As the village disappeared into the trees behind us and the smell of wood smoke faded from the air, I became acutely aware of the lubricating oil between my cheeks, slipping and sliding with every step I took, a tactile reminder of what I just done. That, and the semen smeared across my abdomen, now dry and tacky.
Oh, good God, what had I done? I let a guy fuck me, thatâs what I did. I let him shove his cock in my ass. And the worst part, the part that made me feel sick and cold inside, was how good it had felt. How much I enjoyed it. I had never felt anything like that with anyone before, that feeling of being dominated, of being fucked as deep and as hard as he could, and then, when he came in me and I felt my own orgasm thunder through my bodyâI didnât think anything could feel that good.
So what did that make me. Gay? Queer? A pervert, a deviant, a freak? I was wrongâif I ever found my way home, Iâd never be able to face my father. I wouldnât have to tell himâhe would know, he would see the stain on meâ
âFor the love of the gods,â Sarael said suddenly, turning to face me, his eyes mottled brown and gray, âget over it! Youâre feeling guilty and ashamed over nothing. Nothing! Sex is a part of life, as common and ordinary as eating a meal or taking a walk. So stop assaulting me with your emotions! Youâve done nothing wrong!â
âMaybe on this freakshow of a planet!â I shouted back at him. âIâm not from here, remember? And on my world, only queers get off being fucked in the ass, and I canât be gay! Iâve had three different girlfriends, and we fucked almost every day, and Iâve banged eleven other women besides that. Iâm not gay!â
âYour world sounds unbearably restrictive,â Sarael said, âif you are forced to make a choice between loving men and loving women. The universe is not so black and white. Why canât you be both?â
âWhat, you mean bisexual?â I asked, curling my lip. âThatâs just a word women use to get attention, and menâwell, some guys will just fuck anything.â
I watched as Saraelâs irises darkened to the color of blood. I was pretty sure that meant he was mad, but when he spoke, his voice was calm and quiet, sending chills down my spine.
âYou know, I liked you better when you couldnât breathe well enough to say idiotic and asinine things.â Sarael made a sharp motion with one hand, his fingers flickering with light, and I was left gasping again, like when Iâd first woken up in that cage. He turned on his heel and stormed through the undergrowth, dragging me behind him. My chest heaved and I pulled at the collar, but it wasnât too tight. There just wasnât enough oxygen in the air.
Sarael hauled me up hills and down into valleys, across several streams, until I was ready to pass out. Black spots swam before my eyes and my my head wouldnât stop spinning. I walked into more than one tree.
Finally, we reached a small clearing and Sarael stopped, looking around the open space, and then glancing at the sun, hanging huge and dark golden-orange above the horizon. I fell to my hands and knees, panting like a dog as I choked on my own spit and retched. Luckily, there was nothing in my stomach to throw up.
Apparently satisfied that I was no condition to go anywhere, Sarael dropped the end of the leash and shrugged off the strap of his duffel bag, letting it fall to the ground beside me. He began using the side of his boot to scrape a bare spot in the earth, clearing all the leaves, sticks, and dead grass out of the way. At first, I thought he was digging a shallow grave to put me in, but then he began collecting stones to line the pit with, and I realized he was making a fire.
I almost wept with relief. We were stopping for the night.
As Sarael walked past me, I sat up and wiped the spit and bile from my chin.
âIâm sorry,â I panted, my throat sore, my voice rough. âIâm sorry I said those things. It was stupid. I was just upset. PleaseâŚplease help me breathe again. I feel like Iâm going to die.â
He didnât respond at first, he just kept picking up rocks, but finally, without looking at me, he made a careless gesture in my direction, his hand flickering, and I felt the cool, sweet air rush back into my lungs. âThank you,â I said. He just grunted.
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The airport was so loud. My ears still havenât popped.
Iâm supposed to go to the Headmasterâs house. All the instructions were in an email. I didnât delete it. But I didnât read it either. I suppose you could say I was too busy grieving my mother, who has apparently been dead for some time now.
The schoolâs introductory email has been rotting (like my motherâs corpse, probably) in my inbox for a full day now, which, all things considered, is not that long. Mum has been dead for two and a half months (give or take- he said). Give or take.Â
Well, I ought to give my father some credit for having this affair handled so quickly. There was a phone call (he talked, I stared at the wall and tried to listen), and then a driver came to take me to the airport. It hasnât been 24 hours, and here I stand.
If this were back home, maybe Iâd skive, but I am, admittedly, utterly lost here, so I gather my bags and climb the short set of steps toward the large red door. The knocker, some kind of roaring cat, is frozen to the red wood of the door, so I knock thrice with my fist. Ungloved, my knuckles sting.
A moment later, a man answers. He wears a suit the colour of the uniform Iâll be wearing for the rest of this year. It doesnât look right on him, though, the red clashing with his ginger hair like he committed a brutal murder just before opening the door. What must be Pine Mountainâs crest sits proudly on his tie clip. The Headmaster.
In a bygone era, he wouldâve been the archetypal headmaster. Now, though, he just looks pompous with his hair combed over the way it is, pocket watch dangling artificially from his suit jacket while a real watch sits on his left wrist. He smells as artificial as he looks, some disgusting cologne cutting through the freezing wind.
I swallow a cough. âGood morning, sir.â At school back home, we donât call our teachers sir or maâam, but he seems the kind of man who likes that. And I have no idea what his name is. Nor do I care.
He smiles at the honorific, a thin, pitying expression that only makes him look more pretentious. âAnd you as wellâŚâ he pauses, unsure of which honorific to use. It reminds me I need a haircut. Finally, he settles for my name. I was lucky that Mum gave me a good one like that. Five letters strung into a single syllable, making up a plain and simple word that could go either way. Maybe she knew somehow the way mothers on television are always saying they know everything about their children. She never said so, never claimed to know me, but maybe she did. And now sheâs gone.Â
The Headmaster pays no mind to sudden grief, but then again, neither do I. âDo come in.â He smiles again, the expression not any kinder this time as he gestures through the doorway where snowâs begun to wet the entryway rug. âI trust youâve read my email.â He still hasnât introduced himself. He must have a lot of faith in that email. Unfortunate.
I step inside, around his extended hand. âThank you, sir. Pleased to meet you.â Not knowing his name will only make it easier to ignore him.
He leads me down a corridor, all hardwood and sconces. The parlour is furnished with the same shade of red. A taxidermized lynx stares down from above the hearth. The poor thing was caught mid-leap.
More interesting, though, than preserved predators, is the boy sitting on the sofa in front of me. Thereâs a cup of tea in front of him, untouched. I didnât think Iâd be meeting anyone else until classes were back in session in January. Does he live here?
He seems to take no notice of my arrival; his expression is completely blank, not like heâs bored, but as if heâs thinking of nothing at all. Heâs had the misfortune of wearing red the same shade as the couch he sits on, and if not for his pale skin, heâd disappear entirely into the upholstery. Pine Mountainâs uniform. Itâs reassuring, though, seeing the uniform; all Iâd seen of it up to now was a flash of red when the driver moved the bag to make space for my luggage. It looks alright, not brilliant, and itâll be worse against my darker skin, surely, but not terrible.
The Headmaster gestures between us. âQuinn, This is Mr Lacoste. Rafael, this is Quinn.â So not his son, then.
Rafael nods sharply and gives a clipped, âHello. It is nice to meet you.â Heâs not loud. He has an accent and speaks so smoothly that it sounds robotic, inflectionless, as he is expressionless. It sort of fits him, in a strange way, like his voice would be the first to disappear in a loud room.
âHello.â My tone could be kinder, Iâm sure, but heâll have to forgive me; Iâve had a bit of a long day.
Before I can say anything else, the Headmaster claps, âNow that the two of you are acquainted, I believe a tour is in order.â I canât fully stifle my cringe. His voice is too loud in the low-ceilinged study, and thereâs something disconcerting about the way his hand closes over mine to stop me from grabbing my bag. âOh, donât worry about that. Iâll have someone bring them to your room.â His smile is softer now, but no more kind. Heâs leaned down slightly, and this close, his cologne nearly chokes me.
I shake his hand off, barely catching the âFuck noâ before it leaves my mouth. âAh, I think I would rather carry it.â He frowns. âIâve got some, erm, personal things in here.â
He blanches.Â
I smother my cringe, not wanting to think about whatever heâs imagining. Instead, I look over at Rafael. He hasnât moved an inch. He doesnât even look like he heard a word of that.
Finally, the Headmaster speaks again. âThis is quite different from what youâre used to, Iâve been told, but Iâm sure youâll adjust quickly. If you have any questions, Mr Lacoste should be able to assist you.â
âThanks.â
As if on cue, Rafael stands up. Itâs a stiff motion that makes me wonder how long heâs been sitting there. I wasnât late. I watch him walk down the corridor and put his coat on, all without another word. Probably annoyed at having his holiday interrupted. I get it. At least his mother isnât dead. Probably.
-
Itâs true, Pine Mountainâs campus is lovely, but I donât trust it. All snow covered like this; I canât tell whatâs underneath. Itâs unnerving. Itâs much smaller than Summerville and much less open, all stone against deep reds, like blood on snow, like a cathedral was built in the middle of nowhere and then left to rot before being repurposed as a school. And thatâs just what I can actually see of it. The entire campus, only one building, is surrounded by fog, and something tells me thatâs perpetual.
I shiver and pull my coat tighter around me. Itâs not rated for this weather, I think.Â
Maybe the cold is the reason I find myself drifting towards a building on the edge of campus. It stands alone, a small stone place, probably the size of my living room, weathered and crumbling.Â
âThat building is what remains of the original campus,â Rafael says when he notices me eyeing the chapel. He sounds a bit wary, words too slow, looking at the building like it might collapse any second now, but he shakes his head, and the hesitation is gone. âPine Mountain was originally a one-room schoolhouse. Eventually, they had to add more space. The buildings we use now, though, are all less than half a century old. Everything was rebuilt after a storm took down many trees and destroyed half of the old building.â
âDamn.â Maybe that was the wrong thing to say, but he doesnât seem shaken.
He just continues the tour spiel. Maybe itâs his accent, maybe itâs the way he sounds incredibly tired of this already, or maybe itâs that I donât care, but the words float in one ear and out the other.
This whole ordeal makes me want to scream. I get the sudden urge to shake him by the shoulders. Nothing feels real.
Heâs talking still, saying nothing actually important. But what is there to say? Itâs a high school; no one likes high school.
Itâs starting to snow now, and the weight of the frozen water feels a bit like drowning. My coat is pitifully insufficient. Against this weather, it could hardly be called a coat.
Nothing beats a Jet2 holiday.
What would Rafael do if I just told him I donât want to be here? If I left him to wander around this antique place alone? Would he feel relieved or think I was a bitch? Maybe it doesnât matter if it shuts him up.Â
Oblivious, he carries on, pointing to a lynx statue (the schoolâs mascot, Iâve gathered). Itâs not awful, kind of a cute thing, eyes slightly wild, cast mid-leap to imitate the real animal in the Headmasterâs House. Someoneâs put a pink collar on it, and its nose and ears are rubbed shiny, clearly beloved, and I canât help reaching up to pet it too.
The slip is sudden, stupid too. This whole thing is stupid (what gives this place the right to have so much ice?), but that doesnât stop me from nearly falling on my arse. Rafael is pushing me away before I realise Iâve grabbed onto him.Â
I donât know what to say. I donât think thereâs anything to say. But I have to say something, so I say âSorry.âÂ
His entire body is rigid. Heâs not even looking at me; heâs doubled over, hissing in pain. He grits out something, in French, I think (right, they speak it here), but itâs too fast and too low for me to hear.
âWhat?â
âI said: Donât touch me.â The words are quick and sharp, nearly as biting as the wind. He forces himself to stand straight again with what looks like great effort and tries to glare, but he canât meet my eyes, or doesnât want to. I turn to follow his gaze, where itâs fixed over my shoulder, but thereâs nothing there, and when I look back to him, heâs gone ahead across the plaza without me.
Heâs not walking all that fast, but he doesnât slow down for me either. I start to jog to catch up, then remember the ice (stupid fucking Canada) and slow to a walk. Still, I find myself looking back. But even a second look into the forest surrounding the campus reveals nothing more than before. The tree line is still eerily empty.
At least anything that I can see.Â
What a lovely thought.
Our footsteps are silent in the snow, like the flurries are absorbing sound somehow. Itâs nothing like the thin, crunchy ice we get every few years at home. And now my socks are starting to soak through. Great. But at least, we seem to be heading inside. About time.
The school lobby is more stone and red, a mix of Gothic and rustic. Thereâs a pinboard on the wall by the door with a sign overhead reading: Dining Hall with flyers I donât bother reading. Against the other wall is a floor-to-ceiling trophy case, and some cushioned benches outside a door marked Infirmary. Itâs so quiet Iâd think I was here alone. Itâs nice, but I make myself look back to Rafael.
Heâs sat himself on one of the benches with red cushionsâmatching againâ, reaching up and feeling along his left shoulder. When he touches it, he makes a sharp sound that makes me look away, not quick enough, though. He glances back up to me with a look that says I shouldnât ask if heâs alright.Â
Maybe itâs a hockey injury. Everyone in Canada is crazy about it, I think.
Abruptly, he stands again, âFollow me.â He sounds like heâs still in pain and looks no more eager to be here than he was at the Headmasterâs House, but I guess he was told to show me around, and orders are orders, I guess. Maybe I should be offended, but I canât blame him. This place isnât anyoneâs idea of paradise.
âThis building is divided into five blocks: The Lessons Block for core classes, The Performing Arts Block for fine arts, The Library, The Dining Hall, and The Athletics Block with the gymnasium. It might sound like a lot, but the campus is still relatively small, so no matter where we start, youâll be able to see everything.â The sudden diplomacy doesnât match his expression. âIs there anything you want to see first?âÂ
No, but again, I have to say something. âI mean, this is just like any other school, right? I just want to know where my classes are, so I donât get lost.âÂ
âAlright. Iâll make sure you donât get lost. There are only sixteen kids in our year, so we all have mostly the same schedule, give or take a few. You should make friends easily.â I swear thereâs something bitter about the way he says it, but itâs gone in an instant. And-
âWait, what? Sixteen kids?â
âThere are only 200 students here in total. Pine Mountain is a very small school. Thatâs why I said it would be easy to find friends.â He says, already, turning down the corridor, âWeâre near the library now, so we can start there.âÂ
I hurry to catch up, and he leads me through a set of red double doors into a library with vaulted ceilings and stained-glass windows depicting various wildlife. I saw this part of the building from the outside, but still itâs even smaller than I wouldâve thought. I guess that tracks with the whole 200 students thing. Damn. Thatâs going to take some getting used to.Â
While Rafael talks, I track a bear as it leaps for salmon across four windows. When the salmon meets a glittering end in the bearâs jaws, I move on to hares digging burrows and then birds making nests until Iâm back at the bear.
Itâs not that the library isnât interesting or that if I listened, I couldnât come up with a question or two; in fact, Iâm sure whatever Rafaelâs saying is very helpful, but I canât think of anything to say. And I can always ask him to explain it again later. Or someone who actually wants to talk to me. Everyoneâs bound to be interested in the foreign transfer student, right?
When heâs done, he leads me down a corridor, and then weâre in a building of classrooms. This must be The Lessons Block. All the buildings except the old schoolhouse and dormitories are connected by closed passageways. He says all the core classes are held here. The classrooms are locked for now, but theyâll be open the day before break ends to hand in assignments that were supposed to be done over break, he says. Donât worry, youâre exempt, he says.
I nod and follow him silently down another corridor. Weâre going to the theatre, he tells me.
-
The theatre takes up most of The Performing Arts Block, accessible down a dimly lit but elegant corridor lined with framed posters lighted by sconces that show past plays and musicals. I spot a few I know, but most of them I have no idea about.
Rafael opens a plain-looking door, and suddenly the space triples in size, the corridor opening out into a cavernous space so dark I think it could swallow me whole, the faint outlines of seats like rows of teeth in the blackness.
âThis is the student entrance, the official entryway is on the buildingâs exterior,â Rafael says as he leads me down a flight of stairs in the centre aisle.
That hardly makes a difference. The theatre is beautiful, small but grand and more gothic than the library. The only light comes from a lamp on stage where choral risers are set up behind a semicircle of orchestra chairs. They mustâve had a holiday concert.
âPine Mountain is small enough that we donât need a balcony, and keeping the buildingâs height low makes it easier to heat, so they fitted the whole thing out a bit like a giant set of risers.â He explains, nodding to the setup on the stage.
âCool,â I say lamely, still staring around the space. Summerville is a STEM specialist school; it had some music extracurriculars, of course, but its theatre was a purely practical space, intensely lit so we could see the weekly guest lecturers.
Rafael, with his dark clothes, fits in here. I was right about him before; in the dark, he does almost disappear. But I look anyway, straining my eyes in the dark. It hurts a little, the artificial night a sharp contrast from the bright snow and the natural light of the library, but my eyes adjust quickly. Iâm glad because I feel like turning the lights on would ruin this placeâs beauty a little, somehow.
Rafael continues on with the tour, but itâs just like in the library. The building as a whole is more interesting than the number of bricks used to build it or whatever dumb trivia they put in whatever tour guide they had him memorise.
There must be a lot of fucking bricks because I run out of things to look at before Rafaelâs done talking, so I just look at him. Heâs taller than me, enough that I can tell from here, and the only way I can describe him is monochrome, like a character from one of those artsy Who-Done-Its.
His hair is an even darker shade of black than mine, the kind of natural ink-black that you hardly ever see, made even rarer because his skin is several shades lighter than mine. If his hair is black, then his skin is white. And still his posture is stiff, back perfectly straight. Probably the maybe-hockey injury.
Heâs staring through me as he talks, just like he did outside. Maybe heâs that way with everyone. Iâm a little worried, though, that he can tell I havenât heard a word heâs said.
âQuinn, do you have a question?â
I jump, startled somehow, even though Iâve been literally staring right at him. âHuh?â
âYouâve been staring. Do you have a question about the orchestra program?â
Oh, is that what heâs been talking about? Shit. After several seconds too long, I shake my head. âNo. No, I just- uh, what instrument do you play?â There. Thatâs probably a safe question.
âViola.â
âOh, great.â
-
After my brilliant show earlier, I do actually try to pay attention as Rafael takes me through The Athletics Block. Itâs a multicourt, and itâs not big, but by now Iâm expecting the scale. Apparently, they have a football team here, but I donât feel like trying out.
-
Soon, the tour is finished, and heâs leading me to the dormitories, across the plaza this time, instead of back through the building. I try my best to listen as he explains that you can eat lunch out here if you want, but I find my eyes glued to the ground, tracing non-existent patterns in the aggregate, as I follow. He continues, unaware of my apathy (I doubt Iâm doing that stellar a job at hiding it), pointing out alumni gift benches as we pass them.
Itâs been such a long dayâŚÂ it really has.
âCan we be quiet?â The words come out far sharper than I want them to and too loud in the snowy silence of the plaza, and he spins to face me, startled and shrinking in on himself like a scared little kid. I donât know what to do with it, or my sudden exhaustion. âSorry. But please.â
He nods, then opens his mouth as if to speak again, but seems to decide against it.
âWhat?â
He says nothing. I stare at him. Itâs rude, I know, and he looks uncomfortable, but I canât help it. It feels strange to look at someone like this, to have to puzzle out what theyâre feeling from bits and pieces when normally all you have to do is glance at the whole. It makes my eyes hurt a bit.
âOkay, you donât have to be silent.â
âYou said-â
âI can tell you want to ask me something. So ask.â
He hesitates again, but finally he does ask. âAre you alright?âÂ
Does he care? Heâs asking as he cares. He didnât seem thrilled about this arrangement before, but his face is somewhat more amiable now. After way too long, I make myself nod. But he seems the kind of person who likes to hear things out loud, so I add, âIâm okay, thanks. Iâm just tired.â
His expression changes a little into what I think is an attempt at a smile. Itâs hard to tell because only his mouth has moved, brows still furrowed slightly, in a way that gives the expression a sort of wariness. But if it is a smile, itâs forced, stretched too wide and doesnât curve up enough, and it hasnât reached his eyes. Itâs a peculiar chimaera of an expression.
