I look hastily away again.
The test is challenging but fair. Now that I’ve caught up with the others, I can answer the questions surprisingly easily. It ought to be no problem at all for Henry, but when I hand in my paper just before time, he’s sitting motionless in his place, both elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. As I pass, I catch a glimpse of his paper. It’s blank, and my stomach lurches. Mrs.Sinclair said he didn’t have to do the test, and I don’t get why he didn’t take her up on that.
I walk out, not even happy that I think I did OK, seeing that Henry’s apparently handing in a blank sheet of paper. Maybe Mr.Ward will let him off. I could ask Ms.Barnett for advice. Or Mrs.Sinclair. Henry can’t keep sitting there doing nothing when we get to the mocks, can he? He got a D in Latin yesterday, and I’m pretty sure Ms.Barnett marked it generously so as not to fail him altogether.
Henry’s clever enough that he’ll get good predicted grades, but he won’t be able to keep on like this without putting his Alevels at risk. And then it’ll all be for nothing. Then we won’t have a future together at St. Andrews, like we were planning just before the world came to a stop around us.
Maybe I ought to think less about the future. Maybe instead I should be thinking about what I can do to help Henry, but I’m stumped. I’ve never lost anyone, not like this, anyway. It’s different from the way things were after my dad walked out. I was eleven, I didn’t understand, but I thought he’d be back before too long. After all, he’d promised. It was a different kind of loss. And it’s not like I’ve found a way of making the pain any easier since then.
I can only try to be there for Henry and not pressure him. Not resort to tactless clichés.She had a great life. I’m sure she’s happy where she is now. She wouldn’t want you to let yourself wallow like this.That’s bollocks. Nobody knows what Maeve would want. She’s dead. And Henry has to grieve. It’s just so painful and exhausting to be at his side and unable to do a bloody thing.
It drives me crazy to remember the way he cried on his first night back at school. And that he hasn’t since then. Not once. Mostly he’s just apathetic and blank. He laughs with the others sometimes, and when he sits with Gideon and Sinclair in the dining room, there seem to be plenty of times when he forgets what’s happened for a second. Maybe it’s self-protection. I don’t know. I can only say that he’s different when we’re together. He’s pricklier, thinner-skinned. Maybe that’s better than indifference, because it means he still has feelings, despite everything. But I’m worried. I might not have known Henry long, but I know him well enough to be sure that it’s bad for him to bottle up hisemotions and not let them out. That eventually he’ll burst. I can only hope that he’s not alone when it happens.
I’m standing in front of the mirror in my tiny bathroom, in leggings and hoodie, brushing my teeth, when there’s a knock at the door way after wing time. It’s not Henry’s knock. It sounds more like Tori. Toothbrush in mouth, I open the door. It is indeed Tori.
“You have to get dressed,” she says. “Sinclair texted, they’re drinking and Henry... He’s overdone it a bit.”
“He’s what?” I blurt. Toothpaste foam runs down my chin. I wipe it away with my hand and head back to the bathroom. Once I’ve rinsed my mouth, I go back to Tori.
“We should go and check on them. Henry doesn’t usually drink much. I don’t like this at all.” Tori is unusually anxious: Her eyes keep darting from me to the door and back again. When I don’t answer, she throws me my jacket. “Put this on.”
I catch it. “But isn’t this—” I gesture toward my hoodie.
“They’re on the roof, Emma.”
Someone could have told me sooner that there’s this secret door near the boys’ wing that leads to a narrow spiral staircase that goes up to a tiny platform between the spires on the school roof. It’s pretty well hidden from view up there. I don’t feel entirely comfortable as I reach the top with Tori. The night is fresh: There’s an icy wind blowing around the turrets and rooftops.Four people are crouched on the platform, Sinclair, Henry, Omar, and Gideon, circled by glass bottles.
Sinclair jumps up when he sees us. Although it’s dark, I can see his despair as he comes toward us.
“He just won’t stop,” he whispers.
Tori seems dangerously calm. “Then take the fucking bottle off him.”
“You don’t understand, he...”
I leave them there and walk over to Henry. He lifts his head. I can see at a glance that he’s wrecked. He’s slumped with his back to a low parapet; his eyelids are half shut. I put the water bottle I brought from my room in front of him and sit down.
“What the hell?” I ask.
He just shrugs. He goes to lift his own bottle to his lips, but I grab his wrist.
“I think you’ve had enough, Henry.” I hold the water out to him. “Drink.”
“Could you just—”
“Drink this,” I say, a notch more sharply.
As he turns his head to me, I recognize the pain in his green eyes. I immediately understand why he’s doing this. There’s no need for it, it’s toxic, this “I’m drinking my emotions away and hoping it’s the answer” stuff. He knows better. I’m worried for him, but it’s making me angry too.
“Emma, you can have a drink too, or you can piss off.” His tongue is heavy, and he’s slurring. I know he’s drunk, and I shouldn’t take his words to heart, but that doesn’t make them hurt any the less. He’s never tried to get rid of me before.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I hiss. “Because you’re not going anywhere either.”
“You don’t know what I’m gonna do,” he mumbles.
“I’m very sorry, but that’s just not true.”
“Yeah, it is. God, you’re clueless! You don’t know what it’s like. But hey, it’s been a coupla weeks now, time for him to start pulling himself together, huh?” Henry’s raising his voice more with each word. Omar and Gideon are acting like they’re not listening. Tori and Sinclair stand rooted to the spot.
