Page 15 of Spearcrest Knight

I stare at her with some surprise. “What, get you fired as my mentor?”

“Exactly.” She points her chin over her shoulder. “I can turn and leave right now and you could have a new mentor in no time if your parents throw a fit.”

I shake my head. Obviously, she doesn’t want to be here. I guess I just didn't realise quite how much she wants to be rid of me. Getting rid of my mentor was exactly my intention, so why do I feel an itch of irritation deep under my skin?

Sophie doesn’t get rid ofme.Iget rid of Sophie.

“Well, you’ve come all the way here,” I say, standing aside to free the doorway. “It’d be rude of me not to invite you in for a drink.”

She hesitates and looks over her shoulder at the big open courtyard where the taxi must have dropped her off. Her reluctance is palpable. I roll my eyes. “Come in already. I’m not going to bite you.” I hold up the bottle of wine in my fist and shake it. “Let’s negotiate over a drink.”

That gets her attention, and she finally follows me inside. I swing the door shut after her and lead her into the big open-plan kitchen. She stands stiffly by the marble-top kitchen island and watches me as I grab two wine glasses from a cupboard and pour us drinks.

I’ve never particularly liked wine, but I’m more nervous than I want to be, and I could do it with some liquid courage.

I gesture at a stool. “Don’t be so fucking awkward. Sit. Drink.”

I slide one of the glasses across the kitchen island

“I’m not going to drink,” she snaps, throwing a scornful look at the glass.

Sophie might look down on all the posh rich kids at our school, but the truth is that she’s the most stuck-up person I know in Spearcrest.

“I should have known you don’t drink,” I say with a sneer. “Perfect prefect Sutton. Too scared of losing control to ever let loose.”

She perches on a stool, her back straight, her chin stuck out. “I don’t drink around people I don't trust.”

I can’t tell whether she’s implying that she doesn’t trust me, or that she doesn’t trust anyone. The only thing I can tell is that I suddenly find the prospect of getting Sophie tipsy has become my most urgent goal in life. She’s so tightly wound, so rigidly in control of herself.

The thought of pulling on a loose string and unravelling her sounds delicious.

But she sticks to her guns and never even glances at the wine. I don’t let her judgemental expression bother me. I hop onto the counter, sitting cross-legged in front of her, letting her crane her head back to look up at me.

She leans back, putting distance between us, and frowns imperiously. “I thought I was here to negotiate?”

“Let’s.”

“Then I’m going to just go ahead and be honest,” she says, crossing her arms. “I don’t think you care at all whether or not you pass English Literature, and I don’t want to be tutoring you. So you should tell your parents I’m a bad tutor, or that you don’t like me, or literally whatever you want to tell them, I don’t care. Then I don’t have to come here anymore, and you can do whatever you want.”

I stare at her as she speaks. In Year 9 she used to be so animated, with a big goofy grin and chaotic hand gestures. But now, she is poised and still and almost expressionless. Robotic.

I watched this change happen over the years, and I always expected her to change so much she would be a completely different person. Maybe then I could be indifferent towards her.

But if anything, this change is having the reverse effect. The more she retreats inwards, the more I want to chase her down. The more walls she builds between herself and everyone else, the more I want to tear them apart.

I covet every emotion she swallows back, every truth she hides deep within herself.

Everything she covers up, I want to strip bare.

“Well? What do you think?” she asks, voice pinched with impatience.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I finally answer, taking a sip of wine. “If I complain about you and they send me someone else, then I’ll still be in the same situation. As things stand, we both have a common goal: to get away from these stupid tutoring sessions. So let’s work together and both get what we want.”

“What is it you want?” she asks warily.

Her distrust is tangible but unsurprising.

“You're right, Sutton: I don’t give a shit about passing Lit or getting tutored, but I do want to get away from the school. You could come over, pretend to tutor me, but we just don’t do the work.”

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