“You…you don’t even study English at school now,” Mum says.
“I know but my grades are good, and my personal statement is incredible.” That’s what Celine called it. Incredible.
Ouch. No thinking about Celine.
“What?” That’s Dad, finally, his voice thready with disbelief. “But…when…you told me you had— Why would you do this?” He leans forward, puts a hand on my forehead as if to check my temperature. “Are you okay?” He’s scanning my body like he might discover a badge that says TEMPORARILY ADDLED, DON’T LISTEN TO A WORD THIS PERSON SAYS. Maybe he finds it because he starts to laugh nervously. “Of course. You’ve bumped your head, son. That’s o—”
“I’m not delusional, Dad.” I try to roll my eyes and discover the hard way that that is not a good idea. “Ow.”
“CAN WE GET SOME MORE PAINKILLERS FOR MY SON, PLEASE?” Dad gets louder when he is panicking.
A nurse with a pink hijab and a steely gaze sticks her head between the curtains and practically pins him to a wall. “Sir. There are children sleeping.”
Dad clears his throat. “Right. Sorry.”
The nurse softens. “I’ll see what we can do.” She disappears.
“Why would you want to study…anything else?” Dad demands as soon as she’s gone. “Is this…Are you feeling too much pressure? I was worried you might. You shouldn’t. You can do anything, Brad, anything at all—”
I know I can because that’s how he raised me. “Like English?” I suggest.
Dad is baffled. “You love law! You were so excited—”
“No, he wasn’t, Dad,” Mason says, boredom dripping from each word. “You were excited. Brad didn’t care.”
I blink at my little brother, astonished.
He tuts and shifts in his chair self-consciously. “What? You’re not subtle.”
I have no idea what to say except…“Thanks?”
Mason is appalled. “I’m not, like, helping you. Just glad I won’t be the only family disappointment.”
Both my parents start at that, like they’ve been electrocuted. “I beg your pardon?” Mum demands. “Mason Ashley Graeme, you are not a disappointment. I don’t ever want to hear that out of your mouth again.”
“Yeah, okay.” Mason snorts. “Admit it. You want us to be like Emily. You want us to be like you. But I’m not a genius—”
“Mase,” I say. “You’re a football genius. That’s just as good. You know that, right?”
He falters, splotches of red climbing up his neck. “Well. Whatever.” His scowl returns but it’s not nearly as hard-core. Mason turns toward our parents. “The point is, I don’t like school, and Brad is a genius, but he doesn’t even care. So get over it, both of you.”
Dad holds up his hands, his frown pure confusion. “Boys. What is this all about? You know we don’t care what you do in life. We just want you to be happy.”
“Then why do you make me study when I’m going to be a footballer?” Mason demands.
“Because if your legs fall off, you’re going to need a proper education, Mason!” Mum says, exasperated. “Why do you think? We only want the best for you!”
“And why were you so upset,” I ask Dad, “when I mentioned before that I didn’t want to study law?”
Dad’s mouth drops open and stays that way for long seconds before he answers. “I…I…You took me by surprise. I don’t understand. I thought…” He looks so sad for a moment I sort of feel bad. But then he pulls himself together and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. I’m sorry, to both of you, if we’ve ever made you feel like you can’t…live the lives you want.” He looks at me. “I thought you were passionate about law, Brad. I thought you just needed support. I didn’t realize it wasn’t actually something you wanted.”
In fairness, I never told him either. All the tension coiled in my gut unwinds, leaving behind relief and a little pit of guilt. “I’m sorry,” I say, because I really am. He’s my dad. And I assumed he’d, what, lock me in the house and insist I could only follow the path he chose? All my worry, all my sneaking around, feels so out of proportion now. “I didn’t want to let you down.” It took a while for me to believe I could pursue writing. Other people believing in me felt like too big an ask.
You asked it of Celine.
Stop thinking about her.
“English, eh?” Dad says after a moment. His voice is uncertain, but he seems determined, and Mum smiles at us both encouragingly. “What’s that for, then?”
I swallow down my embarrassment and admit, “I want to, er…write books?”
Mason bursts out laughing. I barely mind.
CELINE
After they send Brad off in the ambulance, I text him a thousand variations of I’M SORRY I DIDN’T MEAN IT ARE YOU OKAY CAN WE TALK. Then I find his phone vibrating in the tall grass at the base of the hill where he fell and come to my senses.
He’s hurt. He’s gone. And I fucked everything up, even before all that.
He didn’t want me to go with him.
Since I have nothing better to do, I force myself to complete the day’s expedition. The thought of a scholarship should motivate me but every time I think about it, I imagine coming face to face with my father at the Explorers’ Ball on Saturday and instead of feeling triumphant, I feel small. Brad would’ve had my back. I doubt he will anymore.
My BEP performance lacks any sparkle or sophistication whatsoever. I don’t find Golden Compasses. I don’t giggle with Sophie and Aurora in our tent. Everyone creeps around me like my dog just died. I’m glad because it’s annoying, and if I wasn’t annoyed, I might be crying instead.
We finish the Glen Finglas expedition on Wednesday night and pile into the coach on Thursday morning, and I know I’m being a completely miserable drama queen, but I sit alone at the back so as not to infect everyone else’s happiness with my grim and gray mood. This gives me a lot of time to gaze out the window and ruminate on my sins.
I have to fix this. I have to fix everything, and as much as my pride and my nerves cringe away from it, I’m done coddling both. Either I face my feelings, or I don’t. Either I try, really try, to move on from everything my dad put us through, or I spend the rest of my life living in his shadow. I know what I want to do. And I’m Celine bloody Bangura, so I have no excuse not to do it.
That’s what I tell myself, again and again, as I step off the bus in front of the Sherwood. Mum is waiting by her parked Corsa down the street, bundled up in her bright blue coat, arms folded against the cold. She spots me and waves, her whole face lighting up with this wide, welcoming smile, and my chest heaves.
Beside me, Aurora whispers, “Celine, are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I gasp.
“Are you crying?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll text you later.” Then I rush off before anyone else notices the literal ocean spilling down my cheeks.
Mum’s not wearing her glasses, so she doesn’t notice my expression until I’m a foot away and throwing myself into her arms. “Celine?” she asks, her confusion muffled by my hair, a comforting vibration through my entire tense body. “Baby? What’s wrong?”