Chapter 4 #3
I clear my throat, then shake my head. Maybe I’m being childish, but I can’t deal with it anymore.
I guess I should be glad she even came up after we talked to Mrs. Sinclair.
That she took this detour to Edinburgh instead of staying right there in London, where she’s heading back later for dinner at the Shangri La with some industry folks before flying to New York again. Without me.
“No, let’s get it over with.” Everything within me tenses as I take a quick step toward her.
I hug her for as short a time as possible, hoping that will make her think.
But on the contrary. She seems pleased that I’m not showing any uncomfortable emotion.
She might even be relieved that I’m not making a big deal of saying goodbye.
Hey, it isn’t a real one. “Have a good flight. Talk soon.”
“I hope you’ll make the best of your time here, Colin,” she says. A chill spreads through my chest as she turns away. “See you soon.”
No I’ll miss you. No Take care of yourself.
Nothing. Nothing.
She’s Ava Fantino, funny and friendly, but only on camera.
Only on the dark-brown Chesterfield in her studio, where she makes every guest feel so fucking welcome.
She’s the exact opposite at home, and if that got out, it would be the end of the world.
But it won’t, any more than the news of what I did will.
Mom leaves the room, shuts the door. I clench my fists, dig my nails into the palms of my hands. Hard, harder. It doesn’t help. I notice my pulse racing.
I try to count silently back from fifty, but it’s no use. I only get as far as forty-four before I whirl around and pace through the room like a hunted animal.
I heave one of my black aluminum suitcases onto my bed and choke back a curse because I’m not sure which one it’s in. I should have marked it somehow. But I didn’t. Even though I should’ve known how quickly I’d need to get at my lighter once I was here.
Please don’t let them have gone through my suitcases.
My fingers are shaking as I find the combination.
There’s no slip of paper to say my baggage was checked.
OK, that’s good. There’s hope. I open the suitcase and dig through my T-shirts.
Come on. My heart is pounding in my throat.
I’m dizzy as I open the second case. Sometimes I’m not sure if it’s low blood sugar when I feel like this or if it’s all just in my head.
Either way, I want it to stop. Which only happens if I make it stop.
I laugh with relief as I find the lighter and sink to the floor by the bed. I snap back the cover, feel for my belt, and then, through the open window, I hear laughter echo up from the courtyard.
Fuck, I should stop. I’m not alone here and I have no idea if these Scottish people consider it necessary to knock before they enter a room. The place on the inside of my thigh might be the safest because nobody can see it, but I can only use it if I’m totally certain nobody will catch me.
I jump up and lock the door, then sit on the floor again and give in. The memories twitch through my head, flooding my mind.
Awful news breaking on the Upper West Side, 91st Street, where part of Ainslee School is apparently on fire. Over to our reporter on the scene for a live update . . .
The CNN presenter’s voice was practically shaking with excitement.
I’d been in the car with Pax, Maresa, and Ash for ages by then.
They’d seen the news on their phones, asked me questions; I’d shaken my head, downed shot after shot once we finally got to the club.
It’s the last thing I remember about that night, but the memory’s seared on my brain.
The next morning, I woke up in Ash’s apartment next to Maresa, because we never learn. But that wasn’t what had made me queasy. I had switched off airplane mode on my phone and found countless messages from Mom and Dad.
Where are you?
Call us.
Screenshots. Catastrophe.
Multiple injuries after the fire on 91st Street, including an FDNY firefighter.
Breaking News—female firefighter killed in blaze. Mother of four, aged 42.
I read that and threw up in Ash’s bathroom. Somebody died.
Because of me.
Because of me.
And it feels like no time has passed since that day. Now I’m here, but the nightmare doesn’t end.
Why do you have to go? When are you coming home? Cleo’s huge eyes slowly filling with tears.
Because I’m a bad person. Because I ought to be dead, not that firefighter who was only doing her fucking job.
God, this has to stop.
I fire up the lighter.
The relief is instant. I feel the heat, then the pain.
I don’t pull my hand away. Not even when I can hardly stand it.
I shut my eyes and let my head fall back.
Count to five. No longer. I can’t risk the effect wearing off the way it happens if I do this too often.
A couple of times a week instead of a month.
A couple of times a day, but how can I help it if the days are going to be so shitty now?
Breathe. Focus on the pain.
Five.
I clamp my teeth together.
Four.
Not long now.
Three.
It’s working . . .
T—
Fuck.
My eyes fly open. I’m not imagining the sound of a key turning in the lock. I snap the lighter shut and leap up. I just about manage to close my fly as the door bursts open.
“Oh, hello.”
There’s a blond guy standing in the doorway. Why the hell does he have a key to my room?
“Ever heard of knocking?” I snap.
“On my own door?” He frowns, then strolls in and bangs it shut. “But maybe you’re right. Just let me know in future if you want a wank and neither of us will get a shock.”
