Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(9)
I swear she jumps on my every slipup like they contain her daily requirement of vitamins and minerals. “Obviously I know her name. It’s Coach.” (It’s Stacy.)
“You’re a parody of yourself, Bradley Graeme.”
“And you are so in love with the sound of your own voice—”
“Says you.” She snorts like a five-year-old.
“—I bet you fall asleep listening to your own TikToks as a lullaby!”
“Shhhh!” Celine hisses.
Maybe I was a bit loud there. Oops.
There’s the sound of a scraping chair, and before I can react, the door we’re leaning on swings open. We both fall in. Crap.
I grasp the door frame to stop myself going down, but Celine’s still holding her textbook with both hands. I catch her automatically—as in, I kind of don’t remember doing it? Suddenly, I’ve just got an arm around the soft width of her waist and she’s staring up at me, her brown eyes so wide she looks like a cartoon insect. Self-awareness hits me like an electric shock. I come back to my senses and let her go.
A split second later, my brain tells me letting go was the wrong thing to do. But it’s too late: she’s falling. I watch in horror as she lands on the floor with a yelp, her book slamming to the ground beside her.
There’s a moment of wintry silence.
Then she glares up at me with buckets of menace in her eyes and announces, “You absolute living demon!”
My mouth opens. “I—”
“You dropped me!”
Shit. “I didn’t mean to.” My voice creaks with uncertainty, which is annoying, because I’m serious: I didn’t mean to.
“Yeah, right,” Celine mutters as she goes to stand up—and hisses in pain.
Coach, who’s been frozen in confusion since opening the door, springs into action. “Hold on there, young lady,” she orders, kneeling and taking Celine’s wrist in her hand. “Oh dear.” She shakes her head, blond ponytail swinging.
My stomach drops. “What? What’s happened?”
Coach gently presses Celine’s wrist. “Does that hurt?”
Her reply is a stifled squeak.
“And this?”
A nod.
Mr. Gallagher, who is small and twitchy and pink, peers over Coach’s shoulder. “Hmm. I think a trip to Student Support may be in order.”
“What?” I repeat. You only go to Student Support if you’re having a total breakdown or if you’re sick and you need them to call your parents. “What’s wrong? I’ll take her—”
“No,” Celine says, so quick and sharp I’m almost hurt for a second, before I remember that I don’t like her, and she doesn’t like me, and we are enemies.
Coach gives me a grim look as she helps Celine to her feet. “I’ll take her. Brad, tell the team I’m going to be late for practice.”
“Yes, Coach.” Oh, wait a minute. “Um, actually, me and Celine were supposed to stay here and do some work for Mr. Taylor?”
“Well, Celine won’t be doing any work this afternoon, so you can run and let him know about that too.” She puts an arm around Celine, and they head for the stairs. Mr. Gallagher follows behind them.
I run my hands over my hair. “Shit, shit, shit.” Did I just break Celine’s arm or something? The possibility rolls around in my stomach like a concrete ball of anxiety. Acid climbs up my throat. Why the hell did I drop her? I stare down at my hands and whisper, “What the fuck?”
They don’t reply.
I sigh, then crouch down to pick up the textbook she dropped. There’s something sticking out from between the pages. I flick them open, and a vaguely familiar woman with brown skin and long hair stares back at me.
Breakspeare Enrichment Program, the glossy leaflet says.
Breakspeare. Katharine Breakspeare. That’s where I’ve seen this woman: on the inspirational pinboard Celine used to keep in her bedroom. Back when I was welcome in Celine’s bedroom, which I’m certainly not now.
I close the book.
MONDAY, 4:34 P.M.
BANGURA GIRLS
Mummy: Keep me updated please.
Giselle: doc’s sent us for an X-ray, in the waiting room now
Celine: sorry mummy
Mummy: Your wrist is broken and still you’re on this blasted phone??? I bet that’s how you fell.
Celine: it’s not!
Mummy: talk to the hand little girl
Giselle: skdhfjsjkfhs MUM
CHAPTER THREE
BRAD
It’s a good thing Celine’s addicted to technology and that I have a finsta for the express purpose of stalking people without embarrassment. By the time I pull up outside my house, her Instagram Story tells me she’s going to Queen’s Med with her sister Giselle,which is not exactly home safe and sound, but also isn’t completely terrible.
My brain decides this would be an ideal moment to present me with images of Celine suffering various life-changing complications from her arm injury, all of which would be my fault. It’s basically a slideshow. If my OCD had a feedback form, I would write Could do with a jaunty soundtrack next time. Instead, I get out of my car and head inside.