His tone is far kinder than before, though, no longer bitter and bored. âI see. You mustâve had a long flight, and the benches are kind of boring, arenât they? Iâm sure you can read them for yourself sometime. Apologies, the Headmaster said, to show you everything.â He looks around from the snow to the benches to the cloudy, grey sky. âI suppose he didnât really mean it, did he?â
Everything.
Everything.
That makes me laugh. Itâs kind of a relief, honestly. âDid he? I think I can find the toilets by myself, thanks.â
He stands and stares for a few seconds, tapping out a rhythm against the back of a bench. The snow swallows the sound, but I imagine itâs like a woodpecker.
âI was joking.â
âI figured. I didnât want to laugh, though, just in case I got it wrong. Sometimes I get it wrong. It was funny, though.â
âEh, itâs fine. You should laugh at me sometimes, to keep me humble, you know.â To keep me tethered to this plane. Or else my mind will just wander right off.
He looks confused again, but this time, he laughs. âI donât think youâre arrogant.â
Heâs so sincere, I feel a little guilty. âI didnât mean it like that.â
âOh. Well, I still donât think youâre arrogant.â
âErm⌠thanks?â
âYouâre welcome.â The words have a quality of certainty to them, like all this snow, Iâm not quite sure what to do with.Â
Then, after a pause, he picks up as if none of that happened. âSpeaking of the restrooms, though, the doors to both restrooms have lynx paws on them, so you just have to remember which is which. Though I guess you could use either one.â
I follow his gaze downward slightly to the pin on my jumper. A black cat with a knife in its mouth that says âthey/themâ that I forgot I put on there. This woollen thing has been stuffed in the back of my closet for ages because it never gets truly cold enough to wear it back home. Itâs plenty freezing here, though. Bloody Canada. âAh, yeah. I just use the girls, though; itâs usually cleaner.â And I donât want to get beaten up. âAnd you get to hear all the gossip.â
He frowns at that. âI donât think thereâs anything worth hearing.â
âProbably not. But thanks for the tip.â Maybe I shouldnât have tuned him out before. Oh, well. Too late now.
âIt is my job to show you around.â His laugh is awkward this time. I donât entirely mind. In fact, Iâm disappointed when the sound fades quickly into the cold air, swallowed like his tapping, by the forest around Pine Mountainâs campus.
âDo you board? Live in the dormitories, I mean?â I ask, mostly just so heâll talk again. The silence is a bit unnerving. Of course, I realise only after Iâve asked how shitty it is of me to bring up his maybe being left here for the holidays.
âNo, I live in the neighbourhood up the street. Most people live close to campus. Thereâs a small shuttle that goes around and gets everyone, but I live close enough to walk.â
âYou walk? In this weather!â The words burst out too theatrical, but Iâm too tired to care.
âYes.â He frowns.
âI just meant, isnât it cold?â
âIt is,â he nods, âobjectively. But Iâve lived here for my entire life, so Iâm used to it.â
âMakes sense.â He makes a lot of sense. I probably sound like an idiot.
â
At last, we stop at the small building marked as the dormitory. Itâs tiny, more like a large terrace house than a dormitory. It looks a bit like home. Thatâs nice, at least. Still, I donât want to go in yet.
Weâre kind of staring at each other now, and I regret my hesitation.
âQuinn,â Rafael says my name suddenly, experimentally. It sounds different in his accent, foreign. âIs that short for something?â
For some reason, I can only shake my head.
âIf you donât mind me asking, were you lying earlier? About your bag, I mean.â
âCaught that, did you?â
âIâm not sure. Iâm not so good with these things.â
âYeah. Your Headmaster is a fucking creep.â
âHe is?â
âWell, perhaps not, but I donât like his vibe.â
Rafael blinks as if processing that, then, âFair enough. If it helps, he mostly stays in his office. I havenât seen much of him in my few months here.â
âThatâs probably better.â
He nods. Then, âPine Mountain Academy might be small but it actually has very few boarding students. You wonât have a roommate. And everyone has left me completely alone since I joined, so if you like to be alone, it wonât be hard.â
I wince. The kids here probably think theyâre bullying him. But actually, itâs kind of funny.
âCool.â Except I donât like to be alone. I search for something, anything I can say to push away the silence thatâs rushing in. Iâm glad, really, Iâm glad that I wonât have to stumble around this place on the first day with my nose in a map, Iâm glad that Iâll at least get to have a bit of privacy, Iâm glad that he told me. Itâs a hard thing to put into words. Most things are, but glad, especially, I think. âErm, thanks for the tour, coming in over the holiday and all, even if you do live close.â
âItâs no trouble.â
Before I can think of something else to say, just to stall solitude a bit longer, Rafael is letting me into the dormitory lobby and saying goodbye.Â
He waves to the woman at the front desk, and then heâs walking home, and Iâm alone.
I try to watch as he goes, but the snowfall makes it hard. Iâm too cold to try for long anyway. Hopefully, my room is warm.
I drag my suitcase up two flights of stairs to find that the rooms are not warm. At least not objectively, but theyâre definitely warmer than outside. And thereâs a small twin bed waiting for me, the only thing thatâs waiting for me in this empty room⌠besides a radiator making a noise that makes me think itâs safer just to go without heat for now.
Is it weird to miss the company of someone I just met? I mean, at least heâs someone. Itâs okay when Iâm at home, but here⌠I always forget that itâs never good when itâs just me and my thoughts, at least not when Iâm in east bumble fuck Canada with no mound of Summervilleâs revision to distract me. Stupid depression.
The RA, with a name as dreary as she is, Mrs Patterson, it turns out, said that none of the other boarding students would be back until the third of the new year. I told her that was fine because itâs not like I could say it wasnât. She left me alone after that.
Iâm fifteen. I can deal with being the new kid. And itâs not like Iâll be here for long anyway, itâs only two and a half years until I can go off to university.
Two and a half years. It doesnât sound like a lot, but⌠and what about the summers? Itâs the first time Iâve thought of that. Will I have to live with Father? Will I have to stay here?
I exhale hard to crush the spiral. Iâm here right now, so I might as well settle in. Itâll be nice to have some time to get to know my way around my new place of residence. Itâs only so big, though. Maybe I can go back and look around campus some more (if it ever stops snowing enough for me to brave the walk), especially since I wasnât paying attention. Yeah, that was definitely dumb on my part.Â
Term hasnât started yet, will I be allowed to wander, or do they have the buildings locked for the holiday? Even so, they havenât given me a student ID yet, and seeing as Rafael had to swipe his to get us into the building, Iâd guess Iâm right out of luck on that.Â
It also occurs to me belatedly that Iâm alone and will be for the next week. And I canât even chat my schoolmates because theyâre already asleep. My lockscreen, Poppy with her front paws held up, eyes glowing from the camera flash, stares back at me. I miss her.
Suddenly, my mobile lights up. Itâs a Discord DM from [Neo]
âyo!â
âsaw you changed your location to Canadaâ
Right, I did that out of sheer boredom on the drive here. The driver was taking the winding road just too fast for me to read without being sick. All my books were in the dickey anyway. I mustâve brought eighty or so of them with me. All of the unfinished and unstarted ones I stuffed in my checked luggage just because Iâd have felt guilty for letting them collect dust at home. And the car was freezing, foreshadowing what it seems will be my life for the next three years.
âwelcome!â
âyou here for xmas break or smth?â
I am excited to hear from Neo, though.
âNah.â
âohâ
âwhat then?â
âMy Mumâs dead and my father lives here.â
It feels weird to even type it. The chat goes dead for a moment, the typing dots disappearing. I donât blame him. Weâve chatted for years online, but weâve never really shared personal stuff.
âshit, dude.â
âiâm sorry about that.â
âmerry fucking christmas igâ
âItâs fine.â
It is absolutely not fine, not when his text just reminded me that 25th December is supposed to mean something. I mean, not to me, I havenât got time for that BS, but I still donât think itâs supposed to suck like this. Merry fucking Christmas is right.
âyouve never met ur dad tho right?â
Thankfully, Neo is happy to keep up the conversation, the type to steamroll through grief in the way I need right now. Part of me is tempted to tell him exactly how grateful I am, but that would only make it weird, so I donât bother.
ânope~â
âso thatâs greatâ
âdamn.â
âripâ
âAnd I STILL havenâtâ
âBruhâ
âWhat???â
âHow???â
âhe didnât even want meâ
âhe shipped me off to boarding schoolâ
âOhâŚâ
âFuhhhhâ
âhow long are u staying for?â
âIDKâ
âForever ig.â
âIâm gonna kmsâ
â(T-T)â
â*nooo donât kill yourself ur so sexy haha meme_jpeg*â
ââŚâ
âmateâ
âLMAOâ
âand thereâs uNiâ
âdonât lose hopeâ
âno promisesâ
â/hjâ
âwe should meet up thoâ
âsince Iâm hereâ
âyeahâ
âwe shouldâ
âdonât dox urself but what province are u in rn?â
âLMAOâ
ââdonât dox urselfâ *proceeds to ask my location*â
âsrry LMFAOâ
âfr thoâ
âwhat time is it for u?â
âhalf past fourâ
âohâ
âwaitâ
âi think weâre in teh same time at leastâ
ânoice!â
âslay~â
âur on break tho right?â
âsorry, i mean HOLIDAYâ
âSTFUâ
âBut yeahâ
âYou too?â
âyup!â
âiâm at my halmeoniâs rnâ
âand iâm bored as fuhhhhâ
âpl send helpppâ
âdamn.â
âripâ
âskill issueâ
âImagine having grandparents close enough to visitâ
âI think Iâve got u beat thoâ
âbruh ur grandparents prob live like an hour awayâ
âle gasp!â
âTheyâre a whole four hours away, Iâll have you know!â
âoh whateverâ
âi donât think it gets worse than this?â
âoh shitâ
âwaitâ
âur momâ
âdammmitâ
âSorryâ
â*uwu cat saying âsowwyâ GIF*â
âđâ
ânah dwâ
âBut am am lowkey stuck at my new school and Iâm literally the only one here sooo~â
âHighkey HELPâ
âSOSâ
âWell thereâs the RAâ
âBut ykwimâ
âsucksâ
âLâ
âat least Iâve got good food hereâ
âWaitâ
âShitâ
âhow are u eating?â
â⌠uhhhâ
Damn. Heâs right. Now that would have been a good question to ask.
âItâs a private school, so it canât be that badâ
âright?â
âđŹđ§đŤľđźâ
âWhat?â
âNah jk canada school lunch is chillâ
âits america thats giot it badâ
âThank the GODSâ
âAlso whyâd you use the white one?â
âLike who does that?â
âJust use the yellow oneâ
âdonât be extraâ
âi AM extraâ
âand the yellow oneâs racistâ
â/hjâ
âThatâs wildâ
âThatâs actually wildâ
âomlâ
âwhatâs ur school tho?â
âi know a lot from robotics competitions and i wanna judgeâ
âThis from the guy (?) who just told me not to dox myselfâ
âyeah iâm a dudeâ
âbut my pronouns are he not himâ
âbc iâll never be himâ
â*remi from ratatouille GIF*
âhuh???â
âbruh u live under an actual rockâ
ânoâ
âI live ON a rockâ
âa huge rock in the Atlanticâ
âur rock is actually TINYâ
âminisculeâ
âmicroscopicâ
â*magnifying glass GIF*â
ââŚâ
âwoooowâ
âI-â
âdamnâ
âanyways u live here nowâ
âDonât fucking remind meâ
â*criesâ
âanyway drop the nameâ
âfine~â
âPine Mountain Academyâ
âbut I bet youâve never heard of it b/c itâs literally east of godsdamn bumblefuckâ
âIâd be surprised if they even have a robotics teamâ
ââŚâ
âbruhâ
âu joking?â
âNo?â
âThe only joke is this campusâ
âIt actually sucksâ
âThe only thing here is snowâ
âand pinesâ
âOFCâ
âIâm done forâ
âI fear this may be the end of meâ
âi GO to PMAâ
âdude this is sick!â
âWait, really?â
âSorry about that, thenâ
âBut this place is actually desertedâ
âoh, no, yeahâ
âno offence takenâ
âZig and I joke that this is like a dead zone where our dimension endsâ
âlike School Bus Graveyard or smthâ
âIDKâ
âone time a kid got lost like a mile from campusâ
âdamn.â
âHow thick can you get???â
âNo.â
âIâm serious.â
âThe snow and shit here gets baaad, dude.â
âYou gotta be careful.â
âdamn.â
âOkay, thenâ
âI know itâs serious when youâre using proper capitalisation.â
âLMAOâ
âI feel kinda worse for u now thoâ
âour dorms are lowkey trashâ
âI think they were built ~2000BCâ
âOMFâ
âYeah its cold af in hereâ
âhelpppâ
âAnd theyâre tiiinyâ
âYou only think itâs small b/c you share w/ your bf when youâre not supposed toâ
ââŚâ
âoh wellâ
âour dorms are homophobic thenâ
âLMFAOâ
The chat goes quiet again.
I wonder if I should ask or if knowing will make it worse. I have to be here no matter what, so maybe itâs better not to know all the gossip, to keep my head down and study the way Mum always wanted me to. Maybe if I cram enough maths into my brain, it will overflow, and the depression will spill out.
The chat lights up again, a perfect distraction.
âSorry iâm back halabeoji needed me to reset the wifiâ
âLMAOâ
âoofâ
âHeyâ
âuhhhâ
âSooo what the actual fuck is up w/ your headmaster?â
âIs a pedo???â
âpffftâ
âDamn clocked his tea already?â
âwait when did u meet him?â
âThis morning.â
âIs he???â
âEwwwâ
âNo heâs not a pedoâ
âSo just a regular creep? Oh good. (sarcasm)â
âyea pretty muchâ
âbroâs obsessed w/ this one kids momâ
âewwwđ¤˘â
âis he married?â
âNot for long if his wife has any brainâ
â(she probably doesnât)â
âBut yeahâ
âAnd he has a kidâ
âabsolute piece of flaming shiiiiiâ
âif you were wonderingâ
âI wasnât.â
âI get the whole ~daddy issues~ thing butlike come onnn~â
âThat is tough, yeah.â
âIâm glad I never met my father.â
âYeahâ
âItâs going to SUCK being the new kid.â
Itâs a dumb, nothing sort of statement, but Iâm moping and want someone, anyone to tell me itâs okay.
âyea prollyâ
âdamn.â
âI wouldnât be a good friend if i lied to u would iâ
âđâ
âbut ur chiller than Zig so maybe itâll be fineâ
âand hey girls liek brits right???â
âPMAâs highkey MID-land but maybe you can get some đťâ
â..â
âEwâ
âYouâre literally ace wtfâ
âYeah but i can help a bro outâ
âBros be FOR hoesâ
âđâ
âyou are soooo stupidâ
âOFCâ
âAlwaysâ
âNo thanksâ
âWeirdo đâ
âAnd Iâm gay anywaysâ
â*anygays~â
âđŤľđź boykisserâ
âMateâŚâ
âiâm not wrongâ
âAnywayâ
âur lossâ
âdamnâ
âur making my job so much harderâ
âWell sorrrryâ
âNah ur goodâ
âDw on god we gon get u some đ broâ
ââŚâ
âPls donâtâ
âIâm JOKING obvsâ
âLike Iâm so serious rnâ
âOh thank the godsâ
âanyway i doubt youâd anyoneâs worth ur time anywayâ
âpeople here are kinda idkâ
ânot homophobicâ
âwell maybe actuallyâ
âBut thereâs only one gay kid and heâs a loserâ
âNot cuz he gay but like ykwimâ
âyeahâ
âand all his friends are these bitchy girls who think theyâre hot or smthâ
âIn their defence, they prob are.â
âYouâre just too ace to care.â
âEh yeaâ
âtoo tired more likeâ
âand kids here are liek clique-y iykwimâ
âI betâ
âThereâs really only 200 kids???â
âYuppersâ
âWeâre all a big family*dumpster on fire GIF*â
âThatâs fucking insaneâ
âfrâ
âAnygays~â
âAnygays~ đ â
âLMAOâ
âOh btw Zig and I have a bet that principal willless will get divorced by the end of the semester u want in?â
âOkay.â
Itâs probably a shit idea to bet on something I know almost nothing about but Iâm too bored to say no.
âput me down for fifty he doesnât make it to half term.â
âWaitâ
âwhat did you call him?â
âPrinciapl Willlessâ
âleik Will-lessâ
âb/c his name is Wilson but doesnât have the will to keep it in his pantsâ
âOh my gods.â
âIs that just a you thing or likeâŚâ
ânah we got the whole school on this mans ahâ
âI mean no one actually gaf but itâs funny so~â
âdamnâ
âWhat about the kid whoâs mum he likes?â
âbet they gafâ
âeh idkâ
âidk whos mom it isâÂ
âbut⌠to be fair she is kinda~â
âwtfffâ
â/jjjâ
â*hands up in surrender GIF*â
â⌠mateâ
âthat /j came waaay to lateâ
âWilllessâs son knows abt his dad thoâ
âlowkey feel bad for himâ
âI mean he was a lil annoying before this but its worse nowâ
âhe must know his parents marirge is shitâ
âlike hes an ass but heâs not that dumbâ
âyeahâ
âsucksâ
I know itâs rude to ask, butâŚ
âWhat do you know about Rafael Lacoste? Heâs new like me and Willless had him give me a tour this morning.â
âOh đĽâ
âno one really likes him but heâs chillâ
â???â
âCrazy thing to sayâ
âAre you friends?â
âehâŚâ
âSort ofâ
âSo you know how I told Zig to make at least 1 firned w/o me this year?â
âHe picked Raphaelâ
ââpickedâ is kind of wildâ
âIâm imagining Ziggy just going up to him like*I choose you! Pokemon GIF*â
âI mean yeah kindaâ
â⌠mateâŚâ
âEh it had to happen somehowâ
âI think cuz theyre both in orchestraâ
âAnd heâs quietâ
âAnd he doesnât really talk to peopleââ
âIykwimâ
âLike heâs nice but also kida an assâ
âLike you?â
âđŽâ
âTruth hurts, doesnât itâ
âsmhâ
âSooo ima ignore thatâ
â*they hated him because he told the truth_jesus meme*â
âđâ
âANYWHOâ
âHeâll like raise his hand in class and stuff but he doesnât talk to anyone besides Zigâ
âand now me igđ¤ˇâ
âhe wears nc headphones a lotâ
âAnd if people try to talk to him hes just like đâ
âhighkey itâs kinda funny thoâ
âcertain people here could use some humbling tbhâ
âlmaoâ
âHe was nice when I met him, though.â
ânice eh?â
âwell damnâ
âu got that B rizz fr frâ
âB???â
âI-Â đâ
âBoâle oâ woâerâ
ââŚâ
âOh, okayâ
âItâs like that then, is it?â
âI see.â
âđâ
âHehehe ur not safeâ
â I WILL scar u with my awful Briâish accentâ
âAhhhh!â
ânooooo!â
âTis only a matter of whenâŚâ
âBe. Ready. đâ
âlmaoâ
âAnyways neverfearâ
âthe battle of pine mountain shall be easily wonâ
âNerdđŤľâ
â*mediaeval knight kneeling to present a rose GIF*â
âWell NOW Iâm scared.â
âdamnâ
âthe disrecpect is insaneâ
âđđ¤Şâ
He logs out then, his Master Chief pfp disappearing from the chat, and Iâm not lonely enough to message him again. Iâm sure Iâll see him soon anyway.Â
When I fall back onto the foam mattress, the bed frame groans like itâs tried too.
â
Itâs a relief when the sun rises. I forgot about the time difference and found myself up at 4:00, so that was great. Even now, I donât hear anyone else up yet, but I start getting dressed anyway. It kind of sucks because none of my smart clothes are fit for this weather, so I end up in a jumper nearly the same shade of brown as my skin and joggers. Iâll have to order some more clothes soon. Does Amazon even deliver here?
â
The rest of the break passes uneventfully. There are no storms, only continuous snowfall. Thereâs so much of it. Every time I look out the window, I think of how much Poppy would love this. Theyâll need a plough out here soon, though.
