Even Fran knew enough to recognise that Rico was a scarily talented musician. He managed to convince her to listen to his Tchaikovsky concerto on the violin before he agreed to play the guitar for her, and they spent nearly an hour singing songs together while he strummed along with the accompaniments. Or rather, Fran began by singing, but then realised that her voice was too high within seconds and gave up, content to try humming along and swaying to the music. Rico appeared so absorbed by the singing and guitar-playing that he seemed to forget she was there. Fran was seriously impressed – he knew many of her favourite songs, including Stairway to Heaven, and he finally finished up with Sultans of Swing.
At long last, he opened his eyes again and focussed on the world around him, smiling. His shoulders slumped and he looked drained yet relaxed.
“Wow,” Fran offered, and his smile spread into a grin.
“I’m no Hendrix,” he said bashfully, “but I’ve been playing for years, so it’d be disappointing if I didn’t have some skill.”
He returned the borrowed guitar to its stand and checked his watch.
“We ought to go back. We’ll be late for check in, and I’m supposed to be on duty.”
“Can’t you just mark us absent so we can continue?”
Rico laughed. “I need the check in board to be able to do that, idiot. We’d have to go back anyway.”
Fran grinned cheekily at him. “You would. I could stay here and you could sign us both out and come back.”
Getting to his feet, Rico cuffed her lightly round the head. “Hey, I have work to do. This was just a little stress relief for me. And you’ll have work to do too, so don’t go making excuses.”
Fran pouted. “But I like making excuses.”
“Yes, Fran, but I’m not going to be responsible for you failing to do your work.” He folded his arms.
Fran narrowed her eyes and rose slightly from her seat. “Are you making fun of my feminine qualities again?”
Rico’s expression changed when he realised that she was crouching in an attack position.
“No,” he said carefully. “I’m just….” He hesitated, trying to come up with an answer, then hastily held his hands up in defeat and retreated. “Okay, yes I was. Just don’t kill— ack!”
He swore as Fran tackled him and he cracked his head against the piano stool leg.
“Ow! Frankie!”
“Whoops.” Grinning impishly, Fran let go of his legs and knelt up.
Gasping with pain, Rico pushed himself into a sitting position and gingerly felt the side of his head. “That really hurts. Seriously, I can understand why Piers is gutted you’re not allowed to play sports. That’s the hardest I’ve been tackled in years.”
Fran’s grin faded. “Are you okay?”
“No, but I will be.” He prodded the side of his head again. “Get me some water? You owe me for that.”
Fran ducked sheepishly out of the room and spent several minutes trying to find the water dispenser she’d seen on the way in. When she returned, it was to find Rico at the piano playing a recent hit song called Wonder Star by a mixed group that had come under the public eye about three months previously. He stopped as soon as he realised she was in the room and took the water off her.
“Thanks.” He dipped his fingers into the glass and patted some of the water around the bump on his head before downing the rest.
“I thought we needed to go back for check in,” Fran said, confused. Rico smirked.
“I rang Arthur and told him to sign me out.”
“Great!” Fran plopped down on the floor and grinned up at him. “You can play me more songs!”
Rico’s expression turned mischievous. “I only asked him to sign me out.”
He cringed instinctively, and while Fran was tempted to hit him, she managed not to ball her fists and settled for shaking her head.
“You are a despicable excuse for a human being.”
“I’m part alien.” Realising that Fran wasn’t on the warpath this time, he straightened up. “Just kidding. I asked him to sign us both out and do check in for me. You have half an hour and you’re allegedly in the library.”
Fran sighed. “That means I actually have to go there.”
“Yeah, but you can take your time about it.” Rico shrugged, placing his hands on the piano keys. “And you owe me… again.”
