“Um, no,” Thomas says with the perfect touch of bafflement, “I don’t think so…”
Silent. Everyone, everything, is silent. I hold my breath for way too long before Zion replies, “All right, then. Night.”
My heart rate begins to slow, despite the very creepy hooting going on in the MASSIVE GODDAMN FOREST BEHIND ME. I don’t think Brad’s going to leave me out here. Which is a strange realization to have, when I’ve spent so long thinking of him as evil incarnate.
I lean back against the roughly textured wall of the cabin. At least the star-studded sky is pretty. If I had my phone, I could film this for a video about spooky season folklore, but I don’t, so I just stuff my hands under my shirt to keep them warm and wait for Brad to let me back in.
Thirty-six clouds have passed over the moon and I’ve thought about being dragged off into the woods by a hot werewolf nine times before the window clicks and eases open. I whip around and Brad’s eyes are somehow bright in the dark, gleaming like ink. “Celine,” he whispers, and I feel his breath on my cheek. Then the thirty-seventh cloud moves, and moonlight floods the space between us, and he realizes I’m standing approximately 3.2 centimeters away. “Oh.” He pulls back hard. There’s a pause before he’s right there again—not his face, but his hands, and they’re even warmer than they were before, red-hot. “Celine,” he says, “you’re freezing.”
I bump my head on the window. “Shit.”
“Shhhh,” someone tells me in the dark.
Brad tuts over his shoulder. “Shut up. She’s cold.” He turns back to me. The way I clamber into the room is not exactly graceful. He catches me when I stumble. I tread on his toes. Instead of collapsing in agony, he says, “Your feet are wet.”
“Um.”
“Sit down.” He pushes me toward the bed. I half land on Aurora—I can tell it’s her because she’s incredibly bony and because she squeaks “Ouch” like a little mouse.
“Sorry,” I whisper, then jump out of my skin when Brad drops to his knees in front of me. “Bradley. What are you going to do? Dry my feet with your hair?”
“Shut up,” he mutters, and drags a blanket from somewhere and touches my feet. Well, he pats them awkwardly with the blanket, but still. I think I am going to pass out. My stomach isn’t in knots; it’s in bows that loop and unloop with every heartbeat.
Okay, so I have a theory: Bradley Graeme isn’t two people, two faces, a best friend and an enemy. He is just one person, just one face. The other is smoke and mirrors.
Time to prove which is which. And maybe prove myself a complete and utter monster in the process.
“Aren’t you two cousins?” Thomas demands in the dark.
Solemnly, Aurora says, “They’re a very close family.”
“Aurora!” Raj is clearly delighted. “God, I enjoy you.”
Sophie snorts. “That’s one way of putting it.”
Another cloud passes over the moon. When Brad looks up and grins at me, I smile back.
SATURDAY, 11:01 A.M.
Brad: hey
Brad:
Brad: guess who that is
Celine: Why are u texting me rn. We are like ten feet apart and we’re meant to be building a fire.
Brad: just guess
Celine: idk
Brad: it’s Holly
Brad: on her birthday
Celine: I should never have given you my new number
CHAPTER EIGHT
CELINE
The Thursday after our first BEP expedition, I’m back in the Beech Hut （was school always this bland and gray?） trying to halt Minnie’s meltdown. “I’m sure you did amazing yesterday.”
“And I’m sure I didn’t.” Her voice is quiet because it’s midafternoon and the building’s at least half full, but she’s shouting at me in spirit if not in volume. Her eyes are wide. Her hair is especially big today and vibrating with panic. “I was about as graceful as a newborn giraffe.”
I blink. “Is that…bad, or…？”
She throws up her hands and sinks into a patented Michaela Digby sulk: crossed arms and a toddler-like scowl. Not that it’s unwarranted: Edge Lake is one of the best dance schools in the country, and Minnie’s been nervous about her audition for months. “I’m doomed. Mr. Darling was right. They’re going to reject my application, and I won’t have the grades for a proper degree—”
“Dance is a proper degree,” I say firmly.
“—and I’ll die alone under a bridge. Probably before twenty-five.”
I like Mr. Darling （kind of） but if he doesn’t stop being so negative all the time, he’s going to send us all into a collective depression. “Rubbish. You must be hungry. Do you want my emergency Mars bar?”
“I’m in turmoil, Celine,” she growls. “How could anyone eat at a time like this?”
I shrug and take the chocolate bar out of my pencil case. “Suit yourself.”
She snatches it out of my hand. “I didn’t say no.”
“Good. Now, Michaela.” I’m supposed to be answering comments on my latest TikTok （reviewing a selection of mood rings from various questionable internet stores）， but I lock my phone and put it facedown to show her I mean business. “I don’t want to hear another Mr. Darling quote out of your mouth,” I tell her seriously. “Okay? Is that the energy you want to sully your consciousness with? Mr. Darling’s?”
Minnie shakes her head and takes a bite of the Mars bar.
“I should think not. No wonder you felt giraffe-like yesterday! His bad attitude was poisoning your mind.”
She nods, a little more hopeful. “That’s true. That’s very true. I’m not a giraffe. It’s all his fault.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You are a swan. A beautiful, beautiful swan. Like Normani.”
“Yes,” she murmurs. “It’s okay, Michaela. You are a Normani swan.”
I pat her shoulder. “Now, why don’t we walk into town and see if Sonam and Peter are still at Starbucks?”
Minnie brightens up like a lightbulb. “Frappes?” she asks around a mouthful of caramel.
“Frappes.”
“Celiiiiine. You’re the best.” She gives me a chocolatey kiss on the cheek. I wipe it off, pack up my things, and we head out, walking past my latest conspiracy theory.
Bradley Graeme is sitting at Top Table, as always. And he’s flawless, as always, with his twists shining and his clothes immaculate but effortless, and an adorable （objectively speaking, I mean） furrow between his eyebrows as he highlights the crap out of what appears to be a history textbook. Since we got back to school, we’ve barely spoken because I no longer know how to speak to him. I should be desperate to prove my who-is-Bradley-really theory, but I’m not sure which outcome I want. If he’s always been the best friend I remember, that means—
But if the way we were during the Sherwood expedition wasn’t real—
My stomach churns.
So that’s us these days: near-silent. No arguments in Philosophy, no bitchy comments in the halls. You’d think we were ignoring each other, but whenever our eyes meet, he gives me this tiny, tentative smile and says: “Hey.”