“What?” I repeat. You only go to Student Support if you’re having a total breakdown or if you’re sick and you need them to call your parents. “What’s wrong? I’ll take her—”
“No,” Celine says, so quick and sharp I’m almost hurt for a second, before I remember that I don’t like her, and she doesn’t like me, and we are enemies.
Coach gives me a grim look as she helps Celine to her feet. “I’ll take her. Brad, tell the team I’m going to be late for practice.”
“Yes, Coach.” Oh, wait a minute. “Um, actually, me and Celine were supposed to stay here and do some work for Mr. Taylor?”
“Well, Celine won’t be doing any work this afternoon, so you can run and let him know about that too.” She puts an arm around Celine, and they head for the stairs. Mr. Gallagher follows behind them.
I run my hands over my hair. “Shit, shit, shit.” Did I just break Celine’s arm or something? The possibility rolls around in my stomach like a concrete ball of anxiety. Acid climbs up my throat. Why the hell did I drop her? I stare down at my hands and whisper, “What the fuck?”
They don’t reply.
I sigh, then crouch down to pick up the textbook she dropped. There’s something sticking out from between the pages. I flick them open, and a vaguely familiar woman with brown skin and long hair stares back at me.
Breakspeare Enrichment Program, the glossy leaflet says.
Breakspeare. Katharine Breakspeare. That’s where I’ve seen this woman: on the inspirational pinboard Celine used to keep in her bedroom. Back when I was welcome in Celine’s bedroom, which I’m certainly not now.
I close the book.
MONDAY, 4:34 P.M.
BANGURA GIRLS
Mummy: Keep me updated please.
Giselle: doc’s sent us for an X-ray, in the waiting room now
Celine: sorry mummy
Mummy: Your wrist is broken and still you’re on this blasted phone??? I bet that’s how you fell.
Celine: it’s not!
Mummy: talk to the hand little girl
Giselle: skdhfjsjkfhs MUM
CHAPTER THREE
BRAD
It’s a good thing Celine’s addicted to technology and that I have a finsta for the express purpose of stalking people without embarrassment. By the time I pull up outside my house, her Instagram Story tells me she’s going to Queen’s Med with her sister Giselle,which is not exactly home safe and sound, but also isn’t completely terrible.
My brain decides this would be an ideal moment to present me with images of Celine suffering various life-changing complications from her arm injury, all of which would be my fault. It’s basically a slideshow. If my OCD had a feedback form, I would write Could do with a jaunty soundtrack next time. Instead, I get out of my car and head inside.
“Brad?”
I lock the front door and glance up to find Dad wandering out of the kitchen, a smile on his angular face and a mixing bowl in his arms. Supposedly he’s a family law barrister (that’s how he met Celine’s dad, which is how we know the Banguras in the first place), but in reality, all he seems to do is bake cupcakes and ferry my brother Mason to and from football practice.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, kicking off my shoes and slotting them neatly into the rack. Did I lock the door? Not a big deal, since we’re both home, but I turn back to check anyway. All good.
“Thought you had practice today?”
I skipped because I am in emotional turmoil, obviously. “Er…starting next week. First day back, you know.”
“Got you. How was school?”
“It was fine,” I lie, trying really hard not to think about Celine and catastrophically failing. Did I take my keys out of the door? If they’re in there when Mum gets home, she won’t be able to unlock it. I turn around and spot my Adrax Agatone key ring in the onyx dish on the console table. Oh. Well. Good. Patting it a few times, I look up to find Dad rubbing his short beard in a way that means he’s worried about me.
“Heard about Celine?” he asks sympathetically.
I magically transform from a boy to a plank of wood. If Dad finds out I dropped a girl, especially Neneh Bangura’s daughter, I am so dead. “Hmm,” I grunt.
“Your mum just texted. Apparently she had an accident at school? Hurt her wrist, think they’ll get an X-ray.”
So, Celine told her mum and her mum told mine. That’s all perfectly normal—except for the part where no one is mentioning my name? Or gazing at me accusingly? Or shaking their head in deep disappointment? I tread carefully and grunt again.
