Chapter 8
Emma
The honeymoon’s over. That’s crystal clear as I head downstairs with Tori and Olive on Wednesday morning.
Get up at six thirty, just time to brush your teeth and pull on your PE kit, and be down for the morning run at a quarter to seven on the dot.
Sounds brutal, which it is, but I’m glad the run’s on this morning after it was rained off yesterday.
“I hate my life,” grumbles Tori, wrapping her arms around herself. Her hoodie is pulled right down over her face as she blinks at me with narrowed eyes. “Are you sure you won’t freeze like that?”
And yeah, I’m shivering in a thin long-sleeved T-shirt. August in Scotland isn’t like August at home, as I might have guessed. But on the other hand, if you’re cold before a run, you know you’re dressed about right—you’ll soon warm up. I’m about to say so when someone calls to us.
“Hey, guys!” Sinclair trots over, dodging a couple of other girls who’ve stopped in the courtyard outside our wing. He keeps jogging on the spot when he reaches us. “Sleep well?”
I nod, but Tori huffs irritably. “How can you have so much energy this early in the morning? It’s boggling.”
Sinclair frowns. “It’s motivational?” he suggests. “The sun’s up, the sky’s blue. It’s going to be a beautiful day.”
“Not if it starts with a run,” grumbles Tori.
I can’t help grinning. Sinclair shrugs his shoulders. Then he takes Tori’s hand. “C’mon.”
“Jeez, Sinclair, I’m taking the shortcut anyway,” she moans, glancing back at me over her shoulder. “No bother, I’ll show you. But don’t tell anyone else.”
“Oh, I think I’ll go the normal route,” I say.
Tori stares at me like I’m out of my mind. “The normal route is at least ten minutes longer.”
“Yeah, but I like running.” I smile. “Honestly.”
“Hi.”
I freeze. Great. I just have to hear his voice, and my body betrays me. Or can I kid myself that these goose bumps are entirely down to the temperature?
Henry’s hands are buried in his hoodie pocket, and he looks kind of sleepy.
He’s wearing a long base layer under his running shorts, and there’s a little hairband holding back his curls to keep them out of his eyes.
He looks different like that. Kind of older and .
. . Was his jawline that sharp yesterday?
You could cut yourself just looking at it.
“Emma doesn’t want to take the shortcut,” Tori announces out of nowhere. I jump.
“I think I’d better start going the long way round too from now on,” Henry says.
Tori and Sinclair stare at him, wide-eyed.
“Hey?” asks Sinclair, turning to me. “Who are you, and what did you do to Henry?” Then he rolls his eyes, although he can’t hold back a smile. “No, seriously,” he says to Henry. “What’s brought this on?”
“There’s rugby training coming up,” he says.
“You can’t be serious?” Tori exclaims.
Henry shrugs. Before he can say any more, there’s a whistle.
“Oh, well, you can run with Emma then,” Tori says.
I hesitate as Henry looks at me. “Aren’t you going to run with Grace?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Day pupils don’t have to get here until registration at eight thirty.”
“Oh, I see.” I turn around as I hear shouting. Standing in the center of the courtyard, there’s a brawny man wearing shorts and a T-shirt, even in this weather.
“That’s Mr. Cormack, the rugby coach,” Henry says as we start running.
“He’s straight out of hell,” Tori adds as Sinclair pulls her aside by the arm. “See you later, you crazy fools!”
They leave the schoolyard with us through a high gateway, but soon afterward, they vanish through an inconspicuous door into one of the buildings, while Henry and I follow everybody else.
Very soon, the huge grounds of Dunbridge Academy spread out ahead of us.
Olive’s no longer with us—she’s joined a small group of others with “Dunbridge Swimming” emblazoned across their sweatshirts.
The path runs along the school walls, the dewdrops are glistening in the sunlight, and threads of mist hang over the fields.
The air is clear and cold. I breathe deeply.
It’s so peaceful, and calm, and very beautiful.
“How was your second night here?” Henry asks, and I have to grin, because he’s already breathing hard. I slacken my speed a little. I’m not sure exactly how long the route is, and I don’t want to outpace him. That would be rude.
“Quiet. It really is superquiet here,” I say.
Henry laughs. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“I’m not sure. It’s weird. I kind of miss the noise of the city.”
“Do you live right in the middle of Frankfurt?”
“No, on the outskirts, but there’s always a background noise. And the planes . . .”
“You’ll soon get used to the quiet here.”
I nod, overtaking a little group ahead of us.
“Sorry, I’m so out of shape,” he says, once he’s caught up again.
