Delinquent (Academy of Misfits Book 1)
Page 17
“I get it, Asia. But I can’t stand by and see them go for you. I won’t do that.” He lays his hand over mine, squeezing gently. “Some people are worth fighting for. You’re worth fighting for.”
My skin prickles under his touch, but I’m prevented from responding as Pink and Kate slide into the seats next to us. Pink looks like she’s about to self-combust with excitement.
“Tell me you shoved their heads down the toilets like everyone’s saying,” Pink says with glee.
“Is that what you did?” Sonny’s mouth drops open, then he leans back in his chair and laughs, his whole body shaking with mirth.
“That’s what they had planned for me, I just happened to get to it first.” I shrug, drawing a low whistle from Kate.
“You sure know how to fuck with them,” Kate says, looking at me in awe.
“What, you never got into a fight?” I ask her, genuinely wanting to know. She’s alluded to issues at her previous school but has never gone into detail. I’ve respected her wishes and never dug for more information, until now.
“Not one I’ve ever won,” she responds, her cheeks flushing.
“Then you’re friends with the right people. I’m totally down for assisting you in that department.”
“Thanks. I’ll think about it.”
“Uh-oh, here comes trouble,” Pink mutters, looking over my shoulder. Sonny’s eyes narrow and he tenses. I twist in my seat. Camden is striding straight towards me.
“A word. Now!” he demands, flashing a dangerous look at Sonny.
“Don’t come in here ordering-” Sonny starts, but I cut him off.
“We’re being watched, remember,” I remind Sonny, nodding towards the canteen staff who are looking more and more concerned by the minute. I bet they’ve seen all sorts of shit go down in here over the years. Any minute now they’ll be calling security and we don’t need those arseholes descending on us.
“What is it, Camden?” I smile sweetly. His gaze darkens.
“You fucked with my girls. You do realise what you’ve started?”
I bark out an incredulous laugh. “What I’ve started? Are you actually mentally impaired?” I hiss under my breath. If we hadn’t got the whole of the dining hall’s attention before, we have now given Camden has grasped my arm and Sonny is on his feet and by my side in less than a second.
“Your girls tried to jump Asia in the toilets,” Kate says perfectly calmly from her spot at the table. I see a thread of fear in her eyes, and I hate that. She shouldn’t feel afraid.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” He narrows his eyes at her and out of the corner of my eye I see her kind of fold into herself. Jesus, whoever fucked with her at her previous school managed to do a right number on her. I make a mental note to speak with her about it someday soon.
“Why would she lie?” Pink adds.
“Is this true?” he asks me.
Sonny scoffs. “You’re either a great liar, Camden, or fucking clueless. Do you have any control over your crew at all?”
“Is. This. True?” he bites out, completely ignoring Sonny and stepping far closer to me than is necessary. I stand my ground, not allowing his sheer size and presence to scare me.
“If I said it was, would you even believe me?”
He looks at me for far longer than is comfortable, as though trying to see the truth inside of me, then steps back and drops my arm.
“I’ll deal with this,” he says, before striding off.
And something about the conviction in his voice leads me to believe that he will, but why is a total mystery. We’re enemies, aren’t we?
23
For the next few weeks, Camden is true to his word and I’m left alone. I’m not sure what he’s said or done but there have been no further attempts to jump me.
Don’t get me wrong, Monk still gives me evil looks every chance he gets, and the name calling hasn’t let up but everything else has stopped. At least for now. Monk is still part of the HH crew, that hasn’t changed, but there’s been a very significant shift in the group dynamics. Not that I care, gang politics aren’t exactly on my list of things I give a shit about.
Instead I use my time to get into a rhythm of sorts. Every day I spend breakfast, lunch and dinner with Kate and Pink and now we’ve established an easy-going friendship. Sometimes Sonny will eat with us, sometimes he won’t. I’ve avoided spending time alone with him, not certain what to do about the kiss we shared and this growing intensity between us. He’s a distraction and I really, really need to keep focused. If I concentrate on keeping my head down and doing my work, then maybe I’ll be getting a day out of this place. Soon.
Avoidance is my only strategy right now when it comes to Sonny and his fucking dimples, and I don’t even want to think about Ford or Camden. Trouble is, all three violate my thoughts all the damn time. I’m sick of thinking about them. Sonny reminds me a little of Eastern, they both have a wicked sense of humour and a streak of protectiveness that could get them into trouble. Camden and Ford too are alike in so many ways, guarded, mysterious, dangerous… They keep their true selves tightly under wraps, so tightly that I wonder if they even know who they really are beneath it all.
But I don’t care about them… I don’t. Eastern, yes. The others, no.
That’s what I tell myself over and over whilst I sit and wait for Mr Burnside to enter the therapy room with his usual cup of bitter smelling coffee, leather notebook and pen.
“Sorry I’m late, Asia. Got caught up on an important phone call. Won’t happen again,” he adds, sitting in the leather armchair opposite me. Between us is a low coffee table covered with art gear which I’m assuming is for me. There are some beautiful acrylic pens that I’d love to get my hands on. Even the sketchpad is one of those expensive ones with thick paper, and as far as you can get from the cheap stuff I usually buy from the pound store. There are even some really expensive pencils. This stuff is the real deal and something I could only dream of buying for myself.
