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.
“Don’t blame me,” Sonam murmurs back. “It’s Little Miss Lungs over here.”
My jaw drops. “What is this betrayal?”
Bradley grins and ignores me completely. “Hey, Sonam.”
“Hey, Brad.”
Amazing. I have precisely 2.5 friends （Sonam’s mate, Peter Herron, says hi to me sometimes） and here Bradley Graeme is, bantering with one of them right in front of my face. Is nothing sacred?
Mr. Taylor adjusts his glasses and claps his hands, interrupting my thoughts. “Right! The gang’s all here. We know each other, yes?” He points around the square of tables. “Brad, Celine, Sonam, Peter, Shane, Bethany, Max.”
“Donno, sir,” Donno corrects.
Mr. Taylor laughs in the face of this pretentious rubbish and moves on. “This is a small class, so I assume those of you who chose Philosophy are extra dedicated. Well, you’ll need all that dedication to make it through the year!”
Hardly. Philosophy isn’t difficult; just dull.
I slide a look to my right and watch Bradley twirl a pen between his long fingers. I can see the hint of a tensed bicep, half hidden by the short sleeve of his white shirt, and there’s a distinctly mulish set to his obnoxiously sharp jaw. If I hadn’t been forced to watch him go through puberty, I would assume he’d purchased his bone structure.
“We’ve a lot to cover today, but first things first.” Mr. Taylor puts a stack of papers on the table. “This is our syllabus! Take one and pass it round. As you can see, we’re beginning with arguments for and against the existence of the god of classical theism.” He natters on about omnipotence and the problem of evil and suffering with great enthusiasm. I would pay attention, but Bradley slaps the papers down in front of me like the table just insulted his mother.
It’s funny; I once read that the smell of fresh-cut grass is actually a chemical the plant releases when it’s in danger, which reminds me of this theory I’m researching about how veganism might be as bad as meat-eating because of the exploited migrant workers （valid） and the totally viable possibility that plants feel pain. So, long story short, Bradley Graeme smells like murder.
I lick my thumb, take a copy of the syllabus, and murmur, “Is everything you do a calculated display of masculinity, and if so, aren’t you afraid the constant pressure of performance will lead you to snap?”
He murmurs back, “One day you’re going to leave education forever, and you’ll have to face the fact that memorizing a thesaurus doesn’t make you interesting.”
I pass the papers to Sonam. “Fortunately, you will never be faced with that moment of reckoning because, after inevitably failing to accomplish all of your life goals, you will return to education as a teacher who harasses students in the hallways with wildly embellished stories of his glory days.”
Bradley’s eyes never leave the twirling pen in his hand. “I didn’t realize you looked down on teachers. Does your mum know?”