Chapter 3 #2
I clench my fists and silently curse the airport security guy who confiscated my lighter back in New York.
Obviously I know you can’t have open flames on a plane, but I thought you were allowed a lighter.
The officer wasn’t interested in a discussion about it, though, maybe because it’s one of those windproof ones that can make a pretty big flame, and I didn’t want to risk Mom hearing about it.
It’s not so bad. Of course there’s another in my checked baggage—and that really is against the rules.
So I have to pray they haven’t removed it, in which case I’ll have to find some alternative.
I guess I should be grateful I don’t have anything on me.
Scratching and cutting and all that shit really isn’t my thing.
But I don’t know whether I’d control myself if I could take a lighter to the bathroom right now.
Fuck, I’ve got a real problem, I know that, but I can’t tell a soul.
I haven’t self-harmed since the Homecoming Ball.
God knows how I’ve managed that. Maybe because I was too scared of getting caught.
All I know is that the pressure is building and I’ve spent days feeling like a vent with someone’s finger over it.
It’s only a matter of time until the next explosion.
The fresh air as we step out of arrivals in Edinburgh helps a little, but as soon as I sit down next to Mom in this car that’s taking us to the school, I feel like a caged animal.
Then I almost have a heart attack as the driver turns into the oncoming traffic at the first intersection.
I open my mouth but can’t speak. I stare in shock at Mom.
She’s totally unfazed, and it takes me three more seconds to get it.
United Kingdom. Drive on the left. God, anyone would think I’d never been out of the States before.
Let’s put it down to lack of sleep. Mom just raises her eyebrows scornfully as I sink down again.
My heart is still pounding, my palms are clammy, and it’s only when I start to feel a bit dizzy too that I catch on: There might be some other reason for my edginess and horrible feeling of panic.
Mom’s eyes drift over me as I bring up the app where my current blood-sugar levels are transmitted from the sensor on my arm.
She glances at the display as I reach for the croissant we were given on the plane and I’d kept for later.
It’s gone stale and I hardly manage a mouthful.
Lack of sleep is doing its shit. I don’t have to look to know that I’m low.
“Everything OK, Colin?” Mom’s voice is reproachful and cool. Almost like I did this deliberately. But I didn’t choose to get this diagnosis at the age of eleven, when my entire survival started to depend on injecting the insulin that my crappy pancreas ought to be producing for itself.
“Yeah.” I try not to sound grouchy, which she’d just blame on low blood sugar. “Everything’s fine.”
“You have an appointment to introduce yourself to the school doctor this week,” says Mom, eyes front again. “He’s been informed. You seem to be the only diabetic at the school, by the way.”
I hold back any reply and start eating. The plane croissant is vile, but I don’t have much choice—the only alternative is a sandwich that doesn’t look any more appetizing.
“It’s important for you to know who to contact in an emergency.”
“No kidding.” I stare out of the window again and force myself to focus on the landscape flitting past and not the shakes, which won’t stop.
We left the city behind ages ago, and we’re in the total wilderness.
Hills, sad-looking bushes, and nothing but sheep everywhere.
After a few minutes without spotting a single house, I give Mom a quick sideways glance.
She points up ahead, and then I see it too.
I hate to admit it, but for a moment there, I’m almost impressed.
Dunbridge Academy looks like a castle. It sits high above a bend in a river, with fields and trees in the background.
The dark-brick building looks more imposing than it does in the photos I saw online. But also more weathered.
And there’s nothing else. A small lake, a river that snakes through the landscape. I read somewhere that there were stores within walking distance, but it doesn’t look as though they actually exist.
“I thought there was a town nearby?”
Mom looks over for a second. “Yes, Ebrington.” She points to the houses on the other side of the school. “The village.”
“The village?” I repeat in disbelief. I guess I didn’t read the brochure carefully enough because I thought it was in Edinburgh.
I was wondering why we’d been on the road so long.
Now I get it. We’re not in Edinburgh anymore.
And Edinburgh may not be New York, but it was something I could have worked with. But this . . . It’s an insult.
“You won’t want for anything at the school,” Mom says. “Besides which, you’re here to concentrate on your studies.”
For God’s sake, she can’t leave me here.
I was born at New York Presbyterian; I’ve lived my whole life in Manhattan.
I knew it was a privilege to have the whole big city on your doorstep, and I knew it wasn’t the same everywhere.
But how can people live like this? There’s nothing here.
Nothing! It might be kind of nice for a two-week vacation, but not for the long term. I won’t even have a fucking car.
And no signal either, I realize, as I check my cell phone. Oh, God, let there be Wi-Fi in this jail . . .
I tense as the driver steers the car over the bridge into the cobblestoned inner courtyard.
OK, I admit it’s kind of cool. It feels like we’ve crashed some movie set, because everywhere I look, I see teenagers in hoodies or jackets with the school logo on them.
Where are the dumb kilts and blazers from the website?
I get a bad feeling that I’m going to be acquainted with them by tomorrow morning when classes start, because I had to give the school my measurements in advance so they could order the uniform for me.
“Won’t be long,” Mom tells the driver once he’s unloaded my bags. Her words are a stab in the chest. What was I expecting? Her to take me to my room, to hold my hand? Ava Fantino’s a busy woman with no time to waste. Least of all on her useless son who causes her nothing but trouble.
The driver doesn’t look thrilled, but he nods.
“Where’s the principal’s office?” Mom asks the first group of kids to come into the courtyard through the gate.
They’re younger than me, and I feel their curious eyes on me.
Did I mention how little I like being the new guy?
It makes me nauseous. I say nothing. Not “hi” and not “thanks” as they actually show us the way.
I feel uneasy that we’re just leaving my suitcase standing there, but hey, this isn’t fucking Times Square.
“Are you new?” a girl asks, stroking back her hair.
I make an effort not to roll my eyes, just chew the gum I found in my pocket. “Looks like it, huh?”
“Where are you from?”
I sigh deeply. I’m not in the mood to chat. It’s not worth it. “New York City,” I say.
“Wow,” she says. “That’s cool.” Eyes me. Respect. But the two guys with her drop back a bit, look scornful, start to whisper. What am I doing here?
I stop listening to what they’re saying as we walk to the office.
The door opens. A guy who’s already past his prime invites us in, ushers us to the principal’s office.
No, the head teacher’s office. Dark wood, a huge desk.
The head teacher’s younger than I expected, and she looks friendlier than I imagined.
“Colin, Ms. Fantino.” She comes toward us. “Nice to meet you in person.” She holds her hand out to Mom and then to me. “Welcome to Dunbridge Academy.”