Over in Hasted House’s dining hall, the racket was deafening. Tristan knew that even if he yelled and swore at the top of his lungs, no one would ever hear him. He rested his cheek on his hand. This, right here, was the problem with school: Sure, it was brilliant fun when you were in the right mood, but it was an absolute bloody nightmare when you just wanted some space.
Next to him, boys in all years were elbowing each other to get at the big steaming platters that had just been set down, shoveling themselves piles of shepherd’s pie and peas before everything disappeared. There were no chairs at the long tables—just flat wooden benches that ran alongside. Everyone was squeezed in together, making it impossible for people to get in and out of their seats, and easy to shove off the idiots who sat at the ends. Rowdy food fights kept breaking out at the front of the hall where the younger students sat. They’d chuck bread rolls and butter pats at one another and send saucers clattering down the table. Then suddenly the stern voice of a housemaster would pierce all the other noise in the room. The talking would deflate for a few minutes, but it was never long before another bubble of roaring and laughing and clanging swelled up to bursting-point again.
Tristan’s crew sat near the end of a long table, a few seats away from their housemaster. Mr. Brand was with two other members of the math staff, and their corduroys and checked shirts stuck out like lurid blossoms in the field of navy and white uniforms. The three of them were probably discussing Pythagoras or some other hellishly boring subject that numbers geeks were obsessed with.
Seb Ogilvy was reaching across three people to ladle a mountain of carrots onto his plate. “Hey, Meters, that was a really cool party invite you sent out on Facebook,” he was saying to George Demetrios, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He waved the serving spoon around with a dramatic flourish. “‘Demon Demetrios’s Birthday Extravaganza.’ Yeah, great name, mate. I’m sure everyone can’t wait to come.”
Jasper von Holstadt howled with laughter and banged his fist on the table, making the dishes shake. Tristan flinched a little.
“Demon Demetrios!” Jasper gasped. “That is unbelievably lame. What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” George looked hurt. “I thought it was a good nickname. I wanted something catchy.”
“You can’t give yourself a nickname, you jackass,” groaned Seb. “You’re meant to wait for other people to do it for you.”
“Classic!” Jasper laughed, shaking his head.
“Shut up, you fuckwits, or I’ll disinvite you. Anyway, are you coming? It’s next weekend. At my parents’ house in London.”
“’Course we’re coming,” Tristan said, without looking up from his plate.
“Just make sure you bring all the hot girls along.” Jasper punched Tristan’s arm. “That means Dylan, T. Bring her. She’d better live up to everything you told us over the summer.”
“Yeah, what’s happening with Dylan anyway?” Seb looked at Tristan curiously. “I thought you’d be back together with her, since she’s here.”
“She must be gagging for it by now.” Jas grinned.
“Arrr. Gagging for it!” chimed in George Demetrios, laughing obnoxiously and spraying flecks of potato onto Tristan’s blazer.
“Hey, man, that’s disgusting.” Tristan frowned and shoved him away. He wiped his sleeve on the edge of the table and kept eating his food in silence.
Jasper and Seb looked at each other.
“So?” Jas prodded. “What are you gonna do? I’d go for it. You said she was a brilliant shag.”
Tristan let his fork drop. “Look, I told you about that before I knew you’d meet her,” he said. “Leave it alone. I feel a bit shitty talking about her like that now.”
George guffawed. “Haha! You’re such a pussy.”
Jas and Seb burst out laughing too. “Yeah! What the fuck is up with you, T?” Seb said. “Are you in looove with her or something?”
“Woo! T’s in love. T’s in love.”
“No!” Tristan protested. “I dunno, it just feels wrong, you know? Leave it.”
He poured himself a cup of the watery orange juice the school served at every single meal, and ignored the fact that Seb was staring at him. The Dylan situation had been gnawing at T ever since he’d checked her Facebook page that afternoon. Dylan had listed only one friend at St. Cecilia’s: Mimah Calthorpe de Vyle-Hanswicke. Fantastic. She’d been adopted by a social pariah. Not that Tristan should care, but he felt he’d got sort of close to Dylan over the summer while all that stuff was happening with her mum and dad, and although it definitely wasn’t ideal that she’d moved here, he felt like a bit of a bastard just dropping her. Leaving her to the St. Cecilia’s wolves.
On the other hand, what right did Dylan have to plant herself down the road and make him feel guilty? This was exactly what he hated most in the world: having obligations to people. Having people rely on him.
Tristan glared at the oak-paneled wall opposite his seat, feeling agitated by the whole situation. Then suddenly an image popped into his head: Alice, in Italy this summer. She was holding a champagne flute, running down the wave-smoothed beach at dawn after they’d stayed up all night, her arms flung wide, her face turned toward the rising sun.
No question about it. He was young and free. The important thing was doing whatever he wanted.