Chapter 9
Colin
They’re really serious about this study-hour shit.
Every lousy afternoon. To my surprise, I got my English and math tests back by Wednesday.
I was less surprised to have gotten everything right.
So I don’t see any need to use study hour for studying.
I’ve been here half a week now, but I’m still feeling jet-lagged.
It’s worst in the morning, though I still fall into a hole of exhaustion in the afternoon.
By the start of wing time in the evening, my body’s reliably wide awake and there’s no point even trying to sleep.
So I’ve spent the past few nights exploring the school under cover of darkness.
But I’m paying for that decision now because I’m dead beat as I head up to my room after the last class of the day and drop onto my bed.
From sheer force of habit, I open TikTok and groan as the app won’t load.
Same thing happened yesterday afternoon, and the day before, at this time, because they turn off the Wi-Fi punctually at the start of study hour and wing time.
My roommate looks up from his books and glares at me.
I haven’t exactly been a model of friendliness in the last couple of days, and I’m still amused by the way he can’t stand me.
We speak as little to each other as possible, which is fine by me.
Truly. Even though it feels like a stab in the chest to catch sight of him around the school with his buddies when I’ve got absolutely nobody.
Not that I want anybody. It’s enough that I can sometimes sit with Kit and his crowd at meals.
That’s enough social interaction for one day for me.
I’d be better off working on not losing contact with Paxton, Ash, and Maresa, although, now that I think about it, they haven’t messaged our group since I’ve been here.
I’d text them right now and ask how it’s going in New York if I weren’t cut off from the rest of the world.
I really need to figure out why my phone won’t switch to roaming. I need data, like my roommate—he’s constantly on his cell phone during study hour.
“Hey, can I use your hotspot?” I ask, sitting up slightly. Sinclair raises his eyebrows patronizingly, and for the first time, I wish I’d been a bit nicer to him. Shit, it should’ve occurred to me that I’d need his help with something eventually.
“Aye, right, you’ve got no internet on that thing,” he says. “That must be pretty shite.”
I roll my eyes, because somebody really needs to teach him that he isn’t funny. “Yeah. So can I share your data or not?”
“Sorry, I’m running kind of low myself.”
“Is there a phone repair shop around here?”
“Near here?” he repeats. Is he dumb or what?
“Yeah,” I say, annoyed.
“Loads of places in Edinburgh.”
“But here?” I ask, because I’m not in the mood for trekking through the boondocks for hours by bus.
“In Ebrington, you mean?” Now he’s laughing. “Irvine’s might sell you a prepaid SIM, if data’s the issue. Ask Kit, he might know. Hey, what are you doing?” he adds as I stand up.
“Going to find out.”
“It’s study hour.”
“So what?” I mutter as I slip on my shoes.
He keeps staring at me like he’s shocked, but then gives a quiet laugh. “Aye, right, you want to get expelled. Well, have fun.”
“Thanks, I will.” I grab my key, my useless cell phone, and some money before leaving the room. Out on the corridor, I dip into the bowl of cookies in the kitchen and walk toward the stairs. Mr. Acevedo’s door is open, which must mean he’s playing watchdog, ready to spot anyone trying to creep out.
“Ah, Colin.” He turns up behind me at that very moment. “I was about to come and see you. Dr. Henderson called—you had an appointment with him?”
Shit, that’s right. I was supposed to go and introduce myself to the school doctor before study hour. I totally forgot.
“Yeah, could be,” I mumble as I turn around.
“Why are you even out here on the wing? Have you finished your prep? In that case, you can go and see him now, OK?” Mr. Acevedo says, walking past me to his room.
Fine, so I’ll pay a visit to this doc, then go into the town. Suits me.
Someone else is coming up the stairs toward me. There’s almost a hint of fear in Olive Garden’s eyes, but then her expression becomes unreadable.
“It’s study hour,” she pants as she hurries past me.
“Yeah, knock yourself out.” I shove a cookie into my mouth.
She stops. “Where are you going?”
“To see the goddamn school doctor. Can you tell me where he is?”
“I’m sorry?” She takes a step toward me.
“Yeah, or d’you want to come along? After that I thought I’d go see Mrs. Sinclair and then you can explain to her what you did in person.”
She gives a slightly manic laugh, which secretly makes me grin. “Do whatever you like.”
I walk over and rest my hand on the wall, level with her face. I notice again how tiny she is as I look down at her. There’s a warning glimmer in her green eyes. “Don’t you worry, Olive Garden, I will.”
