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“I don’t know yet. I’ll think of something.”
Her shoulders dropped, resigned. “Well, whatever you do, this is not a time to be melancholy. We need to go celebrate. I’ve told Will and Ivy we’ll meet them at The Six in thirty minutes.”
I shook my shoulders and mentally dislodged the dark cloud hovering in my head. “Okay.” I slid the paper into my coat pocket. “Let’s go celebrate.”
Remi pinned me with a grin and threw an arm around my neck, something she was able to do standing several inches taller than my meagre four foot ten.
She jostled me out of the college atrium and onto the main road. A cab rolled by with its yellow light flickering in the grey afternoon and Remi’s arm shot out.
“What are you doing?” I whipped round to grab her arm. “The tube’s just there.”
She ignored me until the cab slowed to a standstill next to us. “My treat,” she said, yanking open the door. “After getting grades like those, you at least deserve to travel to The Six in style.”
I shook my head and climbed in after her.
Twenty minutes later, we pushed through the doors of the common room-come-student bar we called home. The Six was a barely refurbished former working man’s club in the armpit of south London. The furniture was mismatched and frayed, the floors sticky, and the service so aloof it felt like we were trespassing on the bartenders’ personal living space. But, like a well-worn sock, it was familiar, comfy and the holes were the same shape as our toes.
“Don’t look left,” Remi muttered over her shoulder as she walked ahead.
I kept my face focused forward but couldn’t stop my eyes from flicking to the left to see what I was being warned away from. My stomach dipped. A blur of bright pink hair confirmed that Penelope Ross and her hardcore group of followers were seated in the corner by the bar.
“Great,” I muttered.
“There’s Will!”
I followed Remi’s finger to where our friend sat with his back to the room talking to someone just out of view.
“And Ivy!” Remi reached back, grabbed my hand and tugged me through the scattered chairs and tables, as if I wanted to loiter in the peripherals of the girl whose favourite pastime was making my life even more hellish.
“Remirose!” Ivy squealed, standing as soon as she saw us approach. I’d given up trying to get her to separate our names. In her mind, Remi and I came as one package. Her thick-rimmed glasses cocked sideways as her wide arms caught us both in a group hug, knocking an empty glass onto Will’s lap.
“Ivy, come on…” he moaned.
“So good to see you both,” she gushed. “How did you do?”
“Not bad.” Remi flopped down on a ripped leather club chair and pulled a knee up to her chin. “Rose did amazing, of course. Straight A’s.”
“Of course.” Will stopped wiping the splashes of beer from his leg to shoot me a wink. “I expected nothing less.”
I dropped my bag onto a stool. “Seeing as Remi got the cab, drinks are on me.” I forced a smile. I needed every penny I could get my hands on, but I couldn’t afford to live off my friends’ generosity forever. And if I wasn’t already on edge thinking about, well, the rest of my actual life, seeing my nemesis number one at the other side of the room had only deepened my anxiety.
Penelope Ross was a bully and she’d taken it upon herself to turn the majority of our college year against me. Thankfully, Remi, Will and Ivy had minds of their own and were slightly more discerning about the company they chose to keep. But all the other students in our year lapped up her lies and had given me a wide berth since I started the sixth form college.
“Do you want me to come help you?” Remi’s eyes darted from me to the pink hair across the room.
I fixed a brave smile to my face. “I’ll be fine. Three beers and a cider coming up.”
My stomach continued to sink as I approached the bar and realised there was only one space to stand: about five feet away from Penelope’s table. I gritted my teeth and focused all my attention on the mirror at the back of the bar.Three beers and a cider. Three beers and a cider.
“Well, if it isn’t Scarface herself.”
I recognised the name Penelope had bestowed on me two years earlier after seeing me in the showers after gym. I transferred my eyes to the two bartenders. They were run off their feet at the sudden influx of students entering the bar.
“I can’t see any scars on her face,” one of her cronies – probably a newbie – pointed out.
I practically heard an eye roll. “Ugh, it’s notliteral. The scars are on her back. All over her back in fact. They’re vile.”
The crony lowered her voice. “What happened? Was she hurt?”
