AN: when they talk about 'school' they are referring to Sixth Form College - which, in England, is the next level up from High School (ages 16-18 for 2 years). Some 6th forms are totally separate colleges with thousands of kids, but in this story, the 6th form is on the same site as the high school with around 100 students, and they have their own building/common rooms/teachers/rules. Bella is in Upper Sixth (aged 17) Hope that helps.
Two.
The house is already crawling by the time we get there (Angie's parents making the mistake of spending a weekend in their caravan while their home gets destroyed). I think her mum won awards for her roses. Or at least, I think that's what there were before the muddy-pink, vomit-soaked confetti that they are now.
I sniff the bottle Sam hands over to me, finding a place on a hideous green velvet settee, next to an already comatose Angie. It's better she doesn't see what's going on.
I can't hear myself think—some hell is screaming from the stereo in the corner—but then thinking isn't why I'm here. I swallow back the thick cinnamon crap and try not to gag.
The same faces are all around me as always. The same faces who'll be suffering in school tomorrow. Angie is muttering something, and I'm sure she's going to puke, so I stand and let her collapse, her head over the edge of the settee. I slide a fancy copper plant pot underneath, and go and find Ben.
He reaches out and pulls me to his side without a misstep in whatever tall tale he's plying his friends with, his fingers pinching my waist, kneading. I lean into him. Then push him away. Give a little, take a little, give a lot. That's the way this is going to play out, but not yet. I take the glass out of his hand and swill the lot. Vodka. It burns my throat, sends a wave of heat under my skin.
A crash takes everyone's attention into the back garden, where Paul and Jake are fighting over their last brain cell. Ben turns and presses me up against the kitchen counter. His eyes are wide black holes I see myself falling into and probably drowning. He kisses me, sloppy and not dissimilar to an ashtray despite the expensive aftershave he's bathed in. "You wanna go somewhere quieter?" says his hand, sliding up the inside of my thigh.
Ben always gets his way. He's used to it. Or at least he's used to thinking girls like me will let him do whatever he wants. I haven't yet, which makes me an itch he needs to scratch. Makes him think there's something hidden worth winning. There's not, but he doesn't need to know that yet. I slap his hand away and smile. "Are you kidding me? There's probably 150 people in this two bedroom house, where do you think is quiet?"
"My car," he hazards, but I slide out of his grasp and grab a bottle from the fridge.
"This isn't a backseat outfit."
"That's too bad."
"For you, yes."
I smile around the mouth of the bottle, waiting for his eyes to drop to my lips, then I let him watch me walk away.
AN: Thank you for all the love for this so far. xx