Chapter 22
Olive
“Is there anything else you want to say before we wrap up?” I ask, holding my pencil ready.
Imogen, from the swimming team, thinks. “Only that it’s an honor to swim for Dunbridge.” She smiles. “And to be interviewed by you.”
“Thanks for taking the time for me,” I reply.
“I hope you can make some sense of my answers.”
“Definitely. You were way chattier than the hockey lads—talking to them was like getting blood out of a stone.”
Imogen laughs. “Only the cool kids on our team.”
“You said it.” It takes a few seconds for it to sink in that I’m joking around with our team like I’m still part of it.
Imogen glances over to the pool entrance, where the first people are arriving for training.
We agreed to meet up half an hour early so that I could take a few photos of her and do the interview.
Now it’s time for Imogen to get into the water, and for me to put the camera away in my locker to keep it dry while I help Ms. Cox run the session.
The first few times, I kept right in the background, but I’ve noticed myself gradually getting more confident.
The others are way happier to accept my tips and advice than I thought they’d be.
At first, I was scared they’d think I was an impostor, but the genuine way everyone thanked me soon changed my mind.
Today, too, I can forget my anger and bitterness as I praise the juniors, whose flip turns are getting better all the time.
Seeing their progress makes me proud. It’s a different pride from when I was swimming and getting personal bests, but—and this genuinely surprises me—not in a bad way.
It feels a bit like making peace with things when I leave training early to get to Mr. Carpenter on time.
Colin’s already there, listlessly pushing a broom around.
This is our last cleaning duty but one as punishment for being out of bounds nearly a fortnight ago, and I’m almost sad about that, because cleaning with Colin is part of my routine now.
The only new thing is that we sneak in as much winching as we can, until my stomach tingles and my cheeks are flushed.
I ignore the pain as Colin pushes me up against the thin strip of wall between two lattice windows.
Today we’re in the biology storeroom, where we’re meant to be dusting off the animal and anatomy models.
We dropped our dusters ages ago, though.
Colin takes my hands and pins them to the wall at my side.
Not being able to touch him while we kiss is making me lose my mind.
My knees go soft as he presses his hips against me. God, is he trying to kill me?
He bites gently on my bottom lip, and I never had a clue that, apparently, I’m into that kind of thing. But now I know, and I can’t stop a quiet moan escaping me.
A moment later, there’s a loud crash and we jump apart.
“Olive, Colin, for heaven’s sake!” Mr. Ringling is standing in the doorway, staring at us.
In one hand he’s holding a frame of mounted butterflies and there’s another on the floor at his feet.
“It looks as though we’ve been discussing animal mating behavior in a little too much detail in class lately. ”
“Nothing we didn’t know already, sir,” says Colin, wiping his flushed lips with his hand. The thought of what he was just doing with them makes me burn up.
“Lord, children,” Mr. Ringling mumbles, bending down to check on the dropped frame. “Well, luckily nothing’s broken. But don’t let me catch you in here again, or I’ll have to report you to the head. How did you even get in?”
“Mr. Carpenter let us in,” I explain.
“Mr. Carpenter? No way. He knows how valuable these models are. It’s strictly out of bounds to pupils.”
“We’re supposed to be cleaning them,” I add.
“With your tongues? Well, good luck with that.” Mr. Ringling puts the butterflies up on a shelf. Then he spots our dusters and eyes us sternly. “Get back to work quickly now, or I’ll have to come up with a more suitable punishment for the two of you.”
“No need, sir,” says Colin cheerfully, picking up the duster.
I don’t let myself grin until Colin has chased me through the narrow spaces between the shelves with it and Mr. Ringling has vanished again. Behind the taxidermied birds, we continue where we were interrupted.
Colin
The moment Olive Garden looks at me, I’m thirteen again and full of embarrassing hormones that make my belly tingle.
And she looks at me a lot. In class, in the dining room, on our afternoon work duty—although that’s over now, and I’m actually missing it.
She’s really smitten, but the feeling’s mutual, so who am I to talk?
Not that either of us would admit it. I’m sure that Olive Garden would rather die than confess it. And that’s exactly why I like her so much. She’s a woman of few words, at least when she’s angry. And I can relate to that.
