Chapter 7 #2
Beats me what VIP status Olive Garden has at this school, but apparently, it’s a big deal for her not to mix with the riffraff from the lower sixth at lunch and to sit with her cool friends from the year above.
I’m surprised that none of the teachers say anything, seeing as she was sent down to our table last night.
Pretty embarrassing for her. But it looks like those rules don’t apply at lunch.
And to be honest, I’m kind of glad not to have Olive Garden at my table giving me the evil eye as I check my blood sugar on my phone and set the dosage via the insulin pump.
She really didn’t get it in class yesterday.
And my other new classmates don’t seem to have noticed what I’m doing.
Lucky for me, the pumps and sensors have gotten less obvious in the last few years.
Back when I was first diagnosed, I had to use an old-fashioned glucose meter and do a finger-prick test every single time, which screamed “Diabetic!” to everyone within a five-mile radius.
I can’t say how sick I got of the looks.
Nobody at Ainslee ever made a big deal out of it, but it still feels kind of nice to have a totally clean slate here at this school.
That’s the only good part, though. I’m not in the mood to chat, so I sit on my own.
Besides, I didn’t see any familiar faces as I walked in.
It takes a while for Kit and his buddies to come into the dining room, and I’m actually glad they join me.
I don’t say much, but they accept me into their group.
Kit asks me if I’m into tennis and want to try out a training session tomorrow.
At first, I’d rather decline. Not because I can’t play.
Anyone who’s anyone in a certain level of New York society wants to be seen hitting a ball around in a swanky tennis club.
So obviously I took tennis lessons. Not to mention private coaching sessions during our vacations in the Hamptons.
But then I think it might not be such a bad idea.
Thrashing a little yellow ball around might be a better way of easing the pressure, might help me get through at least one day without my lighter.
In the end, I remember that I’m meeting the school doc tomorrow, so I tell Kit that I’ll come the next time.
After lunch, he shows me the way to the physics classroom.
Olive Garden’s apparently not in this class, and that makes me almost sad.
It’s boring when I can’t bug her. Luckily, I meet her in the hallway after the last class of the day as she comes out of a classroom two doors down the hall.
Her eyes meet mine, her steps slow. Then she sticks up her chin and turns away.
She doesn’t get to leave, though, because that snooty school captain comes toward her.
Henry Bennington. He’s with a blond girl who was sitting with him and Olive at the upper-sixth table earlier.
Before I can make tracks, they come over.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he asks, and I deserve a medal for not rolling my eyes.
“Amaaazing,” I say.
“Are you done for the day?”
I nod.
“If you like, I’ll give you a quick tour of the school. Olive will tag along, won’t you?” He glances at her. They must have some kind of dirt on her because Olive Garden looks like there’s nothing she’d like less. “Oh, this is Colin,” Henry adds, introducing me to the blond girl.
She eyes me somewhat skeptically, then smiles. “Emma. Pleased to meet you.”
I just make a noncommittal grunt.
“See you later,” says the blond girl, standing on tiptoe to give Henry a quick kiss. Olive turns her head away, but catches my eye and looks away from me too.
“OK, let’s go,” says Henry. It’s not exactly my idea of a good time, but I decide to follow him. The school grounds are big, and it won’t do any harm to have a vague idea of what’s what.
I’m trying to look bored while filing away everything Henry shows me. Now and then, Olive Garden adds in some piece of information. On the ground floor, we don’t walk along the hallway with the trophy cabinets, but step through the arcades into the cobbled courtyard.
“You know the dining room already, so we’ll go this way.” Henry points to the left. “That’s the west wing, and behind it are the new buildings with the science labs.”
I nod uninterestedly but my eyes take in the scaffolding on the west wing. The building seems totally empty. “What’s in there?” I ask, heading toward the door.
“We’re not allowed in there,” Olive Garden says.
“Why not?” I turn to her, taking a couple of steps back.
“I’m dead serious, Fantino,” she snaps.
“It’s out of bounds,” says Henry. “There’s repair work going on in there, and pupils aren’t allowed in.”
I give a disappointed “hmm” and turn away.
A place we’re not allowed to be sounds like the perfect way to get expelled.
On the other hand, if I kill myself in the process because the building is falling down, that won’t help anyone.
So maybe I’d better file this one under “in case of emergency.” It would certainly fuck with Olive Garden, the way she reacted just now.
Being that chicken seems out of character for her.
But maybe she’s so scared I’ll rat on her over the display case that she doesn’t dare break any other rules.
So much for not giving a damn if she gets kicked out of here.
But I won’t hold it against her. I know what it’s like to have a place you don’t want to leave.
And she seems genuinely afraid, because once we’ve spent half a lifetime walking around the grounds, Henry announces that it’s time for “study hour” (ha!), and she sneaks a glance at me.
I learned about this stupid rule yesterday.
We have to spend an hour in our rooms every afternoon doing homework (a.k.a.
“prep”) or studying. Obviously I did no such thing.
I haven’t had classes in all my subjects yet, but I paid attention the last couple of days.
I had to do tests in English and math to assess my level.
They were tough but no problem for me. I feel sure I did well, so there’s no need to waste what little free time I get at this school on studying.
I’ve always found school easy, and I’ve always done my best not to let anyone else know that.
It’s more fun when people think I’m a lazy punk.
When Henry declares the tour has ended, we head over to the east wing. We climb the stairs together, but when we get to the third floor, instead of disappearing down her corridor, Olive Garden holds me back.
“Fantino, can I ask you a quick question about . . . Spanish?” she says, staring almost pleadingly at me. Henry stops too, then says goodbye and carries on up the stairs.
“About Spanish, sure,” I repeat, once he’s out of sight.
Olive Garden glances around briefly, then looks at me.
And somehow she’s not looking furious anymore, she looks . . . desperate?
“Hey, you won’t really say anything . . .” she says. “Will you?”
Even though I don’t really feel it anymore, I look at her as arrogantly as I can manage. “You know the terms,” I say as I slowly stroll around her. “That forbidden building—think it’d be useful for getting thrown out?”
“The west wing is no-go, Fantino, I’m serious,” she says. Her voice is shaking. There must be something up with that building. And I’m going to find out what.
“OK. Well, I can’t wait to hear your other suggestions,” I say. “What’s the situation with booze?”
“You get a warning,” she says weakly.
“And after that?”
“If you get into more trouble, it might get you expelled.”
“Great.” I face her again. “So where do you get it? Is there a liquor store in the city?”
“Liquor store?” she repeats. “You can just go to Irvine’s. It’s the village shop.”
“Wait, you can get the hard stuff in the village shop?” I stop. “Whoa. And you don’t have to be twenty-one, right?”
“No, eighteen. Same everywhere here,” she says briefly.
I smile. “Thanks for the info, Olive Garden.”
“Would you mind?”
“Don’t you like the nickname? You’re welcome to come up with one for me.”
“Why the fuck would I do that?” she spits.
“Whatever, Olive Garden,” I say, turning away. “See you around.”
“Not if I see you first,” she calls after me.
I hold back my smile until she can no longer see it.