Although I only glimpse her once more before she leaves school for the day, it’s with an entourage of three players, none of whom looks to be disentangling from her company anytime soon.
“What’s that about?” I growl to Trent when he flags me for a lift home. “I thought you were just going to buy her lunch.”
“She’s cool,” he says, as though that’s some kind of explanation. “And you’re the one who told the school we were all banging her. If we treat her poorly when she’s meant to be putting out, how’s that going to look for our future prospects?”
Damn good if past behaviour is anything to go by, but I know he’s winding me up for some unknown reason and let the matter drop.
“Don’t worry,” he adds after a long pause. “They know better than to make a move without your go-ahead. And most of them have girls already.”
Although I keep my face impassive, my internal organs are close to failure before I drop Trent at his place, a few streets away from where I live.
His father and mine are colleagues or acquaintances or whatever the hell it’s called when you don’t have genuine friendships but cultivate a social life with people of the same standing to avoid associating with the lower classes.
I’d call them buddies, but sometimes I think they can barely stand to be in the same room.
I head for my place after, then abruptly twist the wheel in the opposite direction, and decide to drop by the dairy on Milward Street. Partly because I suddenly fancy a pie that’s been under the glare of a warming oven all day long. Mostly because a little bird told me it’s where Lilac works after school some days.
She startles when I walk through the door, earning a confused glance from the woman sharing space with her behind the counter. I saunter over to the pie warmer and load four into paper bags, then stop by the drinks’ fridge for a six pack of beer, adding a snack pack of chips on top of my haul for good luck.
“ID,” she says, barely checking the 18+ card I produce since she already knows my age. A smile lightly dances on her lips before it falls into a habitual customer service mask, pleasant but not too pleasant, and I ask, “Something funny?”
The older lady behind the counter stares with beady-eyed interest as Lilac rings me up.
“Just thinking that Trent lectured me for most of the lunch break on how the team has to concentrate on getting the right mix of protein and good fats to build muscle mass for training.” She taps on the beer cans. “Not sure what part of the food pyramid that falls under.” Her smile reappears. “Or those.” She nods at the pies.
“Trent’s a lot better at following instructions.”
“Is he?” A confused expression crosses her face. “And what were his instructions today?”
Not clear enough, obviously.
I ignore the question to ask one of my own. “What time d’you get off here?”
CHAPTEREIGHT
LILAC
As I nearthe end of my shift, my stomach tenses. Mrs Kuzmanic warbles about the perils of shoplifters—her greatest nemesis and something she constantly warns me will be the end of their business—and it’s all I can do to smile and nod.
Relief floods through me when Zach returns. Not because I want to see him, but it stops my brain from constructing images of what else might be in store for me. Given the rubbish that was stuffed into my head at an early age, it’s extremely good at frightening me. The reality of one teenage boy doesn’t seem nearly as scary.
“I’ll give you a lift home,” he says, waving goodbye to my boss.
Given the force with which he holds onto my upper arm, I’m not in a position to say no.
“You’re meant to be torturing me,” I remind him as we reach his vehicle; a Bentley Bentayga in some weird shade of grey that’s nearly but not quite black. “This doesn’t fit in with your evil plans.”
“Don’t presume to know what my plans are,” he says with a wink, getting behind the wheel. “All you need to focus on is fulfilling my wishes.”
Even in a seller’s market, my flat probably isn’t worth as much as Zach’s car. Why he’s trusting enough to park it on the street or at school is a little baffling, but he’s probably got it set up to zap anyone who lays a finger on it. I settle into the passenger seat, determined to enjoy the ride even if the company isn’t up to scratch.
We’re halfway home when he asks, “You don’t like English?”
I take a second to realise he’s talking about our one shared class. “I like it fine for speaking. For everything else, not so much.” I shrugged Trent’s jacket off when I got in the car, and it now lays across my lap. My fingers pluck at the pockets of fabric as I think how out of depth I feel in the class. “My jam’s more maths and science. Stuff you can directly observe or calculate instead of trying to guess at.”
“You like numbers?”
“Sure. Eighty hundred and seventy-nine is especially good to cuddle up with at night.”
