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13
Ipass Rory, Finlay and Luke on my way up to the tower and part of me feels like I should hide.If only to admire, a pathetic part of my brain supplies.
They’re dressed in knee-length white shorts and tight-fitting striped shirts, shouldering curved wooden sticks that look like they belong in field hockey. With windswept hair and glittering eyes, there’s so much restless spirit to them as they bound upstairs like normal noisyboysinstead of the wealthy offspring of the political establishment.
“Dinnae think a whole summer aff’s done ye much good, Ro-Ro,” Finlay says good-naturedly, a huge grin splitting his face in two.Ro-Ro? There’s mud on the backs of Finlay’s bare thighs, though he’s the only one who’s managed it. Either Finlay playshardor the other two just don’t really care as much.
I’m guessing the latter, because Luke and Rory don’t seem that bothered when Finlay’s chanting, “Nine-one! Nine-one!” down the hall.
And then they notice me.
“Helloooo.” Finlay stands right in front of me, the scent of fresh air dancing around him. He’s wearing a crooked smile. “Look, lads. We’ve got ourselves a tim’rous beastie.”
Rory’s expression isn’t quite as friendly. On the contrary, he’s practically scowling at me. “What are you doing here, skulking around our dorms at this time of night?” He raises an eyebrow. “Or are you just lost when you don’t have detention to go to?”
I glare at him. “I’m going to myroom. You’re blocking my way.”
“Aye, well, maybe we want you inoorroom,” Finlay says, and from the looks Rory and Luke give him, the sentiment isn’t exactly shared. Nevertheless, my cheeks begin to heat up.
They’re messing with you.
“Can you get out of the way?”
“Why should we?” Rory’s voice is light but there’s a dangerous lilt to it that makes my blood thrum. “Maybe it’s for your own safety that you stick with us. You don’t seem able to go anywhere in this school without being punished.” His eyes roam the length of my body and then focus on my face. “Unless you like that kind of thing.”
Beside him, Luke snorts. “Look at her. The poor little saint isblushing. Come on, or she will get thoughts in her head that you reallydonotwant her to.”
But as the other two head to their dorm and we’re left alone, Rory keeps staring at me, analyzing me. It feels like we’re separated by a thick pane of glass, like I could stretch out my hand and maybe, tentatively, he’d reach back.
And then, very clearly, there’s a loud cry followed by Finlay shouting, “What in the name offuck?”
Rory’s gray eyes widen at me, pinning me in place through some force I don’t understand, before he stalks down the hallway and into the dorm. He quickly assesses whatever exists beyond the doorway and turns in my direction.
“You,” he spits, so at odds with the boy who, moments ago, I felt I’d almost connected with. “What’s the meaning of this?”
The words on my tongue dissolve into ashes.
They think it was me.
Whatever lies beyond, whatever’s worthy of a yelledwhat in the name of fuck, is suddenly my fault.
I take step after step until I’m standing beside Rory. And then I see the devastation within.
They’ve trashed it. The girls havetrashedtheir dorm.
Pillows have been slashed, scattering fat feathers onto the floor. Bedding has been ripped apart, sheets hanging limply and discarded in the corner. Posters and pictures have either been torn or hung upside-down. An unknown sticky substance has been smeared across the cold flagstones. The closet has been forced open, clothes and three variants of the Lochkelvin uniform tossed aside. Hangers have been snapped and chucked any old way. There’s the throat-tickling scent of thick fragrance that makes me gag. Books have been dumped in the middle of the room, pages ripped from their middles.
But it’s not just the vandalism that I see.
I tilt my head to the side, observing.
One set of bedding contains the crest and royal blue colors of a soccer team.
The glass in the gilt picture frame beside it has been smashed, the photo of a gently smiling woman almost sliding out of it.
An autographed Adam Tyndall poster is hanging onto the wall by one sticky corner, a fresh ruby-red lipstick print on his cheek.
A glittery blue guitar lies slumped against the wall, its strings loosened and cut.
