The Road Trip(63)

We pause just inside the doors, in front of the reception desk. He turns to me slowly. Like he’s dreading meeting my gaze, maybe. Or savouring it.

He looks just the same. A scribble of dark curls, sharp cheekbones, clever, intense eyes. ‘Addie,’ he says.

‘Hello,’ I say.

A nurse moves past us, his trainers squeaking on the floor. Someone’s talking to the receptionist. We’re still not saying anything. I just don’t know what to say.

Marcus smiles slightly as he takes me in. ‘You’ve changed,’ he says, tilting his head slightly.

‘My hair,’ I say, lifting a hand to touch it. It’s curled today – I wanted to look nice for my date with Dylan.

‘No,’ he says, and he’s looking at me in that way he did in France. Steady and unapologetic. ‘I mean, you’re tougher.’

‘What?’

I’m so over his I-can-read-people thing. He clearly hasn’t changed a bit. He smiles slightly at my irritation but doesn’t answer, just keeps looking at me. I press my cold hand to my cheek to cool it down.

‘You’re here for Dylan?’ I say.

‘Of course. And you?’

‘Obviously.’

We stand for another moment. Marcus’s eyes are still moving over me, assessing.

‘He hasn’t settled,’ I say abruptly.

‘Hmm?’

‘You said he’d settle down. He hasn’t. He still doesn’t know what he wants to do, and . . . he still gets sad, sometimes.’

Dylan thinks I don’t notice. We never talk about it. But I know him well enough to tell when he goes inward and gets lost.

‘You could tell him what you want him to do, you know. That’s what he’s trying to figure out, really,’ Marcus says.

I glance towards reception. The person at the desk is nearly finished, you can tell by their body language.

‘He’s figuring out what he wants,’ I say.

Marcus smiles slightly. ‘No, he’s not,’ he says, and his tone’s almost mocking. ‘That’s not how Dylan works. He needs to be led.’

‘Nobody needs to be led,’ I say sharply, as I turn to make my way to the desk. ‘And he’s perfectly capable of finding his own way.’

‘I thought he’d soften you,’ Marcus says as we reach the desk. ‘But you’re all spiky now. I like it, it suits you.’

‘Excuse me,’ I say to the receptionist, still trying to cool my cheeks with my cold hands. ‘Can I go in to see my boyfriend? He’s in the waiting room.’



‘Miss? Miss? Miss? Miss? Miss?’

Ugh. I really wish Tyson Grey had an off button. My hangover is horrendous and Year Eights are not what I need right now.

It’s been a week since I saw Marcus in A&E – Dylan was fine, no concussion – and there Marcus was again last night, at Cherry’s birthday drinks. I guess he’s decided he can bear to be in a room with me now. It was weird and loaded and awkward between us and I drank too much and now my head hurts. Dylan kept asking if I was OK and I didn’t know what to say. No, I’m not OK, I really don’t like your best friend.

This morning Marcus posted a video on his Instagram stories of us all dancing together. Me, Grace, Cherry, Luke, Javier, Marcus, Dylan, and Connie and Marta, the Oxford girls from the villa. Marcus and I end up side by side and we’re moving perfectly in sync while the rest of them have missed the beat completely, just drunkenly staggering. Over the video he’s written Dancing on the rooftop under the stars.

I’ve watched it five times and it’s only eleven o’clock. When I go to the loo in morning break I find myself opening it again, trying to understand it. I can’t help feeling like it’s about that night in France, but what’s it supposed to mean? Now my head aches and I’m confused. Tyson Grey is like a bloody mechanical drill, Miss Miss Miss-ing at me.

I spin around as the classroom door opens. My first thought is that Tyson’s walked out because I’ve been ignoring him. Once, when the mood took him and I was helping another student with their writing, he climbed out the window. But it’s not Tyson – Etienne’s just walked in.

He gives me a quick smile and scans the classroom. Everyone straightens up a little. Despite his age, Etienne’s a pretty old-school head teacher. Technically the assistant head is responsible for behaviour, but Etienne is the one everyone gets dragged to see if they need a bollocking. Even the toughest kids hate being told to go to his office. It’s the trump card in my back pocket and I’ve totally overused it. Etienne definitely thinks so too. This term I’m determined to do my own bollockings.

I continue the lesson. My voice has gone a bit squeaky, though by now I should be used to other teachers in the classroom – I’m always getting observed, it’s part of the training.

‘Tyson!’ Etienne barks suddenly.

I jump, then try to style it out, stepping smoothly to reach for something from my desk. Crap. I was supposed to notice whatever Etienne just noticed.

‘With me. Bring that.’ Etienne points at a piece of paper on Tyson’s desk. ‘Miss Gilbert, Tyson will be with me for the rest of the lesson.’

‘Of course,’ I say, trying to look stern. ‘Thank you.’

Thank you? Is that a bit pathetic? Oh well, too late now. Etienne walks behind Tyson, shooting me a weary look as he pulls the door closed behind them.