So of course, I don’t feature in any of the articles this time either.
Ainslee School Fire—Investigations Continue
NYPD Calls on Witnesses to Come Forward
Then there’s a phone number and the name of the department involved.
“You OK?”
I snap my head up and look straight into Olive Garden’s green eyes.
“Yeah,” I snarl, hastily slipping my phone away.Did she see anything?I hope not.I don’t want anyone here to know about it, even though it would serve me right if they did.
“So which are you going to be?”
What’s she talking about?I frown and Olive points to the whiteboard, where Mr.Acevedo has put up a dialogue to practice.
“Whichever,” I say.“I’ll take B.”
“Fine.”She gives me a suspicious look, then focuses on the task.
18
Olive
It wasn’t a lie.I kissed Colin Fantino in the heat of the moment.It wasn’t planned, but I don’t regret it.It felt too good for that.
All the same, I’m pretty confused.This afternoon things were kind of different between us.We still bickered and fought a war with words as we cleaned according to Mr.Carpenter’s instructions, but Colin doesn’t look at me the way he used to.I wish I was even a wee bit less bothered about that, but the truth is that I spent the whole morning sitting in class unable to concentrate on anything.I don’t know which is worse: the time I spend sitting in classrooms with him where it feels like the air between us is crackling with tension, or the time without him, when I’m analyzing the shit out of last night and our kiss in the swimming pool.
It isn’t until I get to my bedroom for study hour this afternoon, after our first cleaning duty, that I have time to stalk Colin on social media in peace.Not that I hadn’t already done that.But it seems that as well as his public Instagram account, he has a private one that he updates way more often.God knows how I missed the fact that he’s been following me from that one for awhile.I follow him back right away because I’m nosy.Besides, it feels desperately urgent to find out all about Colin Fantino.As if I could find the answer to whether or not the kiss, and everything he showed me of himself yesterday evening, was genuine, hidden somewhere among his Insta photos and TikToks.
After twenty minutes’ scrolling and careful zooming into pictures to make sure I haven’t accidentally missed any chance to give him a hey-I-stalked-you like, I’ve come to the conclusion that his life in New York was pretty crazy.I’ve probably experienced less in the last six months than Colin did in a week.And that’s got nothing to do with my having spent a good chunk of that time in hospital.Colin knows thousands of people, goes to parties—it looks as if he was having a bloody good time—and now he’s here.I’m gradually starting to understand why he considers Dunbridge and Ebrington so lame.There’s none of that here.If you’ve been at the school for seven years, you don’t know anything different, but to him, the contrast must be massive.
Once I’ve gone through his whole feed, I focus on his story highlights and get goose bumps every time I hear Colin’s voice on a video.Reposts of his friends’ stuff, Colin in his slouchy jackets and baseball caps.He looks just the way I imagine New York lads.I find it almost impossible to imagine that this Colin and the one who turns up reluctantly to Monday-morning assemblies in full uniform are the same person.The next story makes me freeze.Colin with a girl, blond hair tumbling down her back.You get just a glimpse of them before the camera pans away, but Colin’s got his arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.I watch it again.And again.
Fourteen weeks ago.
OK, that’s quite a long time and, anyway, I don’t care.So why do I go through the stories in the accounts he tagged until I find the girl?
Maresa Vega has one of those Instagram accounts that consists only of fuzzy snapshots.I know how time-consuming it is to take that sort of snap, the kind that says:Hey, my life is so much more exciting than yours that I don’t even have time to take posed photos.Even so, her selfies are elegant and her legs are long.She has no photos with Colin.At least not at first glance, but then I trawl through her latest photo dump and find him in the next-to-last image.A kiss, and not so long ago.I kind of want to work it out, but my mind has suddenly stood still.
The only thing I know is that that wasn’t fourteen weeks ago.It’s way less.A week or two longer than Colin’s been here at Dunbridge.She must have uploaded the photos just before he left New York.And now he’s here, kissing me in the swimming pool.
That’s not true.I kissed him.But he didn’t do anything to stop me.He let me kiss him, and then he kissed me back.Even though there’s a Maresa Vega in New York who posts photos with him and is presumably longing for him to come home to her.
I could boak when I understand what that means.I got into something with a guy who’s in a relationship, or at least something that was important enough to him and Maresa for there to be photos of them both on the internet.I don’t want to, but I look at more of Maresa’s stories.Colin’s only in them now and again, but when he is, it’s very clear that they’re more than just friends.You can rarely see their faces, but I recognize Colin Fantino’sarms when I see them.His hands around my hips, pulling me toward him.
My heart is thumping in my throat when I eventually close Instagram.I can hardly move.I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.All I want to do just now is to confront Colin fucking Fantino, but study hour hasn’t finished yet, and after last night, I don’t want to bump into Ms.Barnett.
My thoughts won’t stop whirling.
How could he let that happen?Did he think she’d never find out so it was perfectly fine to kiss women on the other side of the Atlantic?Maresa is so going to find out.I’d love to send her a DM to prove to her that her so-called boyfriend is a cheating bastard, but I’ll save that up for later, once I’m done with Fantino.I don’t pick up a single book for the rest of study hour, but use the time to keep stoking my rage.Almost the moment the tower clock strikes five, I grab my key and slam the door behind me.Up on the boys’ wing, the first of them are out and about.I ignore them all and head right for Fantino’s room.
I knock but don’t wait for an answer, just open the door.
Fantino’s chilling on his bed, and Sinclair’s across the room pulling on his jodhpurs.They glance up simultaneously as I stand there in the doorway.
“D’you mind?I’m naked here,” protests Sinclair, but I ignore him and walk over to Fantino.