“No skin off my nose,” I retort, tapping my finger impatiently on the armrest and pretending not to be impressed by the expensive art gear laid out before me.
“You want to tell me how your day has been or anything about your stay so far at Oceanside?”
“Nope.” I hate these therapy sessions. I don’t like talking about my shit. I don’t like talking about anything to do with my past, present or fucking future. It really is a waste of time. His and mine.
“These sessions are for your benefit, Asia. Nothing goes beyond these walls. I’m legally bound to keep anything you tell me between us. You can trust me.”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“No one at all?”
“I trust Eastern…” I blurt out after a second.
“And he is?” Mr Burnside asks.
“My best friend. But that’s all you need to know.”
Mr Burnside nods. “Thank you for sharing.”
I scowl, pissed off that I did share but he isn’t put off by rudeness or my reluctance.
“So Eastern is your best friend. How about you tell me a happy memory of him.” He looks at me with a neutral expression and waits.
“No.”
“It can be anything you choose. It doesn’t even have to be about Eastern. Perhaps something small. So, for me, one of my happy memories is of getting a whippy ice cream every Sunday afternoon during the summer. It was my Sunday treat. I’d always get chocolate sprinkles and sauce. It became a tradition.”
“Well, lucky for you. I didn’t eat much ice cream growing up.”
“No?”
“No, ice cream was a luxury we couldn’t afford.”
Mr Burnside nods, scribbling something down in his notepad.
“Okay, so no ice cream. How about something you did with your mum that made you happy.”
“There wasn’t anything…” I shrug, feigning boredom when really I feel sick inside. I have a handful of happy memories of my mum, one of which sits within my
cheap sketchpad. But I don’t want to share them, they’re too precious. Too painful.
“Just a small thing, anything…?” Mr Burnside asks gently.
I make the fatal mistake of looking at him, unnerved by the sympathy in his voice. When I see the pity in his eyes, something inside reacts to it. I hate pity. He studies my face and waits.
“Where I come from, most kids like me don’t have happy memories,” I snap, annoyed by the pity in his eyes. “We aren’t all spoilt little brats who get what they want when they want it…” I leave that hanging between us.
“That’s quite a statement to make, Asia. You grew up on a council estate in Hackney, yes? Are you saying all the kids on your estate had family difficulties, had no happiness whatsoever?”
“Yes, I grew up on a council estate, but you know that already. Don’t pretend you haven’t seen my file and read all about my dirty, fucked up past. And, no, not all the kids I grew up with have shitty lives like mine. But a lot do. A lot.” Too fucking many, I think.
“Care to elaborate?” he persists.
“No, I don’t.” I snatch my gaze away, looking at the table with the beautiful new sketchpad and acrylic pens. “I don’t want to talk about my past or my memories. Happy or fucking otherwise. I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t. Draw them.” Mr Burnside says, pointing to the art equipment on the table. He leans forward, picks up one of the acrylic pens and holds it out towards me. When I don’t take it, he places it back on the table.
“Look, I’m not an idiot. You’re not as fucking sneaky as you think. Why would I give you what you want?” I ask, folding my arms across my chest, glaring at him.
“Because I can help you, Asia.”
“These memories I have. My past pain and happiness are mine. Not yours, not Mr Carmichael’s, my social worker’s, the judge who stuck me here or the kids at this fucking school. They’re mine and who I choose to share them with is up to me. I will not be bribed into telling you anything so that you can tick some fucking box and tuck my shit away in another file.”
“So, you do have some happy memories then?” he asks, ignoring my tirade. “Do those happy memories include your younger brothers?”
That fucking pisses me off. He has no right to bring up Sebastian and George. I clamp my mouth shut and draw my feet up onto my chair, folding my arms around them. Effectively shutting down.
Mr Burnside looks at me for a moment before placing his pad and pencil onto the table between us. He takes a sip of his coffee then lets out a long sigh. “They’re okay you know…”
My head snaps up as I narrow my eyes at him. It’s been weeks since I’ve talked to my brothers or heard how they’re doing. I’ve felt a constant pain in my chest at not knowing how they are. I bet they’ve changed so much already.
“They still think I’m at some boarding school for the magically gifted?” I ask, despite myself.
Mr Burnside smiles. “They’re happy. They’re okay,” he insists. “If you want, I’ll call their foster mother regularly. Give you updates. Would that help?”
I nod, gratefully. “Yes, it would help,” I murmur.
That doesn’t make my heart ache any less though. I miss them. I miss them so damn much. Pressing my forehead against my knees, I will the tears away. I won’t break. Not here. After a long silence, Mr Burnside speaks.
“Nothing good ever comes from holding pain inside, Asia. I can help you if you let me. But I see that your trust is something I must earn before you’re willing to share. So, here’s the thing, I’m going to tell you something that only Mr Carmichael knows about. I might be making a huge mistake, in which case I shall deal with the consequences, but I’m going to share this with you anyway.”
“And I suppose after you’re going to want me to tell you something? Is that it?” I retort, hugging myself harder and wishing he’d just shut the hell up.