Dad laughs, tipping his head back. He’s tall like me, so he very nearly brains himself on the kitchen door frame. “Ah, Brad. I know you two are ‘enemies’—” His free hand, the one that’s not holding a mixing bowl, makes obnoxious air quotes. “But it’s okay if you’re concerned for the poor girl.”
It’s official: somehow—somehow—Celine has restrained herself from exploiting this valid opportunity to drop me in it. Which can only mean one thing: her mind is completely addled by agonizing pain. I’ve shattered every bone in her arm. In her entire body. She might be in a coma.
I force a hopefully innocent expression and say, “Well, I wouldn’t want anyone, enemy or not, to be in hospital on the first week of our final year.” This is 100 percent true. I am so mired in guilt, it’s a wonder I even found my way home.
“I know, bless her.” Dad blows out his brown cheeks and shakes his head. “Oh well. She’s such a good girl. She could get into Cambridge with both hands broken—”
“BOTH HER HANDS ARE BROKEN?”
Dad stares at me.
Understanding hits a second too late, because of course it does. “Oh! Right. You meant…You were…being…hypothetical,” I say. “Obviously. Haha! Ha.” Could someone please tell me why the same brain that gets me the (second) highest grades in school is so slow on the uptake during normal human conversations? Is it some kind of system error, or…?
“You all right, son?” Dad finally asks.
“I’m fine! Fine. Just. Busy day. You know what? I’d better go. Lots of…homework. Uni, er, stuff. You know.” I nod awkwardly toward the curving staircase down the hall.
“Ahhh! That’s my boy.” Dad grins and reaches out as I pass, his hand landing on the back of my head. Even though this always frizzes up my hair, I wait patiently while he wiggles me around like a puppy with a favorite toy. (Don’t ask, it makes him happy, okay?) He drags me closer and smacks a kiss over my left eyebrow. “You know, Mrs. Mulaney was asking about you this morning.”
Mrs. Mulaney is an older lady down the street whose dog I walk sometimes. She finds herself around our front garden freakishly often, probably because she’s in love with Dad. “Oh,” I say, staring longingly at the staircase that leads to sweet escape. So near, and yet so far. “How is she?”
“Right as rain, bless her. She asked how you’re getting on, and I told her you’ll be studying law next year. You know what she said?”
Probably not What a waste. That boy was born to win a Hugo Award.
“She said, ‘Whatever magic you and Maria are doing on those kids, you should bottle it and make a fortune.’?” Dad beams. “I told her, it’s all you. Hard work and commitment! You’re all determined to succeed.” I know exactly what he’s going to say next—it’s been his favorite phrase ever since I showed a vague interest in following in his footsteps and studying law. “But you are a chip off the old block, aren’t you?”
Aaaand there it is.
I manage a smile. “That’s right.” The words are dry and crumbly in my mouth like stale biscuits.
Dad squeezes my neck and releases me, humming happily. “Go on, then, I won’t keep you.” He stirs the chocolate-brown batter in his mixing bowl and wanders back into the kitchen. I basically sprint to the stairs.
When I was younger, before we got the right combination of therapy and meds, before I learned how to manage my OCD…I know my mum used to cry because of me. I know the gray in my dad’s hair didn’t come from nowhere. But I’m doing way better now, and they’re proud of me, and I’ve gotten used to that pride.
It flares in my dad’s eyes every time he remembers I’m going to be just like him.
(If I thought I could make them proud with my writing, I would, but unfortunately, everything I write absolutely sucks. So. Here we are.)
I make it up the stairs and past Mason’s room—his door is open and the smell of farts and sweaty socks wafts gently into the hall. Emily’s room is closed up and mostly empty, since she’s studying in the US; then there’s the family bathroom, followed by my parents’ room. My bedroom is at the very end. It’s the master. I have an en suite. Not because I’m a spoiled brat (okay, maybe I am) but because I went through a phase where sharing a bathroom with my clinically disgusting brother would have quite literally stuffed my mental health into the toilet and flushed.