Save Us

1

Graham

When I was younger, my grandfather always used to ask me, If one day you lost everything, what would you do? I would never think seriously about my answer to the question, just say whatever popped into my head first at that moment.

When I was six, and my brother had deliberately broken my toy truck, I said, I'll fix the digger.

When I was ten, and we moved from Manchester to the outskirts of London, I said, I'll just have to find new friends.

And when I was seventeen, my mum died, and while I was trying to be strong for my dad and my brother, I said, We can get through this.

Even then, giving up was not an option.

But now, aged almost twenty-four, sitting here in this office where I suddenly feel like a criminal, I no longer have an answer. At this moment I feel as though there's no way out of this situation, that my future is uncertain. I don't know how I'm meant to go on from here.

The drawer squeaks as I pull it out of the heavy cherrywood desk. I dig around in the muddle of pens and notepads that have accumulated there over the last year. My movements are slow, my arms feel like lead. But I need to hurry-I have to be out of the building by the end of lunch.

You are suspended with immediate effect. You are expressly forbidden from maintaining any contact with Maxton Hall students. If you breach this ban, I will go to the police.

The pens fall through my fingers and clatter onto the floor.

Bloody fucking hell.

I bend down, pick them up, and dump them in a box with the rest of my belongings. It's a mishmash of notes, textbooks, my grandfather's globe, and handouts I'd photocopied for tomorrow's lessons and now might as well leave behind, although I can't bring myself to do that.

I look around the office. The shelves are bare, and there's nothing but a few bits of paper on the desk and the smudged writing pad to show that I was marking essays here until a few hours ago.

You only have yourself to blame, a spiteful voice nags in my head.

I rub my pounding temples as I check all the drawers and cubbyholes in the desk one last time. I shouldn't drag out my goodbyes any longer than strictly necessary, but I'm surprised by how reluctant I am to tear myself away from this room. I'd decided weeks ago to look for a job in another school so that I could be together with Lydia. But there is a major difference between leaving a job of your own accord and being escorted out by security.

I gulp hard and take my jacket from the wooden coat stand. Mechanically, I pull it on, then grab the box and walk to the door. I leave the office without a backward glance.

The questions are piling up in my head: Does Lydia know? How is she? When will I be able to see her? What should I do now? Can I ever work as a teacher again? What if I can't?

But I can't find the answers to them now. All I can do is fight the rising panic and walk down the corridor toward the school office to drop off my keys. Kids run past me, and some of them greet me politely. My stomach is throbbing painfully. It's a struggle to smile back at them. Teaching here was fun.

I turn the corner and, suddenly, it feels as though someone's tipped a bucket of ice-cold water over my head. I stop so abruptly that someone crashes into me from behind and murmurs an apology. But I barely take it in-my eyes are fixed on the tall, red-blond young man whom I have to thank for this entire situation.

James Beaufort's face doesn't flinch at the sight of me. Far from it-he looks totally unbothered, as if he hasn't just screwed up my entire life.

I knew what he was capable of. And I was aware that it wasn't a good idea to get on the wrong side of him. Lexington warned me as much on my first day at this school: You never know what he and his friends will do next. Watch out for them. I didn't pay much attention to his words because I knew the other side of the story. Lydia had told me how hard all the family expectations were on her twin, and how he'd closed himself off from everyone, even from her.

In hindsight, I feel a total idiot for not having been more careful. I should have known that James would do anything for Lydia. Having destroyed my career is probably all in a day's work for him.

Standing next to James is Cyril Vega. It's a good thing he doesn't take history, considering that I can't set eyes on him without picturing him and Lydia together. Walking out of school together and getting into a Rolls. Laughing together. Cyril with his arms around her, comforting her after her mother's death in the way I never could.

After the tiniest hesitation, I grit my teeth and walk on, the box jammed under my arm. I grip the keys in my pocket more tightly as I come closer to them. They've broken off their conversation and are watching me, each of them with a hard, impenetrable mask of a face.

I stop by the door to the school office and turn to James. "Happy now?"

He doesn't respond, which makes the anger inside me boil over.

"What were you thinking?" I ask, glaring at him. "Didn't you and your friends realize that your childish prank would destroy my career?"

James exchanges glances with Cyril and his cheeks flush slightly-just like his sister's do when she gets angry. The two of them look so similar and yet, in my eyes, they couldn't be more different.

"You're the one who ought to have been thinking," Cyril spits.

His eyes are more furious even than James's, and it occurs to me that getting me kicked out was probably a joint effort.

The expression on Cyril's face leaves me in no doubt that he has all the power here. He can do what he likes to me, even though I'm older than he is. He's won, and he knows it. There's triumph in his eyes and arrogance in his stance.

I bark out a resigned laugh.

"Beats me why you're laughing," he goes on. "It's over. We know what you are. Don't you get it?"

I clench my fist around the key ring so hard that the little metal teeth cut into my skin. Does this rich brat really think I don't get it? Does he think I'm not perfectly well aware that nobody gives a shit when and where Lydia and I first met? That nobody will believe us if we insist that we had already fallen in love before I started at Maxton Hall? And that we broke up the moment I found out that I'd be her teacher? Of course I knew it. From now on and for all time, I'm going to be the creep who got involved with a student on his very first teaching job.

The thought makes me sick.

