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She says nothing but her nostrils flare like an agitated horse.
“It’s a good thing ye’re benefitin’ from the close relationship between St. Camford and Lochkelvin, the school ye supposedly hate so much, or they might have been mair aware o’ just how much o’ a heidcase ye are if they’d held interviews.”
“I get it,” she whispers viciously. “You’re just jealous. Weren’t youbannedfrom stepping foot in St. Camford?”
If anything, Finlay puffs out his chest at this. To him, there’s no greater honor than to be rejected by a university so cowardly they minimize conflict. “Ye honestly think ye’re somethin’ special, Belly — and that might be the only honest thing about ye. We baith went tae their open day —thoosandso’ yer kind were in there. Ye’re fuck-all. No’ got an original thought in yer heid. A nice wee cosseted middle-class lassie who thinks exams are the maist important thing in life. I at least havelived.” His voice is tinged with pride at this fact. “Jealous? O’you? There’s fuck-all that’s new or interestin’ about ye. Ye believe incorrectly that ye’re the smartest — the best and the brightest — because only the best and the brightest are accepted by St. Camford. That logic’s flawed. The best and brightest will only ever reject glossy shit-heaps like St. Camford, because theywanttae be challenged. Whit’s the point o’ a university wi’ guardrails, one that disnae make ye think? St. Camford’s never gonna make ye stronger. Ye’re never gonna face adversity there. But I suppose that isnae whit ye’re after. Ye just want tae find yer wee clique, tae be able tae sail through a mandatory education, bein’ petted and preened and validated. Bein’ telt yer views are the right ones, the best ones, thecelebratedones, ‘cause otherwise yer whole worldview might shatter — so completely — at a different way o’ thinkin’. Imagine someone as fragile asyoufindin’ oot ye might just be wrang. Ye’re never gonna learn how tae process it, and St. Camford will be nae help tae ye. Yer only way through it will be tae paint the thinker as yer natural enemy. Books about things ye disagree wi’, folks wi’ views and experiences that conflict wi’ yer dearly held opinions — opinions that turn intae identities. There’snothin’in yer brain, Belly, but lies and projection, and those lies are rattlin’ around a cushioned, empty palace. Ye’re so frightened tae break, because then a’ yer gullibility will be seen by everyone, and yer intellect exposed for the sham it is. How weak ye truly are! And a’ that emptiness whirlin’ inside a narrow mind that’s terrified o’ bein’ found oot.” He looks Arabella up and down, his face hard, his mouth unsmiling. “Ye’re nothin’ but an impostor, and it kills ye that we a’ know it.”
You could hear a pin drop.
Arabella shakes her head. She glances down at the offending books beside her, eyes glistening righteously, and shoves them all off the table with a large sweep of her arm, before storming out of the library altogether.
24
That night, we meet together in the library. Arabella’s drama brought too many eyes for us to freely mingle but we managed to confirm with Finlay in low voices that we’d be meeting once more at two in the morning. I’ve taken to sleeping hours earlier and then waking in time for our post-midnight rendezvous. It saves me from being a sleep-deprived zombie in class. I swear Lochkelvin can’t actuallywantus to pass our upcoming exams if these are the efforts we’re being forced to go to just to hang out.
When I arrive, there’s just Rory in a loosely tied gray dressing gown and a pair of dark blue flannel pajamas, his socked feet crossed on top of the library table. His fair hair glimmers like a halo in the lantern light. There’s a tinny sound, and I realize he’s replaying the video he shot earlier on his phone. He greets me with a soft smile, which broadens the longer he watches the clip.
“The more I watch this, the dafter she looks. It’s her best comedy yet.”
I cock my head to the screen, watching a technologically quietened Arabella caterwaul about being viscerally attacked by books in a library. Her expression is deeply earnest, which only makes Rory’s recording funnier. “Was your modus operandi to make her look unhinged?”
“She made herself look unhinged,” Rory answers easily, as Danny and Finlay arrive together. “I just recorded it for history, which, unfortunately for her, she seems to have taken a dim view of lately.” He shrugs, and the screen turns black. “Her loss.”
“A’ right?” Finlay asks wearily, dragging out a chair and slumping onto it. He sits hunched with his arms wrapped around his bent knees. Unlike me, it’s clear he hasn’t slept a wink, and he’s still wearing his version of the Lochkelvin uniform. Rory’s eyes are on him in an instant, sharp and analytical. He puts away his phone and places all of his focus on Finlay.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s—” Finlay holds his head in his hands, his fingertips rubbing furiously at his eyes. “I—”
“Tell me,” Rory orders from across our round table, and I sense the worry prickling underneath.
Finlay wipes his eyes, stretching the corners toward his temples like the discomfort of this will keep him from breaking. “I… I cannae stop thinkin’ about the flat. That man. I just…” His gaze slants through his fingers and across to me, the only one who can picture that scene of godless devastation, the blood-soaked carpet and our bone-shuddering fear. Even now, I see Finlay’s arms wrapped like ropes around the man’s chest. “Fightin’ wi’ Belly brought it a’ floodin’ back. He was a stranger…” These two statements are spoken so far apart that they almost sound unrelated. “I dinnae ken whit tae dae.”
Rory studies him carefully, his gray eyes scrutinizing Finlay’s half-hidden face. “There’s nothing you can do,” he assures him quietly. “From what you said, he picked his side and left you to deal with the fallout. Those are the actions of an arsehole.”
“He died in my arms,” Finlay murmurs. Danny leans over to him, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “I held a deid body in my arms, and naebody knows. He could havelived.” His bitter words land like frostfall in the library gloom, and he shivers. “He could have lived…”
“You did all that you could,” Rory says quietly. “I might not have been there, but I know you well enough to know the truth of it.”
Finlay swallows hard. “And that’s no’ a’,” he adds with a miserable half-smile, as if aware of his thoroughly bad luck.
“What? What’s happened?”
In a quiet, almost timid voice that I’ve never heard from him before, Finlay says, “I got dragged oot o’ maths.”
“You got the belt?” Already, Rory’s scowling at the idea.
“No. I mean, aye, I got that an’ a’. But… Baxter telt me it was my—” He sighs, and then drops his hand from his face. His eyes are red and glossy, and in one long breath, he reveals, “My maw, she cannae afford the school fees any mair.”
We stare at him. This… isn’t what we’d been expecting. Finlay, whose political superstar of a mother had risen out of poverty and straight into a street known as Millionaires Row, can no longer afford her son’s school fees?
All three of us are so flummoxed by this news that we’re unable to say anything at all. In a dark voice, Finlay mutters, “Maybe Belly was right. I’m so thick I might no’ even finish school at this rate.”
This seems to snap Rory out of it. “I’ll pay.”
“Dinnae be fuckin’—”
“I’ll pay.” His voice is like stone, and Finlay shakes his head with a sigh.
