*Watty's 2021 Shortlist*
Samantha Roberts and Ben Evans have one thing in common - they both attend Sir Robertson's School for the Gifted, an elite boarding school for the children of the world's wealthiest. Both scholarship students, they gravitate...
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"Suitcases?" I yelp, forgetting that we're supposed to be quiet. "Your plan is suitcases? What, are we going to dress up as your porters or something?
Anthony's taken us to his (still weirdly neat) room and pulled a set of large travelling suitcases from his closet.
"No," he responds, opening one up and peering inside.
"Okay, good," I say. "Because the whole disguise thing never works -"
"You two are going to be inside them," he finishes calmly.
I gape at him for a second, mouth wide open. "We're going to be... inside them," I repeat, hoping I misheard him.
"That's correct, yes," he says, looking me up and down as if seeing whether I'll fit. "How tall are you?"
"How tall am I?" I splutter. I look to Sam for support, but her face is pale and she's rubbing the bridge of her nose, seemingly unaware of how insane her boyfriend is.
"Yes. In feet and inches, please."
"I -"
"Five foot seven," Sam replies calmly. "I'm not that flexible, though."
I turn on her. "Are you seriously considering this? We could suffocate! We could -"
"Oh, stop being such a drama queen," she says offhandedly. "Besides, it would only be until we got out of the harbour, right, Anthony?"
The way she says his name. It's not fair, it's not fair. It still hurts, and I wish it didn't, but it does.
"That's correct," he says, turning and smiling at her. "Not very long at all. Just to get us through Customs and any surprise checks. How are you feeling, Samantha?"
Samantha. No one else calls her that—she wouldn't let anyone else call her that. But for some reason, from him it's fine. The two of them make me want to barf.
"5'11," I say sulkily.
Anthony quirked a brow. "We're lucky you're short. I probably wouldn't fit into one of these."
"I'm not short. I'm not!" I protest, as Anthony merely shrugs. Sure, I'm not as tall as Mr. Perfect over there, who must be nearly 6 feet, but I'm not exactly short either.
Sam places her hand on my shoulder. She doesn't say anything, but her eyes speak for her: please. Don't fight, not right now.
I nod. She sighs, some of the tension leaking from her face. I feel guilty as I realise how exhausted she is, and that she's been worrying about me. That I've been adding to the stress etched in her brow.
"I'm sorry," I say softly, ever conscious of Anthony a few feet from us. "I know this is hard for you. It's just—I don't trust him, okay? But I'll work with him. Because -" I grimace. "We need him."
