“Ah. Sorry. That’s a pretty name.”
She snorts. “I mean, it’s…a name.”
I grin. I think we’re going to get on fine.
After some more chitchat about the lighting in here （fluorescent but still abysmal）， the pillowcases （thank God we both brought our own）， and the tiny desk crammed in under the window （that chair does not look stable; accidental injury is extremely likely）， I tighten the silk scrunchie holding back my braids and we head out.
Unfortunately, we bump into Bradley in the hall.
“Celine,” he calls, peeling off from his new group of adoring fans （seriously, how does he find these people?）。
I sigh, not slowing my steps as we wind through the narrow and twisty corridors. The cabin should be called the Warren. “What?”
“Slow down,” he says, practically skipping beside me. “I wanna talk.”
Aurora, based on her wide-eyed alarm, has correctly identified Bradley as Shiny and Annoying. “I’ll…see you outside,” she manages, and hurries off toward the open front door. I watch her escape with utter longing.
Then I turn on Bradley and put a hand on my hip. “Now look. You’ve scared off my roommate!”
He blinks, all big brown eyes and pouty lips. “Why would she be scared of me?”
This is such a ridiculous question, all I can do is throw my hands in the air and splutter, “For God’s sake. What do you want?”
“What’s your room like?” he asks.
“Shitty. Why?”
He sighs, a little furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “I was hoping yours might be better so we could swap.”
This is so outrageous it quite literally steals my breath.
He continues to talk while I quietly asphyxiate. “Anyway, I wanted to talk about your roommate. You guys made friends?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, just nods. “That’s good. She can keep an eye on you.”
My breath comes back all at once. “I beg your pardon?”
He shrugs. He’s wearing a Nike tracksuit, powder pink on the right side and baby blue on the left. “I made friends, too, so they can keep an eye on me.”
Okay, that’s making even less sense. “Once again,” I say, folding my arms over my chest, “I am forced to beg your pardon.”
“Aw, Celine,” he replies sunnily. “You don’t have to beg.”
This is the thing people don’t get about Bradley: he makes these earnest, slightly dim comments, and they genuinely do not realize he is being a total cow.
I narrow my eyes. “You know what? Since we’re talking, let’s make one thing clear.”
“Oh good,” he murmurs, “she’s making things clear.”
“While we’re here, Bradley Graeme, I do not know you.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Well, that’s gonna be awkward. I already told Thomas you were my cousin.”
“What?! Who the hell is— Why would you tell someone I’m your cousin?”
“He’s my roommate,” Bradley says, “and I told him that to explain why he should not ask you out.”
“What?” The word is so high-pitched, it’s possible I shatter my own eardrums.
Bradley winces. “What? We’re supposed to be looking out for each other!”
“What the fuck, Bradley?”
“You basically are my cousin!”
“I’m not your cousin, Bradley!”
He has the audacity to look annoyed, with his arms folded and this crease between his eyebrows that says I’m being unreasonable. “Well, whoever you are, you don’t want some guy chatting you up while you’re busy impressing Katharine Breakspeare!”
He is technically right—I can’t be bothered with distractions right now—but that just pisses me off more, because how dare he accurately guess what I do or don’t want?! “You do realize Katharine isn’t going to be here, right?”
“Fine,” he huffs. “Then you don’t want him chatting you up while you’re impressing Katharine’s holy representatives on earth.”
“That is not funny.” That was very funny. I hate him. “You are the most unbelievably arrogant—”
Someone clears their throat. Loudly. We both whip around to find the Energizer Bunny, Zion, waiting for us by the door with a disappointed expression and a leather-encased tablet. “You’re missing the introductory meeting, guys.”
Oh shit. First day, first meeting, and one of the supervisors catches me wasting time with Bradley Goddamn Graeme. Perfect. Just perfect. I am going to eat at least five sticks of broccoli at dinner as penance.
“Gosh, sorry,” Bradley says in the kind of sweet, genuine apology I have never managed to achieve （not since I turned ten anyway）。 My own voice sounds sarcastic at the best of times, never mind when following Bradley’s Earnest Angel routine, so I just wince and follow them outside, where the wind is doing its best to inject us all with thousands of tiny ice needles.
Bradley, I kid you not, pulls out a pink woolly hat from somewhere and jams it on his head until his ears are covered, and the tips of his twists peek out like adorable bits of tinsel. I can’t stand this boy.
We step into the short, midmorning shadows at the edge of Sherwood Forest, sidling over to the circle of Breakspeare Explorers who are listening avidly to an older, bearded white guy in a green anorak. I recognize the leaf-printed lanyard around his neck as part of the groundskeepers’ uniform.
Sherwood Forest is close to home, but I haven’t visited since…well. Since Dad took me and Giselle hiking here, a little before my ninth birthday. It was a weird trip. He was on his phone a lot and he got annoyed with us over the slightest things—Giselle’s moodiness, my nonstop questions. At least now I know why. His mind was elsewhere.
You’d think the forest would seem smaller, now that I’ve grown, but if anything, it’s bigger because I’m more aware of its darkness. The weather is bitter and gray; the forest is vast and stuffed with ancient trees I can’t identify—trees whose highest leaves I could never reach and whose massive trunks I could never fit my arms around. From here, I can see a rugged path into the undergrowth that’s for hiking, and I know there’s plenty more scattered about. This cabin sits on the south side of the forest and a gift shop and restaurant sit to the north, but between those two spots of civilization there’s nothing but wild and twisty woods that’ll take a hell of a lot of trekking. That tracks. According to my mental itinerary, this week is for learning key survival skills—testing our resilience, our relationship building, maybe our leadership, all while not getting eaten by wolves. （Supposedly, England doesn’t have wolves, but in my opinion, official sources of information are not to be blithely trusted.）
Brad and I try to slide into the circle without notice, but the bearded man stops whatever he was saying and pins piercing blue eyes on us. The wind whips his sparse hair upright on his head, and his upper lip wiggles like he’s scenting the air. “Ah,” he says in a tone so pointed it’s basically a health hazard. “These are our latecomers, are they?”
Every eye in this circle is burning into my forehead.