Fran had to admit that being friends with the upper sixth boys was a little like being a part of the popular crowd at one of her previous schools. It by no means replaced the social power she’d had when she’d been queen bee of her school and everybody had wanted to be her friend, or at least in her good books, but it was an acceptable substitute. Still, she reminisced as she ensconced herself on the tank of the toilet and opened the small window of frosted glass by her shoulder so that she could smoke out of it without stinking out the bathroom, it would be kind of hard to recreate the good old days when she’d been able to talk about hair and makeup and chick flicks without having to worry about what other people were going to think of her. Bernard had surprised her the previous day by telling her that Love Actually was his favourite film, but only Aaron had spared her a judgemental look when she’d commented that Simon’s new haircut made him look like a turnip.
To think I’ve survived here over a month…. Not quite able to believe how well she’d succeeded, she took another drag of her cigarette and tapped the ash out of the window. And my only mistakes have been coming out and spotting myself in town. Over a month without that continual fear of being snatched at from the shadows everywhere she went. A month without having to tell a bodyguard not to worry because she was only going to the loo. A month without being followed home from school and having to escape down side alleys while Malcolm fought off the guys chasing her. It felt like she should be throwing a party or something.
Even when she’d first come up with the plan to disguise herself as a boy, she hadn’t expected it to be quite so successful. More successful that what the police had proposed, yes, but not to fool even Malcolm and Aidan. She’d bought the police more time to check through their security systems, to find out more about the stalkers, and found herself a haven, at least for the time being.
The bathroom door suddenly opened and Fran choked, the smoke going in the wrong way. Eyes watering, she stared at Brookie, who had stopped dead in the doorway with a nonplussed expression on his face.
What the hell? I forgot to lock the door! Fran panicked internally. She’d thought he wasn’t going to be back until later.
Brookie seemed to regain control of his limbs, though Fran remained frozen.
“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head, and Fran flinched as he stepped towards her, an angry glint in his eye. “No, no, no, no, no. If you are going to smoke, we are not going to get on at all well.” He snatched the cigarette out of her hand, tossing it to the ground and crushing it beneath the heel of his trainer.
Fran’s brain finally rebooted itself and she swung down from the tank, glaring at him.
“Hey, it’s my problem if I’m going to smoke!”
Up close, she could see that Brookie was absolutely shattered. His grey irises seemed darker from the bags under his eyes, and he was paler than usual. There was a slight tremor to his breath every time he inhaled and his hair was beginning to look like it was in need of a wash.
Her defence seemed to cross a line. Brookie’s fists clenched, and Fran actually felt afraid when she saw the muscles all the way up to his shoulders tensing.
“Do you have no concerns about what you’re doing to your health?” he yelled at her. Fran tried to step back, but found that she was already pressed up against the wall beside the toilet. Something inside her cracked too.
“Hey!” She drew herself up and jabbed a thumb at her chest. “My health. My health! So butt out!”
He looked like he was going to hit her. Fran flung her arms up in front of her face and cringed, but his palms slapped the wall on either side of her head. Her hair fluttered rapidly under his quick breaths.
“‘Butt out’?” he spat at her. Fran didn’t dare look up at him. They’d argued before, but this was the scariest he’d ever got. “Quite apart from the fact that it’s against the school rules to smoke, it’s actually illegal for you to buy cigarettes! So no, I won’t ‘butt out’!”
Brookie took several deep breaths and then dropped one hand to his side, half-reeling away and rolling his head back before he sighed and snapped his attention back to Fran. A muscle on his jaw was twitching: he was restraining himself, but just barely.
I clearly underestimated how much he hates smoking, Fran realised. She’d heard it mentioned by one or two others, but she still hadn’t expected his reaction to be quite this extreme.
Brookie closed his eyes for a couple of seconds. He was still struggling to control himself.
“You have no idea, do you?” he said tiredly, almost in defeat. “God, I can’t cope with something like this again.” His other hand left the wall and scrubbed through his hair. “Frankie, you’re not just messing with your lungs. You’re messing with your head. Don’t you realise that? You could end up with severe depression if you continue smoking.”