I walk into the office without deigning to look at the two of them again. I pull the bunch of keys from my jacket pocket and slam them onto the desk, then turn on my heel. As I walk past the lads again, I glimpse Cyril pushing a phone into James's hand out of the corner of my eye. "Thanks for that, mate," he says. I turn away and hurry toward the door as fast as I can. I dimly register that James is raising his voice.

Every step hurts; every breath feels like a monumental effort. There's a roaring in my ears that drowns out pretty much everything else. The students' laughter, their echoing footsteps, the creaking of the double doors as I walk out of Maxton Hall and into the unknown.

Ruby

I feel numb.

The bus driver shouts out that it's the end of the line, but I can't make sense of her words. Eventually, I grasp that I've got to get off if I don't want to ride all the way back to Pemwick. I've been so sunk in thought that I have no memory of the last forty-five minutes.

When I step out into the air, my limbs feel heavy yet tingly, all at once. I grip my backpack with both hands as if the straps could hold me up. But it doesn't help to shake off the feeling that I've been caught up in a whirlwind from which there's no escape. Like I no longer know up from down.

This can't have just happened. I can't have been kicked out of school. Mum can't really have thought I'd get involved with a teacher. My dreams of Oxford can't have just gone up in smoke.

I must be losing my mind. My breath is coming even faster, and my fingers are cramped. I feel the sweat running down my spine, but there are goose bumps all over my body. I'm dizzy. I shut my eyes and try to get my breath back under control a bit.

When I reopen them, I no longer feel like I could throw up at any moment. For the first time since I got off the bus, I take in my surroundings. I've come three stops too far and I'm at the far end of Gormsey. Normally, I'd be kicking myself. But right now, I'm almost relieved, because I can't go home yet. Not after Mum looked at me like that.

There's only one person I want to speak to at this moment. One person I trust completely and who knows without a doubt that I'd never do a thing like that.

Ember.

I start walking toward her school. They must be nearly finished, because a few primary school kids are coming this way. There are a bunch of boys trying to push one another off the narrow pavement and into the hedge. At the sight of me, they pause for a moment, and walk on with their heads down like they're scared I might tell them off.

The closer I get to Gormsey High, the weirder I feel. It's only two and a half years since I was at this school too. I don't miss it, but being here again is a blast from the past. Except that back then, nobody turned to stare at me for wearing a private school uniform.

I walk up the steps to the main doors. The dingy walls presumably used to be white and the paint on the windowsills is flaking. You can't help noticing the absence of funds flowing into this place.

I squeeze past the stream of people coming toward me and try to spot anyone I know in the sea of faces. Before long, I see a girl with two neat plaits as she walks out of the school side by side with a boy.

"Maisie!" I call to her.

Maisie stops and looks around. When she sees me, her eyebrows shoot up. She nudges her boyfriend to wait, then threads her way through the crowd toward me.

"Ruby!" she says. "Hi, what's up?"

"Do you know where Ember is?" I ask. My voice sounds perfectly normal, and I wonder how that's even possible when everything inside me is broken.

"I thought Ember was ill," Maisie says with a frown. "She wasn't in school today."

"What?"

That's impossible. Ember and I left at the same time this morning. If she didn't go to school, then where the hell is she?

"She messaged me that she was in bed with a sore throat." Maisie shrugs and glances over her shoulder to her boyfriend. "So she must be at home, right? Sorry, I have to go. Do you mind . . . ?"

I nod hastily. "Yeah, sure."

She gives me another wave, then walks down the steps and links arms with the boy. I watch them go, my mind racing. If Ember had a sore throat this morning, I'd have known. She didn't look ill, and she was acting normal. Everything was fine at breakfast.

I pull my phone out of my pocket. Three missed calls from James. My cheeks flush as I dismiss the notifications.

I took the photos. I can hear his voice in my mind, but I'm trying to ignore the oppressive feeling in my chest. I click on Ember's name in my favorites. It's ringing, so her phone can't be switched off. But she doesn't pick up, even after ten rings. I hang up and text her:

Please call me. I need to speak to you. It's urgent.

I send the message and slip my phone back into my blazer pocket, then I walk down the steps and turn back to look at the school one last time. I feel out of place. I don't belong here anymore. But I don't belong at Maxton Hall anymore either.

The words I don't belong anywhere shoot through my head.

With that thought, I leave the school grounds. On autopilot, I turn left and walk down High Street toward our neighborhood, even though home is the last place I want to be right now. I couldn't bear it if Mum looked at me with the disappointment she showed in Lexington's office.

The events of the day are running through my mind on a loop. I replay the head teacher's voice again and again. Those few words that shattered the future I've been working toward for years.

As I pass a row of cafés and little shops, I catch fragments of conversation between people on their way home from school. They're discussing homework, getting angry at teachers, or laughing about things that happened at break. Numbly, I realize that I have nobody to chat like that with anymore. All I can do is walk along with the warm sun mocking me, knowing deep down that there's nothing left in my life. No school, no family, no boyfriend.

Tears fill my eyes, and I try in vain to blink them away. I need my sister. I need someone to tell me that everything's going to be OK, even if I don't believe that for a moment.

I'm about to pull my phone out again when a car stops at the curb beside me. I can see that it's a dark green beater, with rusty rims and grubby windows. I don't know anyone who drives a car like that, so I walk on, not paying it any attention.

But the car follows me. I turn to take a closer look, and the driver winds down the window.