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I clamp down on those thoughts.
Behind me, Rory seems far removed from that particular incident. He and Finlay are quietly arguing with one another, until all I can hear is Finlay’s raised voice declaring, “I’mtop o’ this class so ye should dae whitIsay.”
“And we’renotdoing it on devolution,” Rory snaps.
Well, at least those two are having as much fun as me and Arabella. I crack open my textbook, but I swear it’s as though the words blur right in front of me. Nothing is getting through my head. British politics is a new language, a new vocabulary, and even though it’s a new day, I’m just as lost as I was yesterday.
How can Finlay be top of the class? Rory didn’t challenge him on it so it must be true. Finlay looks like such an anarchist, dripping in pins and studs, you’d think studying in class and being good at it would be unnatural for him. He looks like he should be out there, wreaking havoc, not being a top student. Especiallypolitics, where he’s able to beat the son of the Prime Minister? That’s quite the achievement.
I glance back at Finlay, trying to fathom him out. Like Arabella, his head is bowed and he’s furiously scribbling in his notebook. His dark hair falls like a wing across his eyes, and the backs of his hands are colored with ink. Shapes and petals in a kind of mandala pattern are outlined with thick black ink, peeking from beneath his shirt cuff. My heart stops, wondering if he has genuine tattoos — it wouldn’t surprise me if these rich assholes could break age restrictions as easily as that, but surely not… Surely he wouldn’t get away with thathere, in this stuffy old place?
I look closer at the ink, frowning down at his hands. It’s too bright and uneven. It’s brightly colored ink.
His hands have been decorated withpens.
Finlay raises his head, notices me staring at him, and grins.
“Can I help ye?”
I turn back to my textbook in an instant.
Behind me, I hear Finlay chuckle. “Shy, shy Americans,” he says, still sounding amused. “I just dinnae get it.”
“How is Finlay top of the class?” I whisper to Arabella a few minutes later, feeling like she’d be an objective source here. “Surely it’d be Rory?”
Arabella makes an unimpressed scoffing noise. “He aced his Nat 5s last year — best in the country, apparently. So he isn’t as stupid as he looks. But he’s only top because of his desperate need to beat Rory. Plus, Finlay’s mum is in the Scottish cabinet, so I’m sure that helps.” Somehow, Arabella manages to tell me this at the same time as writing a lengthy paragraph in her tight, curlicue handwriting.
“The Scottish cabinet?”
“Yeah, she’s secretary for culture. They’re saying she might be the next First Minister.”
First Minister. Right. Not Prime Minister. I’ve got that one drilled into my head now thanks to Finlay’s notes.
And then it hits me like a freight train.
Finlay’s notes.
So far, I’ve learned far more about politics from Finlay’s snarky notes than the dozens of pages Arabella’s refused to share with me.
I glance sidelong at Arabella, paranoid that she can hear the thoughts turning over inside my mind. But typically she’s too busy concentrating on her own notes.
Asking Finlay for help would be pretty demoralizing. He seems the most down-to-earth and approachable of the three chiefs, always with that spark of intrigue whenever he sees me. But he’s still one of them, and what’s that saying? You’re the company you keep. In which case, Finlay is also a power-hungry misogynistic jerk. But I guess he’s an option if things go south here.
I decide to stick with Arabella until she gives me further reason not to, or until Finlay becomes nice enough to be able to request help from. At this point, I’m anticipating one more than the other.
“Anyway,” Arabella murmurs out the corner of her mouth, still diligently writing. “Strike first. I did genuinely mean that.”
“Yeah, I can see the big effort,” I bite back, but part of me is heartened that I haven’t been abandoned outright. “I think they’vestruck firstabout a dozen times now, straight ontome.”
“And we’re striking first — well, second now — tonight. I told you. It’s not my fault you go leaping off into stupid situations. And no offense, Jessa, but youdoseem to have acquired a habit for that.”
At the end of politics, Dr. Moncrieff asks me to stay behind. Arabella gives me a curious look, part interest, part envy that I get to spend time with her precious crush.
Dr. Moncrieff sits on the edge of his desk and surveys me openly.He’s one of those teachers, I think to myself, trying not to roll my eyes.Too cool to sit on a chair properly.
But Dr. Moncrieff’s face is serious as he observes me.
“You were significantly late this morning, Jessa,” he begins, and I realize as my heart plummets into my stomach that I haven’t gotten away with anything. My small victory, originally believed to be born from Dr. Moncrieff’s understanding, had been a sham. “According to school policy, unfortunately this means I’m forced to issue a detention.”
