I shovel them into my mouth.
Nothing proper about the way I eat, not right now.
Mouthful after mouthful, flakes misting in the air, crumbs falling onto my lap, I gorge myself until the traffic picks up, and more and more students are coming through the doors.
When I say I rushed out of class, and raced all the way down here, I mean it. Because it’s only now that the rest of the class are coming in—and two trays set down on the table, across from me.
I drift my gaze up from the trays, over thin arms covered by too-wide shirt sleeves, the sort of fabric that reminds me of parchment, then up the bony necks I recognise, peppered with some angry red spots, and finally, their familiar faces.
Courtney and James sink into the seats opposite me. Across the table. Not beside me…
They usually sit beside me.
I arch a brow. “Uh, hello?”
They mutter the word back to me. But neither of them looks at me.
My gaze cuts between the pair.
Not a flicker of a glance my way.
Something is definitely amiss with these two. A grudge I know nothing about. Or a new alliance formed between the two that excludes me.
My heart flutters at the thought, ice-cold.
I latch my stare onto the weaker twin. “How are you feeling?”
James can’t resist a good whinge.
He lifts his dull gaze to me, a sullen look quick to sag his face. “I have pains here.” He rubs his stomach before he rolls his hand over his forearm. “And an ache here,” then he leans his temple to his palm, “and my head is splitting.” He sighs and drops his hand to the table. “But the witchdoctor kicked me out of the infirmary this morning. She said she was going to harvest my organs if I don’t get out.”
Sounds about right.
I scrape the prongs of the fork over the mound of beans. Now that the lumps of hashbrowns and bacon strips and square sausages have settled in my stomach, I find I’m not so hungry anymore.
“Well,” I say, “you look fine.”
The truth is that he looks like he’s been run over by a horse-drawn carriage in the witch-hunt days. But he doesn’t look sore. Just frazzled with those dark circles around his eyes, the puffiness of his narrow face, the crumpled collar of his shirt.
James slouches over his tray.
Courtney looks at me over the thick rim of her glasses. “What happened over the break? You didn’t respond to my last letter.”
Ah. There it is.
That’s why my reception is so cold.
I did forget to respond.
In my defence, my whole world exploded all around me, and that left me a bit distracted.
But these grim events in my life, they aren’t for Courtney’s ears.
I know what she’ll say if I tell her anything about it. She’ll order me to just not marry Dray, to stand up to my father, to walk away—tell me that I don’t need this life. Because even after all these years, she still can’t see that no one in this fucking world has a choice.
Not even she can walk away from this, not alive, and I don’t think she’s figured that out yet.
I snatch the banana from my tray. “The usual. Lots of yachts and lots of politics,” I peel the yellow skin, then tear off a chunk before I sigh, “and lots of Dray.”
