“It was a big shock to her, but I’ve spoken to her.”Mum sighs.I clench my fists.“I hoped she’d take it better.”
“She’s seventeen, Meredith.Of course it’s the end of the world.”
“Do you think we’re doing the right thing, Neil?”
Silence.
“I think we are, love.”
3
Colin
There’s only one thing worse than sitting on a plane that’s sending you directly into exile in Scotland, and that’s sitting next to your mother on a plane that’s sending you directly into exile in Scotland.But I guess I should be grateful that Ava Fantino didn’t put me in shackles before having me transported across the Atlantic, and is onlyaccompanyingme.God knows what she’s scared of.That I’ll skip the flight to Heathrow and get a charter to the Bahamas instead?I consider myself pretty clever, but even I would have a hard time doing that after my parents froze all my cards.But fine, it is what it is.First stop London, then we get the next plane to the middle of nowhere.
There are hardly any direct flights from New York to Edinburgh, and that tells you everything you need to know.Looks like Mom and Dad deliberately hunted out the most remote boarding school in the world.
We think a reset, some time away from home, would help you to redefine your goals and to get a grip on what really matters in life.
A reset.Seriously.I’m still laughing.
At least until things have blown over.I’ll take care of the whole business.And you’ll use this time, finally, to learn the meaning of respect.
I don’t know what I expected.That it would be just talk, same as ever.That we’d fight it out around the kitchen table in our zillion-dollar penthouse because I’vecrossed the lineand I’m digging my own grave, et cetera, et cetera.But this time, they were dead serious.Froze my accounts, informed me that if I carry on like this, I could forget about accessing my trust fund when I turn twenty-one.I still feel like this isn’t real life, just some stupid movie.Less than seventy-two hours after the gym at Ainslee, Manhattan, burned to the ground, Mom had gotten a place for me at Dunbridge Academy.Scotland.Europe.Thousands of miles from my whole life to this point.Still, I guess I can be glad that it’s this school.The people there will speak something like my language.Or I assume so.The alternative would have been this mountain school up in the Swiss Alps or somewhere.The promo video on their website alone was enough—students in fancy uniforms speaking French and German with the sun setting in the background.
So Scotland.Crappy weather, even crappier food, ruined castles, sheep, total wilderness.But you can drink when you’re sixteen so, hey, Europe has its advantages.Though I doubt there are many parties at this school.I zoned out when they got to the 10:00p.m.curfew and the alcohol ban on the school premises.Sounds like hell, but I guess I deserve that.Not that I care.I’ll be out of there sooner than Mom can turn around.If she’s lucky, I’ll be able to open the door to our Upper East Side apartment for her in person when she gets back from her business trip to London.
God, I’m bitter.No way I’m the kind of son Ava Fantino wishedfor.But hey, she’s not the kind of mother I’d wish for either.I didn’t wish for any of this.I just want an easy life, back in New York, at another school, whatever.No way am I staying in Scotland.Just a few weeks and I’ll be back.Fuck it, I promised Cleo.And now I have to think about something else; if I remember my kid sister in tears at the airport as I went through security, my own fucking eyes start watering.I’ve hardly slept for days.It was bad.I dreamed about buildings in flames, sirens, ambulances, flashing lights.About getting into Paxton’s car andpartyingwith them because I’m a goddamn monster.Yeah, I called the fire department, but I was too scared to wait for the cops and answer questions.
I turn up my music and stare motionless out the airplane window at the suburbs we’re already descending over as “All for Us” by Labrinth and Zendaya pounds in my ears.Until a couple weeks ago, I didn’t even know where Edinburgh was.Why would I care?It’s not the kind of city I think about when I think about Europe.London would have been slightly better, but I’d have had too many “distractions” there, as Mom put it.
I glance over at her.She’s sitting upright in the business-class seat beside me, not deigning to look at me.Her entire attention is focused on her iPhone, no doubt answering emails of earth-shattering importance, or canceling vital meetings.I seriously wonder how she survived transatlantic flights back when there was no Wi-Fi on planes.I can’t talk, though.The new season ofEuphoriawas all that got me through the last few hours.Sleep was impossible.My mind was circling too much.Has been since last week.Since I read the headlines.Since there’s been no denying that I’m the worst person in the world, too chickenshit even totake responsibility for my own actions.I don’t know why I didn’t go to the police but to Mom, who looked at me and nodded.She said she’d make a few calls and I shouldn’t speak to anyone.How was I supposed to know that she’d also be getting me a place at boarding school to keep me out of the line of fire?I should have gone to the cops and confessed.Simple.I wanted to, once I realized what Mom and Dad were doing.Calling in every favor to clear my—and therefore their—name.Because that’s all that ever matters.No way the press can ever hear that Ava Fantino’s son is in deep shit.For real this time.But I didn’t even have to give evidence, unlike my classmates who were questioned by the police as witnesses after Homecoming.I’ve never felt as sick as I did when I saw their panicked messages in our group chat.
Since then, everything went so fast that I felt like I was watching from outside as I packed my suitcase and said goodbye to Dad and Cleo at the airport.
