As Hector said it would be, the aftermath of my outburst on School Birthday is brutal. The few people who missed it have quickly been brought up to speed by the whispering and pointed looks that become my shadows over the next week. Joy and Hannah make a point of discussing the ice-skating whenever I am nearby, and I hear the word unhinged muttered more times than I can count. Ren loyally skirts the subject, but there’s a void of unsaid things between us. How can we pretend that there isn’t? Even the evenings, which used to be a time of sanctuary, start to feel like a battlefield.
Because the dreams have started again.
She’s there almost every night, the rain battering against the windshield, the tears pouring down her face….The car splinters shortly afterward and I wake up breathless, horrified at how real it is, at all the aspects of that night I can’t normally bear to think about. Telling Hector about what happened on New Year’s Eve has awakened the night in my mind—in high definition.
I’m on thin ice—someday soon it’s going to break, and this time I’ll fall right through. Still, I don’t call my mother and get her to pull me out of here. I can’t say why.
I am reminded why I want to call her during PE the following Friday afternoon. We’re inside once again, for a mixed game of basketball. I’m instructed to mark a boy named Drew, who Fred now spends all his time with.
“Should I be concerned that you’re my partner?” he asks, smirking. “I mean, it’s icy outside.” He does an impression. “It might not be safe.”
The impression, of course, is of me. But instead of the surrounding people falling into peals of laughter, instead of the looks that I’m used to, Fred appears out of nowhere. “Leave her alone, Drew,” he says.
“What?” Drew says. “I wasn’t saying anything that the whole school hasn’t already heard.”
I wait for Fred to agree, but he surprises me by saying, “Just drop it, man.”
Drew, annoyed by this dismissal, calls back over his shoulder, “Jesus, Fred, what’s up with you? You into her or something?” It’s said in a way that underlines how he would be crazy if he was.
I don’t move, still shocked by Fred’s moment of gallantry. I glance gratefully at him; he remains stony-faced. He turns back to the game and says in a low voice, “To be clear, I categorically am not into you.”
I take a step forward, so we’re side by side, and reply in a low voice, “Thank God for that.”
And there it is, a signal that I might actually break through to the other side. It’s only there for a second—an involuntary twitch that he tries to hide—but it was there all the same: a tiny smile.
I trudge through swirling sleet to the deserted art building after prep. A half-finished, meticulously put-together wooden miniature of the school sits in the center. It is a perfect imitation, with the exact amount of windows and the three golden domes faultlessly sized on top.
Ren steps out of the shadows. “What do you think?”
“This is yours?”
She nods nervously. “My final piece for the diploma.”
“It’s extraordinary.”
“Extraordinary good or extraordinary weird?”
I roll my eyes. “I’ve been wondering what you’ve been doing here all this time. Wow—you’re really talented, Ren.”
She shakes her head, walking around it in a circle. “I’m trying to get bits together to apply for an art foundation course in London for next year. It’s not finished. I need to do the cable-car station somehow…and the outbuildings. Have you applied for anything yet? I know Hector’s planning on taking a year off, getting a job for a bit back home. It will be nice to know I have one familiar person in the same city as me—if I get in, that is.”
“You’ll get in,” I say, ignoring her question. I am barely considering tomorrow, let alone next year.
“You could apply for something in London too? Didn’t you say your dad lives there?”
“Listen,” I say abruptly, “I need to talk to you about Fred.”
“What has he done now?”
“Well, he—sort of—stood up for me today in PE.”
“He did?” Her reaction lacks surprise. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Did you say something to him?” The only explanation is that she told him to back off, that she’s had words with him after watching me lose my mind every night.
She shifts uncomfortably. “Half-term is coming up: he’s probably just realized you’re here to stay. I told you he’d get over it.” She passes me a piece of the design. “Will you just hold this while I glue it?”
We don’t talk about Fred again, but I can’t help feeling that Ren’s just as good at dodging questions as I am.
Whatever untruths Ren fed to me about Fred, she was right about the approach of half-term. I log in on one of the computers in the conservatory after Saturday morning prep to download some old French exam papers, and my school email account pops up. Among the dozen emails with photos of the twins from my mother, there’s a lone one from my father:
Hi Cara,
How are you getting on? Your mum says it’s all going well at Hope. Sounds like it’s a pretty fantastic spot.
Been thinking…Half-term is coming up, isn’t it?
London’s only a short flight from Switzerland if you wanted to come here for the week?
I’d love to see you.
Dad
I shut down the computer immediately and head back upstairs to change out of my uniform before lunch.
A noticeboard has been set up outside the corridor with a list of where everyone is going for half-term. There is a note underneath to say that if you’re going home, you’ll need written permission from parents and a detailed travel itinerary. As the school houses students from all over the world, many have put their names down to stay at school. There is another note to say that if you’re staying, a strict activity regime has to be adhered to, along with extra review sessions. It sounds dire, but I add my name to the list all the same—even if I felt I could go home to San Francisco, it’s too far, and I’d have to be pretty desperate to take my father’s email seriously. Anyway, if I’ve learned anything from School Birthday, it’s that I’m not ready to travel quite yet.
On Sunday evening, I head to the phone room to tell my mother my plans. I look over the list once again before I do. Over the weekend, Hector and Ren have filled in where they are going. Hector, home to London; Ren, home to Lyon. It makes sense that they would go home, their homes not being on the other side of the Atlantic, but it fills me with dread all the same.
On my way to make the call, another name catches my eye. The ink looks wet, like it’s just been inscribed: Fredrik Lindström, Lyon with Ren. I feel a dead sort of weight in my stomach. Why has Ren invited Fred to her home for half-term?
It’s my fault, really. I need to remember that she is not a surrogate for G. We don’t do everything together; we don’t make plans with the other in mind. It is not a betrayal for her to ask Fred home and not me. As I am coming to terms with this, a voice in my head says, What do you expect, Cara? Can you blame her for not wanting to invite you? Remember what you did to your last friend.
I suddenly feel a rush that has nothing to do with Ren’s lack of invitation. The calling card slips from my fingers and onto the floor. When I bend down to pick it up, my hands shake so furiously that I don’t know whether I will be able to. I leave it be, turning on the spot and heading back to the dorm before anyone can ask me what’s wrong. The voice keeps chiming, circling around in my head, as I climb the ladder to my bunk and press my face into my pillow, willing it to stop.
But it’s there, reminding me of the part of what happened that night that I have to forget, until I fall straight into the dream.