The dining hall is empty at every meal, except for me. Itâs barely half the size of Summervilleâs but feels humongous around me, fluorescent lights like pearly teeth just waiting to chomp down. It feels like Iâm not supposed to be there. I guess Iâm not.
The team group chat floods with holiday wishes, and a few people ask about me, but I canât bring myself to respond. I wonder how long itâll take them to forget about me⌠well, thatâs a morbid thought.Â
â
The days pass in a blur of books, every word only half remembered after I read it. Iâll probably have to re-read all of these sometime, but at least itâs something to do.
January rolls in with the latest storm. I let my mobile die, so the only real mark of how much time has passed is the sudden sputtering of an engine. I put my book down (I donât remember the title) and look out to watch through the haze of white as an airport shuttle, also white and nearly invisible in the snow, drops off the other boarding students, five in total. They all look kind of lost. Or maybe thatâs just me.Â
What Rafael told me on the first day is true. Pine Mountain may have dormitories, but it was an institution meant to serve only the townâs small population. It was never supposed to be a boarding school, lest the hoi polloi compromise the eliteâs privacy.
The dormitory building, while well-architected, is tiny inside, and built more like a boarding house for lone travellers, with only ten small one-person rooms arranged five per floor as an easy way to separate boys from girls, and an office that I think serves Mrs Pattersonâs quarters.
The students disappear through the door, the sound of footsteps and shouting following them inside, jarring after days of near silence.
Well, Neo will be among them, so I should get up. I only saw two guys (one, I guess, because the other must be Ziggy), so hopefully he wonât be too hard to spot. Iâm more excited than I probably should be, but who can blame me when I thought I wouldnât be seeing anyone I know for the next three years? The next three years⌠Iâm not going to think about that. Instead, I focus on finding something smarter than jeans and a hoodie.
This isnât an occasion, far from it, but Iâm now realising I mightâve under-estimated the amount of proper clothes I need. I figured the uniform would cover it, but if Iâm going to be living here after school and on weekends, I donât want to look like a slob.Â
A banging on the door startles me so that I pull the dresser drawer out onto my foot. Fuck! âMate! Bruv! Welcome to the New World!â The horrid imitation of a cockney accent makes me wince so hard my face hurts; at least it distracts me from my toes. Yup, thatâll be Neo, no doubt. âYooo, come out. Iâve got crisps!â True to his word, I hear a bag crinkle. It is very tempting.
I open the door to two people, Neo, whom I recognise from the few pictures heâs sent, with spiky black hair, blueish green eyes, and freckles over just barely tan skin, and behind him, a shaking figure that could only be Ziggy.
Neoâs grin is easy as he shakes the crisps at me, his other hand balancing a fidget spinner while Ziggy shifts their weight nervously, sinking further and further behind him, the longer I look at them.
Theyâre a bit taller than Neo, and lanky with hair even paler than their skin cut in a sort of curly bob to their chin, but their most shocking feature is their eyes, so pale blue theyâre almost purple. And nervous, darting all around my undecorated room. I havenât even unpacked most of my stuff yet. I should probably do that.
âNeo?â I ask as I take the crisps.
Thereâs a short silence, then they both nearly fall over laughing at my uncertainty.
âWell, it isnât my fault youâve never told me your real name.â
ââŚThat isâŚmy real nameâ, he manages between gasping laughter. âI didnât think I was that subtle.â
âOh⌠ah, well⌠shame on you for using your real name online. And shame on your parents, actually, for naming you after a movie character.â
Neo snorts. âTotally. Massive L. Whatâs your name? Iâm assuming itâs not âISurvivedYourMotherââ
âOh shut up, I was ten when I made that user name, I used to be weird.â
âUsed to be?â
âPiss off, Mr Glitch-in-the-Matrix.â
âNeoâs a fine name-â Ziggy is suddenly in front of Neo, defensive, nothing like their earlier shyness.
âZig, itâs fine. They mean well.â He turns back to me, âSo am I going to have to call you âISurvivedYourMotherâ until I hear the teachers say your name at roll orâŚâ
âNo! Piss off! My name is Quinn.â
âNoice~. Any nicknames?â
âNope⌠Oh, about that. Am I allowed to call them âZiggyâ?â It feels weird to talk about them like they arenât right across from me, but it feels even weirder to address them directly for some reason. Like a celebrity whom Iâve only heard about online.
âThatâs my name. What else would you call me?â It seems Iâve startled them out of their anxiety.
âIt is? Sorry, I figured it was short for something.â Ziggy and Neo, what a pairâŚ
âNope.â Neo pats them on the head, already turning to go, âCome on, Iâll take you to meet the others.â And then Neo, with one arm still around Ziggy, is dragging me along the corridor.
âWhat are we doing, Neo? We donât like the othersâŚâ Ziggy whines.
âI know, Zig,â Neo boops their nose, speaking softly,â but Quinn might.â
âHey.â
âYeah?â Neo turns to me.
âThanks for this.â
âEh, whatever.â He shrugs, âOkay, so there are five of us, well, six now, with you. On our floor is you, then us, weâre right next door, actually.â Neo kicks the door to each room as we pass, his and Ziggyâs, then mine, then takes us down the stairs, and I make him let go of me so he wonât pull me down the steps.Â
I sort of watch him as he goes down ahead of me, arm in arm with Ziggy, rubbing gentle circles into their side. Maybe I donât want Neo to set me up with someone, certainly not a girl, but that doesnât mean having someone wouldnât be nice. What he and Ziggy have is something else, I know I wonât find that here, but⌠I can hardly think about that now.
The thud of Neoâs foot against another door reminds me that heâs giving me a tour. âYou good?â
âOh, yeah. Iâm fine.â
He shoots me double finger guns. âCool. The bottom floor is the girlsâ floor. Thereâs Matsume, Mio and Sakura. Theyâre all in our grade. Matsume stays up crazy late streaming hockey matches. Sheâll let you watch if you bring the snacks.â
Oh. Hockey, of course. âGood to know.â Iâve never been into hockey, but Iâve heard the guys are hot and the fights are good, and it seems everyone here really is crazy about it, so maybe Iâll try something new.
âAnd we have a study group with Mio if you want to join.â
âMaybe. My brain is kind of dead.â
âOooh, yeah, sorry. I keep forgetting.â
âDonât worry about it.â Thereâs nothing I want to talk about less. âYou mentioned another girl, Sakura?â
âWe donât talk about Sakura,â Ziggy says with a comical air of seriousness.
ââŚWhy not? Do I need to be concerned?â
Neo doesnât answer right away, suddenly far away, âNo, sheâs annoying, but harmless.â
âA weeb?â
âNo, sheâs actually Japanese, or half at least. She transferred last semester, and she kinda,â he hesitates.
âWhat?â
âThinks the woods are haunted by killer ghosts.â
âSeriously?âÂ
âYeah, we hunt ghosts and all, but sheâs crazy.â Ziggy twirls their fingers and bugs out their eyes in an unneeded demonstration. I ignore him. I shouldnât be surprised, I guess. Neo is exactly the type to be into the paranormal. But Ziggy, though⌠thatâs unexpected.
Neo winces. âCrazy is a bit-â
âIâm right,â Ziggy huffs.
âI mean, yeah, obviously, but- We disagreed about our methods,â he says as if ghost hunting is real academic work. âYou wanna join? I figured you wouldnât be into all that. Too scary for you~â he teases, punching my arm.
âShut up.â I flip him off. âAnd hell no. Losers~â
âAh, I figured. Your loss, dude.â He shakes his head in mock solemnity.
âSakura thinks ghosts kidnapped her brother,â Ziggy says suddenly.
âAh, Zig, maybe donât-â
âSometimes I think sheâs crazier than I am.â
Neo sighs, but itâs still affectionate. âEh, donât worry about it. Itâs our thing. Just something to pass the time. I mean, if these woods are good for one thing, itâs being fucking spooky, eh.â Neoâs laugh is easy like everything about him, a spark of simplicity against Pine Mountainâs manufactured grandeur. Itâs a relief.
âFair.â Weâre in the lobby now, but itâs nothing like before, which is to say there are actually people in it.Â
Three girls come running through the lobby, two of them chasing the third. Neo ticks off names as they pass us, snickering, âMatsume in the awful retro gym shorts. Sakura in the tutu, and Mio ready for a 9-to-5 at the ripe age of 16.â
Neoâs not wrong about Matsume. Sheâs wearing an electric blue ensemble straight out of Stranger Things, but Iâll give her a pass because, despite the scowl on her face, she looks like a happy person, almost puppylike, and I seem to know so few of those. Sakura is dressed more like a seven-year-old than a 15-year-old in with faerie wings and a tutu shoved on over pink ruffled pyjamas, the colour rivalled only by her hair. And Mio looks like sheâs dressed for a court deposition, except for the hockey stick hugged desperately to her chest.
âGive it back. Oi! Give it!â Mastume demands.
âWhy- why are we ch-chasing Mi-chan?â
âBecause she stole my-â
âDo not call me that. And Matusme, Iâve told you countless times not to practise tricks against my wall.â
âAnd I said sorry. I didnât mean to smack the wall, it just happens sometimes!â
I tune out then. The lobby is a mess of people, a blur of pink, blue and grey as the girls chase each other. Itâs chaotic, but damn, I missed people, just, like, people in general. I got used to it, with my books, I think, but now, seeing everyone, I realise just how alone Iâve been all week.Â
Something slams into me, and I crash to the floor. It hurts, but not badly. Iâve had worse from falling off my bicycle.
âOh my gosh! Iâm sorry! Iâm sorry!â The words come out as one rushed sentence that takes me a couple of seconds to process. Itâs Sakura. She takes a breath, finally, which seems good because her face is a little red. âAre you-⌠are you alright?â Sakura extends a hand to me, but sheâs wearing some sort of body glitter that will probably take ages to come off, so I get up on my own.
âErm, yeah, Iâm fine.â
She jumps up suddenly. âOoooh, youâre British! Iâm from Brit-t-tish Colum-bia, and my mumâs Irish, so we sort of match-ch, eh?â
Gods, she talks at the speed of light. ââŚYeah, sort of.â
She deflates, looking exactly like Poppy when I donât pet her as soon as I get home from school. I probably shouldnât start off sounding like a snob, at the very least. âSorry, Iâm still a little out of it, London time and all. British Columbia? Thatâs across the country, isnât it?â
âYeah! I really wan- want-â
âSlow down,â Mio scolds. Thereâs not too much anger in it, I donât think. Like a music teacher correcting a mistake, trying to help.
Sakura huffs but stops, takes a breath, then begins again, âI really wanted to come here, though, because my brother went missing around here, and I wanted to be close in case he came back.â
âOh. Your brother went here?â Was he the kid Neo mentioned who got lost in the woods? I look to him, and he shakes his head slightly, almost a sort of warning.
âNo, heâs a grown-up. Heâs doing research for his school, but his team disappeared a- a bit ago, and I got so sad it hur- hurt,â Her lip wobbles slightly, as if even thinking about it makes her cry and I brace for tears but a second later sheâs perked right back up again, âbut that was no fun, so I decided that instead of being sad, I would do e-everything I could to find him, which meant coming here as close- as close as I could to where he disappeared.â Her speech is picking up speed again, and Mio taps her with the stolen hockey stick, âSo I asked my parents, and they said yes. I was so excited.â
âUgh, Sakura, do you have to bring that up to everyone?â Neo groans, trying to pull her away.
She stomps her foot âHey! Please don- please donât touch me. I donât like it.â Neo lets her go, settling for a disapproving frown. âLook like that all you want, but itâs m-my business. If you donât want to t-t-talk about your Onii-san, you donât have to, but I think sharing sad- sad things with other people makes them less sad.â
âOnii-sanâ, Iâve seen just enough anime to know that that means brother. His brother? What happened to Neoâs brother?Â
Neo rolls his eyes. âOh, kumbaya! You just met them, literally. Do you even want to know their name before you dump your shit? I mean, Jeez.â
âYou only learnt my name today.â I point out. The mood does not lighten. Lovely.
Sakura whips around to me, âOh. Iâm sorry. I was so⌠embarrassed that I knocked into you, and I get so excited-d when I meet new people. Whatâs your⌠name?â Then she adds, âIâm Sakura.â
âQuinn. And itâs fine. Iâve had much worse.â
Then something slams down between us. Matsume goes to stop it from rolling further, but I pin it first. A hockey puck. Of course.
I kick it back to her.
She grins.
Someone stomps. The sound echoes through the lobby. Mio. âStop. Your problems do not give you the right to talk to her like that. Apologise.â
Ziggy mutters something that sounds like ââdonât wanna fightâ
Neo stares Mio down, but only for a second. âFine.â
âDo it right.â Even in heeled loafers, Mio only comes to Neoâs shoulder, but clearly sheâs used to making up for it. Her gaze is even and cold.Â
âOh come on! Donât gang up on me, itâs not like you guys would want everyone airing your business to a strangeâ someone youâve only just met in person.â
âItâs her business, too. She has a right to share as much as she wants.â Mio argues.
Neo gives one more glare, then fixes his face and turns to Sakura, âIâm sorry, Sakura. I shouldnât have yelled.â He keeps his mouth open like he might say more, but closes it in the end with a âWe good?â
Sheâs already perked back up, âYeah!â
Mioâs still glaring at Neo, not quite ready to forgive him. I donât know what to think. I let Neo lead me back upstairs anyway.
When weâre back in my room, Neo sits with Ziggy in his lap on the rickety dresser that already looks like it could tip at any moment just from the weight of my clothes. I ask, âWhat was that about?â
Neo sighs deeply. âGuess I shouldâve figured sheâd bring it up eventually. She found out Zig, and I hunt ghosts, you know, just for fun, like a sort of X-Files thingâexcept weâre more Scullyâand that my bro disappeared around here too âcause they were on the same expedition and all, and decided that those two things had to be connected somehow⌠And sheâs made a whole conspiracy out of it.â
âIsnât that great for you? Donât you want to find ghosts?â And his brother? But, hey, I know how complicated sibling shit can be. If Hali went missing one day, would I look for her?
Neoâs expression hardens. âNo.â A single-word response, clipped. Final.
âReally? Why not? Why spend the time looking if you donât think ghosts are real?â
âI never said I didnât think they were real. I said I didnât want them to find them.â His teeth are gritted, the words come out tight, like trying to save an important document from the jaws of a shredder.
I shrug, trying to lighten the mood again. âSame difference.â
âNot really.â
âOkay. Still, why?â
He sighs, looks to Ziggy, who nods, then, after a long moment, decides on an answer: âIf ghosts are real, then all the other stuff is too.â The words are quick and stilted, and heâs already leaving, the dresser shaking violently as he hops down. âAnyway, Zig and I should unpack. And shower.â
Ziggy nods vigorously and hops down as well, into Neoâs arms. The dresser shakes violently, but manages to right itself again. And then theyâre gone. And Iâm alone again, with far more questions than before.
I didnât sleep, but at the very least, I expected that. Stupid time difference. Stupid wind. Stupid brain thinking every shadow is some sort of demon. I really need to sleep tonight, though, seeing as tomorrow is the start of term.
Tomorrow, a one-word horror story.
Okay, maybe Iâm being dramatic, but this particular tomorrow is going to be, as Big Brother says, âungoodâ. I hated that book.
Today, though, I have an excuse not to wallow around the dormitory. Rafael, a truly wonderful person, called at 8:15 to tell me he was heading over to take me to get my ID. It was in his typical clipped way, and I doubt he knew he was saving me from a dire case of loneliness, but still.
Itâs 8:45 now, and there he is at the door. Iâd hug him if I thought he was the type. Out of guilt more than anything, I give a short wave to Mrs Patterson and my arse out of this miserable dormitory.
If Rafael notices my haste, he says nothing. And thank the gods, he also says nothing of my outfit. He said uniforms were required for ID photos, but I wasnât ready to commit to that yet, so I just threw on my shirt, tie and blazer over jeans. Iâm starting to regret that now, though. Hopefully, weâll be the only ones in the building.
âHeadmaster Wilson told me that your father ordered your books and that theyâd be ready for pickup today. Iâll get them while you take your photo. And I need to retake mine as well.â He doesnât elaborate. A new picture would explain why heâs also in uniform, though
âDid you lose your ID?â
âI think,â his words are careful, âI dropped it, and someone took it.â His hands are restless at his sides, fingers touching together in a rhythmic pattern I canât discern over and over. He was doing that yesterday, too. A nervous tick, maybe? It makes me think the card was taken rather than lost.
I donât know what to say. âOof size large.â
âOof size large,â he repeats. Itâs more a replication than a repetition, his tone and pronunciation a near exact mimic of mine, an echo on the wind. He looks away quickly, like heâs been caught but is unsure what heâs been caught for.âApologiesâ
âNah, itâs fine.â I wait a little to see if heâll copy that as well. He doesnât. I find myself a little disappointed.
The walk goes much faster after that, both of us quickening our pace, but itâs still bloody cold enough to make me remember to order a better coat. Thankfully, the library isnât locked when we get there, the door is propped wide open with a wooden doorstop carved in the shape of a paw. I donât see anyone here.Â
Rafael rings the bell on the counter. Nothing happens.
âIâm going to get your books from the librarianâs office. Someone should be here in a minute or two to help with your photo.â
âOkay.â
And then he disappears into the shelves, and Iâm alone again.Â
Right, the librarianâs office must be in the back. But where is the librarian? Are they up on the mezzanine? I ring the bell again, just in case.
âPatience, please.â A voice says, quiet but not timid. And not annoyed either, at least.
âSorry,â I whisper into the still, empty-seeming library.
The voice chuckles. It sounds too young to be a librarian. An upperclassman working on campus, maybe? Then a girl rolls out from behind the G-H shelf. She canât be much older than me, but I can just see a volunteer badge behind the stack of books in her lap. The stack sways as she moves. Should I help her?
I keep watching for a second, but she looks fine, so I decide not to. âHi, Iâm new this term. Iâm here with someone, heâs fetching my books, and he told me Iâm supposed to get my ID photo taken here. Do you know where the librarian is?â
She looks at me in surprise for just a second, registering my accent, probably, then smiles. Thereâs something about the expression, like she knows something I donât. It kind of pisses me off. I push the feeling away. She probably doesnât deserve it. Probably.
Somewhere in the back corners of my brain, I remember how strange I must look with jeans under my uniform, but thereâs nothing I can do about it now.
The girl is in uniform already, too, her shirt neatly bloused with a ribbon tie hanging elegantly from her collar, pleated red skirt to her knee and loafers over black stockings. Maybe itâs required for her job here. Sheâs wearing a cardigan instead of a blazer, but itâs the same shade of red, so itâs probably a uniform piece too. Even her wheelchair is red, the same shade as the uniform. I wonder if thatâs a coincidence.
âMrs Hollister is on maternity leave, so Iâm helping her out.â Her voice is still quiet even though thereâs no one else in here, and she has a slight accent. Russian maybe?
âNow, would you be a dear and get those for me?â She points to a pair of crutches propped behind the desk, and of course, I get them for her. âThe photo booth is in the computer lab.â Sheâs already heading towards the other end of the library.
I walk towards the back of the Library, vaguely remembering thatâs where the computer lab is. I think Rafael said something about the robotics class using it.
The girl swipes her ID, and I hold the door for her because it seems the easiest thing to do.Â
The room is a shock of the contemporary in this place, all white with rows of desktops. Near the back, a red backdrop, camera and light are set up. The camera is connected to one of the desktops and what must be the machine that prints out the badges.
She parks herself in the corner, and then extends her hand for the crutches. I hand them to her.
âGo stand on the grey mark. You can make whatever face you want, but this will also be your photo in the student directory and the yearbook, so choose wisely.â She has that smile again. It makes me laugh. I wish I knew her name, but her badge just read VOLUNTEER in big red letters, and I didnât see her student ID before she put it away again. Is she even in my year? Something tells me it would be nice if she were.
I find the small grey x and stand on it. She stands too, situating her crutches, and, leaning slightly on the camera tripod, boots up a computer, adjusts the light, and directs me a little to the left, before asking, âReady?â
âYeah.â
I plaster on what I hope is a pleasant neutral expression, and she takes three photos in quick succession.
