“Nobody,” I exclaim.
“Well, somebody fucking does,” he jerks his thumb over his shoulder towards the now spotless bedroom.
My mind spins as I try to piece it together. I was sure Felix had done it. Like he said, it definitely wasn’t Father. I can’t picture him suddenly turning into some doting, concerned role model.
My next guess would have been Robyn, but for obvious reasons, it can’t be her. Maybe Atlas? Did he come round while I was out with Roman yesterday, looking through Robyn’s things? Although, the idea of him even noticing my room was a mess feels unlikely. Every room he steps into ends up looking like a bomb’s gone off.
“What about Roman?” Felix asks and I groan at his name.
“No fucking way was this Roman.”
“Why not? You are sleeping with each other,’ he points at me, and I can already feel my anger starting to rise. I wish I wasn’t so quick to snap. It’s like everything sitting under my skin is always right there, ready to boil over at the worst times.
“Jesus, Felix, drop it. No, we didn’t,” I snap. “And do you really think I have magical pussy power and somehow gotRoman, of all people, so obsessed he’s sneaking into my house to fix my bedroom?”
Felix pauses considering it and I roll my eyes. “Besides, he hates me now.”
“What?” he barks. “Why? What did you do?”
“Why the fuck do you think I did something? This is Roman we’re talking about,” I shoot back.
Honestly, sometimes I envy only children. Me and Felix only seem to have two settings: pure love or pure hatred. There’s no in between. The only up side is we can say whatever we want to each other and even when it turns into an argument, it never lingers. We don’t hold onto it.
I watch the tension leave his body as he nods, checks his watch, and then picks up my school bag.
“You’re right, sorry. I’m on edge. Let’s go, we can grab a drink on the way or we’re going to be late.”
Making our way out of the flat, I lock up and head towards Felix’s Bentley.
“Have you checked for bugs in the car?” I mumble, keeping my voice low. He gives a small shake of his head.
“We need to talk.”
“Tonight. Church,” he whispers back, leaning over me as he guides me into the passenger seat and I hate it.
I hate that we are so paranoid. I hate that we can’t even speak freely. I hate that this is my life. The deeper I go, the more I realise how much we are prisoners in a society that would call us free. People see the designer bags, the cars, the clothes, and assume we have everything. The truth is, all I have are things.
I don’t get family Sunday lunches. I don’t get to argue with my uncle over politics at Christmas. I don’t get home-made cards from a niece or nephew, or glitter stuck in my hair for a week after some chaotic playdate. Everything I have is hollow.
We drive to the university in relative silence, stopping at our usual coffee shop on the way. Felix grabs a bacon and cheese turnover, a black Americano for himself, and a caramel iced latte for me.‘Florence by Loyle Carner’comes on the radio. Felix must notice the shift in my mood because he turns it up, twisting towards me and using his half-eaten pastry as a mic; singing completely out of tune until tears fill my eyes and I start to laugh.
Okay… maybe I do have Felix.
By the time we reach the turn-off, my jaw aches from smiling. Just like my family estate, the big black gates are manned by security and after a quick inspection, they let us through.
I sigh as the building comes into view. Through the windscreen, the university sits wide and unblinking, a perfect stretch of stone and grass manicured to the point of cruelty. The lawn is so green it looks unnatural, cut into obedience, just like the people who attend here. A straight path splits through it, leading directly to the central archway, an invitation that feels more like a judgement. Honeyed stone rises in measured rows, as the windows are set high and narrow as if to keep the world out.
But I guess that’s the point.
Everything about this place is perfect.
I sink back into the seat, my fingers tightening around my coffee. I wonder how I’ll be made to feel today… too loud, too soft, too much, not enough. It’s constant. No matter how much you change to fit their mould, the goalposts shift. They always do. Until one day you realise they were never going to be happy with you in the first place.
This place is built on old money. Surnames that open doors. Futures that were never in doubt. It used to be England’s best-kept secret, but when the public found out, the founders needed something to keep the press quiet.
That’s why Robyn got in.
Over the last decade, every cohort brings in a scholarship student. Their life here is usually hell. A sacrificial lamb, if you will. They’re sold a dream and handed a nightmare. Most don’t make it to the end of their course. The pressure from lecturers alone is enough to break them and they leave burnt out, with no degree and nowhere to go because they’re care kids.