“No. After I finish, you’re going to take that sketchpad and those pens and you’re going to leave my office. Because once I tell you this, I’m going to need time to myself.”
I don’t say anything, so Mr Burnside does. He breathes in deeply before letting out a long, steady breath. I notice that his hands are shaking, and he clasps them together in his lap.
“When I was ten years old I was molested by my father’s best friend. He was looking after me for the weekend whilst my parents celebrated their twelve-year anniversary. I didn’t tell my parents. I didn’t tell them because they loved this man as much as they loved me. When they returned and asked me how I’d been, he’d looked at me and said: ‘just perfect’. I was ‘just perfect’ dozens of more times like that over the years. He abused me from the age of ten until I was fourteen. During that time, I fell in love with him. He was a monster, a paedophile, and someone who I never should’ve loved. But he was, by my parents and, eventually, by me. It was twisted and messy and nothing I’d ever wish on another human being. He stopped the abuse when I showed signs of becoming a man. I mourned for his attention as though I would the end of any relationship. It took years of therapy, of love, real love to understand I had been a victim of abuse. Without that therapy, without allowing myself to be loved in the right way, I would never have survived my past. That is why I became a therapist, to help others. I want to help you for no other reason than because I understand what it’s like to be betrayed by the people we love. I understand, Asia.”
The pain in Mr Burnside’s eyes is so unbearable, so real that I can only stare in the face of it with complete and utter horror. He doesn’t say any more to me, he just raises a shaking hand and pushes it through his hair.
“I’m sorry he hurt you…” I mumble, placing my feet on the floor. He nods tightly whilst I look between him and the items on the coffee table. “I won’t share it with anyone else because it’s not my secret to tell.”
“I appreciate that,” he says eventually.
Minutes tick by as we regard each other, until eventually I break the growing silence.
“You were right when you said you needed to earn my trust, but that’s something very rarely given by me,” I say, standing. I look at the items on the table with longing, but my pride refuses to let me take them. “Too many adults have let me down. One story, however sad, isn’t going to change the fact that you could let me down too. How can you guarantee that you’ll be any different? That you won’t let me down like everyone else has?”
Mr Burnside chuckles sadly. “I can give you my word, but I understand for you that isn’t enough.”
“No, it isn’t,” I agree.
“Then somehow, I have to prove it to you that I care. I will earn your trust.”
“Don’t say something you can’t possibly live up to.”
“I won’t let you down, Asia. I promise. Please, take those,” he says, pointing to the items on his desk.
I shake my head. “Gifts are superficial. Promises are breakable. Anyone can say they care. Many people have ‘cared’ for me over the years and all of them bar a couple have hurt me.”
“Then what can I do?”
I think of my mother’s actions, how she chose heroin over me. I learnt from a young age that her love for heroin was more than her love for me. She couldn’t fight her addiction because I wasn’t enough to fight for. I think of Eastern and his actions, how he chose to run drugs for his mum and Braydon because he loved them enough to ruin his own life to support them. I think of Sonny and Ford and how both stood up to Monk for my honour; Ford on the sports field and Sonny in the Tower. Words might be beautiful. They might bring life to a story or a poem, creating something magical, powerful, unforgettable, but they only reveal the truth of someone’s mind. Actions have the power to show the truth of someone’s heart and that, that is what I trust.
“Actions speak louder than words, Mr Burnside. On the street every action has a reaction, a consequence for kids like us. Rightly or wrongly, we live and we die by the choices we make, and the actions we take. Can you say the same?”
“You’re right, Asia. Actions do speak louder than words. So, here’s my first action; I will stop deducting credits for those who refuse to share their stories in the joint therapy sessions I take. I will let everyone sit in silence if that’s what they choose. I will only insist on attendance, even if no one participates. I will also give back the deducted credits. How does that sound?”
“It’s a start…”
He nods. “Good. I can build on that. Same time next week?”
“Same time next week,” I respond, heading towards the door.
“Oh, and Asia…”
“Yes?” I look over my shoulder at him.
“I disagree with one thing,” he says.
“And what’s that?”
“Words do have meaning when they’re spoken from the heart. Don’t discount them completely.”
“I’ll think about it,” I concede, pulling open the door and shutting it behind me. But he’s wrong. Words are just that, words. They mean nothing unless they’re backed up with action.
24
I don’t go back to my room like I was planning to do. Instead, I hook a left and take a walk past the classrooms on the same floor as Mr Burnside’s office. This is my free period and as far as I’m aware, everyone else is in lessons except a few kids who I’m not particularly worried about.
When I pass the open door of Ms Markin’s Maths class, I’m accosted with my usual greeting around here.
“Skank!” Monk calls, whilst the rest of his wolves’ howl. Everyone except Camden, who’s just staring at me, makes some kind of comment as I walk by.
“Fifty credits deducted for the whole class and you, Monk, can accompany me to Mr Carmichael’s office after the lesson,” Ms Markin says, giving me an apologetic smile as she shuts the classroom door. I catch a glimpse of Camden who’s leaning over and talking to Monk just before the door shuts. Neither look particularly happy.