And I don’t need many words from her to feel like I’m floating through the hallways of Dunbridge Academy on a silly little cloud. All it takes is to remember the night she got so drunk.
Of course I hate that she had the nightmare, but it’s like I can still feel her body next to mine, even though it was quite a while ago now. Her lips on mine, and now, by daylight, I’m seriously asking myself how, now that I’ve started, I’m ever going to stop kissing her.
Apparently you can see in my face that something’s changed, because once I’ve sought out my secret piano after study hour this afternoon, Cleo, who has a half day today, won’t let it go.
“No, there’s something going on with you, Col,” my kid sister says, coming closer to the camera until her face fills the whole screen.
“There’s nothing going on,” I insist, trying to sound fierce and not to let my lovesick grin give me away.
“Spill,” Cleo insists.
“What d’you want to hear next?” I try to distract her, but it’s hopeless.
“Does it have to do with that Olive?”
Shit. How is this possible? How can she see through me so easily?
“I knew it,” my sister says flatly, and I have to fight against the urge to cut off the call right away. “You like her, don’t you?”
“She’s irritating,” I say, feeling like a traitor.
“You like her,” Cleo repeats, hiding her mouth behind both hands. “Does she like you too?”
“I don’t think anyone here likes me.” But that’s not true anymore, I realize as I say the words.
“Apart from Olive?”
I groan.
“Come on, tell me! I need to know, Col.”
“Yeah, OK. Maybe she isn’t quite as irritating as she was at the start.”
Her smile broadens. “I think that’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
“Don’t worry, it won’t happen again.”
Cleo ignores me. “But if you really like her—” She falls silent and looks at me with her huge brown doe-eyes. “. . . You’ll still try to come home as soon as you can, won’t you?”
“Yes, of course,” I promise hastily, but my voice sounds worried.
Of course there’s nothing I want more than to be out of here.
The fact that Olive Garden is messing with my heart doesn’t mean everything else here isn’t grim.
It’s still a fucking strict boarding school in the wilderness of Scotland and can’t compare with my life in New York.
But lately I get the feeling that part of me has given in and come to terms with it.
And since then . . . it’s somehow not so bad here.
Shit. I’m starting to like it. Not just Olive Garden, but .
. . being a Dunbridge Academy pupil. Going to tennis with Kit and his guys, boxing, chatting at break time, sitting in the dining room, doing the morning run, going to midnight parties.
Even rooming with Sinclair or strolling down to the hick village to buy a few things in the store.
And that’s not good. I’ve got a big, fat problem here. And I can’t hide it from Cleo: As I realize this, the smile dies on her face.
“Sure?” she asks quietly, voice wobbling.
“Colin, it sucks here without you.” I swear, if she starts crying, I’ll freak.
But she’s a Fantino. She’s learned that showing emotions is a sign of weakness, so she does the only thing we freaking well know how: She hides them, to deal with them later, on her own. And seeing that hurts.
I’ve failed. I didn’t want my kid sister to turn out like me, but I’m not there to stop it happening. There’s nobody with her, and no way can I let that feeling get a hold of Cleo. Because once that happens, she’ll never be rid of it. Never.
Shit. So what do I do now?
All I can do is calm her down and think about it in peace later.
“It sucks without you too, Cleo,” I say, an ocean and five hours’ time difference between us. “And there’s no way I’m staying here.” I never thought I’d say that without feeling it. “But it’s not as easy to get expelled as I thought. I’ll have to come up with something real bad, you know?”
Cleo’s smile is strained, and I’m not sure if it’s real. “You’ll think of something.”
“You bet I will.” I smile at her. “OK, now, tell me what to play.”
I can’t stand the next two songs. Cleo’s smile is fake, I can see that even as my fingers move mechanically over the keys, and I’m tense because I’ve lied to her.
I didn’t mean to lie—of course I want to return to her—but every day at this school, I understand more and more that what I used to have didn’t make me happy.
My friends who ghost me and don’t give a shit about how I’m doing.
Maresa, who’s moved on to the next sucker without batting an eyelid.
I’d be such a goddamn loser if I went back now.
Besides, I’m not even sure if I really want to.
