Mr Acevedo looks at me with that smile. ‘I certainly do, Victoria.’
SINCLAIR
I knew what to expect the moment Henry turned up in my room the evening before my eighteenth birthday and said I should hurry up and get dressed. Soon after wing time, we reached the old greenhouse, which was completely dark – at least it was until we’d walked in and I could see what the others had organized. The greenhouse had been transformed into a miniature cinema, with a screen on which we watched a Sherlock Holmes film before the party started.
They’re all here: Henry, Gideon, Grace, Omar, Emma, Olive, Tori’s brother Will, and Kit, who he’s been dating for a while now, a few others from our form and some fifth-formers too. And, yes, Tori, and the only thing I can think of, as we sit on blankets and watch the film, is that horror night back in the second form. I don’t know if she’s thinking about it too. If she even remembers. Or if she knows that that was my first and last kiss. Even now that I’m eighteen; somehow that fact bothers me more than it should. I wish I could convince myself that age is just a number and that I shouldn’t measure my experiences against other people’s, but everywhere I look, I see my friends, who’ve managed to do something I can’t. Henry, with an arm around Emma, unable to stop looking at her. Gideon, who keeps absentmindedly staring at Grace. Will and Kit, who seem so comfortable together. And then there’s me. Eighteen, a virgin, pretty much never been kissed, in love with my best friend,who’s with the biggest arsehole in the school and isn’t talking to me now because I always have to go and screw everything up.
Tori’s copper-red hair is really wavy today, falling over her shoulders like a gleaming waterfall. I want to touch her. Her hair, her shoulders, her lips, which she bites nervously anytime she looks in my direction. When she finally comes over to me and pulls out a rectangular parcel from behind her back, I know what’s coming. I know, but until a moment ago I wasn’t sure if this birthday would be the one where – thanks to everything that’s come between us – Tori would break with her tradition. Every year, she gives me a book that made her think of me when she read it. They’re not just novels. They’re novels filled with her handwritten notes, Post-its and markings. It would be easy to underestimate how long it must take her to reproduce all her scribbles from her own tattered copy in a fresh one for me. Slipped between the pages are notes with Spotify codes and song lyrics that fit the text, printed out Pinterest photos that suit the mood and other things that matter to her. The end result is a work of art. A reading diary from her, made only for me. Being inside Tori’s head for a few hundred pages, reading her snappy comments, interpretations and dry jokes, which aren’t always easy to decipher, especially when she has a lot to say. Flicking through those books makes me feel as close to her as if she were lying there beside me. It might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. Because it’s personal and Tori always hits the mark.
I eye the book. This is the first in a new series by her favourite author, Hope MacKenzie. Tori idolizes her, so I know how significant this gift is. I flick through the first few pages and stop at one of the Post-its.
Happy Birthday, my very grown-up best friend – and I’m sorry for what I said.
I look up.
‘Genuinely sorry,’ Tori whispers, chewing gently on her bottom lip. ‘I’d take it back if I could.’
Me too, Tori, me too.
‘Say something,’ she whispers pleadingly.
I clap the book shut. ‘Thank you.’ I have to clear my throat. ‘And I’m sorry too.’
‘I’m so happy for you,’ she adds, ‘that you got the part. You deserve it.’
‘You would have deserved one too,’ I say, but stop when Tori shuts her eyes. I don’t want another argument. So I hastily step towards her.
She looks a bit startled as I hug her, but after a few seconds, she wraps her arms around me too.
She still smells of peach and, for a moment, everything’s like we’ve gone back in time a couple of years. If I shut my eyes, she’s not seeing Valentine Ward. And I can be the one to kiss her and fall asleep beside her.
Tori’s cheek brushes mine as we move apart. She pauses in front of me. Her gaze darts from my eyes to my lips and back again; her fingers run down my chest, slowly – she doesn’t pull them away. And, God, does she know what she’s doing? It’s more than just a casual touch, it’s soft and deliberate, and it does something inside me. A shiver runs through my body, Tori looks at me and her lips part slightly. I want to kiss her. Fuck, I really do. Every sound fades into the background, at least until I hear Gideon calling to me.
Tori pulls back and shoves her hands into her hoodie pockets. She steps past me; I follow her to the others. They seem to be talking about the uniform, and Tori immediately plunges into the debate, as always when the conversation comes around to how sexist it is that girls have to wear skirts not trousers on Mondays. Henry’s sister Maeve started it, and since then, theissue keeps bubbling up. There seem to be two camps – people who don’t really care, becauseit’s always been that way, and people who can’t wait to get it changed.
‘Yes, I know it’s only one day a week, but it’s the principle of the thing,’ says Tori.
‘What principle?’ someone asks. I’m not quite sure who because it really is hard not to keep looking at her the whole time.
‘For everyone to be able to wear what they like,’ she snaps.
‘So boys should be able to wear skirts, or what?’
‘You may find this hard to believe but, yeah, they really should.’ Tori and I turn simultaneously to Olive, who’s been sitting in an armchair in silence until now, not getting involved in the discussion. She and Tori look at each other until Olive breaks the eye contact.
‘Well, I wouldn’t mind wearing the school skirt now and then,’ Will says. His boyfriend Kit glances at him with a smile.
‘Has anyone ever asked Mrs Sinclair what she thinks about it?’ Emma enquires.
‘It’s tricky,’ Henry says, then he, Olive and Tori take turns to fill her in on all the conversations we’ve already had about the issue in the last few years. When Maeve was still at school here and kicked off the debate, it was amazing how many pupils were in favour of changing the uniform policy. It never came to anything, but I get a feeling it’s about time we raised the subject again.
10
SINCLAIR
We sat in the old greenhouse together for ages, talking into the wee hours of the morning. The hard core, which consists of Tori, Emma and Henry – and normally Olive too, but she went back to her wing early with the others. I came close to asking Tori if she’d like to sleep over at mine, the way Emma followed Henry into his room as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but that would have been pushing my luck. So I just hugged my best friend in the hallway that leads to the west wing, wished her goodnight and went back to my cold, empty bed, where I lay for ages, flicking through her notes in the book, until I must eventually have fallen asleep.
The next day, I get a cake for breakfast in the dining room and everyone comes to wish me a happy birthday. Even Mum gives me a hug when we bump into each other in the corridor. This evening, she and Dad are taking me out for dinner, and on Sunday my grandparents are coming round for tea. I’m really looking forward to it, but I could have done with a bit more sleep as I head to the riding school for stable duty. I don’t have an official lesson scheduled for today, but I’m hoping to exercise Jubilee. The Trakehner mare isn’t one of the school horses – she belongs to Kendra in the fourth form – but recently her owner has been less interested in her horse than in going out withher friends, so her parents and Mrs Smith, our riding teacher, agreed that I’ll care for Jubilee too. It’s amazing how easily I forget she isn’t actually mine since I’ve been working with her so often.
