I WAS JUST TRYING TO BE FUNNY | ✓

▬ 28: and to be clear, this is all just for research purposes

          Dal raises an eyebrow at me as soon as I appear from the stairwell. 'You're grounded, blud.'

The warning doesn't make me slow or stumble on my path to his open apartment door, but I do narrow my eyes. 'Do you and my mum often talk about me behind my back?'

'Yes,' he answers, unfazed. 'The one thing we have in common is not wantin you to die.'

I wedge past him and kick off my trainers, ensuring they end up as far from each other as possible. 'Well, can you like not tell her I came here?' I exaggerate my annunciation.

Unbelievable that Dal grassed on me to my mum, and probably has been for years. I thought he was anti-authority or something.

He kisses his teeth at my attempt to berate him. 'I ain't your therapist. We ain't got no confidentiality. I'm allowed to tell your mum whatever I like.'

'What if I phoned your mum and told her what you're doin here?'

He's unimpressed. 'First, you ain't gon be phonin nobody cause you're a kid and you're a fool. Second, you ain't know her name. Good luck finding her number.'

I scowl but admit defeat. Striding into the flat, I open the fridge and pour myself a glass of orange juice. Dal nudges one of my trainers with his foot until it's aligned with the other.

'Ain't you supposed to be studying anyway?'

I shake my head. 'I could recite all my textbooks from cover to cover if you asked.'

With a sigh, he sits at his table where he has his laptop open. He slides on a pair of reading glasses to peer at the screen and I gawk. Never in the seven years I've known him have I seen him wear glasses. Honestly, I can't blame people who supposedly can't recognise Clark Kent; if Dal passed me in the street like this, I wouldn't look twice.

'How was therapy?'

So he knows about that too.

'Terrible.'

It's been two days and I'm still recovering. I always get exhausted but somehow it's especially bad now; I've barely slept since. My brain is a hive of nocturnal bees with hundreds of workers ready to set flight the moment I close my eyes.

How am I supposed to just be okay with not understanding things? Is that something people do, just not care?

'She told me I don't need to feel bad about rejecting Oxford.'

'You don't,' Dal confirms. His eyes leave the laptop screen to affix onto me. 'When you gon tell your parents though?'

'When are you?' I bite back.

Wishing I could retreat into my shoulders like a turtle, I take a sip of juice. I shouldn't be so harsh on him. I hate that they compare notes about me, their unified surveillance waterproof, but I can only blame myself.

'Later,' I answer his question.

Still standing in his kitchen, I turn to the window and drink my juice slowly. The flow of people below lulls my eyes out of focus until I jerk awake. Miles has his hands buried into the pockets of his hoodie, his head bowed like he's trying to avoid being recognised.

Well, too bad — apparently I've developed a sixth sense for his presence.

I watch him walk past Under the Dryer, Sainsbury Local, and a bakery until he jogs up the stairs to the library. What is he doing in the library? Whirling around, I leave my glass, still half-full, on Dal's table. 'See you.'