I flush. I want to correct him but then I realize it’s better if he thinks I was jerking off. Anything’s better than the truth.
“I was unpacking,” I say instead.
“Aye, I noticed. Good job you packed it away in time too.”
It takes me a moment to grasp what he means. “What the . . .”
“Only joking, pal.” He comes closer. “Sinclair,” he says. Hold on. Wasn’t that the principal’s name, or am I going nuts? “And you’re the newbie.”
“Yeah.” I turn away.
“Right, got you. So you’re kind of pissed off about this whole thing.” The blond guy drops onto his bed. “I thought you Americans were fans of small talk, polite conversation?”
“I’m a New Yorker,” I growl, which should be explanation enough.
“Oh, sorry, my mistake.” He grins. “Then I won’t ask how your flight was or if you’re settling in.”
God, we’ve barely spent five minutes together, and I can’t stand the sound of his voice. “Yeah, no need.”
“Fine. And I know your name anyway,” he continues, unfazed. “My mum told me. Colin Fantino, right? Isn’t your mum that—”
“Yeah, man.” I whirl around. “She is, and would you just shut up, or do you want me to ask her for an autograph?”
He blinks innocently. “My girlfriend loves her show.” I glare at him. “But sorry, don’t mind me. Want me to piss off so that you can get back to your unpacking?”
“God, how old are you? Twelve?”
“Eighteen,” he says. “How about you?”
I say nothing.
“Wait, let me guess. You’re going into the lower sixth . . . Sixteen?”
I snort.
“Seventeen, then? Had your birthday already?”
“Uh, no. What’s it to you?”
“Just asking.”
“Well, do us both a favor and quit it.”
“Not in the mood to chat, got you.” He sighs. “Looks like this is going to be a long year.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t be here that long,” I mumble.
“Won’t you?”
“No.”
“If you say so.”
I turn back to my luggage and decide just to ignore the guy. Sinclair. Doesn’t he have another name? I’m about to face him and ask when I hear him speaking again.
“You’ve missed dinner.”
“What a shame,” I say, thinking about vinegar-soaked fries and other highlights of British cuisine.
“We can sort something out for you in the kitchen,” he says, and suddenly I know that he knows.
I glance over my shoulder. I want to deny it.
But I understand my body well enough to know I’d regret that decision in an hour or two at most. The trip was tiring, then there’s the jet lag, and I don’t want a night of low blood sugar.
“My mum told me you’re diabetic,” he says.
“How discreet of her.”
“Look, I’m making an effort. Can’t you meet me halfway?”
“Don’t bother,” I say. “I’m not here to make friends.”
“The way you’re acting, you’re not likely to.”
I can’t help smiling, with my back to him. Ha, he’s pissed. Bite me, Scotland boy. “Boo-hoo,” I say, bored.
I hear the bed creak as he stands up. He crosses the room and vanishes into the hole that’s meant to be a bathroom. He suddenly reappears and goes to the door. I turn around after all.
“Where are you going?”
“What do you care?” He’s shut the door before I can speak.
Great. I didn’t even get to ask him for the Wi-Fi password. At least then I could have googled this place, see what there is here. What the hell? Looks like it’s going to take some good old-fashioned exploration.
I fling some of my clothes into the rank wardrobe beside my bed, then decide I can’t stand another minute in this room.
Looks more like a camp bed than a bed. I know I’ll fall out when I try to turn over.
Where do they go to screw here? It’s not just the narrow bed but the lack of privacy. God, I have to get out of here ASAP.
My insulin pump beeps. Great. I bet the cannula’s snapped after all that time on the plane.
I open the second case, which is half full of insulin vials and the kit for changing them.
Seeing my irritating roommate has stormed off, I take the chance to remove the pump, which I would have needed to do tomorrow anyway.
Luckily the sandwich I bought for lunch at Heathrow is still in my backpack.
I felt too nauseous to eat it, which hasn’t changed, but I have no choice now.
I’ll have to make do. I’ve just thrown the wrapping into the trash can under the lousy desk when my roommate returns. With wet hair.
He seems to spot my confusion: We have a shower in the tiny bathroom.
“There are shared showers on the wing. They’re bigger than the one here.”
“On the wing?” I repeat, because I think I must have misheard.
“Yeah, that’s what it’s called.”
“I thought the wings were the dorm blocks?”
He shrugs. “And the corridors. Just go with it, OK?”
Hey, he can be quite funny, actually, when he’s pissed. This is almost fun.
Only almost, though.
“OK, whatever,” I drawl, picking up my phone, my key, and my jacket.
“Er, what are you doing?” he asks.
“What does it look like?”
“It’s almost wing time,” he says.
I laugh. This just gets better and better. “Great.”
“Which means we have to stay in our rooms now or—”
“Know what?” I interrupt. “I couldn’t care less.”
“What would you do if I grassed on you?”
“I’d thank you.” I give him my most engaging look. “Seriously. Then I might get out of here even sooner than I thought.”