Chapter 16
Colin
Olive Garden has gotten inside my head. Seriously, she just crept in and took hold like a disease.
That sounds negative, but I never claimed to be a nice person.
I’m sitting behind her in class today, staring at the back of her neck because I can tell that her skin there is sensitive and soft.
Side glances in hallways, eyes darting away, eyes flitting right back.
Sometimes, when she stares absently into the middle distance in the dining room or the classroom, there’s a hint of pain in her green cat-eyes.
It reminds me of the night she stumbled into that doorframe and winced in agony.
I can never again resent her for looking at me with that annoying anxious expression because, apparently, I’m no better.
I don’t like the idea that she’s not doing well, even though it’s really none of my business.
However much of a monster I am, there seems to be at least some last scrap of humanity left in me.
Of course I go to great lengths to hide it whenever I meet Olive Garden.
Why? I hate to admit it, but Maresa Vega really did a number on my heart, and I never want to feel that way again.
So dependent on another person’s attention.
You’d think I ought to have learned that early enough with my fabulous parents.
You only get attention when you’ve seriously screwed up.
And that’s not positive attention. Sometimes, I’d like to ask Ava and Eric Fantino why they wanted kids.
If our relationship was better, I might know.
But as that isn’t the case, I’ve come to the conclusion that I was most probably an accident, and Cleo was the planned child later.
I’m not into self-pity, so I don’t mind.
The main thing is for them to treat her better, especially now, when she has to cope without me.
Does Olive Garden have siblings? They’d definitely go to this school if she did, and then I’d have seen them around.
I bet she sees her friends here as her sisters and brothers.
No, wait, that’s way too kitschy for her.
I grin to myself as I picture her eyes like daggers if I were to say that to her.
Olive Garden trying to stare you down intimidatingly is on another level.
It freaks her out when she realizes it’s not working.
But somehow, lately, I feel less and less into trying to make her freak out.
I feel very much into other things. And I don’t mean making conversation with her.
Or not only conversation. I can’t stop thinking about her little cherry-red lips.
They’re so pretty, and I think they’d be prettier hot and swollen from kissing.
From me kissing them. Only for fun, of course.
Furious, lustful kisses where we have to gasp for air and she grabs onto my hair.
God, I’m so horny, it’s not funny anymore.
But my last time with Maresa was the night after the fire, and I was so drunk I can’t even remember the details.
I guess that’s for the best, because otherwise I’d be even more heartbroken over her.
But I knew what I was getting into. It’s not Maresa’s fault that I nodded and said, “No feelings, sure,” but still hoped.
Hope is for losers like me, so I’m done with it.
But hopelessness feels all kinds of shit, so I picked something more bearable instead.
Emptiness, indifference. Maybe that’s weak, but I’m really not up for that stuff anymore.
Luckily, I manage to work off my punishment by the start of my fourth week at Dunbridge Academy, so now I no longer spend my afternoons helping the caretaker and clearing out storerooms or scrubbing floors.
Instead, I’m doing tennis training with Kit twice a week and boxing my guts out in the fitness center whenever I need to.
Sometimes with Kit, other times just me and the punching bag.
Although it’s kind of better when there are two of us.
Sometimes I creep into the room with the piano in the afternoons and FaceTime Cleo.
Today I don’t get there until the late evening, not that it’s a problem, given the time difference.
But Cleo doesn’t pick up. I try again, then remember it’s Wednesday and she’s probably already at her gym class.
Shame, but there we are. I play songs at random, out of my head, for a while, but it doesn’t bring me the usual relief.
I was thinking about grabbing my lighter earlier, even though I’ve managed several days without it now.
Which is better, because I don’t want to risk getting caught.
Luckily, I can hide my scarred ankles under my socks when I wear shorts for games, and I don’t go into the communal showers if anyone else is there. You do what you can.
All the same, I feel the urge tingling in my fingers as I eventually stroll back toward my room.
The halls are dark and everywhere is quiet, except my head, where it’s incredibly loud.
I know that it’ll only get worse if I lie down now and shut my eyes, so I head right past the stairs to the east wing and wander on.
Through the arcades and then the gate onto the path to the sports facilities.
The air is cool, the gravel crunches under my feet, and my thoughts gradually quiet.
I’m not heading anywhere in particular as I pass the windows of the swimming hall.
As ever, the pool is lit up at night, and then I see her.
Olive Garden is crouching at the edge, knees drawn up, staring at the water.
I freeze, even though there’s very little chance of her seeing me.
She doesn’t move either, just squats there for an eternity.
When she eventually leans forward and stretches out her hand, her dark hair cascades over her eyes like a waterfall.
For reasons that I can’t explain, I shiver as her fingers dip into the pool.
I find myself imagining her running them over my body.
I just have to. I have no choice. Olive Garden’s slender shoulders and elegant neck, she’s somehow not a swimmer at all now, yet I picture her athletic body gliding through the water, swimming away, leaving them all in her wake.
She’s not even my type, but that doesn’t stop the blood rushing between my legs at the idea of her touching me.
There are basically only two options now.
One, I turn around, go back, and leave her in peace.
Or two, I carry on from where we left off, back in that dark storeroom.
Nobody can tell me there was no attraction between us when Olive Garden switched off the light and stood next to me in the darkness.
So close. I heard her breathing hard—just saying.
And I want to hear it again. I want to hear it with her standing in front of me while I press her up against a wall.
I stand out here. I watch her as she lifts her hand out of the water again, clenches it into a livid Olive Garden fist. A few droplets fall from her fingers into the pool. She shakes them off. I turn away.
Olive
It’s been another stressful day. It was packed with classes, physio, and an hour’s tutoring from Henry, when I nearly cried as I understood how far ahead he and the others in the upper sixth are now.
Dragging myself down to the swimming center to help Ms. Cox out at training didn’t exactly help either.
It was fun to encourage the others and give them tips, but it’s just not the same as swimming myself.
After dinner, I was totally knackered, but of course, by wing time, there was no chance of sleep. So I came back. To the swimming center. There’s total silence here now, and with nobody else around, it feels like a completely different place.
I remember my first gala, swimming for the Dunbridge team, back in the juniors.
Mum and Dad watched from the stands and, maybe, everything really was fine in those days.
I remember going up into the senior team even before I got to the sixth form, the only girl of my age.
Because I was good. Because I was really good.
Some people call you arrogant if you’re aware of your strengths, but I don’t see it that way.
I know what I can do, and I know what I can’t.
Swimming was always my thing. Training sessions were my favorite part of the day.
They were all too often my reason for getting out of bed in the morning.
I never had to ask myself why I was doing it.
The discipline, going without, constantly saying no when my friends went into the city, had midnight parties, went off for the weekend, while I was driven with the rest of the team to pools all over the country, to throw heart and soul into the two hundred meters again and again, to stand on podiums, to have medals hung around my neck.
I loved winning, but that wasn’t really what it was all about for me.
The adrenaline that drove my body on to perform when I positioned myself on the starting block and waited for the signal.
Pushing off, tensing, flying, diving under, flying again.
My arms splitting the water, my body feeling weightless.
The burning in my lungs, my heart thumping.
You could say I was addicted to that feeling, which would explain why everything’s been so shite since none of that has been part of my life.
I’m going cold turkey. Although that would mean the first few weeks were the hardest and after a while it should start to get better, but there’s no sign of that.
You have to give yourself time, Olive.
Yeah, but how much?