-Cassidy's POV-
The first Wednesday morning of February came like a heavy storm. It was Child Benefit day. In the Lynch house, that meant was a holiday for the demons. I'd tried to get down the stairs before the sun was fully up, hoping to snatch the book of cash before it disappeared into the bookies, but the floorboards betrayed me. Teddy was already at the table, his eyes bloodshot, a half-empty bottle of Guinness sitting next to a pile of crumpled notes.
"Where do you think you're going?" he growled. The air around him was heavy, fermented.
"School, Da," I said, my voice as flat as I could make it. I kept Shannon behind me, my hand gripping hers. "We're going to be late for the bus."
"Look at you. Two little princesses in your navy blazers," he lurched up, his chair clattering backward. He smelled of old cigarettes and a night spent stewing in his own bitterness. He reached out to grab Shannon's shoulder—his movements were clumsy, but there was a terrifying strength in his bulk.
"Don't touch her," I hissed, stepping firmly between them.
Teddy's face contorted. He didn't like being told what to do in his own kitchen. He lunged, his hand clamping around my forearm like a vice. His calloused fingers dug into the soft skin of my inner arm, squeezing with a force that made the bones feel like they were about to splinter.
"You don't tell me what to do, girl," he breathed, his face inches from mine, his breath hot and sour. "I'm the one who lets you stay here. I'm the one who puts the roof over your head. Don't you ever forget where you came from."
He flung my arm back with a sharp jerk, sending me stumbling into the doorframe. I didn't cry. I didn't give him the satisfaction. "Some job you're doing of that," I muttered, grabbing Shannon's hand and bolting out the door.
We didn't speak the whole walk to the bus stop. The air between us was heavy with the leftover adrenaline from the kitchen, the kind that makes your limbs feel like lead.
I sent a text to Joey to warn him of Teddy's rampage when he woke the boys up for school in an hour.
It wasn't until we were sitting in the back of the bus, the engine vibrating under our feet, that Shannon finally spoke. "Are you okay, Cass?" She looked small in her seat, her eyes darting to my arm where the sleeve hid the heat of the bruise.
"I'm fine, Shan. He's just drunk. He'll be passed out by noon." I forced my breathing to steady, trying to push the image of Teddy's red, bloated face out of my mind. "Tell me about Lizzie and Claire. Are they still the same as primary school?"
Shannon's expression shifted, a flicker of genuine light breaking through. "It's like no time passed, Cass."
A ghost of a smile touched my lips. I remembered those days when Derren was still here. When our family worked more like an actual family. Shannon used to love spending time at Claire Biggs' house. Her mother, Mrs. Biggs, was always a lovely woman to Shan—soft-spoken and kind, the polar opposite of the chaos that swallowed our house.
"She's more excited than I am that were at Tommen now. They keep asking to hang out after school. Go to the movies," Shannon said softly, her voice trailing off as she looked down at her lap.
"And what did you say?"
"I said we are busy. That I have to help Mam at home." Shannon looked out the window as we passed the turn-off for the fancy estates. The lie tasted bitter. "She didn't push. She just said she's glad we're back."
I felt a sharp pang in my chest.
Reconnecting with her old friends was like looking at an old version of her that had stayed in the sun while we were dragged into the shade. Shannon shouldn't have to lie. She shouldn't have to stay in the dark.
"I'm glad you have them back, Shan," I said, squeezing her hand. Her fingers were cold. "They're good girls. They'll keep you grounded. And I think I can handle things at home while you hang out with your friends more. You deserve to be young and have fun. Why don't you see if you can go over tomorrow?"
Shannon looked at me, a mix of hope and guilt warring in her eyes. "You're sure, Cass? If Joey's not there..."
"Joey's fine. Da's fine," I lied, the handprint on my arm throbbing as if to call me out. "Go hang out with your friends for a few hours. We'll all be here when you get back."
By lunch, my skin felt too tight for my body.
I couldn't go to the canteen. I couldn't sit there with everyone talking and being "normal students". My mind kept looping back to the kitchen—the smell of the stout, the way Teddy's fingers had buried themselves into my muscle. The way Shan felt like she couldn't go to her friends.