Fran threw him a withering look. “Seriously? You think smoking turns people into suicidal nutcases? Get your head checked.”
He gritted his teeth, hard. “Not everyone. You, however, are in a high-risk category because of your mental health, and that means you are going to find it nearly impossible to give up.”
Fran saw red. “You think I have mental problems?” she asked him, her voice deadly quiet.
Brookie’s patience ran out. “Francis, I know you have a mental disorder, either anxiety disorder or panic disorder,” he snapped. “It’s not my place to diagnose it, but it’s bloody obvious and smoking is not going to help you relax because of the way that nicotine addiction works. You’re making yourself worse! Bloody hell.”
“You’re right.” Fran’s voice was shaking with anger. “It’s not your place to diagnose me, so don’t f*cking do it. As for me, it’s my life and you have no business in it. If I want to screw with my health or my mind, let me bloody well get on with it. I don’t smoke because I get stressed. I smoke because I have to.” She tried to push past him, but he stretched out an arm and blocked her way forward. It was like walking into a metal bar.
“You’re addicted,” he concluded.
“Go to hell!” Fran smashed her arm down on his, trying to knock it out of the way. Brookie winced but didn’t budge. Fran turned to glower at him, wishing that looks could kill. Movie star or not, Brookie would have been incinerated on the spot if they could have done. “What is your deal?!”
He unclenched his fist and held his hand out to her, palm facing up.
“Hand them over,” he said wearily. “I’m fed up with arguing.”
“You are one pretentious *rsehole if you think I’m just going to give you my cigarettes.”
He shrugged. “I can live with that.”
Fran thought about retorting, but he was staring her down with cold, unforgiving eyes. She could tell he wasn’t going to let her leave the bathroom unless she gave him the cigarettes, even if he had to stay there all night. Swearing under her breath, she dug in her pocket for the carton and all but threw it into his hand.
“All of them,” he said in a hard voice.
Fran exhaled furiously. She couldn’t afford to give him all her cigarettes. They were one of her protections, not to mention expensive to replace, and she wouldn’t have an opportunity to do that until the next weekend.
“I’ve given you all the ones I had,” she snapped. “Let me out.”
“All of them, Frankie,” he repeated in an even harder voice. “You only gave me the ones you had on you. If you don’t give me all the others you have stashed up now, I will get Carson and tell him to do a room check and you might well get suspended.”
Fran felt like she’d been stabbed.
Suspension… I can’t get suspended. I absolutely cannot get suspended. I’d be out on my own if I have to leave school. They’d try contacting my family— If any of that happened, everything would hit the fan spectacularly. Worse, if Carson actually did a room check, he’d find things like her stash of monthly necessities. If her cover was blown, she wouldn’t actually be able to come back. The suspension wouldn’t be for a few days: it would be permanent. She’d have to begin again.
She lowered her head in defeat. “I hate you.”
“I’ve had worse. Your opinion of me has very little bearing on my life.”
For a second or two, Fran contemplated meeting his eye. In the end, she didn’t dare, and she deflated like a punctured tyre.
“Will you bust me if I give them to you?” she asked dully.
“I’m making no promises.” Strangely, his voice cracked. Fran nearly peeked at his face to see if he was crying, but managed not to. She knew part of her would feel sorry for him if he was upset, and right now she was far too angry to care.
She held her hands up in surrender. “You win.”
Brookie let her pass, but he followed her out of the room and hovered over her shoulder until he was satisfied that he had her entire cigarette stash. Fran wondered what on earth he was going to do with fourteen cartons, but from the look on his face, it wasn’t worth the risk to ask. In a thoroughly foul mood, she slumped down on her bed while Brookie disappeared to the other side of the room. She could hear him moving about for a bit; then the bathroom door clicked shut and the shower came on.
Furious, Fran pummelled her pillow and turned to face the wall. Even if it was the last thing she did, she was going to make sure that Brookie Denvers would regret this. He was going to have hell to pay.