Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(30)

Celine blinks. Her face is unreadable. I keep talking, fast.

“I mean, just…when we’re in places like this. Just act like we’re strangers, or something…and then…it’ll be easier,” I finish. “When we argue, we distract each other. But we both need to do this, to focus, to succeed.” I feel like I woke up in the middle of the night desperate for a wee, and now I’m feeling my way past furniture in the pitch-black with a serious sense of urgency. “Just…let’s…normal?”

Just. Let’s. Normal.

Amazing. Absolute round of applause. I will make an incredible barrister, standing solemnly before the judge as I ask: “Just…let’s…innocent?”

“Fine,” Celine says suddenly, shockingly. “Whatever. As long as you shut up about it. Now, would you listen to me?” Her hand—

Cups my chin.

She’s touching me. She’s touching me. She—

Pushes my head up.

Her fingertips are damp and freezing and my throat, my face, is on fire—

“See?” she says.

I blink hard.

There’s a plastic bag hidden in the tree above us, with a little green booklet inside.





SUNDAY, 9:20 P.M.


Jordan: Have        you killed Celine yet or what





Brad: worse





Brad: much worse





Jordan: YOU KISSED HER DIDN’T YOU





Brad: ????





Brad: no???





Brad: why would you say that?





Brad: Jordan





Brad: JORDAN.





Brad: TEXT ME BACK YOU COWARD.





CHAPTER SIX





CELINE


“That game was completely rigged,” I huff.

“You might’ve mentioned that,” Aurora murmurs wryly, “a thousand times or so.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It’s a little past nine and we’re holed up in our room trying to ignore the sounds of the other team’s common room party. They got back seven minutes before us, which is apparently significant enough that they get music and party snacks and we get washing-up duty. Outrageous, if you ask me.

On the plus side, washing up dinner plates doesn’t take long when there’s ten of you to do it, so I’m already sitting here in my room, moaning while I watch Aurora journal. Analogue hobbies fascinate me. Why write stuff down when you could just film, record a voice-over, and throw some sparkles at it? Then again, Aurora does seem relaxed right now. I crane my neck to stare at the plain brown leather of her scrapbook.

“Does that say emotional barometer?” A moment after I ask, I realize it might be an awkward question. Emotions are private; everyone knows that. “You don’t have to tell me,” I add quickly.

Pink spreads across her nose—and her ears, I notice, because Aurora’s ready for bed with her hair in a ponytail, tucked up under the covers. “No, I don’t mind,” she says shyly. “And yes, it does say emotional barometer. I like to track my moods.”

Wild. I only have two moods: pissed and fine. “How come?”

She shrugs. “Hormone cycles and stuff. It’s nice to know when I’m really sad and when I’m just PMSing.”

Well, damn. I stare at her, impressed. “You are so wise. Can I read your palm?”

“Erm,” she says. “No, thank you.”

It’s possible I pout. “Do you bullet journal? Like all those cute Instagram accounts?”

She nods.

“Do you use the pretty tape?”

She nods again.

I am torn apart with jealousy. “I tried to do one of those, but I couldn’t choose a color scheme and my bubble writing looked drunk and/or deeply disturbed.”

“Maybe you’re naturally drawn to a more minimalist style,” she says kindly.

I glance down at my pajamas, dark green with spooky yellow mushrooms all over them. “Um. Maybe.”

She laughs. “So, what’s up with you and Brad?”

At the sound of his name, the air turns solid and still—or maybe that’s just me. I feel strange. What happened between us earlier, out in the woods, was weird. I don’t want to think about it and I definitely don’t want to talk. “Er…” I squint, searching for signs of a slight fold in the space-time continuum. “Am I losing time? Did I just slip past a whole conversation where we worked up to this?”

Aurora ducks her head. “No. Sorry. I just…I thought I’d ask before I could convince myself not to.” She wince-laughs and it is annoyingly charming. I really do like her, even though my fight-or-flight instincts would love to tell her to back off right now.

But that would be immature, and while my mental age is stuck around twelve, I need to get better at hiding that if I plan to be a Fabulously Wealthy and Agonizingly Successful Legal Professional. So instead of ignoring her and going huffily to sleep, I arrange the raggedy, off-white duvet more neatly over my lap and mutter, “Just…Warm a girl up first, would you?”