Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(40)

Celine: Why are u texting me rn. We are like ten feet apart and we’re meant to be building a fire.





Brad: just guess





Celine: idk





Brad: it’s Holly





Brad: on her birthday





Celine: I should never have given you my new number





CHAPTER EIGHT





CELINE


The Thursday after our first BEP expedition, I’m back in the Beech Hut (was school always this bland and gray?) trying to halt Minnie’s meltdown. “I’m sure you did amazing yesterday.”

“And I’m sure I didn’t.” Her voice is quiet because it’s midafternoon and the building’s at least half full, but she’s shouting at me in spirit if not in volume. Her eyes are wide. Her hair is especially big today and vibrating with panic. “I was about as graceful as a newborn giraffe.”

I blink. “Is that…bad, or…?”

She throws up her hands and sinks into a patented Michaela Digby sulk: crossed arms and a toddler-like scowl. Not that it’s unwarranted: Edge Lake is one of the best dance schools in the country, and Minnie’s been nervous about her audition for months. “I’m doomed. Mr. Darling was right. They’re going to reject my application, and I won’t have the grades for a proper degree—”

“Dance is a proper degree,” I say firmly.

“—and I’ll die alone under a bridge. Probably before twenty-five.”

I like Mr. Darling (kind of) but if he doesn’t stop being so negative all the time, he’s going to send us all into a collective depression. “Rubbish. You must be hungry. Do you want my emergency Mars bar?”

“I’m in turmoil, Celine,” she growls. “How could anyone eat at a time like this?”

I shrug and take the chocolate bar out of my pencil case. “Suit yourself.”

She snatches it out of my hand. “I didn’t say no.”

“Good. Now, Michaela.” I’m supposed to be answering comments on my latest TikTok (reviewing a selection of mood rings from various questionable internet stores), but I lock my phone and put it facedown to show her I mean business. “I don’t want to hear another Mr. Darling quote out of your mouth,” I tell her seriously. “Okay? Is that the energy you want to sully your consciousness with? Mr. Darling’s?”

Minnie shakes her head and takes a bite of the Mars bar.

“I should think not. No wonder you felt giraffe-like yesterday! His bad attitude was poisoning your mind.”

She nods, a little more hopeful. “That’s true. That’s very true. I’m not a giraffe. It’s all his fault.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You are a swan. A beautiful, beautiful swan. Like Normani.”

“Yes,” she murmurs. “It’s okay, Michaela. You are a Normani swan.”

I pat her shoulder. “Now, why don’t we walk into town and see if Sonam and Peter are still at Starbucks?”

Minnie brightens up like a lightbulb. “Frappes?” she asks around a mouthful of caramel.

“Frappes.”

“Celiiiiine. You’re the best.” She gives me a chocolatey kiss on the cheek. I wipe it off, pack up my things, and we head out, walking past my latest conspiracy theory.

Bradley Graeme is sitting at Top Table, as always. And he’s flawless, as always, with his twists shining and his clothes immaculate but effortless, and an adorable (objectively speaking, I mean) furrow between his eyebrows as he highlights the crap out of what appears to be a history textbook. Since we got back to school, we’ve barely spoken because I no longer know how to speak to him. I should be desperate to prove my who-is-Bradley-really theory, but I’m not sure which outcome I want. If he’s always been the best friend I remember, that means—

But if the way we were during the Sherwood expedition wasn’t real—

My stomach churns.

So that’s us these days: near-silent. No arguments in Philosophy, no bitchy comments in the halls. You’d think we were ignoring each other, but whenever our eyes meet, he gives me this tiny, tentative smile and says: “Hey.”

And I reply, helplessly, “Hey.”

And then we lapse into a silence I don’t know what to do with.

Which is why I’ve decided to just focus on school.

Unfortunately, Minnie has followed my gaze and there’s a speculative gleam in her glitter-adorned eyes. “Are you ever going to tell me how the forest thingy went?”

“I did tell you,” I say firmly. I told her it was fine. “Are you ever going to tell me why you’ve been texting Jordan Cooper all day?”

She smiles sunnily, her earlier mood evaporated. “Well, he’s in my English class. And since his best friend’s been acting weird and my best friend’s been acting weird…”

“Brad’s acting weird?”

“Brad, is it?” she repeats, pouncing like a panther in sparkly Doc Martens. “I see. Fighting off bears in the woods must forge a powerful bond.”

“There are no bears in England, Michaela.”