Chapter 17
Colin
Oh, man, are we in trouble. The next morning, we’re summoned to Mrs. Sinclair’s office for a lecture. I lean back in my chair and count the knotholes in the floorboards at our feet while she chews us out.
Olive Garden’s hunched into the chair next to me, shoulders around her ears, looking guilty.
I don’t know if that’s a ploy to get a less harsh punishment or if she’s truly overwhelmed.
There’s no telling with Olive Garden. She’s shrewd, but soft-hearted.
That’s her weak point, and I like it only too well.
I get two more weeks’ caretaker duty, and Olive has to join me this time.
I’m almost sorry about that, but then I’m not sorry because it means we can spend time together.
If they shut us up in some room together to clean it, we can start up where we were before we were interrupted last night.
If she isn’t already regretting the kiss, that is.
I haven’t had the chance to speak to her yet.
Obviously, I’m not regretting it because it was worryingly good.
But I don’t want all that stuff. I don’t want to kiss any more women, kidding myself that it’s meaningless.
And the thing with Olive Garden definitely doesn’t mean a thing.
Not for her anyway. Or I don’t think it does.
I’m just some asshole from the States who nobody wants to spend time with. She’s right about that.
All the same, I want her to like spending time with me.
I’d go as far as to bet that she does, to some extent at least. I’m not that bad a judge of people.
I might be a jerk, but I can read Olive’s body language.
And it changes the moment she catches sight of me.
She stands a bit straighter, touches her hair more often.
Awkward little gestures that she tries to balance out with crossed arms and fierce glares, but she doesn’t need to.
Somehow she likes me, the way somehow I like her.
We’re on the same wavelength, even if it’s one that consists of being jerkish to each other.
God knows why, but I’ve started to enjoy it, and I don’t want it to stop.
OK, so I don’t want to keep on being mean to her for no reason, but that’s just part of the deal.
A little part at least. It’s a friendly meanness; she gets that.
I’m sure of it as she glares sharply at me once she’s breathed a humble “Yes, Mrs. Sinclair” and I’ve rolled my eyes as we leave the room.
“Very thin ice, Fantino,” she hisses, not looking at me.
“Oh, yeah?” I dig my hands into my pants pockets.
“You know that, once again, it’s your fault we’re in trouble?”
“Did you expect anything different?”
“No.” She sighs in resignation. “You see.”
“Off to class with you,” Mr. Harper calls after us.
This time it’s Olive who rolls her eyes.
“I mean, we could go somewhere else,” I say casually as we head down the stairs.
“You’re not fucking serious, Fantino?”
“Why not?” I ask innocently. “Didn’t you enjoy last night’s kiss?”
“It was the heat of the moment,” she says shortly.
“Oh, right, yeah, sure felt that way,” I retort, but it’s pointless.
My heart plunges. Lousy emotions. Like she believes that.
It wasn’t just the heat of the moment. And even if it was, even heat-of-the-moment kisses can mean something.
Why am I so fucking needy? I could accept that we just had a bit of fun in the pool and that nothing between us has changed.
But something has changed. There’s no point denying that.
Olive scowls at me, but before she can say anything, Mr. Acevedo comes around the corner. “Chop-chop, you two, the bell’s gone for class.”
We flit into the room ahead of him. I’m still finding Spanish easy, and I don’t have any difficulty in my other subjects either.
Not that it interests my parents. I’ve been here several weeks now, and I can count how often we’ve been in contact on the fingers of one hand.
In my video calls with Cleo, she fills me in on what’s going on at home, but without her, I wouldn’t have a clue.
I don’t like how easily I forget now what’s waiting for me at home in New York.
My life at high school, tennis practice, and all-night parties with my friends are a thing of the past. Even if I went back right now, nothing would be how it used to be.
Maresa, Pax, and the others can go fuck themselves because they’ve practically ghosted me.
We check out each other’s Insta stories and Snapchats, but that’s about it.
Sometimes the photos and videos of Manhattan make me feel like I was never a real part of their lives at all.
I glance at Olive. She’s hunched over her textbook, so I risk a quick search.
At first, I googled for stories about the fire almost every day.
My name never crops up. Obviously. When my mother says she’ll take care of something, she takes care of it.
I don’t even want to know exactly who she bribed, or how, to keep me out of the story.
So of course, I don’t feature in any of the articles this time either.
Ainslee School Fire—Investigations Continue
NYPD Calls on Witnesses to Come Forward
Then there’s a phone number and the name of the department involved.
“You OK?”
I snap my head up and look straight into Olive Garden’s green eyes.
“Yeah,” I snarl, hastily slipping my phone away. Did she see anything? I hope not. I don’t want anyone here to know about it, even though it would serve me right if they did.
“So which are you going to be?”
What’s she talking about? I frown and Olive points to the whiteboard, where Mr. Acevedo has put up a dialogue to practice.
“Whichever,” I say. “I’ll take B.”
“Fine.” She gives me a suspicious look, then focuses on the task.