Chapter 14 #2
I can already tell that this is one of those days when, however tired I am, my head is just going to love replaying a bunch of panic scenarios as I try to fall asleep.
I make an effort to put the thoughts aside, but it’s tough.
I must have nodded off eventually, though, because I smell fire and dream my stupid I-want-to-run-but-my-legs-won’t-carry-me dream.
I sit up with a start, heart pounding. For a few seconds, I can’t move.
Then the paralysis breaks. My eyes fill with tears, and rage rises inside me.
I punch my pillow because I’m fucking sick of this, then grind my teeth as the pain twinges through my shoulder.
So much for the amazing progress Andrea was on about this afternoon.
But the physical pain is the least of my problems just now. I’d take it gladly if it would get rid of the horrors in my head.
God, will this ever stop? And why is it still just as bad as ever? Even though part of my consciousness knows perfectly well that they’re only dreams, my body doesn’t care—it switched into flight mode ages ago. And that’s knackering. It’s just so knackering.
I rub my face with both hands, then rest my head on them and force myself to breathe evenly.
This evening, telling myself over and over again that everything is fine is just not going to work.
I realize that when I’m still shaking even after several minutes.
My eyes are burning, my head aches, but I get up anyway, because the only things that will really help now are fresh air and movement.
Tonight I’m desperate enough that I’d actually consider going to see Ms. Vail.
But the school psychologist is only available in her office in the south wing in the daytime.
And by daylight, my problems seem way more manageable than they do at night.
The flashbacks only start after dark, when I’m trying to get some rest. Almost like my sneaky brain is waiting until I’ve stopped bothering it with trivial everyday thoughts so that it can start taking things out on me.
My feet carry me out into the dark corridors, and today it takes me ages to start feeling better. I go up and down staircases, wander aimlessly around corners. I must be somewhere in the north wing when I hear something.
I stop and listen to the darkness. Maybe I’m actually going out of my mind.
But then I hear it again. Quiet notes, a tune that seems vaguely familiar.
It’s drawing me like magic down the corridor toward the theater.
At first I think the music must be coming from there, but then I stop outside a door a few yards further on.
I’ve no idea what’s in this room. The props and costumes are stored behind the stage, but apparently there are musical instruments here.
I pause outside the room that the sound is coming from and listen.
Then I notice that the door isn’t quite shut. It’s open a wee crack.
I hold my breath as I push it to peek in. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t the sight of Colin Fantino playing a grand piano.
The melody comes to an end, and I’m about to creep away when I spot his phone on the music stand in front of him.
“That was perfect, Col,” says a bright voice.
“Got another?” he asks hastily, because he’s clearly as bad at accepting compliments as I am. He’s got his back to me, but I can hear that he’s smiling. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him sound so gentle, and part of me is genuinely surprised that he’s even capable of it.
“Yeah, wait.”
I stand slightly on tiptoe so that I can squint at the screen over his shoulder and see a wee girl’s face. She looks like a younger version of Colin, and her accent is the same as his too. He has a sister? Must suck for him that she isn’t here at the school too.
She plays a song I recognize, and it makes me smile. I don’t know what it’s called, but I’m pretty sure it’s on Tori’s boak-worthy “Hot Guy Shit” playlist.
“Seriously, Cleo?” Colin groans. “You need to find bands that still exist.”
“One Direction are getting back together,” the lassie says, dead serious. “Someday.”
“You were in kindergarten when they split up. I don’t get it—why are kids your age all into them again?”
“TikTok,” she says, putting her finger to her lips so that Colin will shut up and listen to the music.
His sweatshirt strains slightly over his broad shoulders; his left knee bobs up and down in time with the beat. His fingers flicker over the keys but don’t press them. After a few seconds, he nods. “Yeah, OK. I reckon I’ve got it.”
“Oh, my God, I can’t wait.” She stops the track.
Colin lowers his head, and I get goose bumps as he starts to play. He’s good. I know right away it’s the same song, and he’s playing with such ease. Can he really do that, just out of his head? I’m impressed.
I don’t seem to be the only one. The wee lassie beams, and when Colin’s finished, she applauds enthusiastically.
