I think of the red A that Mr.Ward had written—probably only with great reluctance—at the bottom of the page. When I still don’t reply, Emma seems to understand. She shakes herhead, almost imperceptibly. “Henry, you really don’t have to try to cheer me up.”
“I do,” I say. “I’m your school captain so I have to do that.”And I just can’t bear seeing you sad.
Her eyes are still glittering as her gaze travels across my face, and I wish I could just give her a hug. Because I can imagine that none of this is easy for her. Being new, maybe homesick, and getting a teacher like Mr.Ward, who isn’t exactly encouraging, to put it mildly. And there’s probably something else. The stuff with her dad. And Emma looks as if she could really do with someone who just listens to her while she pours out her troubles. I want to be that person. I want it so badly that it hurts.
“Henry.” I resist the urge to shut my eyes as I hear Grace’s voice. “Are you coming?”
Where?Then I remember. Enrichment with Ms.Barnett. I don’t want to go.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I say.
“You go. I’ve got PSHE.” Emma smiles, but she looks tense. It’s so fleeting, just a matter of seconds, but it gives me a stomachache. “See you later.”
Grace gives me a piercing, reproachful look. I feel everything within me putting up barriers, even before she’s said a word. And the problem is that when you were together for so long, you know each other. Grace can see through me. She doesn’t say a word. Her eyes bore into me. Then she turns away.
Hot rage and desperation boil in my chest. It’s rage at myself. Because I’m running into a brick wall. I force myself to take a deep breath, then another, before I follow her.
Grace is walking quickly, and I drop back. The distance between us is getting bigger, and then she’s swallowed by a gaggle of fourth-formers, and I can’t see her anymore.
It’s only then that it hits me.
When you were together for so long, I thought.Were.
Notwhen you’ve been.
When you were.
15
Henry
“Bennington, wake up!” Mr.Cormack’s voice echoes over the pitch to me. “Was that meant to be a pass, for God’s sake? Twenty push-ups for everyone if that ball touches the ground one more time.”
His whistle makes me jump, and I get back into position. The others pass the ball to one another, I run into a space, put my palms up to make a target, and Omar throws me the ball, so hard that it slips through my hands.
I hear Mr.Cormack’s whistle again, followed by the sounds of him cursing and the others groaning in annoyance. The next thing I notice is the damp grass beneath my palms as I drop to the ground to do the push-ups.
Why am I putting myself through this?
And why is my mind all over the place, everywhere except here on the pitch?
I know why. The explanation has pale-blond hair and hasn’t answered the text I sent her earlier. Emma wasn’t at dinner, and neither Tori nor Olive knew where she’d got to. Judging by what I know of Emma, she was probably outside, running her heart out.
My upper arms are burning as I finish the last push-ups and drop back to my knees. Valentine Ward is glaring at me—if looks could kill—but I haven’t got the energy to care what he thinks of me. Not today.
Mr.Cormack doesn’t leave us time to catch our breath. We go on as if we’d never stopped, and I’ve never found it harder to concentrate on the drills.
I was crap today, I’m sure of that, as Valentine rants in the changing room while I pull off my sweat-sodden shirt. I don’t let myself listen, because I really have got other things to worry about right now.
I have a quick hot shower, but even so, it’s almost ten by the time I finally get back to our wing. As ever, just before wing time, it’s like rush hour on our corridor—everyone suddenly remembers some vital reason why they have to knock on someone else’s door or hurry to the shared kitchen.
Sinclair emerges from there, heading to his room; he’s wearing joggers and has a slice of toast and Nutella in each hand. His hair’s still damp; he probably just got in from riding. Or somewhere.
“Want some?” he asks, holding out a slice to me as he passes. I shake my head. He waits a millisecond, then walks on, biting into the toast.
“You been with Tori?” I ask when he’s almost reached his door.
Sinclair stops. “Why d’you ask?” he mumbles through a mouthful, turning toward me. He sounds kind of like I’ve caught him out.
