“But this is important!I need to know what to do if he—”
“I think Colin’s perfectly capable of telling people what he needs,” Sinclair replies.
I stand up.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” I say, although I know perfectly well.“I need to go and do some research.I mean, don’t people with diabetes have to avoid too much sugar?He eats the whole time.”
“Sit down, Olive,” Henry orders, taking a quick breath.“There are different kinds of diabetes.Colin has type one.It’s genetic and mostly appears when you’re young.His body has stopped producing insulin, so he has to take it externally.And if his blood sugar is too low, he has to eat.”
I can’t speak.I had a go at Colin for eating in class, but he only did it because he had to.God, I’m stupid.I’m a total idiot.
And then my blood runs cold as I follow my friends’ eyes over to the door.
12
Colin
She knows.I’m absolutely certain of that when her eyes meet mine as I set foot in this stupid greenhouse.Admittedly it’s quite a nice venue with all the threadbare armchairs and sofas they’ve got here.Olive’s expression has changed.I see concern instead of disdain.
Word that I’m diabetic is gradually getting out, so it was only a matter of time before that fact reached her too.I was kind of surprised that her dad hadn’t mentioned it to her, but apparently he takes doctor–patient confidentiality seriously.
I immediately look away and bury my hands in my hoodie pockets.I’m already regretting having come.I didn’t even want to, but after first Sinclair and then Kit invited me, I thought I could at least give it a try.Besides, I couldn’t stand the idea of spending the whole weekend holed up in my room, wallowing in self-pity because Maresa’s snaps keep popping up in my head.
I stroll over to a bunch of guys from my English course, where I spot Kit too, give them a nod, and then glance aside.Suddenly, Olive Garden is standing in front of me.
“Hi,” she says curtly, her green, catlike eyes boring through me.Her long dark hair falls over her shoulders, the skin pale and soft-looking.Yeah, soft.I can’t think of another word for it.
“What’s up?”I say, forcing myself to look away again.Don’t want her thinking I’m pleased to see her because I’m not.Not one bit.
“We need to talk.”It sounds like a threat.Is she pissed with me again?What have I done now?
“At a party?”I laugh.“Crazy idea, Olive Garden.”
Before I have time to react, she’s grabbed my arm and is pulling me away.Past the others, to the door, and outside.The night is fresh, and I can’t help noticing how she shivers and hunches her shoulders.Briefly I consider lending her my sweater.But I’m not doing that.This isn’t some crappy teen romance.Quite apart from which, she’d be way too proud to accept anything from me.
“So...”I cross my arms and lean back against the wall behind us.“Talk to me.”
She doesn’t talk.She looks at me and swallows.My mouth kind of dries out.And then she does speak.
“I heard that you—” She pauses.“...You’re diabetic?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not catching,” I snap, but she’s not being scared off by that.
“I know it’s none of my business, but you’re going to tell me what to do in an emergency.”
I narrow my eyes to thin slits.
“I mean it, Fantino,” she insists.
I can see that, Olive Garden.“Why do you even care?”
“I don’t care.”
“You’re contradicting yourself every other sentence.”
“Yeah,” she says stubbornly.“Well?”