“That was way cool,” she says. “And I think someone else is listening.”
Colin whirls around. I step back and crash into the doorframe. The pain that jars through my shoulder makes my eyes water. Dull throbbing, nausea right in my throat.
Breathe. Just breathe and stand up straight.
Colin must have noticed, because the hint of panic in his eyes gives way to concern, so I jut my chin slightly.
“It wasn’t so touching that you need to cry over it, Olive Garden,” he says slowly, not taking his eyes off me. If only he would, because somehow I get the feeling he can see a part of me I don’t want to show anyone. A weak, vulnerable part. A part I wish didn’t exist.
“Get tae fuck, Fantino,” I snap.
I hear a laugh and wish I could take my words back.
“Is that Olive, the one you told me about?” the girl on Fantino’s phone screen asks, and I feel like I’m on the outside looking in.
But he heard it too, because he goes bright red, right up to his ears, as he whirls around.
He must be glaring at his wee sister, but I heard what I heard.
He’s told her about me. For whatever reason.
Probably bitching about me. Which would serve me right, because I moaned about him to my friends.
But somehow I’m affected by that information.
Because it means Fantino’s bothered about me.
Like I’m bothered about him, though I’d never admit it.
He’s just an arrogant, unfairly attractive, spoiled brat from the USA who’s never learned any respect for anyone.
But sadly, that doesn’t stop me flushing hot every time his dark eyes rest on me. Like now, for instance.
“Cleo, we’ll talk later, OK?” he says roughly. Still looking in my direction. I cross my arms challengingly over my chest, ignoring the dull ache in my shoulder.
Fantino looks back to his sister.
Cleo. Pretty name. Cleo and Colin Fantino.
He must be a great big brother. Aye, I mean that totally unironically—I can imagine that Fantino’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t hesitate to beat up anyone who upset his wee sister.
He knows how to fight and how to protect, and he can be very intimidating.
Not that he intimidates me, however fierce he can look.
He annoys me, and those are two very different things.
I chew gently on my bottom lip as I wait for Fantino to say goodbye and end the FaceTime call.
“So you told your wee sister about me,” I say slowly as he puts his phone away. He doesn’t turn immediately, but I can see his shoulders rise and fall slightly.
“Would you like that, Olive Garden?” he asks, turning side on. I notice how handsome his profile is. Not that his face isn’t nice from the front. But lots of faces look good from the front. If you look great from the side, you’re winning at life. And yeah, Fantino’s the bloody champion.
The phrase pisses me off in books, but his jawline is razor sharp.
His nose is almost a wee bit too straight and perfect, in contrast to his full eyebrows.
When he frowns—which he does very well—they contract until there’s this little ridge over the bridge of his nose.
But he’s grinning smugly just now, so his brow is smooth.
“Not at all,” I say, bored, strolling toward him.
I nicked that move off him, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
It seems to have the desired effect, because while my eyes roam around the room, I can sense Fantino watching me.
My skintight sports leggings, which remind me that I used to be an athlete, and the short, baggy sweatshirt I’m wearing with them.
It stops just above my waistband, and if I stand up straight, a little flash of skin peeps out.
I’m sure that’s what Fantino’s looking at just now. And I do like that.
“What will you give me if I don’t grass on you?” I ask with a sigh, running my finger over the dusty piano. I didn’t even know the school had another, besides the highly polished specimen in the main hall.
Fantino’s laugh is nervous and angry. Yeah, that’s how it feels, my friend. Suddenly I’ve got the upper hand.
“How are you going to rat on me when you’re out after bedtime yourself?”
Bedtime. Cute the way he refuses to use the school jargon, like admitting he’s at Dunbridge now would make him less cool, less individual. He’s one of us, whether he likes it or not.
“I was on my way to the sick bay to get some paracetamol when I heard a noise,” I say, radiating innocence. It’s winding him up.
“Noise,” he repeats to my surprise. I’m amazed that that seems to faze him most, because it shows this really means something to him.
All this. Playing the piano. I’d have believed anything of him, but not that Fantino’s a brilliant pianist. I’m not musical, but I know it takes emotion and passion to coax so much out of the piano keys.
And I wouldn’t have thought he had that in him.