Even if everyone acts like nothing’s changed, that’s not true.
It changed the second I got on that plane and flew to Europe.
I wanted to close my eyes to it, didn’t want to admit it, but that’s impossible now.
I’m a different Colin from a few weeks ago. I’m a Colin who’s in love with a Scottish girl who has green cat-eyes and whose insults I can’t get enough of.
I’m a guy who feels a pain in my chest when he notices how close the friendships are here, the way they all tell each other everything and know each other through and through.
I’m sitting here among them all, playing my part, being jerkish and moody, until I’m lying in bed with Olive Garden, wanting to cry because it feels like something real.
And at home in Manhattan, there’s my kid sister sitting alone at her iPad, jumping if I play a wrong note but laughing it off, like she learned from me, and looking at me with eyes that tell me she knows.
She’s figured out what’s going on with me and she’s scared because I might not keep the promise I made to her.
To come back. Not to leave her alone. Holy shit.
We say goodbye in a rush because Kirsten comes in to check that Cleo’s doing her schoolwork. On the way back to my room, I feel ripped apart inside.
I know the way back to the east wing now.
I recognize the people I see on the way.
They say hi, I say hi back, and I feel like shit because I can’t manage to hate everything anymore.
I’ve arrived here, it’s true, but I can’t let myself feel at home, I just can’t, because I promised Cleo over and over again.
But that promise is at war with what Olive Garden is stirring up inside me, so much so that my hands are nervously looking for something to do.
When I get to the room, Sinclair isn’t there. He must be out riding, which means he won’t get back until just before dinner for a quick shower and to talk my ear off. So for now I’m alone. My heart is pounding—I can feel it in my throat as I pace uneasily around the room.
Fuck’s sake, don’t be so dramatic. Nothing’s happened, but something is happening inside me.
I’ve faced up to something I’ve been denying for a while, and that was a mistake because now I have an unsolvable problem.
All I can think of is Cleo sitting alone at her desk at home and, then later on, having dinner with Mom and Dad.
If Mom can even fit it in—on days she’s filming, she usually eats at the studio, and Dad often works late in the office, where he can shut himself away and forget that he has a family: my thirteen-year-old sister, who no longer has anybody to teach her, as subtly as possible, that it’s not her fault she’s right at the bottom of her parents’ list of priorities.
Apparently, I’m now just as bad as them, because I’m prioritizing my own life over hers too now.
I clench my fists and stand by the window. God, this is impossible. I can’t stay here and act like I’m different from my parents if I leave Cleo in the lurch. I swore to be there for her so that she wouldn’t be as fucked up by our family as I am. And now I’m here, and I’m part of the problem.
When I can’t bear it any longer, I turn away and go over to the bed.
Slowly, with as much control as I can manage, but it’s hard to breathe.
The lighter’s well hidden between my insulin supplies, pumps, and spare syringes, which I keep in a box under my bed.
I’m pretty sure Sinclair wouldn’t stick his nose into my stuff, but even if he did, he wouldn’t look in here.
My fingers are shaking as I dig through the packets until I find the cool metal. I slam the box back under the bed and push up my sleeve because I’m not in the mood to find anywhere better. I need to move fast.
I notice again that it’s good to take a break from time to time, because now that I’ve been strict with myself and gone without my lighter for a while, it’s an unexpected relief when the flame meets my skin.
I flinch after just a split second, because I’ve grown unaccustomed to it, but it’s already helping to shift my mind from my crappy emotional pain to the physical.
Again now. Longer this time.
Don’t be a fucking weakling, Fantino. This is what you deserve, so hang in there.
And then it happens, like it always does: The pressure eases, the relief floods in to take its place, my heartbeat settles down, everything’s good—for this moment at least, until it’s followed by the shame and self-hatred.
Fucking wuss. This is so lame. Why not go boxing like Kit showed you? Why do you keep doing this? Why haven’t you learned from what happened in New York?
Clearly I haven’t, and it bugs me. I flick the lighter on again, shut my eyes, and dig my teeth into my bottom lip. Not long . . .
Five.
Four.
Three.
T—
There’s a knock, my eyes fly open, and at this exact moment, the door opens wide.