Mrs. Mulaney is an older lady down the street whose dog I walk sometimes. She finds herself around our front garden freakishly often, probably because she’s in love with Dad. “Oh,” I say, staring longingly at the staircase that leads to sweet escape. So near, and yet so far. “How is she?”
“Right as rain, bless her. She asked how you’re getting on, and I told her you’ll be studying law next year. You know what she said?”
Probably not What a waste. That boy was born to win a Hugo Award.
“She said, ‘Whatever magic you and Maria are doing on those kids, you should bottle it and make a fortune.’？” Dad beams. “I told her, it’s all you. Hard work and commitment! You’re all determined to succeed.” I know exactly what he’s going to say next—it’s been his favorite phrase ever since I showed a vague interest in following in his footsteps and studying law. “But you are a chip off the old block, aren’t you?”
Aaaand there it is.
I manage a smile. “That’s right.” The words are dry and crumbly in my mouth like stale biscuits.
Dad squeezes my neck and releases me, humming happily. “Go on, then, I won’t keep you.” He stirs the chocolate-brown batter in his mixing bowl and wanders back into the kitchen. I basically sprint to the stairs.
When I was younger, before we got the right combination of therapy and meds, before I learned how to manage my OCD…I know my mum used to cry because of me. I know the gray in my dad’s hair didn’t come from nowhere. But I’m doing way better now, and they’re proud of me, and I’ve gotten used to that pride.
It flares in my dad’s eyes every time he remembers I’m going to be just like him.
（If I thought I could make them proud with my writing, I would, but unfortunately, everything I write absolutely sucks. So. Here we are.）
I make it up the stairs and past Mason’s room—his door is open and the smell of farts and sweaty socks wafts gently into the hall. Emily’s room is closed up and mostly empty, since she’s studying in the US; then there’s the family bathroom, followed by my parents’ room. My bedroom is at the very end. It’s the master. I have an en suite. Not because I’m a spoiled brat （okay, maybe I am） but because I went through a phase where sharing a bathroom with my clinically disgusting brother would have quite literally stuffed my mental health into the toilet and flushed.
Which Mason, by the way, often forgets to do.
I shut my door behind me, hang up my bag, and consider my options. The sun is sinking and the rays spill across my pale carpet and blue sheets. I could lie down in that light and do nothing, except I’m kind of wired. I could start my university applications, except I’m definitely not doing that. I could work on the latest terrible draft of my terrible book…
Next thing I know, I’m sitting at the white desk beside my window, opening my laptop. My John Boyega screensaver squints purposefully at me. The book is on my desktop, currently titled Draft M VI Take 3. In this version, I reached a scene where our hero, space cowboy Abasi Lee, faces down a local dealer of VetRo （a mind-control drug that is decimating the community of his tiny desert planet） in the hopes of extracting information on a bigger fish in the supply chain. Then I got stuck because presumably they have to fight? But I’m bad at fight scenes. Also, I can’t tell if VetRo is a genius name or a really bad one （it’s short for Velvet Ro—okay, yeah, I’ve just decided it’s bad）， and I think Abasi should go off-world soon or the story’s going to get boring, but how? He’s just a humble space cowboy, and his planet is so far from the Cosmotropolis Collective, how would he hitch a ride?
No, this whole thing is honestly a wash. I move it into my GRAVEYARD folder and open a shiny, clean new document. Draft M VII Take 1. Then I sit back in my chair, exhausted, and check Instagram.
No update on Celine’s story.
Yet.
CELINE
Giselle pokes her head into my bedroom. She can tell by now when I’m recording something, so she waits patiently.
Today I’m examining the possibility that plaster casts are a con by the medical community because they don’t want us to realize humans are self-healing with the right amount of willpower. Not the most interesting theory I’ve ever discussed, but I spent way too long in Accident and Emergency today and my exhaustion inspired the bland choice in topic.
“Conclusion,” I say, which is how I end all my videos. “Yes, most healthy people can heal simple breaks on their own—eventually. But if willpower had anything to do with healing, my bones would never dare fracture in the first place.” I cut the clip, flip the camera, focus on the cast on my wrist, and start filming again. “Sorry, medical truthers, you lost me this time. The cast stays for at least six weeks.” Cut, flip, film. “Stay safe, stay weird.”
I turn off the little ring light attached to my phone, set it aside, and make a few quick, one-handed edits. “Yeah?”
“Yeah?” Giselle repeats, gliding into the room （she glides everywhere, not like a debutante but like a supernatural creature） and flopping onto the bed. “Is that how you speak to the greatest sister of all time?”
“Apparently,” I say.
“Teens today. You’re a disgrace.” But there’s a dimple in her dark brown cheek that says she’s trying not to smile. Giselle is taller than me, which is fairly tall, and unlike me she’s very thin. Combined with her shaved head and the way she rubs her cheek against my soft, forest-green duvet, she looks like a hairless cat.
I know I should stop drafting hashtags and have an actual conversation with her, or at least say thank you after she ditched her shift at McDonald’s to take me to the hospital. But I am in a foul mood because my left wrist is fractured （like, it’s in a cast! For six to eight weeks! Positive thinking hasn’t helped at all!） and that is not an item on my Steps to Success board. Quite the opposite, in fact. My Steps to Success board, which is pinned up by the side of my bed, has pictures of Katharine Breakspeare, advertising CEO Karen Blackett, and management consultant Dame Vivian Hunt—three of the most influential Black businesswomen in the UK—as well as a life plan that should take me from age seventeen to twenty-one:
Maintain flawless school record.
Keep up with TikTok （unique extracurricular, will stand out on applications, also someone in admissions might be a genius who understands the joy of a good conspiracy）。
Finish PERFECT Cambridge application and receive conditional offer.
ACE EXAMS AND GET THE GRADES.
Charm all Cambridge law staff members with sparkling wit and joie de vivre （also: find YouTube tutorials on sparkling wit and joie de vivre）。
Secure training position with Sharma & Moncrieff.
Sharma & Moncrieff is the second-best corporate law firm in the East Midlands. My dad’s is the first, but that will change when I rise as a giant in the field and Luke Skywalker his arse with the spiked heel of my Louboutin. It’s going to be epic. Boardrooms will crumble. Empires will fall! He’ll—
Oh, sorry, back to the point: clearly, a broken wrist is absolutely nowhere in my plan.
I should sue Bradley for this because he definitely did it on purpose. I mean, I know I’m a hefty babe, but he’s supposed to be some kind of super sportsman and his biceps are the size of grapefruits. He had me. He did. And then he didn’t. Plus, I landed harder than I would’ve without his oh-so-helpful momentary pawing of my T-shirt because I was too stunned by his audacity to concentrate on falling well.