Cress and Ford leap to their feet, grinning wildly. “We signed up when you first told us about it. Surprise!”
At home, I’m done faking smiles. I race to my room and only just manage not to slam my door.
It’s okay, it’s okay. So the four of us are grouped together? We’ll do the play and have it done with.
I pace my room, gritting my teeth. Grief. That time alone with Ethan, gone.
It’s probably for the best.
A knock comes at my door, and my veins buzz. It’ll be Ethan, coming to say how sorry he is. How he had no idea.
“Come in.”
Cress enters my room with a cheesy, hopeful smile; Ford is behind her, bent over his phone. Ethan is nowhere to be seen.
I halt, back up to the window and perch on the sill.
“Ethan said you’re a writer? That you have ideas for the script?”
I fold my arms. “Yeah, I have a few ideas. Not sure they’re any good, though.”
Ford stuffs his phone away and delivers a dazzling grin. “I’m a writer too. I’ll look over what you have.”
My smile is weak. “Sure. Under Mrs Norris.”
For the first time, Mrs Norris seems to be on my side. She refuses to get off my notes and even hisses at Ford, extending her claws.
Ford hisses back.
Mrs Norris is so startled that she rolls off my work when Ford tugs.
Cress giggles and seats herself on the end of my bed.
Quite at home, Ford plants his arse on my desk and rests his feet on my chair. He reads over the few pages of dialogue and hums.
What does that mean?
“I mean, it’s okay.”
“Okay?”
He waves a hand. “Oh, the writing itself is fine. But is fantasy really the kind of piece we want to perform?”
Cress nods in agreement. “Ambitious in the scope of a twenty-minute play.”
“What kind of character would you want to act?” I ask them.
“I think I could act any type of character you write. I’m a fan of the classics, Shakespeare, Beckett. But I could do justice to a contemporary story too. Comedy or drama.”
“I’d love a comedy!” Cress claps her hands, delighted. “Ohhh, a rom-com.”
“It really doesn’t matter,” Ford says. “Whatever scenes you write for me, I will make come to life—though I do think angst will be easier to pull off.”
“Hmm, you’re probably right,” Cress agrees.
“If we’re going to do justice to this project, we’ll need to be rehearsing at least three times a week. If you could have something scripted for us before the weekend, Finley, that’d be terrific.”
He hops off my desk, winks at me, and strides out the room.
Cress grins apologetically. “He’s a little bossy. But he’s a perfectionist where it counts. We’ll get you the best grade for this.”
She leaves the room. I stare at the script Ford let flutter to the chair and floor, and the fire in my gut makes everything burn.
I grab my voice recorder violently and begin dictating another story.
I stay up all night forming it.
It’s not very good, though.
I delete it and begin another. Another.
I finally print one, but I get frustrated and slash a red pen through it. I fall asleep on bleeding pages.
When I wake up, Ethan is crouched beside me, gently rubbing circles on my back.
I sit up, disoriented, a piece of paper sticking to my cheek. I peel it off. The sunshine makes it shimmer, almost translucent where my tears might have dried on it.
“Where did you go yesterday?” I blurt.
“Sorry. I was frustrated. I stayed with a friend.”
“Frustrated because of us?”
“Because Cress and Ford took this course away from us. I couldn’t stay civil, so I removed myself. I know they only meant it as a nice surprise. I’ve decided to get over it and enjoy it for what it is.”
“I was annoyed too,” I whisper.
“The thing is—what I realised, is—we’d have been paired up with other people anyway. This way, at least it’s people we like. The fact we live with them will make things easier logistically too.”
I grimace. “Why do you always have to be so reasonable?”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“It’s hard enough not to touch—I just wanted this with you.”
Ethan stands up. “Come with me.”
I follow him quietly up the turret stairs and out onto the roof. All of Mansfield opens up to us, and it’s beautiful in the dewy morning. Like a million crystals have been strewn over it. The lawn, the leaves, the rooftop gables.
“I love it up here.”
Ethan looks at me like he wants to fold me into his arms. He clutches the damp balustrade. “This space is ours. No one but you and me will come here.”
I grab the top of the parapet beside him. Electricity skitters up and down the length of our not-quite-touching arms. “Can I pitch a tent and move here?”
He chortles, breath fogging the air. “Every morning before breakfast. Ten minutes. You and me and all this.”