I couldn’t read Mom’s face as I gave my little sister one last hug.She clung to my hoodie, wouldn’t let go.Not even when I whispered again and again that I’d be back soon.I’m sure of that.Mom and Dad can send me to a goddamn boarding school across the Atlantic to stop the truth coming out, but I’m a world champion at breaking the rules.It’s only a matter of time before I’m back in New York.And then...no clue.No way I can go back to Ainslee.But there are other private schools in Manhattan: Worthington, Burton, Atkinson...I’d have no problem with Carnegie or some public high school either.At least then I’d be with the people I call my friends, even if Mom and Dad see them as second-class citizens.My friends who thought Iwas kidding when I messaged them to say my parents were serious this time.
Mom looks up, so I quickly turn away.Can’t let her think this fazes me.It was damn hard to hold my poker face the whole flight though.Earlier, when we transferred in Heathrow, and I suddenly saw prices in pounds on the signs and heard unfamiliar British accents as people hurried past us, it was a shock—made it clear that this was really happening.That my dad wasn’t making empty threats and that my mom is here in person to guarantee that I really get to this boarding school and don’t take some shortcut right back to the States.To be honest, she’s only doing it because she can combine it with a business trip to London.I think she’s filming an ad for Tag Heuer and then with Chris Marchant, a colleague who had a talk show in LA for years.He was never as successful as my mother, or not until he came home to Britain recently to start over.But in the States,Late Night with Ava Fantinohas been the number-one talk show for at least ten years now.There’s not one A-lister that Mom hasn’t had on as her guest.Musicians, actors, politicians, influencers—everyone seems to be just waiting for the accolade of an invitation from her.
A humorless smile plays around my lips: Nobody has a clue what this woman’s like off camera.The whole world admires Ava Fantino.A career woman with a quirky sense of humor, a beaming smile, and a perfect family.But I see my mom on-screen more often than I do at home.Dad’s not much different, even though he has no taste for the media spotlight.He’s just as busy serving as legal eagle to Mom and the rest of New York high society, covering their asses.And now mine.It’s as gross asit sounds.Every time I heard the doorbell in the last few days, my pulse shot up because I was expecting it to be the cops, coming to take me away, like I deserve.But I didn’t speak to anyone, just got on the plane to England.I only read online articles and screaming headlines: Investigations.Potential arson.Electrical fault, accident, we’d know more soon.
I shut my eyes because I feel as nauseous as I did that night.
I stomped out the toilet paper.It wasn’t burning when I left the bathroom; I know it wasn’t...But the fact is, the gym was on fire just a few moments later when I got outside and turned around.Flames lighting up the New York night sky, fire-engine sirens, people screaming.And I just ran away like a fucking coward.
I clench my fists and silently curse the airport security guy who confiscated my lighter back in New York.Obviously I know you can’t have open flames on a plane, but I thought you were allowed a lighter.The officer wasn’t interested in a discussion about it, though, maybe because it’s one of those windproof ones that can make a pretty big flame, and I didn’t want to risk Mom hearing about it.
It’s not so bad.Of course there’s another in my checked baggage—and that really is against the rules.So I have to pray they haven’t removed it, in which case I’ll have to find some alternative.I guess I should be grateful I don’t have anything on me.Scratching and cutting and all that shit really isn’t my thing.But I don’t know whether I’d control myself if I could take a lighter to the bathroom right now.Fuck, I’ve got a real problem, I know that, but I can’t tell a soul.I haven’t self-harmed since the Homecoming Ball.God knows how I’ve managed that.Maybe because Iwas too scared of getting caught.All I know is that the pressure is building and I’ve spent days feeling like a vent with someone’s finger over it.It’s only a matter of time until the next explosion.
The fresh air as we step out of arrivals in Edinburgh helps a little, but as soon as I sit down next to Mom in this car that’s taking us to the school, I feel like a caged animal.Then I almost have a heart attack as the driver turns into the oncoming traffic at the first intersection.I open my mouth but can’t speak.I stare in shock at Mom.She’s totally unfazed, and it takes me three more seconds to get it.United Kingdom.Drive on the left.God, anyone would think I’d never been out of the States before.Let’s put it down to lack of sleep.Mom just raises her eyebrows scornfully as I sink down again.My heart is still pounding, my palms are clammy, and it’s only when I start to feel a bit dizzy too that I catch on: There might be some other reason for my edginess and horrible feeling of panic.
Mom’s eyes drift over me as I bring up the app where my current blood-sugar levels are transmitted from the sensor on my arm.She glances at the display as I reach for the croissant we were given on the plane and I’d kept for later.It’s gone stale and I hardly manage a mouthful.Lack of sleep is doing its shit.I don’t have to look to know that I’m low.
“Everything OK, Colin?”Mom’s voice is reproachful and cool.Almost like I did this deliberately.But I didn’t choose to get this diagnosis at the age of eleven, when my entire survival started to depend on injecting the insulin that my crappy pancreas ought to be producing for itself.
“Yeah.”I try not to sound grouchy, which she’d just blame on low blood sugar.“Everything’sfine.”
“You have an appointment to introduce yourself to the school doctor this week,” says Mom, eyes front again.“He’s been informed.You seem to be the only diabetic at the school, by the way.”