She juts out her chin provocatively, which sadly I find only too pleasing. “You really think you can just come here and do whatever the hell you like, don’t you?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Can I?”
“You’re not a good person, Colin Fantino,” she says with disgust.
I smile wearily and eat another cookie. “You don’t say.”
She’s still looking up into my face and comes a little closer, and oh, God, my body responds. I forget to chew.
She smells nice. Like a flower.
Oh, crap, Fantino. Since when have I been thinking about how Olive Garden smells? I don’t give a damn how she smells. And I don’t even like the scent of flowers all that much anyway. It’s OK, no more. God.
“And the goddamn school doctor is my dad,” she says, before she walks away. “You’ll find him in the sick bay on the ground floor, first door on the right, after the trophy cabinets. Say hi to him from me.”
He really is Olive Garden’s dad. I spot his dark green eyes right away, which are just like hers. But there’s a lot less hatred in his expression, which makes a pleasant change.
I’ve met a lot of doctors in my life, so I can generally tell within a few seconds if they’ve got it or not.
I don’t mean if they know what they’re doing, but whether or not their work’s turned them into the kind of soulless robot who just reels off standard questions, hammers on their computer keyboard, and never looks me in the eye.
Olive Garden’s father makes time for me, and he’s done his research. He knows my insulin regime and introduces me to the school nurse, who, unlike him, seems to be here around the clock. I hate to admit it, but I feel good around him. Which is obviously nothing to do with whose father he is.
And even that’s kind of ridiculous. The school doctor is display-case girl’s dad, and the head teacher is my clown of a roommate’s mom. What next? Should I call Ava Fantino and ask her if she wants a job here too?
Study hour still isn’t over as I stroll through the empty corridors toward the south wing after my appointment with Dr. Henderson.
After what I said to Olive Garden, I don’t want to risk missing Mrs. Sinclair.
I don’t know how late she stays at the school, so I pick up the pace a bit.
It’s been fun to threaten Olive Garden with putting the blame for the display-case thing on her, but I know when it’s time to back down.
She looked seriously stressed just now, so that’s enough.
When I get to the offices, I ignore the school secretary who tries to stop me interrupting Mrs. Sinclair, and I knock on her door instead of letting him schedule a meeting.
She looks up from her desk when I walk in, and I can see the resemblance to her son. “Colin,” she says, like she deserves a medal for remembering my name. “What can I do for you?”
“It was me,” I say as I come closer and sit down without waiting to be asked, because I have no respect. I can see from Mrs. Sinclair’s face that she doesn’t know what I’m talking about, so I kindly help her out a bit. “The display case.”
She doesn’t look all that surprised, which ought to make me think. “You are responsible for the damage to the swimming-team display case?” she says, looking intently at me.
“Yes, I am.”
She stands up, which is probably meant to be intimidating. I lean back slightly and enjoy the show.
“I’m disappointed that you’re getting your time at Dunbridge Academy off to this kind of start, Colin.”
Oh, God, the I’m-not-angry-I’m-disappointed shtick. This woman is a teacher to her bones.
I shrug. “And it happened after wing time.”
Mrs. Sinclair reaches for an expensive-looking leather bag. When I realize she’s starting to pack away her things, I feel nervous. What’s going on here? Why isn’t she giving me a lecture? She isn’t letting me provoke her, and that unsettles me.
“For the next four weeks, you can spend an hour a day helping Mr. Carpenter, our school caretaker,” she says, not looking at me. “And that’s on top of your other duties.”
“No warning?” I ask in disappointment.
“No, Colin.” Now she does look at me. “I’m not giving you a formal warning, but if you continue to break the rules, you can expect further additional work, curfews, and the confiscation of your technological devices.”
“Why don’t you just kick me out?”
“Your mother warned me that you would try to get yourself expelled. So instead of wasting your time and energy on the attempt, you’d be better off making the most of the opportunities that this school offers.”
I feel a deeper chill at her every word.
Mom warned her. She knows me well enough that she persuaded her not to throw me out. She knew I’d have a plan.
“I’ll ask Mr. Carpenter tomorrow whether you turned up. If not, Mr. Acevedo will confiscate your mobile phone.”
“But my phone is my glucose meter,” I point out.
“Dr. Henderson will happily issue you with an analogue meter that works just as well.” Mrs. Sinclair walks past me to take her coat from a hook by the door and put it on. “Think carefully about your actions, Colin. And now please go back to your room for the rest of study hour.”