Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute(5)

“You in Taylor’s philosophy class?” Donno asks as he hauls me to my feet.

“Yeah, why?”

“Me too.” He claps me on the back and jogs off to the rest of our group.

“I thought you were in different classes?” Jordan asks.

“We were last year.” Apparently, the schedule’s changed.

Even knowing that, I don’t put two and two together until I’ve trekked across campus and reached Mr. Taylor’s room. If Donno’s tiny Philosophy class has merged with mine, guess who I’ll be discussing Voltaire with this year?

Celine Bangura.

I stand in the doorway and stare at her like a creep. She doesn’t notice me because she’s talking to Sonam Lamba, so for once, I’m watching her smile instead of scowl. There’s some kind of rose-colored makeup on her chubby cheeks which stands out against her dark brown skin. Her braids are long and fine and pool on the table, almost black with a few neon-green strands that frame her face.

Basically, she looks the way she always does—like a terrible, horrible person who I absolutely can’t stand.

“Sorry,” she’s saying to Sonam, “I can’t. I’m busy Thursday night. Actually, you might want to look at this.” She riffles through her bag. “It’s for an enrichment program run by Katharine Breakspeare. Do you know her? You should come.”

Now, Sonam is a very cool girl, so I’ve never been able to figure out why she and Celine are friends. Celine’s judgmental; Sonam’s infinitely chill. Celine wants to be superior to everyone; Sonam is a violin genius with epic purple glasses who stomps around in these incredible goth boots, which makes her superior to Celine (who just stomps around). And finally, Celine thinks she’s the queen of the universe, which is why it’s pretty funny to hear Sonam tell her, “Nah.”

“But it’s going to be great,” Celine insists. “The BEP has an excellent reputation. If you get in, you could add it to your uni applications—”

Trust Celine to bring up university applications on the first day of school. I bet she’s only applying to Oxford or Cambridge or, like, Harvard, and she’s convinced she’s going to get in because she’s so smart and so special and—

“Ah, Bradley!” Mr. Taylor notices me, his apple cheeks flushed pink by the heat. “I do believe you’re the last passenger on our most noble voyage of philosophical discovery.”

Everyone looks up at me. I snatch my eyes away from Celine like she’s the sun. “Er, yeah. Hi, sir.”

“Well then,” he booms in a Shakespearean voice that doesn’t match his bony frame. “Come in, come in, don’t delay! Sit down, and let’s get started.”

Mr. Taylor’s a great guy, so I would love to do as he asks. But the only open seat is right next to Celine.





CHAPTER TWO





CELINE


If I’m going to study law at Cambridge next year (which I definitely am), I need at least an A in Philosophy. That’s the only reason I don’t climb out of Mr. Taylor’s window when I see Bradley standing in the doorway.

He looks at me and visibly winces, like I’m dog poo or something. His mate Donno, who is deeply annoying but usually easy to ignore (much like a gnat), snickers from across the room. “Bad luck, Bradders.”

My cheeks heat. With the burning hellfire of rage, obviously.

People like them—“popular” people who think sports and looks and external approval are a valid replacement for actual personality—ironically don’t have the social skills to deal with anyone outside their golden circle. I should know. Once upon a time, back when I was young and clearly going through some stuff because my decision-making matrix was severely off, I used to be best friends with Bradley Graeme.

Then he threw himself headfirst into the gelatinous beast that is popularity and was sucked away and transformed. Now he might as well be a slimy, shiny alien. I look him in the eye and let him see all my disdain.

Bradley discovers the tiniest fragment of a spine somewhere within himself, storms over, and sits down next to me. Actually, he throws himself resentfully into the seat and smacks me in the face with his deodorant. Or his aftershave. Or whatever it is that makes him smell so strongly of just-cut grass. School chairs aren’t wide enough to cope with my thighs, and he manspreads like a walking stereotype, so our legs bump for a literally sickening second before I snatch mine away.

“Celine,” Sonam whispers, leaning into my left side. “Stop looking at him like that.”

“Like what?” I whisper back, but I already know what she means. I have this small problem where my feelings leak out of my face, and my feelings are often intense.

“If he turns up dead tomorrow, you’re going to be arrested.” Considering Sonam’s permanently solemn expression, black-on-black fit, and the way her lanky limbs barely fit under the table, this is like receiving an ominous tarot reading from a goth spider.

“You guys are crap at whispering,” Bradley butts in, “just so you know.”

I jerk in my seat, appalled that he would have the gall to speak to me so casually. For God’s sake, we are enemies. There are rules to this sort of thing. He’s not supposed to address me unless he’s calling me a know-it-all or challenging me to a duel.