Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(3)

Apparently, anyone interested in the details can attend a meeting in Nottingham later this week. I flip the leaflet over, searching for a map, but instead I see a QR code labeled “RSVP” and the logos of all the companies involved. The list is long. Some are huge, like Boots; some are small but powerful, like Games Workshop; and I see plenty of law firms, too, which is—

Oh.

My dad’s firm is a sponsor.

Minnie sees my face, then follows my gaze. “What? What?” She squints at the page.

“Wear your glasses, Michaela,” I mutter sharply.

“Not with these lashes.” She bats her falsies at me (I think I feel a breeze), then reads “?‘Lawrence, Needham and Soro, corporate law, established 1998.’?”

I swallow hard. My throat is dry again. I chug some more water.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Minnie says. “I do need that, you know. You want me to dry up like a prune?” She reclaims the mammoth bottle and says, “Soro. Why does that sound familiar? Soro, Soro—”

“My dad works there.”

Minnie winces. She’s my best friend, so we know stuff about each other’s families. As in, I know her gran’s a lesbophobic cowbag and she knows my dad ditched us for his second family ten years ago and I haven’t seen him since. The usual girl stuff. Grimacing, she squeaks, “Maybe the sponsoring firms won’t be super involved?”

“I honestly couldn’t care less.” I’m not lying. He’s the one with something to be ashamed of. I’m the one who’s a credit to my family name.

Which is Bangura, not Soro, thank you very much.

I slip the leaflet into my bag, pressed between the pages of a textbook to keep it fresh and uncreased. “I’ll think about this. Thanks, Min.”

She blows me a kiss as the bell rings, and we get up for class. Only then do I realize who slunk into the Beech Hut while Minnie and I were talking.

Bradley Graeme is here.

Alongside, you know, a ton of other people, but he stands out as the King of Uselessness. He and his breathless fan club are ensconced at their usual table, miles away from the admin office, which allows them to get away with breaking all kinds of rules.

Case in point: Bradley Graeme is currently bouncing a Completely Illicit Football off his head. His short, shiny twists are jumping, and his grin is wide and carefree the way only a truly terrible person’s can be.

Minnie leans in as we walk by. “Do you think Brad’s applying to Cambridge?”

“Of course he is,” I mutter. When does he ever miss a chance to show off?

“So, you might see him at interviews and stuff. Right?”

Ugh. God forbid. “I don’t care, stop looking at him.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You started it.”

Yeah, well. Who can avoid looking at Bradley? His sheer annoyingness creates its own gravitational pull.

His fan club—consisting of 70 percent boys’ football team and 30 percent girls whose parents pay for their mammoth Depop wardrobes, which equals 100 percent skinny, glowing people who practice TikTok dances unironically and spend their weekends being bland and hooking up at house parties—is absolutely entranced by his tomfoolery like they’ve never seen a ball before. Except for Jordan Cooper, who rolls his eyes, snatches the ball out of the air, and says in his flat American accent, “Cut it out, or Mr. Darling will rip you a new one.”

(Mr. Darling is our head of year, a tightly wound geography teacher who hands out detentions like he gets paid by the hour.)

Bradley just laughs as if he fears nothing in the world—which is an absolute lie. But then, I’ve always believed he is fake and false and entirely made of earth-destroying plastic, so…that tracks.

I’m in the process of looking away with withering disdain when he—inconvenient down to his very soul—glances up and catches my eye. Great. I give him my filthiest look, but his grin doesn’t falter.

In fact, it gets wider. He raises his eyebrows, and I can practically read his thoughts: Watching me again, Bangura?

I glare. You wish.

His smile turns into a smirk.

Ugh.





BRAD


September’s supposed to be fresh and crisp like the empty pages of my brand-new notebook, but so far, it’s murky and hot as balls. When Max Donovan drags the gang up to the field at lunch and asks, “Five-a-side?” I look at him like he’s off his nut. What, does he want me to sweat through my first-day-of-school outfit?

“No thanks,” Jordan says while I’m still contemplating the horrors of unplanned exercise. He doesn’t mind sweating out of uniform; he just has this thing about treating his Yeezys right.

Donno rolls his eyes and chucks the ball my way. “Bradders. You in?”

I’m not, but I can’t resist the urge to keep it off the ground. A quick tap with my right foot, my left, then my knee, then my chest. “No thanks,” I say, and do it again.

“Show-off,” Jordan murmurs.

I stick my tongue out at him and kick the ball back to Donno, who snorts derisively. “Christ, you’re a pair of wet wipes.” He’s our team captain, in possession of a killer left foot, floppy golden hair, and sparkling blue eyes. His smiles are always wide and mocking, barely hiding his fangs. I used to have the most unholy crush on him. “What about the rest of you pillocks?”