Nicolás turns the engine off and plunges the car into silence. The weight of it seals me in place like wet cement. Even breathing becomes laborious as I stare at the road behind the windscreen. Nicolás stares too.

I want to say summat but the nerves that connect my mouth to my brain are severed and words crash into my teeth in a pile-up collision. A few stray letters roll all the way to my tonsils. There's no hope of extracting syllables from each other into comprehensible speech.

Nicolás lifts a hand and I flinch. He lays it back into his lap where he starts to twist his many gold rings around his fingers, gathering up the courage to try again.

'You don't have to go today if you don't want to,' he eventually whispers.

'I'm fine.'

I doubt I can hold a pencil. The burns have swollen into fluid-filled pustules that stiffen my hands too much to retain refined motor skills even if pain didn't flash through my entire palm at the slightest touch.

But if I don't go to school, I'll be home alone with no distractions from Beewolf and that's no better.

Fidgeting with his rings, Nicolás trembles toward the path cut off with "DO NOT ENTER" and "DANGER" signs. 'Maybe we can see a doctor–'

'No,' I press. 'No doctors.'

Though every muscle in his body is taut, he trudges on. 'They could help.'

Help? Beewolf scoffs before I can consider it. Help? Don't you remember what happened last time?

Last time Nicolás had to take me to A&E, the doctors wanted to keep me after they had stitched me up. For surveillance. The only reason they didn't section me was that they were out of beds and Nicolás would've had to drive me to a different hospital which I managed to threaten him out of.

Doctors won't help. They'll lock me in and watch. And watch and watch and watch. They'll find out that I'm evil and insane and possessed. They'll never let me out. They'll force me to take poison. Poison every day.

'No doctors,' I say and open the door.

Nicolás undoes his seatbelt before I've got more than one foot out of the car. 'I'll walk with ya.'

I (watching) expect anger to spark and so does he. But (he's watching he's watching he's watching) it don't come. So I nod.

The school front were too congested and Nicolás parked a block away. It's not like the walk is long but as I watch my feet and count my steps in threes, the street somehow goes on and on and on.

I watch the shoes of people (watching watching watching) in the smoking hall flicker behind the fence as we pass it. Dread is a leaking tap that bleeds more into me with every step. Diwa's words echo in my mind—"you don't have to hate school".

Would I be capable of going to a school and not being afraid? Though I know that I'm the problem—I've been to plenty of schools and only gotten worse with each one, I'm too tired to stop my mind from toying with the idea.

'What would you say,' I start as we turn the corner, 'if I, like, as a joke, said I were gonna apply to art college?'

Nicolás is shocked into silence for a step. But then he answers with perfect confidence. 'In this hypothetical situation, I'd probably say "that sounds like a mint idea".'

My gaze flicks to meet his. There's no trace of sarcasm or dishonesty in his face, though I study it intently, double and triple check.

'But art don't make money. That's all you care about.'

His trainers grouse against the pavement when he stops. 'That's not all I care about.'

'It is,' I argue despite the chafe of his tone. 'I have to go to school to get good grades to get a job to make money.'

Nicolás scowls. It's so rare to see him ugly that the twist of his face is twice as monstrous. 'Am I a bad person because I'd prefer to not live in poverty forever? Unfortunately, you need money to survive.'

I drop my stare back to my Vans, twisting them so that the TOO HIGH 5 SCHOOL written along the side band is visible. I'm taking him for granted again. He wouldn't struggle so much with money if I weren't around.

'Who said owt about surviving?'

Though I don't look, I think I hear frustration drain out of him with a bucket of ice water turned over his head.

You're hurting him.

Are you enjoying it?

'Just that it's statistically improbable,' I explain.

With mastery gained through practice, Nicolás moulds his tone back into unassertive encouragement. 'If art college is summat you're interested in, you should give it a shot. You're dead good at it. Let me worry about money. Honestly, I'd really love to not have to fear you might be arrested every time you're feeling creative.' I watch him rub his wrist.

I'm hurting him.

Am I enjoying it?

He'll get back into his car and sob and it'll be my fault. It's all my fault, his pain.

Nicolás sighs and restacks his spine as if we've had a completely pleasurable morning chat. 'Have a good day,' he says, his voice coaxing my eyes to meet his. 'Phone me if you want to leave home early. I can report you ill.'