I slipped out the side exit by the gym, cutting through the frost-bitten bushes to a secluded spot behind the old bike sheds. It was a place where the "bad" kids went to skip class, but today, it was empty. The silence was a relief.
With shaking hands, I pulled a crumpled joint from the hidden pocket in my bag, struck a match, and inhaled.
The first hit was harsh, burning my throat. It had been a minute since I'd smoked. But the second... The second hit made the world go soft at the edges. The sharp, jagged memory of Teddy's grip began to blur into a dull, distant hum.
"Well, well. If it isn't Tommen's finest, engaging in a bit of horticultural research."
I didn't jump. The weed wouldn't let me. I just leaned my head back against the cold brick and watched the smoke curl into the air. Gerard Gibson was standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his tie loosened, and his blonde hair a chaotic mess.
"Go away, Gerard," I said, though there was no bite in it. "I'm in the middle of a very important meeting with my sanity."
"It smells like a meeting with a very skunky bush," he chirped, stepping closer. He didn't look shocked. He just looked... steady. He sat down on a rusted bike rack across from me, his knees bouncing with that restless energy he always had. "Rough morning, Cass? You looked like you were ready to fight a ghost in English."
"The ghosts are winning today," I murmured, taking another drag.
I looked at him—really looked at him. People thought Gibsie was just the class clown, the loud-mouthed best friend to the Golden Boy. But there was something in the way he never quite stood still, the way his jokes always felt like a shield. He knew about ghosts. He just didn't talk about them.
"You know, if Johnny sees you doing that, he'll probably have a heart attack," Gibsie said, kicking at a loose stone. "He's very 'just say no' when it comes to the people he cares about. Very boring. Very Golden Boy."
"Then don't tell him," I said. I felt a strange, warm pull toward him. He was the only one who didn't feel heavy. "He shouldn't care anyway. I'm just a lab partner."
"Cass, I say this with the utmost respect for your intelligence," Gibsie leaned forward, his face uncharacteristically serious. The playful light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by an almost unsettling clarity. "But you're an eejit. He's been trailing after you like a lost puppy with a rugby ball for three weeks. And you... You're looking at the ground so hard you're missing the fact that he's holding an umbrella over you."
"I don't need an umbrella," I whispered, the smoke clouding my vision as I thought of Teddy's hand. "I need the rain to stop."
"Sometimes the rain doesn't stop, Cass. You just have to find someone who doesn't mind getting wet with you." He reached out, not to touch me—as if he knew that today, any touch was a threat—but just to pat the air near my knee. "Come back inside. It's freezing out here, and Shannon's looking for you. She's with Claire and the Viper. They're making plans for tomorrow." I'd learned Gibs referred to Lizzie Young as Viper. I wasn't quite sure why yet, but it was a question I was too high to care to ask currently.
I looked at the joint, then at Gibsie. For a second, the "Ice Queen", a new nickname I learned I'd received, felt like a heavy coat I wanted to take off. This boy, with his jokes and his loud laugh, was the only one who realized I wasn't cold—I was just shivering.
"I'll be there in five minutes, Gerard," I said softly. "And... thanks."
"For what? My sparkling personality? My impeccable fashion sense?"
"For not asking," I said, my voice barely audible.
Gibsie stood up, giving me a mock salute. For a fleeting second, I saw a flicker of something haunted in his own gaze, a shared understanding of a life spent hiding. "That's what I'm here for, Lynch. Chaos and discretion. See you in five."
The bell for the last period was a dull thrum in my ears. The joint I'd shared with the air behind the bike sheds had done its job.
Walking into Maths, my eyes instantly went to Gibsie trying to see how many highlighters he could balance on his top lip while Feely watched with a look of pained concentration. Johnny was huddled over a textbook, his brow furrowed like he was trying to intimidate the equations into submission.
