Page 3 of House of Bass

“Do.”

“Don’t,” I say, determined to get the last word.

“It was only four months ago when you kicked Dan in the balls.”

“We were playing football, it was an accident,” I exclaimed.

“What about that day on the beach when you were so angry my sandcastle was better than yours that you knocked over everyone’s, then tried to blame it on me?”

“That doesn’t count, you were taunting me! It was never a fair fight, you're two years older hence more experienced in the art of sandcastle making. Also, I was seven.”

“You didn’t beat Devon either, and you’re the same age.”

“The judges were biased.”

“It was your mother.”

“Like I said, biased.” I scrunch up my nose into a mock frown and he chuckles. We smile at each other reminiscing about the past but as quickly as it comes, it goes. Our smiles dim and we get back to our meal.

“So, you want to tell me what your phone call was about?” I say, after a beat of silence.

“Only if you tell me what has you wound up ,” he shoots back sharply. Tense, once again.

I weigh the consequences of telling him, how my father would react to my inability to shut up and frankly that urges me to want to spill my guts. However, I know this moment between us is a one-off. Telling him means I am opening up my life back to him and I’m not sure if I am strong enough for that. To have one more thing tying me to him.

But before I can open my mouth to give either an excuse or a confession, we are interrupted by the saccharine call of an all too familiar voice. “Annie!” Our heads simultaneously whips in the direction of the voice. “Oh my god, I didn’t know you guys were here.”

My face drops for a millisecond but I quickly fix it before it is noticeable and return the blinding smile of the woman that was spearheading our way. Madeleine-James Cox is my best friend of seven years, American grown but her parents hauled her here after a situation at her old high school. One of many expulsions.

Her pale skin, usually a vivid contrast to her dark hair, is met with a tanned version of her. She is the epitome of effortless beauty–Our American Darling. That is what the news outlets coined her.

“We bumped into each other outside and figured we might as well,” Arden lies smoothly before I can reveal the truth myself.

“Que c'est mignon,” she mutters. How cute.

Then she gives me kisses on each side of my face (she’s half french and doesn’t ever let us forget it), she sits down next to Arden and kisses him on the lips for a couple minutes like I am not even here.

Okay, so I’ll confess. The real reason it became too hard to speak to Arden isn’t because I was too weak to do so. It’s because his girlfriend is my best friend.

2

ST. ANNABEL

She is lying, of course. She definitely knew we were here and that is why she came. MJ lives on Park Lane, her flat is three buildings to the left and considering I have seen more than one phone trying (and failing) to discreetly take pictures since Arden and I sat down, there is no way she didn’t know.

It is okay for her to be slightly jealous. She has every right to be. He is hers in every way that mattered and she is mine in (almost) every way that mattered.

MJ and I met in the middle of October in year nine when she transferred to TCA under special circumstances. GCSE year started in year nine for us and coming from the States, she was a year older than everyone else having arrived too late to just join the Year Tens.

I was the only student in the whole school who didn’t have a roommate, I had twice the space and all to myself. Hence, could you imagine coming back to your dorm after a class to find another bed and the whole room split in half? I couldn’t and I was pissed. It is no wonder there are rumours going around about a violent streak.

Our uniform consisted of a black blazer, a grey skirt and a different coloured tie to dictate each year, Year Nines had green ones, and since I was prefect, mine was striped. It was particularly cold on that day, so I had our grey cardigan on as well. The first thing I saw when I opened my room door was clothes all over the floor (and let me make it clear I did not do well with mess . I liked neatness, sue me) and there she was sitting there with brown hair, so dark it looked black, flowing down her back while sporting a white headband and a short skirt of the same colour. She smiled so brightly when she saw me and said, “Hi hi hi.”

“Who the fuck are you?” were the first words to leave my mouth as I kicked her clothes away and her fourteen year old face fell, upset that my reception to her wasn't the same. She got up and cocked her hip, arms folded. “Mon Dieu, did your parents not teach you any manners?”

I ignored her quip and got straight to the point, “Why are you in my room?”

“ Our room,” she corrected, unphased by the glare I was throwing her way. She shrugged, “This is the room I was assigned. Take it up with the school or better yet blame my parents for sending me to this place and making me repeat a grade.”