The camera is hooked up to the computer, so I can watch the photos appear. I look much smarter than I feel. When the photos have loaded, she lets me type my information in. Iâm conscious of her reading over my shoulder, though my name and graduation year are hardly secret. With small-town gossip everyone will know me soon enough, Iâm sure, especially with how in-fucking-sanely small this place is.
Iâd ask how theyâre staying open, but thatâs a stupid question when itâs so obvious. Tuition must be a nightmare. Good. Maybe that will make it harder for Father to forget I exist.
She takes her place back at the computer. The square for the photo is still blank, waiting for one of the three to be dragged in. She looks at me expectantly.
âThe one with my eyes open, if you please.â
She selects the second photo with a flourish, âWhy, of course.â
The machine spits out a badge a second later, itâs red like everything else here, with a paw print in the corner. How cute.
âThanks.â
âNo problem, dear.â
Rafael walks in then, holding a paper bag with my name written on it. âHere are your books.â
âThanks.â I take the bag, and itâs heavier than I expected. At Somerville, you can buy physical books, but most people donât. While the girl sets up the camera again, I flip through a few of them. âDo the teachers actually use the textbooks a lot?â
âYes. It makes the courses easy because you can read ahead if you like,â the girl says.
At least thereâs that.
While Rafael takes his place on the grey X, I page through one of the novels weâre supposed to read this semester, The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Iâve read it before. I sort of want to cry. I wonât, I know, but the feeling is there, like I could if I really wanted to, but I donât. I donât want to feel much at all.
I look up.
Rafael is still standing on the grey X. Library-Girl is frowning at him. âYou look like Iâve just killed your cat.â
âI donât have a cat,â he says.
âYou want one. How about I buy you one if you fix your face for this picture?â
âMaman wonât allow it, I told you.â
âIt can be an outdoor cat, then. Now smile.â
And he tries, but itâs like before; his eyebrows are set too low, turning the expression into a grimace. âKeeping cats outdoors is bad for the environment and unsafe for the cat. They are-â
âInvasive species, I know. Now smile.â
The saddest part is I can tell heâs doing his best. Iâm sort of tempted to start doing moose ears or something behind the camera, the way parents get babies to smile. But heâs not a baby, and I have to keep some of my dignity, so I donât.
Library-Girl rolls her eyes, but itâs affectionate. She must be older than us, then. A sixth-former, probably. What do they call it here? Secondary 5?
Rafael tries again. And again. And again.
After the fifth try, he huffs. âOh, why does it matter? No one is going to see this badge but me.â
âIt matters to me. I want you to look nice.â
His frown only deepens. âI already have a good picture in the directory from when we got our photos taken in October, just use that one.â
âYearbook photos are a joke,â Library-Girl points out.
âAnd this is not?â
She laughs. âFair. But donât you trust me more than some underpaid photographer?â
âI-â He starts to object, but gives up and just nods.
âGreat! And I say good riddance, all the retouching they do washed you out, and youâre pale enough already.â She shakes her head in mock sympathy. Sheâs about two shades paler than Rafael.
And then I start to laugh, and I want to stop, but I canât stop. Thankfully, it sounds less concerning than it usually does when I get like this. In the weird echo of the computer lab, it sounds like a chuckle, not a cackle. I bite my tongue, in hopes of them not thinking Iâm crazy, but the sting of teeth in flesh only makes me laugh harder.
Lightning flashes- no, the camera.Â
Huh?
âWhat? Why did you-â
Library girl hushes Rafael, waving him off the camera mark. âHush, dearie, I got the picture, now letâs get you two on your way.â Then, sheâs at the computer, and a second later, the machine spits an ID out, red with a paw in the corner just like mine.
I can only stare at the picture. Itâs Rafael, definitely, all the same features, just arranged differently, a smile as natural as can be, lighting his face. Heâs not quite looking at the camera, gaze fixed slightly to the side. Looking at Library Girl probably. Either way, the wonkiness in the set of his lips reads as unique now.
I wonder what changed?
âThank you.â Rafaelâs voice, closer than I expect as he pockets the ID, startles me out of my reverie. Heâs back to an unreadable expression. But heâs still looking at me, though and it reminds me I should be thanking Library girl, too. Probably his intent. âOh, yeah, thanks.â
âOf course.â Library-Girl is grinning that grin again. Iâm not sure if I like it.
Rafael helps her put the camera equipment back in order while she gets back in her wheelchair, then I carry her crutches back to the desk while he carries my books.
She waves a silent goodbye to us from behind the desk as she leaves.Â
Will I have any classes with her, I wonder? I can ask. I should ask. But it feels wrong to break the silence, so I donât, not until he drops me back at the dormitory.
âThanks.â I mean it more than is probably necessary.
âYouâre welcome.â
And everyone must be huddled up in their rooms because the lobby and corridors are silent. Even Mrs Patterson is nowhere to be seen. Thunder rumbles overhead. I climb the stairs to the boysâ floor so I can see the lightning out of the window at the end of the corridor. Itâs bright against the dark forest, making the snow look electric too. It makes me a little nervous. A storm destroyed this campus once⌠I count the seconds between shakes. One-one-thousand. Two-one-thousandâŚSeven-one-thousand. Itâs not close, but not distant either.Â
I hope Rafael is okay out there. But thereâs nothing I can do for it, so I huddle up too.
â
Morning comes before I want to. Itâs been doing that a lot lately.
Yesterday, I managed to avoid most of my classmates, but today Iâll have to face them. Better to get it over with. Iâll skip breakfast and head straight to English, my first class according to my schedule, and wait there until the bell rings. Maybe I can read ahead or something.
My plan is foiled almost immediately. Rafael is waiting in the dormitory lobby, talking to Mrs Patterson, but neither of them is really trying. Heâs staring straight through her. I donât blame him, though. Thereâs something ghostly about Mrs Patterson, like if you arenât careful which angle you look at her from, sheâll fade away entirely.
I kick the rise of the stair behind me to announce my presence. They both look up.
âGood morning, Quinn,â Rafael says in a tone not exactly bright, but warm. His smile looks less forced today.
Mrs Patterson yawns out a mumbled, âMorning,â which I return.
Rafael smiles at her as he crosses to the door, waiting. Itâs odd to see him smile still. Neo said he was kind of an arse, but I guess I have to remember that Neo isnât exactly a people person either.
âHave a good day, Mrs Patterson,â
Mrs Patterson warms at his acknowledgement, âYou as well, sweetheart.â It makes me feel a bit bad for her. Her job must suck, sitting there looking after kids who donât care about her one way or the other.
When I get to the door, Rafael holds out a hand to stop me. I notice now he has a huge coat draped over his arm. He holds it out to me, âWe donât go outside much during the school day, but you should still have this. Last week was warmer than usual, and the coat you had then wonât be enough for the rest of the winter. I asked my mother, and she said I could lend this one to you until you can get one.â
âOh, thanks.â
He nods.
I slip the coat on; itâs huge because of how puffy it is, but actually pretty close to my size. When weâre safely outside, I gesture to Mrs Pattersonâs desk through the window and ask, âDoes she sit at that desk all day?â I donât know why I expect him to know.
âIâm not sure, but sheâs not one of the teachers, so maybe. Iâve never talked to her before today. I would assume she only stays at night because students use the dormitories much during the day, but Iâm not sure. You could ask. Iâm sure she wouldnât mind.â
Wow, no wonder she looks so done with life. âNah. Iâm good.â Sheâs too dreary for me, and âI donât think she likes me much. You should ask, though. She seems to like you.â
âDoes she?â He looks genuinely surprised.
âWell, I mean, I donât know. But I didnât think she was the type to like much of anyone. When she showed me my room, she sounded sort of annoyed. She wasnât like that with you.â
He thinks for a moment, then âMaybe she thinks youâll be a troublemaker and has already decided not to like you.â
I snort. âWhat? Do I look like a troublemaker?â
âMaybe to her.â
âWhat about you?â
âNo. But that doesnât mean you couldnât be.â He turns back to look at me, âAre you a troublemaker?â
âNo!â
âThatâs good.â
Weâre silent, then, but itâs not quiet now, not how it was yesterday. I can hear birds in the trees and the crunch of snow and ice under our feet. Surely so much hasnât changed in a week? All of this must have been here yesterday. Maybe my ears have finally popped from the flight. Itâs nice. Whatâs nicer, though, is stepping inside.
â
Classes go by in a blur of reviewing holiday work I didnât do, and I spend most of my time memorising names and faces. Itâs all typical private school kids, but thatâs fine. I like the building better with people in it, even if most of them are gossiping about how wasted some kid got at someoneâs epic holiday party.
I have every period with Rafael except for Fourth, where he has Latin, and I have French, Fifth when he has orchestra, and I have free study, and Seventh when I have Phys Ed, and he has a study period.
Neo is in a lot of my classes, which is nice. Heâs in most of my classes, actually, which makes sense when the year is only about big enough to fill one classroom. When Rafael and I get to English, he waves us over to the back where a cluster of desks has been pushed a little away from everyone else. Library-Girl is there too, in our year after all.Â
She curtseys theatrically from her chair, gesturing with an elegant flourish from herself to Rafael, âGood morning, you two. Quinn, Iâm Skora, this oneâs only other friend, so youâll be seeing a lot of me.â Sheâs smiling for real now, clearly proud of the title. It makes her look closer to my age. For some reason, it makes me want to smile now.Â
âWell, you already know me, so⌠yeah.â
âDonât be shy. I only order hits on people whoâve given me a reason to dislike them. Youâre fine so far.âÂ
Iâm sorry, what?
âThey havenât heard the rumours yet,â Neo shrugs, then turns to me. âDonât worry, Quinn. Sheâs naturally suspicious of everyone.â
âYeah, sure, but what rumours?â
I look at Rafael, hoping heâll point out the obvious ludicrousness of this. No offence to her, but I doubt she could kill anyone with the sort of discretion required for assassination. He doesnât take the hint, so I look at Skora. Sheâs trying and failing to stifle the laughter. Great. So no oneâs going to tell me anything.
âIs this more shit about that stupid party?â
She mutters something under her breath, itâs not English or even Quebecâs heavily accented French, Russian probably, but it doesnât sound kind. But then her expression brightens, almost dangerously, and she breaks out into witch-like laughter. People from the surrounding tables turn to look at us. I resist the urge to duck my head down. âNo. As much as I hate Connor Wilson, Iâm too much of a lady to orchestrate his demise⌠for nowâ
âOrchestrate his- what the fuck are you talking about?â
Eventually, Rafael sighs. âThe population of Pine Mountain, due mostly to cultural prejudice, is convinced that her father is a mob boss.â He doesnât seem to find that funny. I probably shouldnât either, but it kind of is.
I mean, just because sheâs Russian or whatever? Come on. âThatâs stupid.â
Skora shrugs, âIâm sure I donât have to tell you what the students are like here.â Clique-y, Neo said. âThey were going to come up with something. I suppose it was either Gangster or Witch. And I must say Iâm happy with the choice.â
âDo I want to know why?â She certainly carries herself with the air of someone who could disappear me with a snap of her fingers, or at least sincerely believes she could.
âProbably not.â She smiles, an expression that toes the line of patronising.
I sigh, itâs more of a huff. Skora seems nice and all, but already, Iâm frustrated. âWhatever.â This wasnât what told me that these kids are shallow; I got that much from the looks on their faces when I walked in. Not fond of new people. Not fond of foreigners. âTheyâll wear themselves out eventually.â
âYouâd be surprised, Quinn. Thereâs something about a limited selection.â She nods slightly to the tables around us, as if I needed to be told who the outsiders were. Everyone at this table sticks out somehow. Neo with Ziggy clinging to him, Mio wearing the uniform so correctly her socks are pulled up, Skora in her wheelchair, Sakuraâs pink hair full of floral clips, and Rafaelâs dour expression. And me.
She shrugs then, that patronising smile carving her face into two unequal parts. âAh, donât let it bother you. I donât.â And I believe her. Thereâs something about her, like her default expression dares you to meet her in the eyes. Neoâs told me the shit Pine Mountain kids get up to, it isnât hard to imagine what she must deal with. I doubt sheâd still be here if any of this really bothered her. But I donât need her encouragement or her approval, so I meet her eyes just fine.
Sheâs got big eyes, snowy grey like the skies here, that droop downwards into angular cheekbones. Her whole face is made of angles. I canât tell if sheâs pretty or not. I guess it doesnât matter.Â
âWhy didnât you say anything yesterday?â I donât mean for it to be a challenge, or maybe I do. Maybe I want her to be ashamed that sheâs only adding to the things that donât make sense about my life now. It wouldnât be the pettiest thing Iâve done.
I donât think sheâs the type to feel much shame. She smiles that same smile again, âI wanted to see what you were like around strangers.â
Thatâs- is she⌠like some sort of guard dog. Either itâs not a good enough answer. But now isnât the place for that. But I will get a better one later. âOh. Well, Iâm not secretly an axe murderer or anything.â
She snorts and goes back to her annotations.
The teacher, Mr Taylor, according to his desk plaque, calls the class to order.Â
â
English was way quieter than I thought it would be; all of the classes are. But this is a small town, so maybe everyone saw each other over break. It seems like most of the year was spent at that party.
The teachers mostly let us review the revision assigned over the holidays at our tables. The work doesnât seem like it was hard, but I struggle to follow along. Branches crash against the windows in the wind, and thereâs this sort of feeling like I keep missing something out of the corner of my eye. No one else seems to notice.
Neo and Ziggy do most of their work together, leaning into each other, talking quietly in what Iâm pretty sure is German and occasionally throwing out comments in English for the rest of us. Skora does much the same, working quietly with Rafael or Mio, who sits at our table in Chemistry and History because thereâs nowhere else to sit. Left with nothing to do, I sit in silence, drifting between the two groups. A few times, I swear, Rafael still looks like heâs in pain.
Sakura tries to talk to Neo in every class, and each time, he waves her off. She doesnât get it until Rafael tells her in no uncertain terms to go away.
âThanks, broâ Neoâs attempt at a fist bump is left hanging.Â
âIt wasnât for you. Her voice is too bright, she was disturbing my focus.â And thatâs its own kind of âgo awayâ, I think.
Neo shoots me a look, a âSee what I mean?â.Â
I shrug.
-
True to his word, itâs Neo who leads me around, though, thankfully, he restrains himself from any more attempts at my accent. He chats to Skora and me as we walk between classes, but Rafael is as quiet as Neo said he would be. Iâm not getting lost, so I try not to worry about it. Itâs probably just the maybe-hockey injury, which was only confirmed by the fact that heâs not taking Phys Ed. I should really ask him about that.
Speaking of hockey, Matsume waves to me from across the corridor. I wave back. It surprises me when she follows Skora and Rafael into the Latin classroom. She didnât strike me as the type, but I guess she mustâve been a nerd to come to this place from somewhere else. Iâm sure there are warmer schools wherever she lives.
Either way, I donât have time to think about it much because the bell rings, and I hurry with Neo and Ziggy into the adjacent room for French.Â
The language classes are about the only classes that most of the grade doesnât share; the 16 kids split between Latin, Spanish, and French, so theyâre tiny. It feels more like a group conversation, minus the conversation bit as itâs mostly just Mrs Perrault lecturing at us in way too fast French and everyone, having given up on understanding her, hides their phones under their desks.Â
Neo and Ziggy stand at a raised desk in the back and whisper in a mix of broken French, English, and German, something about the latest Genshin update. Whatever that is. They use just enough of the French that Mrs Perrault doesnât call them on it. I think she just likes to hear herself talk, to be honest.
-
When the bell rings for Fifth, I find Rafael in the corridor and follow him to the theatre anyway, and the teacher lets me sit in the audience to do maths revision. I wonât do that again, though, because the theatre is cold and Rafael probably wants at least another hour away from me. But Skora is there too, right next to him in the viola section, and Iâm still curious about her. She says something to him that I canât hear. Itâs hard to focus on my revision.
â
Before I know it, itâs lunch period. And thank the gods for that.
I walk with Rafael down the corridor out of the Lessons Block, past the library, and into the dining hall. Itâs packed now (suddenly 200 kids seem like a lot), red dots filling in until it doesnât echo, nothing like last week. The queue moves quickly, though, with the youngest kids going through first behind their teachers, and then some older kids leave the hall to eat elsewhere. Going to clubs held in classrooms, Rafael tells me. The echo returns some, but not as bad as before.
Seeing the same people over and over again is kind of freaking me out, to be honest. Classes were kept pretty separate in primary school because we were in one room all day, so of course I knew everyone, but when secondary school started and my year entered the building where years 7 through 11 shared a building, it took me almost two years to recognise everyone I passed. It hasnât even been a day here, and I know the full name of about fifty percent of the people within my sight. Will I know the rest by tomorrow?
Lunch is okay. Iâm not much in the mood to eat, anyway, so I only watch as Rafael gets food. All he gets is black coffee and salad, no dressing or anything, itâs just leaves really. I might not be hungry, but thatâs a bit sad. Maybe heâs secretly a rabbit other-kin or something.
I follow him through the hall to a table in the very centre where Neo and Mio are already waiting. âMrs K let me out early. And she had gummy bears, want some?â He tosses a bag to me, propping his feet up on the table without a care in the world until Mio notices and flinches away.Â
âThat is disgusting, Neo.â
He ignores her. âSo, neither of you are actually gonna eat?â He gestures from Mio to Ziggy with a piece of broccoli still speared on his fork, sounding oddly like a disappointed parent.
I snort. I didnât think he had that in him.Â
Heâs right, though. Neither Ziggy nor Mio have a plate.Â
Mio looks caught, she huffs and hunches back over some textbook as if she can disappear. âI have studying to do.â
Ziggy doesnât even try to give an excuse.Â
âYou should eat something,â Rafael tries.
Ziggy raises an eyebrow. âDonât lecture me like your pile of leaves is much better.â
Rafael huffs out a laugh.
Neo glances between them and shakes his head before popping the piece of broccoli in his mouth.
Skora smiles, all teeth, lips stained dark by the berries sheâs munching on. She brought her food from home. Lucky. (I mean. The food isnât bad, butâŚ) âAll of you are a mess.âÂ
âLike youâre much better,â Neo retorts. âHowâre things going with Mastume?â
âThatâs none of your business.â She doesnât really seem annoyed.Â
âGrade of sixteen, Ms Mafia, weâre all each otherâs business.â Neo wiggles his eyebrows at her.
She sighs, dabbing at her lips with a napkin she mustâve also brought from home, finally wiping away the berry juice. âIf you must know: I am keeping my distance like a respectful, mannerly young lady.â She eyes his feet, still on the table.
He grins shamelessly. âSure. But, hey, just so you know, nobody here would mind if you took out Willless Junior for us.â
âI will be doing no such thing.â
Willless Junior, the Headmasterâs son. âWilsonâs the guy who hosted the party that, like, everyone in this stupid town was at over the holiday, right?â
âYuppers.â
âOkay, so heâs a pathetic git with a creep dad, but why do we want him dead?â
âHeâs dating the girl Skora has a crush~ on.â
âOh.â That sucks. I glance at Skora just to make sure sheâs not going to kill Neo for saying that. Or me for hearing it. She doesnât seem embarrassed in the slightest. Shameless, like before. Itâs a good thing I guess.
âIt was a hard launch, too,â Neo continues. âThey pulled a Game Changers at the final game afterparty last year, but, like, straight.â
âDamn.â That really sucks.
âYeah. Major L. But whatâre we supposed to do when this girl,â He starts to nudge Skoraâs lunchbox with his foot, but thinks better of it, âwonât make a move?â
âOh, enough about me.â She chides, turning my way. âQuinn, howâre you liking Pine Mountain so far?â
âYou can be honest,â Neo says before I even say anything.
âOh, I wasnât worried about offending you.â
We flip each other off simultaneously.
Mio shakes her head, clearly not as engrossed in her studying as she makes herself out to be. Not as much as sheâd like to be, maybe? It kind of seems like Neo dragged her kicking and screaming into this friend group, and I have a feeling thatâs exactly what happened.
