Chapter 8 #2
“Where did you know him from?” Mr. Ward narrows his eyes. Suddenly I feel incredibly naive. “I just wanted to . . .” He still doesn’t reply. “I’m not in contact with him and I was hoping you could—”
“I said you look like him,” he interrupts me harshly. “That doesn’t mean I feel the need to speak about him.”
I freeze.
“Just be glad that he no longer plays any role in your life, Ms. Wiley.” Mr. Ward’s voice is as cold as ice as he turns away. “Was there anything else?”
He doesn’t wait for my answer. My legs only remember how to walk once he’s turned toward the door again. His lanyard clatters as he locks the door behind me.
Just be glad . . . Does that mean my father once played a role in Mr. Ward’s life? Did he go to school here with him? How disrespectful would it be to ask a teacher his age?
I don’t dare ask anything more. Mr. Ward’s expression is an impenetrable mask.
“I didn’t mean to be rude,” I say instead.
Mr. Ward doesn’t answer right away. Then he says, “Don’t waste your energy on the past. As your teacher, I would suggest that you’re better off investing it in your studies.”
My heart is numb, my mind blank. I nod before he walks away, then set off in the opposite direction.
It’s only after I’ve taken a few steps that I remember this isn’t the way to the dining room.
I stop and open my hand, with which I’ve been clutching my bag the whole time.
I can just about see the black marks on the navy-blue fabric.
“Fuck . . .” I whisper.
Henry’s number is smeared: My palms are sweaty.
I shut my eyes.
Henry
I can’t remember when it became a tradition that I have lunch with Grace and her family on Wednesdays.
It feels like it’s always been that way, yet today I almost forgot.
If Grace hadn’t been waiting for me at the foot of the stairs, I’d have turned left and headed for the dining room with the others.
Now I can’t stop thinking that Emma might be looking for me.
If I had her number, I could just let her know now.
“Are you expecting something?” Grace asks as I glance at my phone to see, yet again, no message from her.
Instead, Maeve has sent another of her weird memes to our family WhatsApp group.
This one features a frog and, yet again, I don’t get the joke.
I’ve long since given up trying to understand them.
“Hm?” I look up. “Oh, right, no. Sorry.” I put my phone away as Grace’s mum sets a huge casserole dish on the table in front of us. Meanwhile, her dad reaches for my glass to fill it with water. The thought of how much I’d rather be somewhere else makes me feel guilty.
Grace’s parents, Diane and Marcus, know mine.
They were at Dunbridge too, all at the same time, in the same year.
Just like Grace and me. Since I’ve been at the school, I’ve seen Grace’s parents way more often than my own.
I used to spend almost every weekend with them.
No wonder the Whitmores’ house feels almost like a home from home to me.
I’ve spent less time here as we’ve got older, and this year my days will be so packed with lessons, school council meetings, and prep supervision that it’ll be hard for Grace and me to see much of each other either. But however full my diary is, Wednesday lunch with her family is a fixture.
“Oh, thanks.” I automatically reach for my plate as Grace’s mum tries to keep piling shepherd’s pie onto it. “That’s plenty.”
“Are you sure, Henry?” She eyes me carefully. “There’s no need to hold back.”
“Stop fattening the boy up, Diane,” says Grace’s dad.
“I’ll give you some to take back with you,” she announces, handing me my plate. “We all know what an appetite boarding school works up.”
“That’s what toast’s for,” remarks Marcus, which earns him a reproachful look from his wife.
“Or that’s how it was in our day. Toast between lunch and dinner, toast at half midnight.
The toaster in your father’s room was worth its weight in gold.
Apart from that time when he accidentally got one of his curtains—”
“We know the story, Dad,” says Grace, and I grin.
“I know, I know. Your old folks will keep telling the same old stories. It was such a long time ago now. I wish I could have my time at Dunbridge over again.”
“That’s what my parents always say too,” I put in.
“There, you see.” Marcus turns his attention to his lunch.
“So how are they doing, Henry?” Diane asks as she loads Grace’s younger brothers’ plates. Gregory and Augustus are day pupils too. Greg’s in the junior school, and Gus is in the third form. I’ve known them since they were little. It’s all kind of weird.
“Yeah, they’re good. It’s a lot of work but they’re happy. They’ll probably come over for a couple of weeks at Christmas.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” Diane beams. “Well, in that case, you must all come over for a meal. Maeve and Theo too, of course, if they’re around.”
“I’ll pass that on,” I promise. “I’m calling them later today. I haven’t managed to get through to them yet.”
“Being school captain really is keeping you busy,” Grace remarks with a grin.
“Oh, yes, your new role, Henry,” Diane says. “You certainly are following in Theo’s footsteps.”
My stomach tenses, but I keep smiling. That’s just how it is. Whatever I do, it’ll always be measured against what my big brother’s already achieved. OK, so he wasn’t school captain, but—let’s be honest—at a Scottish boarding school, rugby captain is definitely the more prestigious post.
And right on cue, Grace mentions rugby, which gets her dad and brothers all fired up. Marcus played for the school too, back in the day, and he’s giving me all kinds of tips, while Greg and Gus tell me about their training on the junior teams.
“And you’ve got your own personal running coach in Grace, haven’t you?” Marcus concludes. My smile is rather strained because I’m suddenly thinking of Emma again.