They're pitch black, his eyes, irises cradling pupils so affectionately that distinction between them feathers away. He could hug me the same way. If I would let him, if I could encounter gentleness and not see a predator disguising itself.

Nicolás smiles but it don't comfort me. Is he doing it just to assuage my guilt? How much of what he does is to accommodate me at the expense of himself? He does everything for me, for as long as I can remember, even when he were just a kid too.

I lift my hand but don't know how to do physical affection so end up giving him a weird wave. 'See you later.'

'In a bit,' Nicolás says. 'I love you.'

It takes the last of my strength not to grimace. But did he have to say that out loud? Everyone is listening.

'Cece!'

I've just got through the gate when Diwa rushes in after me. Her mum's glare screws into me from beyond the fence. Despite it, Diwa grins as she catches up to me only to stumble and stare.

'You've not got any eyeliner on.'

'I slept in late,' I lie. I barely slept at all.

Her focus snags on my bandaged fingers. 'What happened to your hands?'

'Nowt.'

Diwa's response is cut off by a taunt behind me. 'Aww, does wittle baby need to be walked to school?'

The boy I couldn't name but vaguely recognise from the year above exchanges grins with his mate as they emerge from the smoking hall, tangled in menthol vape.

Jordan Uwais is with them too, the wanker who's dumb enough to claim deathtobeewolf for himself. How has Cobham not expelled him then? Guess the staff are that out of the loop—useless, as I've been quoted saying.

'Does your brother hold your hand when you cross the road, Cecilio?' the boy continues and then I place him.

A younger face emerges from the one mocking me now. Char. Short for summat, no doubt, but I don't reckon I ever heard what. He were in Brookes Boys' Home. He used to catch insects and tear their legs and antennae off with tweezers. One time, Josh dared him to eat a devil's coach horse beetle and he did. Maybe my spine will crunch the same way as its exoskeleton.

He hasn't dared to remind me of his existence until now, now that I'm one misstep from slipping. The navigation of the food chain is a double-edged sword: the higher I climb, the harsher the fall.

'He said he loves you. You didn't say it back. You should tell your brother you love him.'

The sentence is punctuated with a shove. I catch my balance but do nowt to parry the next attack. We're gathering an audience.

Breathe. Let it go. Just breathe.

But every deep inhale broils the coals lodged between my ribs until they burn red. The kindling in my palms sparks.

Let it go. Everyone is watching.

Everyone wants to know if I've any teeth left.

'Or is that your sister? Right, he's just a s–'

I burst into flame.

The fire wakes up my body and my muscles triumph at its homecoming. The fire has never needed my mind and it doesn't need it now. Not as my hand wraps around his throat.

'Cece!'

Fingers lodged into the pliable flesh beneath the corners of his jawbone, I lock his mouth shut. Fear frosts at the corners of his eyes but I spear my stare through his, dare him to finish.

Finish the sentence. Go on...

Just when I can feel his surrender crawl up his throat, I'm torn off Char and flipped to the ground. I catch a flash of his mate's teeth before his combat boot batters into my stomach.

I dodge the next kick though the metal casing of his shoelace hits my cheek. Then I'm back on my feet.

Char has rebuilt his arrogance and now they both stalk me, taking dragged steps toward me. The explosion of heat has settled into a controlled fire, one that I'm able to plan my next move through.

Diwa grabs onto my arm. 'Nicolás wouldn't want you expelled over this.'

But it's too late.

Pathirana is already marching across the foreground with the aid of her cane, detention slip in hand.

I'm almost relieved. It's inevitable and now I don't have to keep worrying about it. I can be locked away in Somerset and Nicolás will be free of me. He won't have to worry anymore. He'll be happy again. He'll–

Pathirana steps past me. She holds the pale blue form out to Char. 'You can see me in detention at the end of the day and tomorrow as well.'

'What? But–!'

Pathirana cuts off his protest. 'We have a zero-tolerance policy for bigotry, Mr Kharral. I would advise not using derogatory language in front of half of the school.' With that, she turns and shoves through the crowd. 'Get to class, all of you.'

Notes

A&E: Accident and emergency. The hospital department where you go for immediate treatment to acute injuries or illnesses.

Section: To forcefully detain someone in a hospital because they are a danger to themselves or others.