I stopped in the doorway, my brain—even through the haze—struggling to reconcile the image. Three weeks in, and I still couldn't get over the fact that these lads were actually in a Higher Level class. At BCS, if you could hit that hard, nobody cared if you knew the difference between a percentage and a hole in the ground. But here, the rugby boys were expected to actually pass their mocks to stay on the pitch. It felt like a glitch in the matrix.
"They're actually quite stressed about it," a soft voice whispered beside me.
I turned my head slowly. Katie was already in her seat, her bag clutched to her chest. She looked at me, her green eyes moving over my pale face. She didn't ask—God, I loved her for not asking—she just nudged the empty chair beside her.
"Hugh says the coach tracks their exam results," Katie murmured as I sank into the chair. "So they actually have to try, even if it looks like it's killing them."
"They still look like battering rams trying to do lace-work," I muttered, my voice sounding distant even to me. I opened my notebook.
The teacher, Mr. Henderson, began scribbling a series of equations on the board.
I stared at the formula. Usually, I could see the logic instantly, the numbers falling into line without me even asking them to. Today, they just sat there, cold and mocking. The weed was supposed to make the world stop hurting, but it also made the world stop making sense.
Beside me, Katie was working steadily. She noticed me staring at my blank page—not because I couldn't do the work, but because I was currently fighting the urge to put my head on the desk and stay there until February.
"Cass?" she whispered, leaning in so her hair brushed my shoulder. "You're scaring me a bit. You're... vibrating."
"I'm fine, Kate," I said, my voice clipped. I finally picked up my pen, but my fingers were stiff.
Hugh was sitting directly in front of Katie. A mountain of a boy, but he sat with a stillness that was rare for the others. He reached back without looking, his hand finding Katie's on the desk for a split second—a silent check-in—before he went back to his work. It was a gesture of such casual, protected love that it made my chest ache.
Across the room, I saw Gibsie scribble something frantically on a scrap of paper. He leaned over and poked Johnny in the shoulder, whispering something that made Johnny's ears turn red. Johnny shook his head, looking back at me, but Gibsie was relentless. He shoved the paper into Johnny's hand and pointed at me, clearly telling him to pass it back since Johnny was a row closer.
Johnny hesitated, his eyes lingering on mine for a beat too long, before he leaned across the aisle and dropped the crumpled note on the corner of my desk.
I didn't open it at first. I stared at it like it was a live grenade. But then I saw Gibsie's face—he was vibrating with such intense, eejit energy that I knew it wasn't a "you okay?" note. I smoothed out the paper under my palm.
It wasn't a question. It was a drawing.
Gibsie had sketched a very detailed, very muscular stick figure of Johnny Kavanagh. "Johnny Kav" was wearing a tiny crown and holding a rugby ball, but instead of a cape, he was wearing a giant, flowery "Ocean Breeze" fabric softener bottle as a backpack. The caption at the bottom read: THE KING OF TOMMEN: LEAVING A TRAIL OF FRESH LINEN AND HEARTBREAK WHEREVER HE CRAWLS.
A small, involuntary puff of air escaped my nose. Then a snort. Before I could catch it, a genuine, raspy laugh bubbled up in my throat.
Katie's head whipped around, her eyes widening in shock. "What is it?"
I slid the paper toward her. She took one look at "King Johnny" and his laundry-detergent cape and had to bury her face in her hands to keep from squealing. Her shoulders were shaking so hard the desk rattled.
I grabbed my pen. Underneath Gibsie's masterpiece, I scribbled: The crown is too big. His ego takes up all the headspace.
I nudged the paper back toward Katie. She wiped a tear of mirth from her eye and added: The bottle needs more sparkles. He's very sparkly today.
I flicked the note back toward Johnny. I watched him catch it, his expression a mix of relief and intense curiosity. He read it, his ears turning a shade of red that rivaled the Tommen tie, but when he looked back and saw me—actually saw me smiling, even if it was a sharp, jagged little thing—the tension in his shoulders finally broke.
I looked at the back of Gibsie's head. He was currently trying to see if he could fit three pens in his nostril while the teacher wasn't looking. He was a complete disaster, but for the first time since I'd walked through the gates of this posh school, it felt like BCS used to.