“Yeah, that’s ideal, isn’t it?”
To my surprise, Grace doesn’t reply, just keeps her eyes fixed on her plate. I’m about to ask her if everything’s OK when she looks up. “Shall we help clear away?” she asks.
“Henry might like a little more?” Diane says hopefully.
“No, thank you,” I say hastily. “Honestly.” I’m sure that Diane’s already running her mind’s eye over her Tupperware pots, picking out the biggest one to pack the leftovers into for me.
Once we’ve helped her parents take the dishes through to the kitchen, we head up to Grace’s room.
It’s the first bit of time we’ve had to ourselves, and after such a long time apart, I probably ought to have certain ideas on my mind.
But instead, I glance back at my phone to check that Emma still hasn’t messaged.
I’m sure she found Tori and the others. I hope she did.
I remember that I meant to ask Grace about the track team.
“I told Emma you’re on the track team and that you might take her along to training,” I say, shutting the door behind me. “She was in an athletics club at home.”
“Oh, cool,” says Grace.
“I hope that was OK,” I add.
“Of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I don’t know . . . Maybe I should’ve asked you first.”
“I’m happy to take her along next week,” says Grace.
“I’m sure she’ll be pleased . . . And what your dad said just now . . . Would you like to run with me now and then?”
Grace doesn’t answer right away, and I feel a sneaky sense of relief. She’s busy: I shouldn’t expect her to make more time for me. And I could take Emma up on her offer and run with her. Without having to feel bad about it.
“When you say, ‘now and then,’ what did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Once or twice a week?”
“I’ll have to see if I can squeeze it in,” she says. “Between A levels, training, and piano, it’s pretty full-on at the moment.”
“It was just an idea.”
“I’m sorry, Henry.”
“No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
I wander over to her desk and idly pick up a book. As I do so, I spot a prospectus lying there. I recognize the logo at once.
“Still planning on Oxford, then?” I ask.
Grace turns to me. For a moment, as she sees what I’m looking at, she seems kind of overwhelmed. I take the brochure, perch on the bed, and start to flick through it. Glossy photos of ancient buildings and perfectly manicured lawns. It looks like Dunbridge Academy, only brighter.
Grace has come closer now. “I wanted to find the right moment to tell you,” she says, and I wait for my belly to clench. I feel nothing. Maybe it’s because part of me had been prepared for this moment. “Not on WhatsApp or on the phone. I’m sorry.”
I reach for her hands and draw them between my knees. “There’s no need to be sorry,” I mumble. When I raise my chin a little, Grace kisses me. “You ought to go to Oxford if you want to.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I know what she’s thinking.
You too . . .
It’s what everyone thinks. That I’ll work my arse off, get straight A stars, so that I can take my pick of offers from Oxford or Cambridge colleges. But it’s not like that.
“Olive and I went down there during the holidays and looked round St. Hilda’s. The college is dreamy, Henry.”
St. Andrews is lovely too . . . But I don’t say that. Because we’ve had this conversation too often already. Because I don’t want Grace to make any decisions for my sake that’ll make her unhappy. Even if I don’t want to think about what that means for us.
“I really think I could get in,” she says as I pull her onto my lap.
“Of course you will. Your grades are good, and Ms. Kelleher will write you a great reference.”
“Yes.” She swallows. “But—”
“It’s what you want,” I interrupt.
“And you’re really set on St. Andrews? I mean, you could put Oxford down too, keep your options open.”
“Grace,” I say quietly, but she’s still talking.
“I get that you want to be near Maeve and Theo. But . . .” I know exactly what she wants to ask.
Don’t I want to be near her too? And of course I do.
I really do. But maybe not quite enough.
I don’t even know. Because, yeah, Grace is part of my life, and I can’t imagine not being with her, but at the same time, when I think about my future, I don’t know if I see us both there.
I just know that Grace wants to get away.
From Ebrington, from Scotland. And I don’t.
I’ve been on the move long enough, and I’ve finally arrived here.
I raise my head and see it all in her amber eyes.
Those few nights when I secretly slept over with her and we painted a picture of moving in together after school.
She was going to study history and politics and I’d do English or biology.
Everything would be weird and unfamiliar—leaving school, starting at uni—but we’d conquer this new world together.
I brush a hair off her face. “We don’t have to decide anything for ages yet.
” I don’t know why I say that. And I don’t know why Grace nods.
We’ve known each other six years. And we’ve been together for three.
Three years, and sometimes I get the feeling we’ve kind of run out of things to say.
After all, there’s only so much you can talk about when your everyday lives are practically identical and you have all the same friends.
But that’s probably normal. Normal for things sometimes to feel more like a habit than a relationship.
To keep having the same conversations and the same arguments too, these days.
If we argue at all. Sometimes I’m afraid it’s all gone too flat even for that.
OK, I can’t think about this anymore. It’s driving me crazy.
But I can’t admit to her that I’m not seriously considering Oxford, that I can’t see myself changing my mind.
We know each other through and through. We know when the other is lying.
Grace knows that. I know that. And we ought to talk all this through, even if it’s uncomfortable, and it’s bound to hurt a lot.
I really wish I could just change the subject now . . .
“Hey, did you see that Ms. Buchanan’s wearing a wedding ring now?” Grace asks.