âAnyways~ Itâs pretty nice, but it is fucking cold. Seriously.â
Mio mumbles something.Â
Neo leans over to her until their cheeks are nearly touching. âWhat was that?â She bats him away. He laughs. âSorry. She talks so rarely. This is an occasion.â
âDie.â She glares at him and straightens her glasses, âI said: thatâs likely because the temperature is set by a man. The patriarchy sets the temperature whilst the rest of us are left to freeze. My mother experiences the same phenomenon at her office.â
Skora nods appreciatively. She has a blazer on over her cardigan today.
âArenât old people always cold, though?â Neo isnât even wearing a blazer, or a tie for that matter. I think the teachers have given up on him.
âHeadmaster Wilson isnât old, Neo. Heâs only sixty.â
Neo shrugs. âSo, what else? Besides the conspiracy to turn us into human popsicles Hannibal style, of course.â
Mio makes a disgusted face before returning to her textbook.Â
âIs it always so dark in here?â Somerville was all open space, light colours, and huge windows looking out into the city. I guess windows donât matter here if the only thing to see is trees.
âYeah, pretty much. Less windows make it easier to insulate or something. Not that it works, so I dunno. I think the people who made this place were just super into the gothic thing.â
âIâve noticed.â
âBy the way, whereâs Sakura?â I mean, I didnât think sheâd end up sitting with us, but I thought sheâd try. Or maybe Rafaelâs dismissal shocked her out of trying.
âShe sits outside.â Neo scoffs, making a circular motion with his finger. Cuckoo.
âOutside?â I think of the storm from last night, all the trees tipping in the wind, threatening to buckle under yet more snow. Maybe Ziggy was right about her.
âYeah. Always. Cold never bothered her anyway, or whatever. I dunno, man. Sheâs weirdâŚâ the sentence trails off into a chuckle. âAh, well, you know.â
âYour standards are a bit skewed.â
He looks back towards Ziggy in an automatic sort of way, smiling fondly. âYeah. A little.â
We donât talk too much after that, and I can feel everyoneâs eyes on our table, but the only notable event is when some kid who looks about Year Seven drops a plate and all his friends âooooh~â at him, but itâs okay because heâs laughing too. Some things are the same no matter where you go.Â
The bell rings, and weâre all off to maths. I follow Rafael and bus my tray, Neo and Ziggy right behind us, but Skora hangs back a little. Her gaze is on Matsume talking to the guy who could only be Connor Wilson.Â
Damn, he even looks like a prick. Gelled hair, blingy watch, tie in a Kelvin knot just loose enough to look effortless. Pompous. Arrogant. Like his father. But thereâs something about the way he holds himself that doesnât fit. Stiff. Chest puffed like an exotic bird. Like he knows he isnât enough. Not enough to keep his parents together anyway.
All my sympathy evaporates when he catches me watching and throws a nasty glare, face puckering up like heâs tasted something sour.
âWhatâs funny?â I jump a little at the question, Rafael reappearing by my side, another cup of coffee in his hand, in a take-away cup this time.
I mustâve laughed aloud, but I canât really bring myself to be embarrassed. âFrench here has the word âarrivisteâ, right?â
He blinks, thinks for a moment, then repeats the word. It sounds different from him, but I see recognition in his eyes and he nods. My meaning registers with him and all at once, heâs grinning.
He glances back at Connor, who glares so hard he turns red as a tomato, freckles amassing into once big red splotch. I have to turn away to stop myself from laughing again.
Rafael just shakes his head.
I throw a middle finger over my shoulder and follow him to where Skoraâs still staring at Matsume.
He nudges her forward with a look of disapproval on his face. âWeâll be late for class.â
âWorth it,â she sighs.
âIs it?â He asks too quietly for her to have possibly heard, and turns back down the corridor to the lessons building.
After a moment, when the lift doors close on Skora and weâre far enough away that the din of the cafeteria has faded into white noise, I ask, âHow long has Skora had a thing for her?â
Rafael glances back towards the cafeteria, then to the lift before answering. âA while, I think. I donât know either of them very well, but I had thought that maybe Matsume might feel the same, and thenâŚÂ this.â
âDamn.â
âDamn,â he repeats. Then, with a sigh, âMaybe I shouldnât be surprised. Iâm sure someone else wouldnât have been, but I have no eye for these things. Everything people do surprises me.â
I shrug. âPeople are stupid. Lust makes us stupider. Itâs not complicated, but itâs not important either.â
He huffs. âIt feels importantâ
âIt could be, if you want it to be⌠I donât think thereâs anything wrong with that, per se. As long as youâre not one of those people who get really fucking annoying about it.â
He laughs a little at that, then frowns. âSkora isnât annoying. I just donât understand it. It makes no sense to me that she likes Matsume whom sheâs barely talked to and who clearly has horrid taste in people regardless of gender. But I know she considers me a friend, so I feel like Iâm supposed to understand.â
Oh.
This isnât great. Iâm right shit at comforting people. âIt doesnât have to be a big thing. I mean, friends donât have to share everything. You can be Skoraâs best friend in the world and still think she has shite taste. I know people like that.â I hope I donât sound as stupid as I feel.
âI know. And I donât think Skora has âshite tasteâ. Matsume is⌠good at hockey. But I donât understand it. Or romance at all, actually.â
âAh, then you shouldnât ask me about this shit, honestly. Iâve never even dated anyone.â
His surprise is a soft âOh.â Like Iâm desirable or something. It makes me laugh.
âBut you do like people?â
âNot really.â The words spill out, automatic and far truer than Iâd like.
Crushes are a faff, honestly. Iâve only tried it once and I donât think itâs worth repeating, no matter what science says. Replication is only helpful when solving for unknown outcomes. If you already know then youâre just insane.
Rafael looks at me for a long time. When the corridor begins to get crowded, I nudge him up the stairs.
Weâre quiet for a bit until we reach Mr Davisâs classroom and find it empty. No surprise everyone drags their feet to maths right after Lunch.
âNot really?â Rafael asks the silent classroom, an echo of my voice from earlier.
A question and my answer is sure to sound as uncertain as his questions if I go on too long. If I really try to explain it- how thereâs so much I want in theory. But I feel like I should try.
ââŚI meant Iâm not a people person. Like, I want someone, sure, but Iâve never liked anyone enough that it seemed worth it to do something about it. But Iâm not- I mean, I probably do wanna kiss and have sex and all that.. Like, not now, obviously. Ew. But in uni, probably. I dunno.â
âI dunno,â the words are a repetition, louder than they should be in the small wood panelled room, but he really looks like he doesnât know.
âItâs not a big deal. Everyoneâs different. You donât have toâŚâ I let myself trail off. What am I saying? What am I doing?
âI think I am different,â He says after a while, âI think I am very different.â He looks sad. Like grief.
I donât know what to do.Â
I donât know what to do.Â
Humour will help, right? A joke will make me feel less like dying right now. Laughing until youâre breathless feels a little like suffocation, right? A smile will keep us both from exploding, wonât it?
âIn case you havenât noticed, it seems like everyone you know is some sort of different.â A distraction? âDo you sit with them every day?â
He nods. âI do. But you can sit somewhere else tomorrow, if youâd like.â
âItâs fine.â Routine is nice, at least in a place where I have nothing else⌠except Rafael and Skora and Mio and Neo and Ziggy. âItâs great. Really.â
âOkay.â He says it the way most people say thank you.
âYeah, it really is.â
Overall, itâs not been a bad day. And I think- I think that maybe Iâm going to be okay. Maybe I wonât fade away here.
The arena is bloody loud and smells like the crime against humanity that is Poutine. Putain, as far as Iâm concerned.
On the ice, thereâs already a fight brewing. So much for Canadian politeness.
âI canât fucking believe you.â
Neo, back from making good on his bribe to the upperclassman who drove us here, just shrugs and pops another cheese-doused chip in his mouth. Disgusting.
âI mean, she has a boyfriend. Itâs not like you can set them up.â
He rolls his eyes, not even looking when he passes a chip to Ziggy. âI know. Thatâs why weâre showing her what sheâs missing.â
âWhat?â
Neo pushes me a little. âLook.â
I donât have to look far at all. When the crowd shifts, I see them. Rafael and Skora make their way down the bleachers slowly, his arm wrapped around her waist. When the aircon blows her hair across her face, he tucks it back.Â
âOh, my god.â The words fall out of my jaw on its way to the floor. Mostly because Skora is actually smiling like a normal human being for once. I wasnât even sure she could. But she can, and it only makes her look more uncanny than usual.
I turn back to Neo, raising an eyebrow. âOh my fucking god. Fake dating? Thatâs your grand plan? And arenât we supposed to be showing Matsume that Skora likes girls?â
âBi people exist, Quinn. The goal is jealousy.â Ziggy says it like this is something normal people do.
Neo nods in agreement. âAnd itâs not like we had a lot of options, okay.â We. Is Ziggy the mastermind behind this? It would make sense. I didnât think Neo cared enough about anyone but Ziggy to do this kind of thing, but then again, Iâm not sure Ziggy would either. We. I can barely tell where one ends and the other begins.
Iâm about to point out that this might just make Matsume think Skoraâs moved on when I feel Skora behind me. I turn to face her quickly before she can, like, do something.
Sheâs smiling her regular scheming smile again as she looks me up and down. âI am a lesbian, Quinn, for the record. Donât worry.â
âI wasnât.â Why would I?
She only plops herself in her seat, crutches draped casually across her lap. âBabe, will you get us some drinks?â
Rafael nods. âHot chocolate?â
âAlways.â
He smiles. And after a second of hesitation, he kisses her on the forehead.
I go with him to the concession stand. Just for something to do.
âPlease tell me you donât think this is somehow clever?â I ask while we wait for three hot chocolates (In the end, I decided to get one too.) Itâs not that I think anything could really go wrong, but it does all feel a bit pointless.
He shrugs thoughtfully. âItâs as good an idea as anything, I think.â
I look at him carefully. âDo you like her?â
âShe likes girls,â She says, like that answers my question.
âSo? Whatâs that got to do with it? Look at Skora.â
He does. She sees him and blows a kiss. Dutifully, he pretends to catch it before looking back to me. âI donât have a crush on her, no. She is homosexual. And I am not anything.â
âNot any- so thatâs it then? Thatâs cool.â Lame. Capital âLâ lame. Lame lame.
Mercifully, all he says is, âI donât know.â
And I let it go because itâs none of my business, and while the Poutine may be shit, the hot chocolate is brilliant.
-
Skora has good taste, I have to admit.
I have no idea whatâs going on, but Matsume is imposing in her teamâs goal and after a goal in the first few minutes, she locks the net down hard.
I can even ignore the way the arena seats feel squished (Skora sits in Rafaelâs lap - one ticket was more economical, of course), and I watch, mesmerised, as player after player on the opposing team makes a shot only for it to be deflected just like the rest.
When the buzzer sounds, I look down to the first row where Connor sits with his posse, inappropriately silent for a score of 2-1 in his girlfriendâs favour.
As she lifts her helmet, shaking her hair out and flexing slightly, it crosses my mind what an odd choice she is for Connor. I mean, he seems just the type whoâd feel emasculated by someone like her. Or maybe heâs secretly into that, and the shame of it is what makes him such a dick. Oh, well, thatâs what happens when cis people treat gender roles like divine law. Itâs none of my business anyway.
Instead, I watch Skora, still apart from her eyes that follow as Matsume skates to the bench like a cat in front of a fish tank.
I see the moment Matsume catches her. Their eyes meet through the plastic, keeping pucks from decapitating people (something I am very grateful for), and Matsume frowns.
Interesting.
Skora, however, remains as aloof as ever, pulling Rafaelâs hand slightly higher up her thigh.Â
He doesnât even seem to notice.
She buries her face in his shoulder, then. âSay, babe, what do you say we get some air?â
He nods, helping her up, giving her his jumper as he does.
Skora turns to me, then, still wriggling her hands out of the too-long sleeves. âYou lot can keep watching. Text me when things get interesting again.â When Matsumeâs back on, she means.
Neo gives Skora a thumbs up, enthused his plan seems to be working.
I stifle another eye roll and glance back to the goalie in question. Sheâs fully staring now.
Neo elbows me, wiggling his eyebrows, a silent âSee?â
I shake my head.
-
Matsumeâs replacement takes the ice, then. Sheâs good, but a bit young, I think. A goal almost slips in, and she scrabbles after it, managing to safeguard PMAâs lead.
Ziggy groans. âHockey is boooring.â
Neo hums, running a hand through their hair. He asks something in German, Ziggy nods, and then he turns to me. âYou got this one?â
I roll my eyes at them. âSo you can make out with your boyfriend in a disgusting public toilet? Yeah, sure. Go be weird. Iâll text you.â
Neo doesnât even bother with a retort, already up and guiding Ziggy down the bleachers.
They were kind of right, though. Football is better. Bored, I tune out the chanting and shouting and start to scroll Tumblr. I have about six new followers called Jessi, differentiated only by the various strings of numbers behind the name. I sigh. The porn bots are back.
With half an ear out for Matsumeâs number (10) on the speaker, I settle myself in for a good session of blocking and reporting. But then something catches my eye.
A flash of red hair, pushing its way through the crowd. Connor. Heading the opposite direction of both the menâs toilets and the concession stand.
Whatâs he up to?
Showing mercy on the Jessis and pocketing my phone, I follow him.
He exits the arena, so I do too.
Heâs looking for someone, I realise.
Heâs looking for Skora.
Shit.
Maybe Matsume didnât pick up on the fact that this was an obvious ploy to make her jealous, but her boyfriend did.
Connor marches up to Skora and Rafael, where they sit against the wall, playing some game with the gravel from the car park.
âWhore!â
Rafael looks up. Surprise disappears under apathy in an instant. Practised.
âI think you might have gotten us confused for your father,â Skora says simply. Unhelpfully.
âShut up, bratva bitch.â
âOi!â He jumps a little, not realising he was followed. I take a bit of satisfaction in that. âFuck off.â
âOh, youâre such a hero. Think heâll fuck you, too?â
He? I thought this was about Skora? âWhat, hoping weâll let you watch?â I flip Connor off and walk over to Rafael and Skora while he pretends to gag. âYou two good?â
Skora glances over my shoulder, her expression unreadable. I canât make myself look. âWeâre fine. But I think I need some more hot chocolate.â
âYeah. Letâsââ
Thereâs a heavy sound, like winter lightning. Too far away to pin down but too close for comfort.
I spin to find the source, only to almost smack my head on⌠a rock?
For a second, just a second, a rock roughly the size of my fist hangs impossibly suspended in the air. And then, as if gravity remembers it exists, it thumps down by my feet.
I look up slowly, tracing its trajectory.
Connor stands, arm still raised slightly, colour bleeding from his face.
He⌠he was going to, no, he did throw a rock at me⌠but what happened. What the fuck happened?
I jump when someone taps my shoulder. But itâs only Rafael.
âQuinn?â My name is a question, his voice wavering with concern and something else I canât place.Â
âIâm-â
Connor cuts me off, clenched fist still raised half-heartedly. He steps forward like he wants to fightâsomething in this air is too heavy, particles moving too fast in ways they shouldnâtâand then back again.
âThrowing rocks because you werenât getting enough attention? Arenât you a touch old for that?â
I kick the fallen rock towards where Iâm pretty sure Skoraâs foot is, willing her to shut the fuck up because, as utterly based as she is, we do not need that right now. I donât know if she gets it.
Connor opens his mouth, but when no retort comes out, he closes it again uselessly. I think heâs shaking too much to speak, and then, âYouâre a whore just like your mother, Lacoste. At least she has taste.â
Oh.
The word âDonâtâ doesnât even leave my mouth. It doesnât have time to, the syllables freeze in my throat, choking me as time slows around us.
Rafael lets go of Skora, surging forward, left fist bridging the rest of the distance before colliding with Connorâs nose.
Thereâs a sound like splintering. Like before with the rock. Like light refracting, splitting into all the colours of the rainbow. So many colours, it just looks white.
White, white, white.
Connor falls to the groundâis falling. In the blink of an eye, between one breath and the next, he lies suspended just like the rock.
And then heâs gone.
Neither here nor there.
Just⌠gone.
And Rafael is too.Â
I donât- I canât see him. Heâs not on the ground or anywhere at all.
And then the very sky seems to sag under its own weight. I feel it deflating around me. The world goes mute for a second as my ears pop.
Sound rushes in again. Colour swells and swarms, dancing like visible protons and electrons until itâs too bright to see anything at all.
And then Connor is back.
He falls with an inelegant thud to the ground, gravel crunching beneath him. Rafael appears not a second later.
Theyâre both on the ground. Connor laid out like a rag doll, and Rafael curled up in a ball.
Skora tries to go to him, but her knees buckle. I watch her fall to the ground, frozen, before I realise itâs just me here. No one else but me.
Fuck.
Wary, I step over Connor to Rafael, lifting him as much as I can off the groundwhich is hard because I donât make a habit of lifting full-sized teenage boys, but right now Iâm just grateful heâs still breathing.
In my arms, his head lolls to the side. Heâs bleeding from his mouth and ear, lifeforce dripping down his neck and seeping out onto the pavement. That probably means something happened to his skull.
Skoraâs gaze is heavy when her eyes meet mine. Her knees are scraped, but we both know thatâs not the worst of this.
I set him down, pulling out my mobile, killing the tab of Jessis to dial 999, only to remember that wonât work here. Fuck. Whatâs the-
â911. Just like America.â Thank the gods for Skora Androvich.
But before I can dial, my mobile falls from my hand-is knocked away.
âRafael! Oh, my gods. Donât move. Hang on. Are you okay?â
âDonâtâŚâ The rest of the sentence is garbled French.
I look to Skora, but she looks as confused as I do.
âWhat?â
âDonât call them. The doctors. Donât call them.â
âMate, wh-â I follow his line of sight to the still unconscious Connor. Oh. Of course. Of fucking course.Â
âIt wasnât your fault. Youâre not going to get in trouble.â But, shit yeah, he has a point. Connorâs not breathing.
Still, Rafael reaches my mobile before I can.
I grab for it, but he wonât give it up.
Skora yanks my hand back, letting Rafael cradle my mobile to his chest like something precious.
âWhat do you think you-â
âIt doesnât matter whose fault it truly was; all that matters is that no one thinks it was yours.â Cold as ice. Any other day it would shock me. Iâm grateful for it now. At the very least, the idea seems to calm Rafael.
âAlright, what do we do?â
âFirstly,â she turns her attention to Rafael, âhow badly are you hurt?â
âI can walk,â he assures her instead of answering. He still has my mobile; it looks fragile the way itâs clenched in his hand.
Skora eyes him suspiciously, but he doesnât sway when he stands, and that seems to satisfy her.
âAlright. Now, the doctors have to be called, but not for you. No one will suspect me of doing this.â Her smile is bitter until she looks to Rafael. Abruptly, she takes off his jumper and inside-outs it. âWash this as soon as you get home, yes?â She uses the jumper to scrub the blood from his face, then kisses him on the cheek. âPut it on. Go in and find one of the team medics; they will know CPR. Be discreetâwe donât want to cause a stampede⌠Though a bit of panic could be beneficial, but not enough to look suspicious. When you come back, I will call the police.â She rights the jumper and presses it into his hands.
He tries to take it, but his grip is numb, and it falls to the ground. He makes no move to pick it up.
I look at Skora, eyebrow raised.
She ignores me.
I snap my fingers at her. âMate, look at him. You think he can manage that. He just k-â I take a breath, swallowing that word. It tastes like crisp winter air and blood and more. âJust let me go with him.â
âIt wonât work. I plan to tell the EMTs I found him when we came out here to kiss. This is a popular place for it.â She gestures behind her to some heart-shaped graffiti Iâd hardly noticed before.
Red paint drips wavy down the corrugated concrete wall, cracked from the cold. âNot anymore, I reckon.â
Her chuckle is mirthless. âProbably not, no. But nevertheless.â
Rafael still hasnât moved, only staring at the fallen jumper. Heâs swaying a bit now. Thereâs no way he can lie. Iâd be surprised if heâs able to talk right now.
