I do my best to not look up too often as I lean against the wall by the library entrance. The same way that I pretend not to care so a video will load faster, I do my best to steer my thoughts from Diwa as I spin one of my skateboard wheels.

We agreed to meet for our shared off period before lunch but the bell rang minutes ago.

Diwa's late.

Unless she's not coming.

Why would she? This whole friends thing were ridiculous in the first place. She's probably had a moment of clarity and changed her mind. Now that I think about it, I'm not all that sure any of our conversations happened; they could've been lucid dreams. Or maybe I hallucinated the whole thing.

This is stupid. I should leave–

Just as I push off the wall, Diwa turns into the corridor, note- and textbook under her arm. She smiles and jogs the last few metres.

'Sorry. Physics went over.'

Unless this is all a scheme.

You've completely forgotten the possibility that she's spending time with you to collect evidence of your silly vandalism. She'll give it to them. You'll get–

–locked in.

'Let's go inside.'

The door has swung shut after her by the time I follow.

I tuck my skateboard under my arm and pull my hood up, keeping my stare nailed to the chunky heels of her boots. Diwa strides through the library to the same table I found her at two months ago.

The physics section is barren save for a lone wolf watching Degrassi: The Next Generation on their phone. The crunch of their sweet and sour crisps is loud enough for it to feel like there are four others.

'I won't be any help in biology,' Diwa says as she sits with her bag in her lap to unpack her needs, 'and you must be doing fine in maths since you're such a self-described genius, so let's start with English.'

She watches me with an eagerness that testaments her in her element. It's lost to a twitch in her brow when I keep awkwardly hovering.

'Are you gonna sit?'

My cheeks burn. I glance around but nobody is watching so I lower myself into the chair opposite her.

'So what are your thoughts on Macbeth?'

'...I don't know them.'

Diwa stares at me. She picks up a book from the desk to show me the cover: Macbeth by William Shakespeare.

'I thought you said you'd read over the holidays.'

'No,' I correct, holding up a finger. 'I said I'd brainstorm the coursework which is unrelated to this play.'

'So have you done that?'

'Well... no.' Laughter laces into my words, though when Diwa's expression suggests she's taking this as a personal offence, I stop. 'Soz, mate. From this second onwards, I promise I'll start brainstorming.'

'I can't help you pass mocks if you don't read the books.' Diwa's characteristics bite shreds the syllables.

I slump in my chair. 'Shakespeare's boring.'

Diwa's eyes narrow. 'How would you know if you've not read any of his work?'

'Call it instinct.'

She don't laugh.

My insides collapse when I realise how much this means to her. That to her, this ain't a joke. And I'm only ever going to have one foot in, the other ready to run at the first sign of trouble. She's just another person whose time I'm going to steal.

My airways are blocked by a wasp's nest.

'This is stupid.'

You're stupid.

And useless. And most of all pathetic. You can't seriously think this would work.

Summat shifts in the periphery. Every muscle in my body freezes. And then it rises, the thud of my heart until it's all I can hear. A steady morse code: run, run, run, RUN.

Black spots scuttle in through the cracks in my vision. Not just spots but beetles. They swarm toward me. They want to warn me. RUN.

They're going to lock me in. And now they might lock Diwa too.

'I'm sorry for wasting your time,' I whisper. 'I don't need tutoring. That ain't the problem, that I don't know enough. I could do my homework. I could listen in class. I could show up to tests and actually complete them. But I don't.' My voice cracks. 'I just don't.'

Oxygen is stripped from the air by industrial chemicals. It stings my lungs with each breath. Burns my eyes to tears. Dizzies my mind till I've little sense of where I am.

Beewolf buzzes at the back of my head, thrilled at the state I've escalated to so quickly and my lack of immediate access to summat that'll subdue it. Unable to fight back, I freeze over. My breaths fog in front of me.

Sakda already knows (hurt) about maths olympiad. And he knows about Death to Beewolf. My days are numbered. This is the last thing I should be doing right now. I should be (painhurt) crafting teeth sharp enough to hold onto the cliff when my rope gets severed.