“Just say if I’m going too fast.”
“No . . . it’s OK.”
Uh-huh. Down to three-word sentences. I slow even more.
“How long does the official route take?” I ask.
“Depends. If you’re sporty, fifteen minutes. Otherwise more like twenty.”
“And the shortcut?”
Henry hesitates. “Um, well, it’s a lot shorter.”
I laugh. “You don’t have to come on the full lap with me.”
“Yeah, I do,” he pants. “I need to get fitter.”
“So you’re on the rugby team?” I ask.
“Not yet, but I want to be.”
That’s kind of surprising. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’d assumed rugby players were big, tough, muscly guys, who’d fight for the ball without considering the consequences. And not like Henry.
“There’s an open training session on Friday,” he says. “I might have a chance as a winger. They’re the little fast ones who run and score points. So I have to improve.”
“We could run together often, if you like. Just let me know.” I say it without really thinking it through. “If you want to, that is. I love running. I was in an athletics club at home.”
“Really?” Henry looks sidelong at me. It’s a glance, but enough to send another shiver down the back of my neck. “Grace is on the track team. I’m sure she’d take you along to training if you like. Shall I ask her?”
“Sure.” I tense. “That would be cool.”
Grace is on the track team. So Henry can run with her. Which would be way more natural. And doesn’t bother me. Why should it?
I don’t know what else we chatted about.
Henry’s pretty exhausted by the time we get back to the courtyard a good fifteen minutes later, after a lap of the whole grounds.
I wouldn’t mind doing a couple of sprints now, to calm my circling thoughts, but there isn’t time.
Once I get back to my room, I shower and get dressed quickly.
Sand-colored trousers, white polo shirt, and dark-blue jumper.
At breakfast, I meet up with Tori and the others.
Not much later, we head off to lessons. My day begins with tutor time, with Ms. Barnett, followed by PE, with Ms. Ventura.
I don’t see Henry again until later on, in maths.
Part of me has spent the whole morning looking forward to it, while the rest of me would rather run away when Mr. Ward enters the classroom.
I only start to relax a little once I realize I’m ahead of the others on this course.
Mr. Ward calls me and a couple of others up to the board to solve some equations.
Every classroom here seems to have these high-tech interactive whiteboards—not like my old school.
At any rate, I haven’t seen an ordinary chalkboard anywhere.
Mr. Ward just gives a curt nod once I’ve solved the problem without difficulty, and he makes a note of something on his iPad as I sit down.
He leaves me in peace for the rest of the lesson. When the bell goes for lunch and the others leave the room, I pack up my things extra slowly.
“Are you coming?” Henry asks in passing.
“Yes, in a minute. I just wanted to . . .”
He understands my hesitation. “We’ll be in the dining room.
Just text me. Hold on.” I can’t react in time as he reaches for my hand.
He holds it firmly in one of his own, while the other grabs the felt-tip that’s still lying on my desk.
My heart skips a beat as he takes it into his mouth to pull off the lid.
His hair falls into his eyes as he presses the cool tip of the pen against the sensitive skin of my palm.
It tickles a bit as he writes, and it’s only then that I see he’s giving me his number.
As if we could miss each other in the dining room—I mean, it’s not like the canteen at my school in Germany where anyone can sit wherever they choose.
Here, we have set tables, and there aren’t that many people, but apparently it matters to Henry that he immortalizes himself on my skin.
And I . . . Well, I don’t have a problem with that, let’s put it that way.
Who knows? I might need to ask him something about schoolwork sometime. Or check out his profile picture . . .
“That last number’s meant to be a nine,” Henry mumbles, raising his head. His eyes are dark green as he puts the lid back on the pen and slips it into my pencil case. Have I mentioned that he has a very nice mouth? “See you soon.”
“Yes.” I clear my throat a little as he turns away.
Help. Why was that so hot?
I run the thumb of my other hand over the black numbers. Once I’m sure the ink’s dry, I clench my fingers into a fist and slip my bag onto my shoulder.
Mr. Ward is just reaching for his stick and turning to the door as I approach him.
“Excuse me, sir,” I begin.
He gives an irritable sigh. “I haven’t got much time.”
“I just have a quick question,” I say hastily. Oh, yeah, what is it then? What’s happened to all my prepared sentences?
Mr. Ward looks impatiently at me. His eyes flit to the clock above the door. “I’m busy,” he says, “so if you could get to the point?”
My tongue has difficulty forming the words. Then I just say it. “You mentioned my father yesterday morning.”
“Yes.” His hand tightens on the handle of his stick. “I did.”