I look back to Skora, desperate. âThrouple?â
She rolls her eyes, âAbsolutely not.â But then her wrist flicks towards me, and something small and silver is flying through the air.
I catch it. A lighter.
And a second later, a pack of cigarettes.
âTell them you came here to smoke and heard us scream.â
âYes, maâam.â No point questioning why she has them. If she wants lung cancer, thatâs her business. Right now, sheâs getting us out of a murder charge.
I light one cigarette, trying not to gag on the smell, stub it out and shove the rest in my pocket with the lighter, then pick up the jumper and shove it over Rafaelâs head.
He doesnât protest. Hopefully, his looking like heâs seen a ghost will read as fear, not guilt.
Practically having to drag Rafael, I cut the clearest path I can down to the team bench, which Iâm pretty sure is Pine Mountainâs, ignoring the confused looks. And Matsumeâs glare.
A middle-aged man sitting right behind the bench has a shirt with a red cross on it and a duffel bag on his lap, so I go to him first.
He frowns at the cigarette in my hand. It already slipped my mind, to be honest. âThereâs a kid outside. I donât think heâs breathing.âÂ
Despite disapproval of my âhabitâ, he doesnât ask any questions, only motions for us to lead the way.
As we walk, I can hear the chaos behind us. The cheer of a goal scored, and beneath that, people getting up to see why someone needs a medic. So much for being lowkey.
-
Connorâs still on the ground, exactly as we left him when we get back outside with the medic whose name is apparently Greg.
Skora backs away, leaning heavily against the wall in a way that tells me she shouldnât be standing at all, to let Greg work.
She dials. Greg starts compressions, a pattern of thirty pulses and two breaths.
Once. Nothing.
Rafaelâs hand finds mine. He squeezes hard, nails biting into my palms despite how short he keeps them for orchestra. I canât even feel it. I bite my tongue just so at least something hurtsâso I donât scream.
Twice. Nothing.
Oh gods. Heâs- Rafael has just killed someone.
He buries his face in my shoulder. I feel the wet warmth of tears through my jacket. I want to cry too. I feel my hand going numb in his grip.
âI- I didnât meanâŚâ
The too-thick air buzzes around us. It makes it hard to hear.
Thrice. The sound of air catching in a still windpipe.
Catching, catching, catching.
And then settling.Â
A breath.Â
And then⌠Another.
Tears sting in my own eyes, but I blink them back. In my periphery, Skoraâs knees buckle again, and she sinks to the floor, not even trying to catch herself this time.
Greg lets himself sag back in relief, but only for a moment. Connor may be breathing, but he still hasnât woken up. He begins pulling tools I know the names of but canât remember right now from his bag, checking Connorâs not-corpse over. âYou kids go inside. Try to enjoy the rest of the game, if you can. I will deal with the authorities. If youâre needed, I will find you.â
We donât need to be told twice.
I pull Rafael over to Skora and pull her up, too. She thanks me with a nod, but shakes me off, trying to make a go of it over the rocky ground on her own. Itâs not going so well.
Absently, Rafael pulls her close until theyâre walking the same way they walked in. She lets him, and about halfway up the stairs, starts whispering sweet nothings in Russian.
Neither of us can understand it, Iâm pretty sure, but her sharp voice is oddly comforting the way it cuts through the windy haze and the smoke still emanating from the cigarette I couldnât bear to toss on the ground.
In this moment, Iâm a little in love with both of them.Â
The feeling is dizzying in a way not used to, a far softer sort of vertigo than a panic attack. But I miss a step anyway. And before I know it, Rafael has an arm around me, too.
-
When we get inside, the arena isnât in chaos. The attention of the shallow Pine Mountain populace has been firmly reclaimed by the game.
A singular pair of eyes witness our return: Matsume, watching from the bench. Her coach is saying something. He looks mad, but sheâs obviously not listening.
âYour girl is staring,â I say, a pitiful attempt to break the tension I know wonât help. Skora sways, trying to catch a glimpse. I steady her. âGo give her something better to look at.â Maybe sheâll at least sit down.
Without the fight I expected, she nods.
-
The game continues on as normal, or maybe not. I still know nothing about hockey. Skora sits in Rafaelâs lap again. He rests his head on her shoulder, looking dazed.
Matsume gets put back on, and Pine Mountainâs goal count climbs 4-2. Everyone cheers.
Connorâs group hasnât even noticed his absence. Itâs a bit sad.
Skora sees where Iâm looking and says, âHeâll live.â
âI hope so.â
âHe wasnât bleeding.â
âI know that. I know he wasnât bleeding, so what the fuck happened?â
Rafaelâs grip tightens, and I realise heâs still holding my hand. âCan we just forget about it?â The words are a hiss through gritted teeth. âI hit him because he is an idiot who doesnât know anything about anything. So can we just forget about it?â Itâs not the sort of tone that leaves much room for discussion.
And thatâs fine with me. I just want this all to be over.
-
When Pine Mountain wins 5-3, and the crowd begins to disperse, a man comes up to us.
I finally start to feel pain in my hand. But Rafael lets go immediately when he catches my wince.
The man introduces himself slightly awkwardly as Detective Inspecteur Lacoste, and I glance at Rafael, but thereâs not a hint of familiarity in his eyes, and they donât look related, so I assume itâs just a common name here.
He asks us basic questions, assures us weâre not in any trouble and believes our stories (frowns and confiscates Skoraâs cigarettesâI let him) without much effort on our part. He even abstains from a lecture about the smoking. I guess he figures weâve had enough.
And then Matsume is coming up the steps, earlier annoyance replaced by concern. Maybe she thinks the medic was for Skora. It gives me hope that maybe everyone doesnât know what just happened yet.Â
Fuck, I donât even know what just happened.Â
-
The ambulance is cold and away from the smell of Poutine and smoke; the scent of alcohol is sharp. Clean in a raw way that makes me feel like my insides are suddenly outside.Â
Is this how frogs feel when you dissect them? Oh, right, theyâre dead.
Like Connor was.
I guess everyone had left the arena. Neo and Ziggy, too. They mustâve ditched, a bit odd given how invested Neo was in the whole fake dating thing, but his changing his plans for Ziggy doesnât surprise me too much, I guess.
Rafael got a ride with the detective who shares his surname, while Skora and I stayed in the ambulance with Connor. Or rather, I stayed, and one of the EMTs forced Skora to get in as well. Now she sits on the other cot, jaw tight and chin held high in defiance, refusing to lie down even though I can tell sheâs in pain.
I donât know whatâs wrong with her exactly, but itâs kind of pissing me off that she wonât just rest. After the day weâve had, Iâd be passing out right now if I could. Iâm tempted to tell her to shove off the cot and let me sleep if sheâs not going to use it.
I nudge her cane. âYou shouldâve brought your crutches.â Itâs rude, telling her what she should do when I donât know anything, but like I said, Iâm pissed.
She glares. âI thought Iâd be sitting down. If Iâd known, I would have been running after you lot, I would have.â
I can tell sheâs not actually angryâI think Iâll know it if she ever isâbut guilt stings my throat worse than the alcohol anyway. âSorry.â
But she shakes her head. âNot your fault. Although I expect my lighter back.â
Right. That. âSorry.â Time is doing that thing where something recent feels like it was ages ago.
âDonât be. Just get me my lighter.â
I nod. In the silence heavy, the heart monitor feels louder than a bomb.
A reminder: my friend isnât a murderer.
A question: what the hell happened that a punch to the nose landed its victim here?
I canât stand it, not here where Connor looks dead, and isopropyl alcohol forces itself into my lungs, threatening suffocation.
âYou shouldnât smoke,â I say, like thatâs ever changed anyoneâs mind.
Skora glares again. âOh, how lovely to know you think me an imbecile.â
âYou- what else am I supposed to think?â
âThat thatâs what I tell my father.â
âWh-â Oh. âShit, sorry.â
âThe only one who should be sorry is him. Heâs a remarkable man, I donât know why he wants to die.â
âHe probably doesnât want to die.â
âNo one wants to die, not truly. But the end result will likely be the same. Just slower, and much more painful.â
And what is there to say to that? Sheâs right.
With nothing else to say to each other, weâre left to stare at Connor. His pulse is too slow, but heâs alive and stable. And his nose didnât even break. He should be fine- a little dazed, but fine. And yetâŚ
âIâm not crazy, right?â
Skora only shakes her head.
Well⌠weâre fucked.
â
The EMTs let us out when we reach the hospital, giving Skora some temporary crutches and letting me walk her to the waiting area, apparently satisfied now that she has braces on both her knees.
The empty waiting room reminds me weâre still in the middle of nowhere. We find a corner in the back, near a sad-looking fish tank, and Skora practically falls into a shitty pleather sofa.
The hospital is too warm, and the plastic sticks to my legs when I sit down. The air is stuffy, the smell of alcohol ever present. I have to ask, âWhyâd Connor call Rafaelâs mum a whore? Before, when he said it, I thought-â And I kind of realise Iâll sound like an arse if I say that.
âThat it was for me?âÂ
âSor-â
She sighs. âWhy does anyone call anyone a whore? Because he thinks she is one. And heâs scared. Probably more of his fatherâs ineptitude at fidelity than Elise Lacoste. Itâs likely Connor has only recently realised the sort of man his father is and believes Elise, and thereby Rafael, are singularly responsible for his parentsâ divorce.â
Oh. âDoes Rafael know?â
âI didnât think so. But I doubt heâd have punched Connor if he didnât.â
âHas Willless⌠done anything to his mum?â
âNot that Iâve seen, but I wonder nowâŚâ She closes her eyes, and I assume sheâs trying to get some sleep, but then she says, matter-of-factly, âRafael is hiding something, though. Be it his motherâs assault or something else.â
âYou think this was his fault?â
âHe did punch Connor; there is no disputing that, no matter how warranted it was.â
âA punch didnât cause all of this.â Punches donât make people float in the air like some straight-to-television exorcist film. It feels stupid to even think it, so I keep my mouth shut.
âNo,â she agrees, âbut I think Rafael knows what did.â
âWell, I donât think heâs going to tell us.â
She hums, eyes still closed. âWeâll just have to find out for ourselves, then, wonât we?â
âI- thatâs a terrible idea.â
âYes. It is.â
â⌠I didnât expect you to admit that.â
She laughs, a dark sound in this too bright room. âArenât we all full of surprises today?â She opens her eyes then, poking my arm with the can now resting across her lap. âSo, Quinn, what are you hiding?â
âNothing.â She pokes me again, clearly not buying it. âReally.â
She sighs, leaning her head on my shoulder. âSee, thatâs why he likes you.â
âWhat?â
âRafael, I mean.â
âOh. Sure⌠Iâm not trying to be, like-â I donât know a good word for this. âIâm just too tired to hide my shit, I guess. Who knew mental illness would make me such a good friend?â
She snorts.
âSo, anyway, how do you plan to-â
âWe,â she corrects.
âRight, âweâ. But still-â
âIâm working on that. Or I will be working on it tomorrow. For now, Iâm going to sleep. Goodnight, Quinn.â
Before I can even say âGoodnight,â her breathing has settled into something deep and even.
-
I mustâve fallen asleep, because the next thing I know, Rafael is apologising for waking me up.
I blink until heâs no longer a blurry silhouette. He looks strange in the too-bright light of the waiting area. âEh, itâs fine. Whatâs going on? You okay?â
He shakes his head slowly. âNo.â Quiet breath becomes something staccato like laughter. âBut I will live. How about you?â
âJust tired. It could be worse.â
âThatâs good.â He sits down, careful of Skora, and his hand finds mine again, but this time, his fingers donât close around mine, only tap silently against my flesh like fat summer raindrops. Itâs kind of nice.
And then the smell of blood cuts through the alcohol. Itâs in his hair, too, I realise. But thereâs nothing I can do about that.
âThatâs a lot of blood,â I whisper to no one in particular. It is a lot of blood, not enough to be concerned, or really even worried about, but why is it there at all? He didnât get hit, he didnât even hit the ground that hard, so where the fuck did it come from?
My hand is up before I know what Iâm doing. âHow many fingers?â
âWhat?â
âHow many fingers am I holding up?â
âThree. But why-â
âYou hit your head. You were bleeding.â
âIâm not bleeding anymore.â As if that means everything is somehow okay.
Whatever this thing is, itâs messing Rafael up bad, and maybe I donât know him that well, but, if Iâm honest, heâs the only thing here keeping me from completely losing it, so itâs in my interest that nothing happens to him. And, heâs nice, so I want to help.
I shake my head. âYeah, and thank the gods, but still! Did he hit you⌠You know, when you twoâŚâ disappeared, I canât bring myself to say.
He hears it anyway. âNo.â
Well, that makes everything worse. âThen, what made you bleed?â Itâs probably dumb to ask outright like that, but the words donât seem to fit together any other way.
âI donât know.â And something tells me thatâs the truth. Rafael crumples in on himself, tears coming fast.
âHey, hey, whatâs wrong?â Stupidest question in the damn world.
He only shakes his head, hands balling into fists, nails biting into his own palms now. âIt⌠hurts.â
Oh no. Thatâs- thatâs not good. âWhat hurts?â
Heâs shaking now. âI donât know.â
âErm⌠should IâŚ? UhhhâŚâ I have no idea what to do, but thankfully, he does. He moves the somehow still sleeping Skora gently and throws his arms around me, squeezing me tight. âCan IâŚ?â
He nods, so I squeeze him too.
We stand like that for what feels like a long time, waiting for the pain to pass like high tide or a bad dream.
I can smell blood, wet and fresh, but thatâs probably just because Iâve got my face in his jumper.
And all I can do about it is cry. âHey, whatever the fuck happened out there- I donât know what it was, but none of it was your fault, I promise.âÂ
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ââkay, itâs okay.â I can barely hear my voice over the wind.
Ziggy was the one who led me out here, or rather, I rushed to follow them when they abruptly stood up and started walking out in the middle of second period. A crowd at the concession stand gave them a dangerously long head start. But Iâm here now.
They must have been following Harold. I guess he slipped inside through the same cracked door I just walked out of.
Ziggy stands on the landing of the metal stairs, bare hands gripping the railing, turning shades of red and purple as they stare wide-eyed. Theyâre not really here, I donât think.
I shiver. âZig! Zig, can you hear me?â
Finally, they nod. Relief returns some of the feeling to my fingertips. Itâs freeze-your-balls-off cold out here, the wind barrelling across the parking lot, trying to push us down the stairs. And the way Zig is trembling now is different from their usual trembling. Shakier.
âCome on, Zig. Weâre all good, yeah?â
They shake their head.
âNo?â But I feel it too. It feels like weâre being watched.Â
I wish I could see Harold. I kind of want to strangle him.
No reply. Theyâve gone again, still staring into the parking lot.Â
I didnât see any of it, canât see now with the snow coming down, bright against the late evening sun. âLetâs go. If we get out of here now, no one will yell at us. You donât like yelling, remember?â Of course, thereâs no actual reason anyone would yell at us for anything; weâre not in an off-limits area, but Zig hates yelling. Even the thought of it makes them crumple in on themself like an Orca with a bent fin.
ââŚy-yeah.â At last, they let me pull them back inside
-
The bathroom is disgusting. Itâs not good for Zig to be here, but I couldnât take them back out into the crowd like this.Â
I prise open the small window that probably wasnât meant to be opened except in emergencies and stand on the toilet so I can see.
The snowâs stopped now, and squinting out through the wind, I see why I felt watched before. Skora. I didnât see her before, but now her stare pierces the glass, eyes still on us even now. Creepy.Â
Behind me, Zig is only just beginning to thaw out. Suddenly, I feel cold, so I pull them close and breathe in their clean scent.
The wind dies then, leaving the world too still. I see Willless Junior on the ground. He looks dead. I guess someone finally got tired of his BS.
Beside him is Rafael. Thereâs red on the ground. I swear I can smell it from here. Like metal.Â
I lean closer, nearly falling off the toilet and see that Rafael is bleeding. Oh. Oh, shit.
Some serious shit happened here, and I know we want no part of it. I think I hear police sirens. I slam the window closed. Too loud. Ziggy yelps.
âItâll be fine. We can talk about this more at home. Iâm calling us an Uber. Try to sleep.â
-
Itâs past midnight when we get home, and Zig hasnât slept a second, eyes unable to close, gaze fixed on Harold through the window. This is the longest heâs ever stayed around.
I tip our Uber driver, some emo guy who I think might be stoned, an amount high enough for him to ignore me when I shout âGo away!â at the empty dormitory.
Ziggy blinks, falling out of their trance. âHeâs⌠gone.âÂ
âHeâd better be. Now letâs go before one of us loses a finger.â
-
When the door closes behind us, Zig says, âI feel gross.âÂ
âI bet. Wanna shower?âÂ
They nod.
The dorm is as silent as my Ziggy. Somehow, I think weâre the only ones back. The girlsâ floor was silent when we passed. Our room has a huge window overlooking the plaza, but it was replaced recently with something actually decently insulated, so our room is warm.
Ziggy pays me no mind as I unzip their coat and guide them to bed, the lower bunk, because I donât really trust them not to just roll off, as out of it as they are.Â
They need some time. Thatâs okay.Â
We can talk about what just happened later. Iâll add that to my list of things we have to talk about. Halmeoni says I attract fragile people, but she doesnât need to worry. Iâve never wanted to fix anyone. I do want a shower, though.Â
The great thing about being the only two on the guysâ floor is that the showers are always free and actually not gross. One of the few selling points for the PMA dorms.
I grab Zigâs bag from the cabinet behind the mirror. Toothpaste, floss, mouthwash, shampoo, and deodorant. Everything mint. Zig comes in and washes their hands aggressively before leaving to grab us pyjamas, while I start the water, turning the handle all the way to the right until itâs freezing. I donât get it, but it helps them, so itâs fine.
âWaterâs ready.â I donât bother to lower my voice. It echoes through the empty hall.
âOkay.â Zig comes back with our towels, a set of pyjamas for them, and a pair of shorts and a hoodie for me.
I yank off my hoodie and shirt and kick off my pants, tossing them onto the empty towel rack, then watch carefully as Zig undresses. It takes them longer. There are so many layers, and their hands shake.
âStay,â I tell them, then wash my hands, singing the alphabet just loud enough for them to hear. âClean, see?â
They nod and raise their hands to let me finish the job. Jacket. Jumper. Cardigan. T-shirt. Undershirt. Shoes. Belt. Pants. Underwear. Then itâs done.
They shiver.Â
So do I.
They still have some bruises from our final soccer game in November. Theyâre not as purple as they were, though. A sickly yellow, now.
âStill hurts?â They ask me, so out of touch with themself they have to.
âIt shouldnât,â I tell them.
âThen it doesnât.â
I step closer, sinking down, pressing my thumb into the largest bruise just above their knee, âYou heal slow, though.â They step back, wincing. I figured. âJust because it shouldnât hurt doesnât mean it doesnât. Iâll be careful.â
I shower as quickly as I can while also acclimating to the icy water. Itâs easy enough in the dorms with their leaky walls. Mint shampoo stings my eyes, but the scent is familiar, so I use it anyway.
Zig watches for a bit, then turns their attention to the somewhat laborious process of brushing their teeth. In the time it takes me to wash myself completely, theyâve washed their hands, brushed their teeth and washed their hands again. Itâs a painful process, but not doing it is worse; it isnât an option, so here we are. The room is foggy with moisture, but I can see in the reflection that their hands are red. But I can deal with that once the rest of them is sufficiently clean for their liking.
When Iâm done, I beckon them in.
They sigh when the water hits them. Itâs a similar thing to splashing water on your face to wake yourself up. They look more present than they have all day, some life returning to their pretty, purple eyes.
âBetter already, huh?â
They have their motherâs eyes, I think. Neither of us has ever met her, but they must because their dadâs eyes are light green. I think their mother is dead. Eh, she wasnât much of a mother anyway. She wasnât much of anything, I think.
Zig nods, blinking slowly.Â
Usually, itâs enough for me just to be with them, but today their hands are shaking too much for them to grip the shampoo bottle. Water catches in their short, white eyelashes, and I wonder if they can see alright.