How am I supposed to explain to her that caring about school or art or anything is equivalent to handing your enemy the knife (pain) to kill you with? That it guarantees a one-way ticket to the bottom of the food chain?

To escape the basement alone, I've already severed my spinal disks one at a time and nailed them to the wall to use as holds like those in rock climbing. And when I ran out, made leverage with the hipbones and skulls of anyone else in reach.

There are no safety wires on this course: the fall will be fatal. I'll sooner hack off my legs than plummet.

Caring guarantees nothing but loss. Hurt. Pain.

Diwa watches me sweat with pinched eyebrows. 'Well, why not?'

'There's no point. Don't matter how much I try, I always cock things up in the end. I were born like that–'

Evil.

'–fucked up.' Sandpaper crams down my throat. My whisper claws out of my vocal cords and drags the flavour of rust with it. 'It's why my parents left.'

Diwa pales. She opens her mouth but don't manage to string together more than two phonemes of a question before I've stood.

In a flash, her head lolls back, blood gushing from her slit throat. I barely get the chance to take in the crimson on my hands before it's gone and (Threes. Threes. Find threes.) Diwa's watching me with drowning eyes.

The beetles swarm my feet and scuttle up my body, their glinting black camouflaged into my clothes until they reach my neck, then my jaw. And then my cheeks.

Run, they warn. (Threes!) Or she'll die.

Well, are you happy now that you've made her a target? You'll finally be rid of her. And that's what you wanted.

'I've gotta go.'

A panicked squeak leaves her throat and Diwa leaps to her feet. 'Why don't you apply to art college?' The question erupts out of her, louder than intended and all mushed together, but bold.

I halt mid-step and stare at her.

Shock overrides panic and my body forgets its acute stress response. My breathing calms, sweat evaporates without reappearing, and the insects retreat.

'What?'

Diwa is only emboldened by my derision. 'You're good at it. You enjoy it. You've got no shortage of works to make a portfolio with...'

'Mint. There's only the part where going to art school is all about French people and the fine arts, not random vandalism I spray in underpasses at night.'

'I don't think that's true.' Her tone is forcibly curt in a way that exposes the internal battle she wages against the urge to say summat insulting. 'You could do year twelve over and do BTECs instead of A-levels–'

'Everyone knows BTECs are for stupid people.'

'–Or you might even be able to go directly to a foundational course if your portfolio's good enough.'

Diwa glares at me, eyes flashing yellow. I stare back.

Silence stretches on until I scoff. 'There's zero chance of me doing that.'

Her patience snaps. 'Why not?'

'Why d'you care?' My palms burn. I grip the fire. It cinders the sandpaper in my throat. 'I'm not some charity case for you to fix up. You're not gonna be able to put this on your application letters.'

'That's not what this is! You self-sabotage because you reckon it's cool.'

In unison, we become agonisingly aware that we've forgotten our inside voices and there are people watching from between shelves.

Diwa continues in a whisper. 'I also don't want you to get expelled or we won't qualify for maths olympiad and as much as I hate to admit it, you're good. Also,' she adds, 'I thought we agreed to be friends.'

My chest heaves and I glare at her. But as my heart starts to return to a regular rhythm, it stops fuelling the fire, and soon, its final flames withdraw to the casings permanently lodged in my skeleton. Who am I to be cross with her?

I sink into my seat. You'll fail. She gave me a chance when she let me join maths olympiad and I have to at least try to pay her back before I bail. You'll disappoint her.

'Fine. I'll read fucking Shakespeare.'

You disappoint everyone.

A smile buds on her face. I stomp it before it blooms.

'Under the condition you never bring this art shit up again.'

Notes

BTECs: Business and Technology Education Council. An alternative qualification to GCSEs or A-levels that focus more on practical skills and provide working experience within a field. Because they are less academic in nature, they're sometimes perceived as less valuable but are increasing in popularity.