoned. “What? Why?”
“You…you don’t even study English at school now,” Mum says.
“I know but my grades are good, and my personal statement is incredible.” That’s what Celine called it. Incredible.
Ouch. No thinking about Celine.
“What?” That’s Dad, finally, his voice thready with disbelief. “But…when…you told me you had— Why would you do this?” He leans forward, puts a hand on my forehead as if to check my temperature. “Are you okay?” He’s scanning my body like he might discover a badge that says TEMPORARILY ADDLED, DON’T LISTEN TO A WORD THIS PERSON SAYS. Maybe he finds it because he starts to laugh nervously. “Of course. You’ve bumped your head, son. That’s o—”
“I’m not delusional, Dad.” I try to roll my eyes and discover the hard way that that is not a good idea. “Ow.”
“CAN WE GET SOME MORE PAINKILLERS FOR MY SON, PLEASE?” Dad gets louder when he is panicking.
A nurse with a pink hijab and a steely gaze sticks her head between the curtains and practically pins him to a wall. “Sir. There are children sleeping.”
Dad clears his throat. “Right. Sorry.”
The nurse softens. “I’ll see what we can do.” She disappears.
“Why would you want to study…anything else?” Dad demands as soon as she’s gone. “Is this…Are you feeling too much pressure? I was worried you might. You shouldn’t. You can do anything, Brad, anything at all—”
I know I can because that’s how he raised me. “Like English?” I suggest.
Dad is baffled. “You love law! You were so excited—”
“No, he wasn’t, Dad,” Mason says, boredom dripping from each word. “You were excited. Brad didn’t care.”
I blink at my little brother, astonished.
He tuts and shifts in his chair self-consciously. “What? You’re not subtle.”
I have no idea what to say except…“Thanks?”
Mason is appalled. “I’m not, like, helping you. Just glad I won’t be the only family disappointment.”
Both my parents start at that, like they’ve been electrocuted. “I beg your pardon?” Mum demands. “Mason Ashley Graeme, you are not a disappointment. I don’t ever want to hear that out of your mouth again.”
“Yeah, okay.” Mason snorts. “Admit it. You want us to be like Emily. You want us to be like you. But I’m not a genius—”
“Mase,” I say. “You’re a football genius. That’s just as good. You know that, right?”
He falters, splotches of red climbing up his neck. “Well. Whatever.” His scowl returns but it’s not nearly as hard-core. Mason turns toward our parents. “The point is, I don’t like school, and Brad is a genius, but he doesn’t even care. So get over it, both of you.”
Dad holds up his hands, his frown pure confusion. “Boys. What is this all about? You know we don’t care what you do in life. We just want you to be happy.”
“Then why do you make me study when I’m going to be a footballer?” Mason demands.
“Because if your legs fall off, you’re going to need a proper education, Mason!” Mum says, exasperated. “Why do you think? We only want the best for you!”