âLet me.â
âI love you.â Three words that can have so many different meanings, today itâs a âthank youâ. Maybe my family doesnât understand, maybe they never will. Maybe most people wonât. Maybe we wonât ever mean âI love youâ in the same way most people who are comfortable enough to take showers together do, but this is more than enough for me.
Ziggy Weissâs form is something I know almost better than my own. Washing them takes me less time than washing myself did. Until I get to their hair.
Soft 2c curls cut to their jaw. As someone with straight hair, I had no idea how much effort went into stuff like this until I met Ziggy. I couldnât believe it at first, guys donât usually worry about that kind of stuff, but now, the process is relaxing.
The curls hide it well, but there are small gaps everywhere, places which, for whatever reason, their brain zeroed in on, where hair was pulled and pulled and pulled until there was hardly any left. I donât know why they do it. Neither do they.
Itâs called trichtillomania and it waxes and wanes; they can go for months without pulling, other times itâs near impossible to stop. In certain places, the white locks are stained pink. It makes their hair fall out more easily, so much so that theyâre only supposed to wash it once a week. But as much as germs and dirt bother them, thatâs impossible, too. So now I work shampoo through their hair as if Iâm defusing a bomb.
The water runs red from the crown of their scalp. They mustâve picked and pulled today when I wasnât looking. Itâs tricky, because Iâm hardly ever not looking. But theyâre not trying to be sneaky; it just comes as easily as breathing if no one says anything. Oh, well. Iâm not upset; thereâs nothing to be done about it now except soap those spots carefully.
Their hands run red, too, skin cracking over their fault line knuckles. I sigh. Thereâs no point trying to cure their compulsions tonight, so instead I wish for an early Spring and the return of warmth.
-
When weâre both clean and dry and dressed, I fold the dayâs dirty clothes into our hamper, and when my hands are washed again, I return to find Zig drawing.
Our walls are covered in their drawings, the oldest, swirls of abstract colour in now fading crayon, and the latest, sketched with the precision of a scientific diagram in colour pencil: the visions that haunt them. Lizard-like things, mammals with wings, extra limbs or ears or eyes. Whatever their brain comes up with to shove in dark corners, light ones too, sometimes. Zig insisted I put them up. I only agreed on the condition that we could face them the wrong way around. They had nightmares about what I half-jokingly dubbed the SpiderWulf for weeks. Thereâs no way they could sleep surrounded by their hallucinations.
The few nights they donât spend with me, when they need to be alone with something even I canât chase away, I fix the drawings the right way round to stare at me, trying to riddle out their neurosis like the woodblock puzzles Halmeoni used to give me, trying to see where the mistake happened, what went wrong. Maybe I can work it out, like a bug hidden in millions of lines of code.
I like them the way they are, but I know that they donât. Ziggyâs anxieties arenât what make them them. Iâd love them no matter what. And Iâm not stupid; this isnât a pleasant life for them. It wouldnât be for anyone. If I could make them normal tomorrow, Iâd wish I could do it today.
The things they see have never hurt them. Theyâre not demons, but they arenât angels either (never mind the fact that I donât believe in either), but I donât know what they are, and thatâs a hundred times worse.
Now, Zig sits quietly, perfecting a more hastily scribbled one on the back of one of the reports about the ghosts we hunt- a jackalope with three eyes.
âDid you see Harold again?â Weâve given them all names.
They donât look at me. âAt the gate.â
I can see PMAâs wrought iron fence from the window, but only when the sky is clear. In winter, with the snowstorms, thereâs nothing. A blank canvas. Just what Zigâs mind doesnât need. âHe wasnât bothering anyone?â
âNo. Just staring.â They gesture to how theyâve fleshed it out on the crumpled paper. âAlways staring.â
And now theyâre staring too. At nothing. Nothing but the bland curtains. I take their face in my hands because I know it only looks like nothing to me. âHey, weâre okay. Harold or whoever it is canât get in here.âÂ
Itâs true, in all the years Zigâs hallucinated, ever since Iâve known them, weâve found two restrictions, ones which I think have saved both our sanity.
Itâs a stalemate, both Zig and the Creatures afraid of one another. Even as the visions get more frequent, nothing theyâve seen has ever gotten too close. Minimum distance, two metres. Iâve measured. Weâve never tried trapping one of them. I doubt thereâd be a point.
They canât No Clip. If Harold or whatever wants in here, heâll have to come through the locked door like any other animal would. I guess itâs their mind clinging to some shred of the rational. They do so love logic and physics and things that make sense. We have a list of those things. Iâm on it.Â
âI know.â Theyâre still staring, though, âMy brain is being an idiot.â
Maybe Harold canât No Clip, but Iâm constantly caught phasing through the line between not wanting to break their delusion and risking dragging them deeper into it. But now that Iâm so sure itâs a delusion⌠that should make things simpler, shouldnât it? If only. Ziggy Weiss is many things, everything to me, but they have never been simple.
âThen letâs get to bed, yeah? Give me your hands.â Sometimes, if you canât change the channel, the best thing to do is turn the whole thing off. Of course, my dad had been talking to Halmeoni about restarting her ancient TV, but itâs the same principle. They canât draw with lotion on their hands. They canât stare at Harold if all they have to look at is me.
They hold out their hands, and fresh blood wells up from reddened knuckles, highlighting the cracks in the skin in damp red. To their credit, they only whine a little when I begin applying the lotion.
âSee, not so bad?â
They shrug. This probably isnât the best distraction, but itâs what Iâve got right now.
I finish quickly enough, and we both flop down in bed, staring up at the crappy star stickers we glued to the ceiling on their first night here when neither of us could sleep.
Ziggy saw something happen today, something far different from anything theyâve ever hallucinated before. How? I donât know.
Itâs rare they go mute, but they went today. It took most of a BBC Blue Planet Documentary on my phone in the car to get them making noise again, but they still wonât tell me what they saw. It worries me more than if theyâd broken down crying about it.
I need to know what it was. We need to talk. We need to talk about this, and everything thatâs happened before it all piles up and talking isnât enough anymore.
âYou good?â
Itâs such a vague question. They shrug again. Theyâre not being evasive, I know, they just donât know what theyâre feeling. We need to talk.
âSo, weâre back here, you sure youâre alright?â
Finally, they shake their head. âIâm not. But Iâm never okay here. What can we do about that?â They shake their head slightly.
âWe could talk.â
And Iâm made, intentions sniffed out and shut down. They turn away suddenly. âI donât want to talk.â
They donât look at me again until I get up and sit myself back down in front of them on the floor.
âI know. I know, Zig. But you have to.â
âI know that,â they snap.
Thereâs a mobile under my bed, hanging too low over the bottom bunk, made of crumpled origami sharks and spare parts stolen from the robotics room that weâve been slowly adding to it since sixth grade. Ziggy nudges it with their foot to make it spin.Â
It spins for a long time.
I sit on the floor, listening to their breathing as it slows and quickens again. Ziggy Weiss is a symphony. Some days, I am the metronome. Some days itâsâŚÂ this.Â
Finally, they face me again, not looking at me, face buried in the covers, but at least facing my direction.
âReady to talk?â
They slap the mattress. Long. Short. Long. Long. Y for âyesâ.
âWhere should I be?â
âYesâ again. Just âyesâ. Ah, damn. Itâs worse than I thought if they want me back here once Iâve been on the floor. I climb back in bed, lying down but not touching them, letting them come to me.Â
And they do. They roll over onto me, nudging my chin with their head. They look terrified. âIâm never okay anywhere. You know that. We both know that. But I thought we were safe here. I-I thoughtâŚâ
âZigZig, what did you see?â
They slap their hand against the wall until they find one of the papers pinned there. Clumsily, they take it down and smooth the crumples against their chest while they find their words. ââŚThey were gone?â It sounds like theyâre asking.
âWho?â
Their brows crease. I resist the urge to smooth the tension away, letting them work it out. âI think his name was Colin?â
âWillless Junior?â It hardly matters what his name is.Â
They nod.
âGone?â
âGone.â They repeat, more sure now.
âNo, Zig. Theyâre fine. Theyâre going to be fine. Youâll see.â Rafaelâs ears were bleeding; thatâs serious shit. And Iâm pretty sure Colinâs dead. âAnd why do you care about Colin anyway? Heâs an ass.âÂ
âI donât!â Theyâre so close, the shout reverberates through my chest too.Â
âShhh. Breathe. Yeah?â I breathe in and out, exaggerating the movements of my shoulder until Ziggyâs breathing syncs with mine again.
âYeah. But they were gone!â
âGone where?â
âI donât know. They were just gone.â
âOkay.â I take the news article from them before they can paper cut themself. âOkay. Tell me like a scientist. Tell me exactly what you saw. Quantitative first.â
They roll off me, but only so they can wrap their arms around my torso like a koala. I can feel their pulse still. Itâs racing. This is nothing new. I work my fingers through their hair until thereâs less danger of them passing out. Itâs still warm from the hair dryer, and I feel myself start to relax, too. I canât fall asleep now, though.
âTwo. Two boys. One girl. One person. Four standing. One punch. Two standing. Two on the ground.â
âAlright. Now qualitative.â
âSnow. It was white. Paving stones: grey. Trees: green. Blood⌠there was no blood.â
âNo blood?â I swear I saw-
âNo blood.â Zig affirms, âColin said something to Rafael, then said something in horrible French. MotherâŚÂ somethingsomething, I think. His lisp makes it hard enough to tell what heâs saying in English.â
I suppress my snort. Ziggy can be cutting when they want to. Sometimes, without trying, well, mostly without trying, actually. âYeah, a âyour momâ joke would track.â
âMaybe. I think I heard the word âwhoreâ.â
âItâs okay. It was bound to happen. Heâs been an ass all year.â A branch hits the window. Zig tenses. âWhat happened then?â I ask to distract them.
âRafael hit himâŚâ They close their eyes, focusing. âIt was a good hit, I didnât know he couldâŚâ
âZig?â
They squeeze their eyes even tighter, fingers pressing against their head as if to ward off a headache. âItâs all so fuzzy for some reasonâŚâ
âRafael hit Colin,â I remind them.
âHe didâŚand that was when they were gone.â
âThey fell to the ground, you mean?â
âNo. They did, but then they disappeared. They were falling and then⌠Gone. It was only for a second, maybe not evenâ I swear. I swear!â
âCalm down. I believe you. Always. You know I do. You know that?â
They try to speak, but words are too far or too hard or some combination of both. A nod is good enough for me.
âGood. Did you see where they went?â
âI was trying not to look. It got so darkâŚand they were so bright.â
âDark?â Normally, around this time of year, the sunlight reflecting off the snow is brutal. And I think Iâd have noticed an eclipse overhead.
âIt was so dark⌠and there was the white smoke.â
My stomach drops, bottoming out somewhere in my toes. That feeling of being watched prickles back over me even though thereâs no way Skora can see us now. I look to the wall. Itâs full of stuff like this. Reports of something stuck up with scotch tape that Iâd be worried would make the paint peel if it wasnât half gone already. I throw a blanket over our stuffed animals to keep them from staring too. âLike in the cemetery?âÂ
They only nod again.
What do I tell them? That they imagined it? Never. But I need to calm them down if weâre going to deal with this. How are we going to deal with it? âWell, thereâs nothing we can do now. How about we watch some Myth Busters?â I start to pull their tablet from their backpack.
Zig shakes their head, âNo.â
âNo?â
âNo. We need to plan.â I can tell they wonât rest until we solve this.
So, I say, âOkay, then. Letâs do it.â They start to get out of bed, and I pull them back. âBut not now. We need to sleep.â They need to sleep. But for them to get any decent rest, Iâve got to sleep too. Thatâs fine. I love sleeping.Â
Itâs a long hour before Zig gets to sleep. Itâs only about five, but theyâre exhausted. When they finally do drift off, though, I lie awake beside them, their breathing my only distraction.
A distraction. Thatâs what the ghost hunting was supposed to be, a way for them to find the source of their anxiety, the scientific reasons why they always felt watched. Tricks of the light and wind. Yet it became so much more, to both of us, and nowâŚ
The wind picks up, and my stomach drops again, bottoming out somewhere in my toes. I feel inexplicably watched again. I pin the drawing back on the wall, even the wrong way round, three purple eyes stare back at me. Zig coloured so hard that I can still see Harold bleeding through the typed word on the front.
When the reports first started to come together, I told myself I should be happy. I told myself, âScrew that, I should be thrilled. This is progress. Finally, after nothing for years!â But there was this ugly feeling crawling up my spine. What I thought was evidence of some sort of fear placebo effect, reports of white mist spreading and people seeing what theyâve been told they should see, something that would show Zig they didnât need to be afraid, turned out to be much more dangerous.
Thatâs when I knew we were in real trouble, that we werenât the ones hunting. The tracking was a two-way street, and in following whatever it was, it had followed us too, all the way to school.
And Sakura was probably more right than she ever realised, and now sheâs running straight towards whatever this thing weâve found is. And all we can do is shut our eyes and try not to listen while it chews her up.
I never wanted to get Zig so close to actual danger. But they told me they wouldnât rest-couldnât put their fears to rest until weâd solved the big mystery of the white mist, and while I didnât want to-hadnât meant to give them another thing to be afraid of, saying yes was all I could do.
And now someone else has been hurt.Â
Bullies notwithstanding, something else happened today, something that made it all about a hundred times worse.
How long until one of us is bleeding on the ground?
Everything after that was a blur. The police took Rafael home. Skoraâs driver took her home and me back to the dormitories. I didnât quite catch his name- Stephen something. She offered to let me stay over, but I didnât feel like it, so I said no. Iâm kind of regretting that now.
My mobile-barely charged-says itâs Sunday, which makes sense as yesterday was Saturday.
I groan. Iâm not used to being at school on the weekends, and itâs as cold as ever, only instead of snow, ice rains down, pelting the windows. Getting out of bed is too much effort.
Too tired to go back to sleep, I resort to opening and closing Instagram, checking my messages constantly, and scrolling Tumblr, waiting to see if anyone will text first. No one does.
I feel like shit. Maybe Iâm ill or something.
I should call Hali. I should want to call Hali. Itâs 22:30 at home, but she stays up later than that most nights. But I doubt sheâd pick up. Her phoneâs probably on silent, if she even has it with her. Itâs always been like that. When she moved out for uni, she was just gone. Not that sheâd ever really been there, always in her head. Iâm like that too, I guess, only Iâm not nearly as productive up there. She mulls over theories. Iâm still stuck on why Iâm even alive. I donât want to die, of course. But itâs hard to really want anything.
Thatâs not a bad thing, though. Not wanting. The Buddhists certainly didnât think so. I mean, look what it got Mum.
Or maybe Mum was happy, and itâs just me whoâs suffered. Left behind while she chased dreams, people have always told people like her they shouldnât have.
But I donât know. I donât know. I donât fucking know if she was happy. I donât know anything about her. At all. Weâve never talked about that stuff.
I donât think I should die. I donât want to kill myself. I donât want to die. I donât want to die in a ditch in the middle of godsdammned nowhere, only relevant to people with IQs most people canât touch with fucking step ladders, who have PhDs in subjects where you can count the researchers on one hand.
OhâŚ
Oh godsâŚ
Was Mum lonely too?
All this time? No partner, a woman of colour in a field she was probably told she would never belong in, now alone at the top of academic Everest, staring down at the refuse and corpses, wondering how she was the only one who made it. Was it survivorâs guilt? Or shock, maybe?
Whatever it was, it never stopped her from hitting the ground running, though. Climbing ever higher, nonstop in the endless pursuit of answers to questions almost no one was asking, and money no one wants to give, because honestly, who the fuck cares, because it doesnât seem worth it.
Was Mum tired too?
And now she can finally rest.
I want to rest.
I want to cry until Iâm blind, or maybe just dehydrated and then maybe that would justify everything Iâm feeling, give me a proper excuse to be sad because blind and dehydrated people actually have it hard, and Iâm just some spoilt rich kid whoâs only just realising how utterly shit their mum had it, so they could be here crying like a loser.
Fatherâs lucky he doesnât have to deal with me. Mum gave up so much to raise children,Â
Gods.
Below me, I hear shouting, " Come on, 19! Come on, Roy! Itâs right there! Shoot it!â
Ah, right, Matsume. Iâm so glad she got back okay. Even if her taste is rubbish.
âI am trying to study!â And thatâs Mio.
âSorry!â
It makes me laugh, but the sound catches in my throat, and it becomes that sort of choked sobbing that steals your breath away.
So much has changed. So what do I do now? Would it be okay for me to move on? Now that Mumâs finally caught a break? Would it be okay for me to finally stop trying to miss her now that I know sheâs never coming back? Would I still be a good person? Does that even matter? What is a good person?
Hali was so busy that she didnât even come home with me when we got the news. And Father⌠It feels like Iâm the only one who even cares, so if I stop grieving, will all of it, all of her work, all of her be forgotten entirely? Would that be better?
The tears come fast and hot, choking me, making my eyes sting and blur my vision, turning the darkening room into a swirl of shadows. It gets dark here so early, and itâs drowning me. Even if I wanted to forget, how could I? How is everyone else just fine like nothing happened? I donât understand . . .
âHey, bro, you good in there?â Neo? What is he doing here?
I clear my throat as best I can, but my voice still comes out crackly, âYeah?â
âWant to come hang with Zig and me?â
What? âNo. Iâve got revision.â
âYou sure? You donât sound too good?â
âWhat about it?â
Thereâs a pause, and I think heâs gone away, but then, âDude. The walls in here are hella thin. I meant to warn you earlier, âcause Zig and I can be loud sometimes, but, yeah, we can hear you sobbing your eyes out.â
âFucking, ew, Neo.â
âDonât worry, Iâll shoot you a message to put headphones on before we do anything.â
Before I can help it, a laugh bursts out of me. I groan. I wasnât done being sad yet. âDisgusting!â I shout towards the door. I really donât care, not that much, anyway. I actually appreciate the warning, but why the hell is he here? Weâve only just met face-to-face.
âQuinn, really. Your crying is seriously killing the mood for our Super Smash Bros tournament, so why donât you just come over? We have crisps,â his accent still makes me wince, âand we can all pretend that whatever happened to you never happened. We wonât ask, and you donât have to tell. Yeah?â That⌠sounds appealing.Â
âYou gonna come out of there and help us devour this bag of Doritos or what?â
Well, whatâs the worst that could happen? âOkay, but itâs just Mario, right?â
âHuh? Oh. We donât need to talk about yesterday, or whatever.â His voice is tight.
My heart slips into my stomach. What does he know? I thought he and Ziggy left? Did Connor die? Does everyone think I smoke? I canât bring myself to ask. I donât want to know just yet.
âOkay.â
âCool!â
I try to scrub the redness away from my face, but, of course, it only makes it worse. At least Iâve stopped crying. âHey, Neo?â
âYeah?â
âThanks. Youâre good at this.â
âEh, Iâve had practice.â Right, Ziggy. Duh. Now I feel stupid.
When Iâve made myself somewhat presentable, I still feel a little stupid opening the door, but I make myself do it anyway.Â
Neo stands in the corridor, barefoot, passing a small bouncy ball back and forth with a huge grin on his face. His black hoodie is covered in hair- oh my gods, they didnât sneak an animal into the dorms, did they? âThey live!â
âShut up.â
âNevah!â Itâs such a relief I can almost ignore his awful accentâŚÂ almost.
âMate, I have got to teach you a proper accent.â
He spins around, suddenly eager, âReally? Would you?â
Why do I get the feeling Iâll regret this? âUhhh, yeah?â
âBut does it have to be your accent?â
âWhat?â
âThe posh ones are sooo boring!â He practically flops against the door. I didnât notice before, but it has a sign on it, a âNo Girls Allowedâ sign thatâs been crossed out and scribbled over to read âNOBODYÂ Allowedâ and then in small print beneath that, (except for Neo)â
âErm, I mean, I guess I could try.â He cheers. âAnd, also, is Ziggy going to murder me for coming in here?â
âHuh?â He follows my gaze to the sign, then rolls his eyes, âNah. We donât even use this room. Except for gaming.â Right, they share Ziggyâs room, the one directly next to mine.
