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Besides, I make videos about UFOs and vaccines (conclusion: I believe in both) and that guy who hijacked a plane and literally vanished with the ransom money. I don’t make videos about people’s tragic deaths because it’s rude and tacky.
Crap. I’m never going to get all As and a place at Cambridge and a first-class degree and an amazing job at a prestigious corporate law firm if Bradley Flipping Graeme doesn’t stop failing to take proper notes right next to me. I bet he’s doing it on purpose. He knows I can’t stand indiscriminate highlighting.
“Just…let’s…normal?” Just. Let’s. Normal. Amazing. Absolute round of applause. I will make an incredible barrister, standing solemnly before the judge as I ask: “Just…let’s…innocent?”
If I don’t get this scholarship and Celine does, I’m going to shave off my hair and eat it.
It’s dark outside. Dark on dark on dark, in fact: black night, plus blacker shapes that could be trees but could also be seventy-foot-tall murderers; the jury is out.
Thirty-six clouds have passed over the moon and I’ve thought about being dragged off into the woods by a hot werewolf nine times before the window clicks and eases open.
With such a masterful command of the English language, it’s a wonder my book isn’t already published.
“You’re the bane of my existence. Did you know that?” She grins. “I hoped.” I really can’t stand this girl. I wonder how long I get to walk with her.
You know? Here’s my new perspective: my mouth is dry, my heart is still thundering against my ribs, the difference between a smile and a scowl on her face is the difference between rainfall and drought and— Oh shit no no no no no… I am so into Celine.
“Why do you want to see Dad?” Giselle asks, each word cautiously placed like steps through a land mine.
“Even if neither of us ever did anything interesting in our entire lives, it wouldn’t matter. You don’t need to be special or significant to have value. You’re just important, always, and people either see that or they don’t. They either love you, or they don’t.”
I hope the shame suffocates him in his sleep. I hope he retires early with exhaustion. I hope he has the audacity to try and claim me as his daughter so I can tell him I have one father and her name is Neneh.”
Goal
See, my strategy is: if I ignore this, it will go away. Which is literally the opposite of what Dr. Okoro would tell me to do, but she’s not the boss of me, so there.
Brad bites his lip. I really wish he’d stop doing that; it’s deeply inconsiderate to me, a person who can see him and is tragically vulnerable to the sight of an excellent mouth.
But if I tell Celine I like her, she’ll probably jump out of the window as a reflex. For some reason that makes my heart hurt.
“When I pulled you on top of me and, you know, gazed dreamily into your eyes and said I liked you, I did not mean as friends. Obviously.”
I manage to be patient and reasonable for another 0.3 seconds. “Not to pressure you, but I would love a few complete sentences right now.”
“We’ve only been friends again for forty-nine days,” she says, then adds guiltily, “give or take.” I stare. “You’ve been counting?”
“Shut up!” she whispers. “Your brother is probably lurking outside like a sneaky alligator.”
“Brad,” she says softly, smiling, for real this time. “You’re supposed to close your eyes.” But she’s so pretty. “You first.” “On three.” I’m laughing as we count. One, two, three. My world is dark and Celine-scented. I feel her breath against my mouth as she speaks. “You’re right,” she says. “I do like you too.” Fuck yeah.
This time, I kiss her. Longer. Harder. Her mouth is warm and silky and her breaths come quick. My brain falls out of my head.
I should’ve been doing this for the last five thousand— “Dad!” Mason shouts. “Brad’s having sex!” Great: my brother has arrived, right on schedule, to ruin my life.
I’m going to creep into Mason’s room tonight and smother him while he sleeps.
We just had a moment and now she needs space. (God, I’m so mature. Someone should make a note of this.)
I eye him in disgust. “How are we related?” He flips black curls out of his narrowed eyes. “You’re afopded.”
“Remember our discussion,” Dad reminds him, “about what good men do and do not say about ladies?” Aha! Yes! I remember this! He is so screwed.
I can already feel myself cracking under the fatherly pressure. “On? What do you mean? Nothing is…going.” What is this sentence missing? Oh yeah. “…On,” I add.
Dad hesitates before speaking in his tread carefully tone, like I’m a bomb about to go off. “I love Celine. But I know you’ve always had…strong feelings about her.”
Dad opens his mouth, then closes it. “I can’t tell you what to do, Brad,” he lies, before telling me what to do. “I’m just saying maybe you should think twice before adding torrid romance to your list of things to worry about.”
Parents love to say shit like that, as if their words, their looks, their expectations, aren’t as heavy as a small planet.
I have no idea why I tell Michaela anything. She’s a deeply annoying human being.
My throat seizes with terror or joy. Who can tell the difference, really? “But we can’t be dating,” I squeak.
I also Google Can I write a book? because for the first time I’m seriously considering the question and Google is the smartest person in my life.
Her hand is still on my elbow and I’m really enjoying it, although it would be better if I wasn’t feeling this contact through a thick shirt and a winter coat. Screw you, December.
“Are you okay?” she asks. “Yeah. Just thinking.” About my tragically doomed creative future. Nothing major.
“I meant…you look…” I am 100 percent positive she’s blushing. “Gorgeous?” “No.” “Stunning?” “No—” laughter in her voice. “Like your next boyfriend?” “I don’t do boyfriends.” Celine snorts, and the elevator dings.
“He wasn’t your boyfriend?” If that’s true, why the hell did I have to spend months watching him pant after her? Were they not making out in every dark corner like feral rabbits? Did I not once see him give Celine his scarf? I most certainly did.
Mr. Soro looks like he has just been stabbed. I am suddenly having the time of my life. This moment could only be improved if he had a sudden bout of catastrophic diarrhea and shit himself in front of Katharine Breakspeare and had to waddle all the way home.
Don’t cry, Celine. Seriously, please. It’s disgusting. But tears are already spilling, scalding hot, down my cheeks and off my chin at an alarming rate. Are teardrops supposed to be this huge?
Low point
I love Bradley Graeme. As in, would give him a kidney, would wash his socks, would turn into a supervillain if he died.
You just needed to figure out on your own that…that fairness is about you being happy, not him being punished.”
There’s a lump of anxiety in my throat that’s swelling by the second, but I manage to let it pass. “Do you— Can we, like…kiss? Again. Maybe?” I bite my lip. That was a Herculean task.
The fact is, Brad and I are not dating. We have been hanging out a lot, and touching a lot, and it’s true that I am unfortunately in love with him, but that doesn’t make us dating.
I’ve been thinking that I need someone to talk to, and since I refuse to dump any more of my feelings on Minnie or Brad or Mum or Giselle, maybe that someone should be a professional? To help take care of my feelings. Like going to the dentist. Like Brad said. I don’t know. It’s just an idea.
She makes her plain black rain jacket look Instagram-worthy, and the straps of her Breakspeare-issued rucksack are doing magnificent things to her boobs. If I don’t die of horror during this expedition, I might die of lust instead.
She’ll say, It’s not about trust. She’ll say, I’m just not that into you. And I’ll have to get over it, somehow, and fall out of—you know, stop caring about her like that, somehow, and just spend the rest of my life slowly and quietly dying of longing in the corner. Which will make me a real drag at parties.
Okay, my options have been exhausted: fainting is all I have now.
I’ve got this. One hundred percent.
Foreshadowing
“Shut up,” I mutter, then realize I’ve officially hit rock bottom. “FUCK!”
Rock bottom
I’ve decided no one’s reservations—including my own—will ever stop me from going after what I want. Writing is for me, and I’m the one who makes that choice. Celine is for me, and we’re making the choice to be together. If it goes wrong—any of it—I can deal with that.
