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You only need eyes to see that Rory’s the swaggering head jackass of their trio.
“But he’s Head Boy,” I point out with a shrug. I’m trying to sound teasing about it, but from Finlay’s glare all I feel is that I’m digging a hole for myself. “Oh, come on. He’s clearly the one with all the authority.”
I pick up my book again, not really wanting to discuss the chiefs’ super-important power hierarchy. “Never mind.”
Finlay stalks toward me in a series of thuds from his thick combat boots. He plucks the book from my hands and raises an eyebrow at the cover.
“Danny,” he scoffs.
I try to snatch the book back, but Finlay keeps it elevated out of reach.
Finlay tilts his head in my direction. “What d’ye know about Danny?”
“More than you,” I snap, and at this Finlay actually laughs. He tosses the book on top of me, and I shove it into the drawer before he can do any further damage.
Finlay’s never usually this much of a dickhead. I think calling Rory his master has really fucked with him.
“So have ye actually given thought tae my offer? Or are ye waitin’ for someone better, like Rory, tae take ye tae the dance instead?”
Yep. That one comment really fucked with him.
I laugh, and it comes out darker than I’d intended. “I don’t even know if I want to stay at this stupid school anymore.”
The annoyance Finlay had been carrying falls off him in an instant. He turns away from the window, looking startled. “Whit?”
“I hate it here. I hate Lochkelvin. I hate the teachers and the students. I hate the girls and the boys. It’s like everywhere I move, shit just follows me. At least back home it waswarm. It was sunny. I wasn’t laughed at for having a different accent. I wasn’tdifferentat all. But here, I hate the rain and the cold. I hate that I’m not like everyone else. I hate this stupid, miserable country—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Finlay’s holding up both his palms, his expression struck. “Hateusall ye want — we’re all nasty wee cunts — but dinnae hate oor country.”
I give him a baleful stare.
“I’m serious,” he says, actually looking it. There’s hurt in his voice now that I’ve dared to say something against his precious homeland. “Scotland is mair than a country, and now ye’re one o’ us. The spirit o’ revolution runs deep in oor blood.” He begins to pace in front of my bed, his arms gesturing furiously. “We’re battle-hardy, battle-scarred and battle-ready. Descendants o’ fearsome clan chiefs and ancient Highland warriors. Men who sneer at trousers and wear kilts instead.” He folds his out at the hem, giving a neat little curtsy that makes me smile.
“But we’re smart, tae. This is the birthplace o’ the Enlightenment. Of industry. You know how many inventions we’ve given the world? Nor dae I, ‘cause there areso many.” He’s pacing around my room, a ridiculous sight with his kilt fanning out at a worryingly high angle. “This is the land o’ storytellers. Of Burns, Hogg, and Walter Scott. Of science and medicine. It’s a land of myths and history, o’ Celts and pagans. The bands, Jessa, themusic! Screamin’ yer lungs oot at a packed gig, chantinghere we fuckin’ goand becomin’ best pals wi’ the lads beside ye. Folk ye’ll never meet anywhere else. Sights ye’ll never see anywhere else. The cauld tropical beaches. The icy slopes. The bonnie sunsets. Oor black-as-night humor. The never-ending parties. Hogmanay and first footing. Untouched snow for miles. Callin’ the folk ye love utter cunts wi’ the deepest affection. Language designed tae confuse. Whisky wi’oot an E! Gaelic.Alba gu bràth!”
I stare at him in amazement, but Finlay’s showing no signs of stopping. “Stags and wildcats and our national animal, a great big fuck-off unicorn. HearingFlower of Scotlandin a packed stadium, tens o’ thousands singing it as one. The Tartan Army. Forget Lochkelvin — have ye seen its surroundings? The great glens, the huge Munros. Architecture. Castles — castles better than Lochkelvin! Fairy pools! Fuckin’Highland coos, Jessa!” He stares at me, panting for breath, his green eyes dancing. “How can ye possibly hate a wee Highland coo?”
He collapses horizontally onto my bed, gazing up at the stone ceiling with his arms tucked behind his head. “Hateusall ye want. Fuck, hate onlymeand leave the rest alone. But don’t hate my home. Don’t hatethat. I couldnae deal wi’ that.”
“Okay,” I say, quite overwhelmed. “I won’t insult your stupid country anymore.”
Finlay shoots me a withering look, but he quickly figures out that I’m teasing, and throws my Hershey’s wrapper at me in disgust.
“Whit ye need, sassenach, is mair Vitamin D.” He stares at my discarded collection of chocolate wrappers. “And maybe mair vitamins in general if that’s yer diet.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, really.” His bright green eyes implore me to listen. “The winters here areharsh. They’re a complete bastard. So ye’ve got tae prepare for them. There are only a few hours o’ daylight this far north, and unless ye want tae succumb tae seasonal affective disorder — which, no offense, it looks like ye already have done — then ye need tae take yer vitamins.”
I glare at him. I know he means well, but I’m not depressed because ofseasonal affective disorder. I’m depressed because of ever having met Rory goddamn Munro.
“I haven’t evenseenScotland,” I tell Finlay ruefully, because his eyes are still glittering like he’s high on Scottish air. I suppose that’s not entirely true. I’d watched it zoom by on the train from Edinburgh, a green streak of grass and bemused sheep.
“I can show ye it, sassenach.” Finlay removes his jacket, draping it across his front like a blanket. The wordsAlba gu bràthglitter in the light, and I watch Finlay’s lithe fingers trace the silver studs meditatively. “I’ll show ye the whole country. We can go campin’ in the summer and get bitten by midges. We can risk oor necks in the Cairngorms. Whit d’ye say? All you have tae dae is come tae the dance wi’ me.”
“Why?” It’s out of my mouth before I know it. “Why would you evenlookin my direction?”
“Why no’? Besides, otherwise they’ll bus in the weirdos fae the local girls’ school, and they’re all batshit insane. It’s like spendin’ the night wi’ a thousand Arabellas. And it’s no’ like I can get wi’ any o’ the girls here, either. Li’s goin’ wi’ Rory. Becca’s aff-limits. And Arabella can just fucking dae one. So that leaves you, sassenach.” He turns his bright green eyes onto me. “Pwease, Jessa,” he tacks on, with a pout deep enough to carve an arch across his face. “Pwease.”