âAh, well, if the walls are so thin, would you maybe consider using it for⌠whatever the fuck you two do.â
âOur science experiments?â But he has a certain shit-eating grin on his face that tells me heâs not that obtuse. âSure thing.â
I mime being sick, âJust donât make any new life. Via electricity or otherwise.â
He laughs.
â
Ziggy opened the door wearing Neoâs hoodie, and where it was loose on them, I could see more than a few love bites forming.Â
They glared at me for the interruption at first, but warmed up when they realised how bad I suck at video games. And I took pleasure in the fact that even they arenât as good as Neo, who won the tournament with them in his lap. We did, in fact, demolish the bag of Doritos, and now I feel kind of gross, but itâs the happy kind of gross, not that I want a black hole to swallow me kind of gross.
Itâs pitch dark now, and the game highlights are rolling yet again, and Ziggyâs crashing out about something Neo did to him, but, like, in a funny way.
Speaking of black holes, Ziggyâs room has a telescope. Itâs the same kind I have at home, a gift from Mum for my eighth birthday. Itâs always been nearly impossible to use with all the city lights, but here, where thereâs almost no one around, I bet the sky is glorious. Iâm about to ask if I can use it when Mrs Patterson announces over the PA that itâs lights out and she will be doing room checks.
âDammit.â Neo curses up at the speaker, checking his watch. âFuck, itâs late already. Shit, sorry.â
âItâs fine. Iâm the one who crashed your,â I glance at Ziggy. âwhatever and ate like forty percent of your Doritos.â
Neo snorts, taps a finger to his temple and salutes me. âSee you tomorrow.â
â
For the first time since I got here, my alarm wakes me up. My emergency alarm. Shit! I scramble into my uniform and rush downstairs.
Rafael is waiting for me in the lobby, looking not how someone who was bleeding out of his ears less than forty-eight hours ago should. His uniform is as neat as a pin. But I can see his hands tapping at his sides from the top of the stairs. Perhaps his hair is a bit messier than usual?
âI was looking for you in the dining hall because thatâs where we usually-â
I realise Iâm just staring and force myself to blink. I wave away his unnecessary explanation, feeling like an arse. âSorry, mate. âSlept in.â No shit. âYou didnât have to wait.âÂ
âItâs alright. Skora wanted to come, too, but I told her to go on because itâs so cold out. Would you like a bagel?â He pulls a small brown paper bag from his bag.
âYeah, thanks.â As soon as I take it, I remember I didnât eat last night. Or the night before. But if he wants to pretend nothing happened, I can too. It makes this easier. Maybe I can disappear with him into a little bubble where whatever everyone thinks happened doesnât exist. Everyone knows by now⌠surely?
At least Rafael doesnât seem to be judging me for how I inhale it as we walk.Â
âWait,â I realise as I eat that Iâm not just starving, it really is a good bagel, definitely not one of the dry ones from the cafeteria bread case. âDid you bring this from home?â An odd warmth fills me at the idea.
He nods. âMaman made them.â
âThanks.â Itâs kind of strange having someone Iâve never even met do all this. Between revision and mental breakdowns, and now this, I keep forgetting to order myself a proper parka, so Iâm still wearing Mrs Lacosteâs coat. And now sheâs made me breakfast.
I pull her coat tighter around myself, trying to articulate what more I want to say, but three concordant chimes interrupt my thoughts. âShit, weâre so screwed.â
âWhy?â
I look at Rafael for a second, but he really seems to have no idea. âMate, weâre late.â
âOh,â he says, looking at his watch as if he just noticed. âBut Mr Taylor never marks people tardy on review days.
âThank the gods⌠wait, review day?â
âFor the test tomorrow.â He explains.
âFuck!â
âDid you forget?â But he doesnât sound judgmental.
âWhat do you think?â
He flinches, starting to reach up as if to cover his ears, then stops. âPlease donât shout.â
âSorry.â Itâs my own fault. I shouldnât be taking it out on him.
âItâs okay. I just donât like people shouting.â
I donât think anyone does. But I just say, âSorry,â again.
â
English actually goes okay. Everyone seems to think Connor is suffering the consequences of some cheap back-alley part drug.
Chemistry and History arenât bad either, even though there was a quiz. I guess it helps that Iâve had nothing to do in the dorms but study. Before last weekend, anyway. Stupid Neo. Stupid hockey. That was stupid. I wonât be doing it again.
When Mr Smythe takes up the quizzes, I have nothing to do. There isnât enough time left to do any revision for other classes, and I forgot to charge my laptop too last night, so I settle for staring at the clock.
That gets very boring very fast. And instead, I find myself staring at Rafael. Somehow, he doesnât look quite real anymore.
But he is, obviously, and next to me, he flips through study cards, mouthing the words to himself. Latin.
I recognise Skoraâs handwriting, large, but neat, looping cursive in the deep purple ink of the pens she always carries. Itâs nice of her to make him cards, but I guess that is what friends do, even ones as weird as Skora. Flashcards feel so basic in comparison to helping cover up what could have been a murder.
I canât help laughing.
Rafael looks over, mouthing âWhat?â and I notice heâs begun packing up his things and that the bell for Fourth has rung, and Iâm just staring at someone elseâs studying while laughing like an idiot.
Embarrassed, I rush to get my own bag, almost tripping when I try to stand up the wrong way. Stupid combination desk.
Rafael, already at the door, turns back at the noise. âQuinn, do you need help?â
âDo I need help?â Bloody- ah, I need so much help itâs ridiculous. I shake my head, hurrying to join the rest of the stragglers heading towards the door. âIâm fine.â
He smiles a little, âAlright. See you in Fifth.â then turns down the corridor for Latin.
ââScuse me.â And I only realise I havenât moved from the doorway when I almost get knocked through into the corridor by- I turn to see Matsume.
Another rush of relief surges through me, but sheâs got no time for that. âI left my pencil in here, and Ms Jansen will kill me if Iâm tardy again.â Her words are apologetic, but then she darts off.
Shit. I should go too.
-
When the bell rings at the end of French, Neo comes up to me, holding a pastel pink envelope. As he gets closer, I see the wax stamp is a heart.
âHere to confess your undying love for me?â
Neo snorts. Ziggy glares daggers at me.
Mrs Perrault glares at us too, mouthing, âNo English!â Iâd like to tell her what sheâs teaching is barely even French, but then, of course, Iâd sound like an elitist snob, so I keep my mouth shut. Itâs a near thing, though. Awful woman.
Ziggy glares right back at her, and Neo quickly pulls us into the corridor.
âYeah, not happening, ISurvivedYourMother.â He snorts.
âOh, fuck you. What is it, then?â
âItâs from Sakura,â when I donât answer-because this absolutely cannot be good- he clarifies, âan official invite to her,â he searches for the right word, âinvestigation.â It comes out bitter.
I donât get it. Heâs been avoiding her conspiracy like the plague, and now he wants me to join it? I raise my eyebrow at him.Â
âYeah, I admit she went a little overboard, but-â
âDid she?â But it is pretty, so I take it and tuck it as gently as I can into my blazer pocket. I catch Sakura peeking through the classroom doorâs small window, trying not to glance my way, and failing.
Neo sees her too. He shakes his head apologetically. âBut she worked hard on it. I think she does better in writing sometimes, you know, because ofâŚâ he trails off, gesturing vaguely. I canât tell if itâs because he doesnât know the word or just doesnât want to say it. Itâs probably a bit of both. I know what he means, though.
âYeah, I noticed. Itâs fine. But why me? She knows you wonât help her, so she asks me? What stake have I got in this?â I donât like her any more than he does, but I can hardly say that with her pretending not to listen from a conspicuous distance away. Or maybe I should. Maybe then sheâd have her cry and leave me alone.
âI have no idea. I guess sheâs desperate. Anyway, she really wanted me to give it to you, and I was a bit of a jerk to her the other day when you showed up, so I agreed. So just⌠consider it.â Neoâs always been an unserious person, but thereâs no mistaking his sincerity now. Itâs a grave expression that closes down his usually open features.
It would be a great distraction at the very least. Isnât that what all conspiracy theories are, a distraction from the things in the world that are actually awful?
âI will.â
Sakura perks up like a puppy.
-
Iâm still going to Orchestra during my free period even after two weeks. I guess I could go to the library, but every time the bell rings for Fifth, I end up following Rafael, Skora and Ziggy to the theatre. Mrs Rostelli doesnât seem to mind, at least.
I sit down and take out my chemistry worksheets, but really, Iâm just staring at Sakuraâs invitation. It really is pretty, like a scrapbook or something.Â
âWhatâs that?â I look up, and suddenly, Rafael is standing over me. I was right before; he does disappear in the dark. âDid Sakura make it?â
âShe has a style, doesnât she?âÂ
He doesnât say anything at first, but his face says he isnât her biggest fan. Finally, âSheâs unique⌠and that is fine. I just find her hard to listen to.â Does he think sheâs crazy, too? Maybe I shouldnât have accepted her offer, then. I mean, technically, I havenât yet, but stillâŚ
I hand the invitation to him. âI feel bad for her.â
He turns it over but doesnât open it.Â
âGo on.â
âIt was meant for you.â
âYeah, and I can do what I want with it.â
He still doesnât open it. âAre you going to join her?â
Now? Maybe not. âEh, why not?â But⌠âItâs like this placeâs got anything better to do.â
âFairâŚâ he trails off, then, âbut you should only join her if you want to.â
I snort. âDo I look easy to guilt-trip?â
âI donât-â
âAh, that was rhetorical. And yeah, I want to. I have basically no parents, and Iâm bored as hell here. I figure whatâs the worst that could happen? Unless you want to entertain me.â
The joke lands like a paper aeroplane with a bent nose. âSpring semester gets pretty busy, but Maman has been wanting to have you over for dinner, since Iâm kind of your student-buddy and all.â
I sigh and force myself not to laugh. âThatâs sweet. You should go back to practising before Mr Rostelli yells at you.â So I can question my life choices in relative privacy.
He shakes his head. âShe wonât yell.â Then abruptly, âDo you believe in ghosts?â
âOf course not. I told you, didnât I? Iâm bored. And I donât believe in St. Nick either, if youâre wondering. Or the tooth fairy.â Okay, maybe that was a little mean. But itâs also funny, so itâs fine.
Rafaelâs expression is almost a smile. Almost. Like heâs trying his best. âOkay.â Is all he says, then turns on his heel back to the group.
Heâs kind of weird, Iâm realising.Â
I wait until they start playing again to let myself laugh.
-
The bell for Lunch startles me, making me drop the four worksheets Mr Furgeson assigned us. I swear too loudly for the theatre meant to project sound. Thankfully, someone is louder than I am.
âZIG! Mrs K needs you for competition prep!â Neo. Let out early again, probably.
Mrs Rostelli glares hard at him over my shoulder for disturbing the quiet.
He gives a blatantly insincere apology.
She huffs, massaging her temples like she can physically push away her Neo-induced headache. âJust go to lunch. All of you.â
âYeah, yeah,â he calls back, already halfway up the stairs with Ziggy, their oboe case slung over his shoulder.
âAh, our dear friends always have such good timing. Quinn, you donât mind if I steal Rafael for Lunch today?â Sheâs got an odd expression, no smile, condescending or theatrical, just nothing. Right, our plan⌠or lack thereof. Something tells me I actually want absolutely nothing to do with whatever sheâs planning.
âHeâs your friend.â
âMÄŤrus!â The exclamation returns some of the emotion.
âWonderful,â Rafael translates, sounding like this is anything but.
â
Only after I reach the art room do I realise how that sounded. Fuck. Too late now. At least Sakura is in the art room like she said sheâd be in her letter.
I pull open the door (someone added clay to the handle to shape it into a paw), and Sakura sees me immediately.
She waves her hands so fast that the half-done quilt spills from her lap. âHi hi!â I bend to pick it up. Itâs green and looks like itâs based on a Seurat painting. Pretty, but a horrible clash with PMAâs deep red uniform and her bright pink hair.
âHi.â
âYou got my let-ter?â
âYou saw me get your letter,â I remind her.Â
She blushes. âI⌠I- Iâ She tries to speak, but the words wonât come. Sheâs practically vibrating with excitement.
âHey, slow down. Iâm here until Sixth.â I donât mean for it to sound the way it does, like sheâs a little kid and I donât quite get it, having always been the younger sibling and one of the smaller kids in my year, but thereâs just something about her that makes it hard to stop. She looks so young now that I think about it. Thereâs no way sheâs fifteen.
She blushes again, fidgeting with the raw edges on the quilt. I remember Iâm still holding part of it and place the wad of fabric in her lap. She begins to fold it. I wait, letting her collect herself. When itâs neatly on the table, ââŚI was worried that you threw it in the bin.â
âI didnât. I can tell you put a lot of work into it.â Now, how do I phrase this to make myself look genuinely interested instead of devastatingly bored?
âI did.â
âI know. So tell me about it.â
âFirst, I donât want you to think Neo and Ziggy are mean. They- they just⌠jus⌠Itâs hard for them.â
âI know.â
âTheyâre just scared.â
âScared of what? Ghosts? Then why would they-â
âThey thought it was fake, b-but itâs not.â
Ah, here we go. âObviously.â I worry Iâve put it on too thick, but she doesnât seem to notice.Â
âI know ghosts took my brother.â Right, I got that much from Ziggy. And Neo implied she thinks they took his brother, too. At least sheâs speaking at a reasonable speed now.
âI, ah, heard that, and I⌠believe you, but youâre going to have to back up a little. Whatâs the lore of this place? I heard there was a big storm a while back.â Donât ghosts allegedly hang out in places where people have died tragically? Iâm pretty sure the scariest things to happen here are Mr Davisâs pop quizzes. Or the great maple syrup heist of 2012, which is apparently an actual real thing that happened.Â
âBack in the eighties, there was a record-breaking-ing blizzard that destroyed the whole campus, well, except for t-the old school house and the dormitories, âcause they werenât built yet. Nobody died butââ
âNo death? Then how would there be ghosts?â
âIâm not sure.â No shit. âBut places like this tend to att⌠attract the paranormal. Plus, there was no DNA evid-ence found at the scene of the crime. How would someone kidnap five grown-ups without even leaving one me-e-asly fingerprint⌠unless they didnât have any!â
Five people? Well, that changes things. Two guys in the wild for research isnât that strange. It couldâve been bad luck and worse weather, or a bear got them or something. They have bears here, right? But five people is something else entirely. Sheâs probably wrong about this ghost thing. There is scientific evidence for all sorts of things, from dark matter to other dimensions, but as far as anyone knows, the dead are just gone. Thatâs why death and stuff is so sad. But maybe there is something more, like a serial killer. Yeah, I wouldnât go messing with an axe murderer any more than I would a ghost. If I believed in ghosts. I certainly believe in axe murderers.
âWhat was your brother researching?â I ask anyway.
âA-au⌠au-â she shakes her head, trying to find the word, but settles on âThe northern lights.â Aurora borealis.
That⌠is a hell of a coincidence. Hali told me once she never believed in coincidences. It surprised me because I didnât think she cared.
âMy mum was researching that too.â
âReally?â Sakura perks up.
âYeah. She was.â The words taste like what I think lead would taste like if I ever got depressed enough to poison myself. Itâs the first time Iâve said it aloud. âShe died, well, almost four months ago now.â
âOh no! Thatâs awful.â
âEh. Maybe it was, maybe it wasnât. I have no idea how she died.â
âThatâs wor-r-se!â Sakura squeaks
âProbably. But hey, maybe sheâs a ghost now.â Actually, I donât think Iâm comforted by that image at all.
âMaybe. Yo-chanâthatâs my big broâwent missing around then, too. Theyâre not exactly sure because his team wa-wasnât due for a report until the 20th of October, so the u⌠uhâŚâ she still looks so torn up about her brother, and I get it, but Iâm just⌠numb. Sheâs not, though, and it seems like all the feelings have taken her words the way theyâve taken my desire to be sociable with girls who believe in ghosts. She stops, takes a breath, then tries again, even slower this time, surer. âuniversity didnât know they were missing until the report didnât come in.â
âWhatâve you got besides the lack of fingerprints?â I expect her to pull out blurry photographs or a camcorder or something, but instead she produces a binder I hadnât noticed before from under the table. It thunks down heavily on the table, bedazzled pink cover sparkling under the lights.
âMy brotherâs research. I like sciencey-y stuff, and itâs not top secret, so he shared it with me.â The binder is stuffed with enough paper that it wonât close properly. I wince on behalf of the Amazon Rainforest. Has she read all this? Thankfully, she doesnât notice my surprise, eyes on the binder like itâs something precious.
She opens it and reads the first page. Itâs been annotated in various pastel highlighters. The way this is going, theyâre probably scented. She reads slow, so I follow over her shoulder: Abnormalities in the Magnetic Field of the Aurora Borealis Near and Around Southern Quebec. Study by Dr S. Bhat et al.
I catch the laugh in my throat. Bhatâs a fairly common name, right? I think. I mean, there are loads of Indians in England, I bet there are loads here too.
âAnyways, itâs waaay too long to read it all, but basic-ic-ally the lights started acting freaky deaky-y, so my Yo-chanâs advisor took him and some of his classmates, including Neoâs brother, up there to check it out. And now theyâre gone.â Her words drift in and out between the static rising in my ears. âOh, here, Iâve got a photo he sent-t me⌠It was the last one, and Iâm try-rying to figure out where it was taken, but I havenât had too much luck.â
She holds up her mobile, and I make myself look. A photo of five people fills the screen. The man in the middle is obviously her brother with hair the same shade of pink as hers. Heâs got his arm around a woman I donât recognise. But the other three people in the picture are familiar. The first, a man probably around the same age as Sakuraâs brother, shares some of Neoâs features. That must be his brother. The other woman is Alice Joshi, who did some internships with Mum before. She has a sister in my year. And the third, with a serious but kind expression and grey only just beginning to creep outwards from her temples, is my mother.
This is the most Iâve seen of her since she left.
And Sakura has had this photo for months.
Like static in the background of some shitty horror film, Sakura goes on. âNeoâs nii-san is also here, thatâs why Iâve been trying to get his help. But he wonât listen!â She sounds like sheâs sinking. Or I am. For a second, I can really feel water in my lungs.Â
âHow long have you had this?â I startle myself by saying the words aloud, able to speak because Iâm not drowning, Iâm just losing my shit. I sound like Iâve lost my voice, or maybe have just been strangled, which is weird because I donât feel sad. Iâve already been sad. Now I just feel⌠pissed. Father told me he just found out, but apparently, Sakura found out right away, fucking Sakura of all people (of course she did, her brotherâs fucking dead just like my mother, the police must have called her parents too).Â
And Neo. His brother is dead too. Heâs seemed- well, heâs not breaking down crying, and sure, everyone grieves differently, but Iâm definitely the last to know. I donât blame him for not telling me; he didnât even know my name back then, but it still-
âYo-chan sent it to me around Thanksgiving.â Oh, right. Colonies. Oh, well.
âThatâs early in the month?â
She nods vigorously. âYup!â
Good gods. How did Father not know? Did he know? Was he lying? He sounded genuinely freaked out but⌠Did Hali know? Is that why she sounded so fucking calm? I mean, sheâs always been distant, butâŚ
And Mum wasnât even the only one. I knew she wasnât alone on the expedition, obviously, thatâs not how expeditions work, but⌠âI didnât know it wasnât just her⌠I thought theyâd gone on with the expedition.â Obviously not. Not if all of them were dead.
I stare at the picture, trying to decide whether she looks happy doing the thing that got her killed.
And suddenly, I see this for what it is. Itâs denial, and Iâm too pissed to indulge it. Ziggyâs phrasing was crude, but they were right. No wonder Neo wanted no part of this. He and Neo have a sort of Ghost Adventures thing going on, but this is not that. This is just sad. She looks so hopeful, itâs driving me crazy. No doubt the only reason he passed her letter along was because he knew Iâd figure it out fairly quickly, and this whole thing would be over with.Â
More pressingly, though: how do I get out of here without causing a scene? Itâll be tricky, but I need to before I go crazy, too.Â
Or maybe Iâm over-thinking it.
âThatâs, err, that makes a lot of sense. Iâm just going to use the toilet. Iâll be right back, okay?â
