Anytime (Dunbridge Academy #3)

Colin

It’s a tiny flame, but it eats into my skin.

Heat. Pain. Relief. Don’t flinch.

Fuck.

Don’t.

Flinch.

I shut my eyes, lean my head back against the cold tiles behind me, and don’t pull the lighter away.

If you walk out that door now, Colin Fantino, don’t bother coming back. My mom’s voice echoes in my head.

Fuck you. Fuck all of you. Seriously.

It’s fucking Homecoming. No way am I staying home just because of a crappy party last night that got a bit out of hand.

I mean, I’m seventeen, for God’s sake. I’m supposed to be pulling crazy shit at this age, aren’t I?

I didn’t get to pick my last name and don’t give a damn what impact my behavior might have on my mom’s fucking reputation.

I don’t want you spending another second with the Carnegie crowd. They’re a bad influence on you.

I pull back for a moment as the flame gets too hot.

Loser. Letting your parents push you around, tell you what to do.

So what if they threaten me with boarding school in Europe, with cutting off my trust fund. I don’t give a shit.

I inhale sharply as the pain becomes unbearable.

Hang in there, you fuck. C’mon, you wuss. Better to feel this than wallow in self-pity.

I pull up my pants leg a little to get to the inside of my ankle.

It’s a risky spot because you can get a better view of the thin, striped burns than when they’re on the inside of my thigh.

But I used up that whole space the day before yesterday.

Stupid of me, I should’ve pulled myself together, but Mom was being un-fucking-bearable.

Everything was unbearable. Standing beside her at that event, smiling like I’m supposed to.

The only times when Ava Fantino can spare me more than a contemptuous glare because the whole world is watching and she has to keep up appearances.

I always thought I could improve our relationship if I tried harder.

At school, at home, with Cleo—my kid sister, who doesn’t get the same treatment as me—but things didn’t get any better.

I’m not the son that Ava and Eric Fantino wanted, so I’ve stopped even trying to live up to their expectations.

I jump as the door flies open and I hear voices.

Fuck.

I thought there was no way anyone would come over to the gym bathrooms right now, at the glittering height of the Homecoming Ball in the auditorium. Guess I was wrong.

I jump up. The lighter slips through my fingers and clatters to the floor. Right next to a couple sheets of toilet paper that are stuck to the dirty tiles near the trash. I stifle a curse as they catch fire.

“Hey, I think there’s someone here.”

Shit. I pick up the lighter and stamp out the flames. Just in time, before Trent Barlow and his buddies come around the corner. Totally wasted, obviously. Trent’s eyes narrow to slits as he spots me.

“Beat it, Fantino,” he says.

I’d love to punch the fat blunt right out of his lips, then smack him in the mouth.

Nobody tells me where to go or orders me around.

But Trent Barlow doesn’t get that, and I’m dying to teach him another lesson.

Even so, one last glimmer of sense within me says it’d be better to get out of here before Trent starts asking what I’ve been doing.

I kick the charred toilet paper under the sinks and pray they don’t smell burning.

I stroll past Trent. “Fuck you,” I say, keeping my voice bored. In the mirror, I see them glance at one another, then Trent leans against the tiled wall. He frowns slightly as he pats his pants pockets.

“Shit, got a light?” He looks up, and my blood runs cold. Like there’s some law against carrying a lighter. God, Fantino, chill. You did nothing wrong.

I say “No” all the same, though.

“Ah, c’mon, man, I can smell it on you.” Trent’s eyes are mocking.

Fine, he noticed. So I guess it’s now the lesser evil to act like I’ve been smoking here too. I reach into my jacket pocket and feel the warm metal of the lighter. Trent nods briefly as I give him a light and he takes his first drag.

“And tell your bitch of a mother that I’ll fuck her up if she says another bad word about Nadia.”

I freeze. It’s rare for me to stick up for Ava Fantino, but whether or not we’re fighting, nobody talks about my family like that.

Nobody. Even though I loathe the way my mom’s been slut-shaming Nadia Barlow and her influencer friends on her show for the way they’ve gotten their claws into one eligible New York bachelor after another.

Pointless to discuss it with Mom, though, seeing that even after the social media shitstorm her words kicked up, she didn’t show the one ounce of regret or sympathy that anyone with even basic media training ought to possess.

Not my mother, though. She’s Ava Fantino, the queen of light TV, and she can do whatever the hell she likes, on or off camera.

People out there switch on to forget the world for a moment and have something to laugh at, not a lecture from me on wokeness, Colin.

Maybe, but if Ava Fantino keeps up this way, she’s in serious danger of getting canceled by our “sissy” generation.

I take a step toward him, hating myself for the fact that, despite everything, I feel I have to defend my family’s honor against him. “Seriously, man, was that a threat?”

“I dunno,” he says, blowing smoke in my face. I clench my fist around my lighter and have to stop myself from throwing a punch. “Was it?”

“Talk shit about my family one more time and you’ll regret it.”

“Tell your mom the same from me.”

“I can’t help it if your sister will sleep with anyone.

” Wow, way to go, Colin. So I’m no better than my mom.

The disconnect between my ideals, words, and actions is making me sick.

I walk through life that way. And then I’m surprised when it kicks me in the balls, but it’s all I know.

I don’t even flinch as Trent takes a threatening step toward me.

“But hey, you know she doesn’t mean the stuff she says on her show,” I add.

His loser friends hold him back as he goes to lunge at me like the Neanderthal he is.

I lift my hand and salute him. “Enjoy the party, Trent.”

“He’s not worth it, man,” I hear, as I step out of the bathroom into the corridor, and I have to agree with his buddies.

I’m not worth it, I’m worthless, no need to tell me that.

I’ve internalized it. My pulse is racing with fury.

And because they almost caught me self-harming.

I’ve gotta be more careful. No more lighter shit in public places.

I’ve gotten careless lately. Probably ’cause I’m doing it nearly every day now.

Whenever the pressure gets to be too much.

Which is more or less all the time. But if my mom hears about it, I’ll be on some shrink’s couch sooner than you can blink, and God, I don’t need anyone telling me I need to quit it. Like I don’t know that myself.

My footsteps echo in the dark corridor. As I head outside, I pass couples making out and groups smoking.

Same old, same old at Ainslee. Parents blow fortunes on this fancy private school so their kids can get beat up same as in any public high school in the country.

The only difference between my school days here and my friends’ at Carnegie is the small class sizes.

The rest of the bullshit is the same. It is what it is.

You’re just a cog in the machine, and if you don’t function, it gets painful.

Nobody notices me as I cross the yard. Then I meet Lexie, from my Spanish class, who gets me chatting with her friends.

Once she’s glanced three times at my mouth and bitten her own lips, I know she wants to go home with me.

But I’m not in the mood. Besides, I’m hoping that Pax will finally get back to me and bring Maresa along.

I hate that I’m thinking about her. And I hate that the one-time thing with her turned into a three-time thing and that I’m fantasizing about number four.

And about whether it could turn into something more.

Shit, I’m seriously screwed. And I’m sick of always being the one who gets feelings first. All down to my messed-up childhood—I don’t need a therapist to tell me that.

So I don’t let myself feel them. The emotions.

Anyway, we talked about it, Maresa and me.

No commitments. Just a bit of fun. We’re handling this like adults. My cell phone buzzes.

P: Still at your lame party? Can we come get you yet?

I glance around. Fellow students everywhere, chatting, laughing. Seriously, what is there for me here?

I only hesitate a moment before I type.

“You leaving?” Lexie asks, with that mind-numbing singsong in her cotton-candy voice.

“Maybe,” I mumble, not looking at her.

“Can I come?”

Seriously? I’m not one to talk, but how desperate can you get? Luckily, I don’t have to answer her because the voices around us get louder. Actually, not luckily. Now I see it.

The flames and the smoke rising into the night sky.

“Where’s that coming from?” someone yells.

My blood runs ice-cold.

Shit.

I can’t stop thinking about the burning toilet paper. Was it definitely out? I should have looked again before I left. It was right next to the trash can. Which was full. Fuck.

The others are paralyzed, staring at the building. I turn away. My legs and hand move automatically. I dial a number I’ve never dialed before. It takes seconds for someone at the other end to answer.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

Breathe.

Shit. Shit . . .

“Fire,” I gasp. “On the corner of 90th and Columbus. Ainslee School, I think.”

“OK,” says the man. He’s calm; they probably get special training. I’m not calm. I feel like the world’s stopped turning. “The fire department is on the way. Please stay on the line and keep away from the building. Can you tell if anyone is hurt?”

My heart is hammering in my ribs, and there’s a crackling in my ears as I turn. Silhouettes in long ball gowns and perfectly fitted suits. Students with something to celebrate. “No, I . . . I dunno.”

“What’s your name, sir?”

Oh, God . . . Tell him. You can’t deny it. Just do the right thing. Just for once, do the right thing.

“Sir? Are you still . . . ?”

Panic breaks over me like a wave of icy water.

I hang up, take three steps backward. I turn away and start to run.