Anytime

Book 0: Dunbridge Academy

by Sarah Sprinz

Genres: Coming of Age; Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance

Synopsis

One single night turns Olive Henderson's whole life upside down.

After a devastating fire at Dunbridge Academy, severe injuries force her to retake a year on her own, without her best friends, who are about to embark on their A levels. And that's without the added frustration of new student Colin Fantino. Determined to hate everything at Dunbridge, the young New Yorker would rather be anywhere else than in this Scottish exile.

But then Olive starts to look underneath the surface, and with every crack in Colin's tough shell she feels more and more attracted to him. Until she discovers the true reason for his sudden departure from New York . . .

Discover the new, heart-pounding romance series that's perfect for anyone who loves Hannah Grace, Elsie Silver and LJ Shen.

'I am absolutely obsessed with this book!' 5* reader review

'I laughed and I cried' 5* reader review

'Incredible, I couldn't put it down' 5* reader review

Release date: January 16, 2025

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 464

Sample

‘Take it slowly, pet.’

I bite back the snappy answer that’s on the tip of my tongue and force myself to take a deep breath. It’s costing every last scrap of my self-control to ignore the sharp stabbing in my right shoulder. It brings the tears to my eyes – annoyingly, I only took my last painkillers a couple of minutes ago. They don’t kick in right away and I had no way of knowing that Mum and Dad would get here so soon, be standing in my room ready to take me home from hospital. I’ve been here weeks, which seems like a lifetime, and now everything’s going too fast.

‘Let me take that,’ says Mum, reaching for my bag. There are a few clothes, some wash stuff, books and cushions, mostly brand new because I couldn’t stand the smell of smoke ingrained in the things they were able to save from my room after the fire at Dunbridge Academy in early July. The flames didn’t reach the girls’ bedrooms on the third floor of the west wing, but the fire raged in the stairwell and almost completely destroyed the lower half of the building. Nobody could tell how bad the damage was for several days. Not till the police and insurance experts combed through the charred remains and collapsed beams – by which time I was in intensive care. It’s not like I knew anything about it. Why would I? Almost two weeks intubated on a ventilator, because if I’d been awake, the pain from the burns would have driven me insane. It was still unbearable when they eventually brought me round. It still is, especially around my right shoulder where they had to do a graft, covering it with skin from my thigh so that the wounds could heal. Expressions like ‘autologous’, ‘split-thickness’ and ‘mesh graft’ are part of my everyday vocabulary, because this is my life now. And I hate it.

‘I’ll help you, pet,’ says Dad, the moment we’re outside and I’m reaching for the handle on the back door of his car. He opens it for me, like I hadn’t spent weeks in physio, relearning every stupid movement, and continually failing at the easiest tasks. Standing up for a while. Putting on a T-shirt. Doing my hair in a ponytail, for fuck’s sake, like I did every time I walked from the school to the pool, but I won’t be doing that again any time soon, won’t be training again in the near future. I’m not being pathetic or melodramatic. The doctors said so, repeatedly, when I couldn’t take it in, and, yeah, they’re just as insensitive as people say. Dad’s the exception, maybe.

I can do it myself. I don’t need your help. It’s hard not to say the words. But it’s more than I can manage to say ‘Thank you’ to him instead, as I slip onto the back seat. I avoid his eyes, and after a moment, he shuts the door. Our gaze meets again in the rear-view mirror as he glances at me once he’s sat in the driver’s seat, next to Mum.

My parents don’t deserve my rage. What happened isn’t their fault. It’s nobody’s fault. Except for the bastards who were smoking in the Dungeon on that July night. During their investigations, the police found a cigarette stub in what remained of the upper sixth’s party cellar. Dozens of people were there but apparently nobody saw a thing. They’ve closed the case now. Accident, not arson. A tragedy, a misfortune. But the good luck amid the bad is that nobody died. Apart from my dreams but, hey, I’m supposed to be grateful.

You were seriously lucky. If that burning beam had fallen just a tiny bit differently, it wouldn’t just have caught my shoulder: it would most probably have killed me. And maybe I’d have been better off if it had, but saying that out loud would just make Mum and Dad do a U-turn and deliver me straight back to the hospital. So I sit in silence in our car, with my silent parents, who are getting a divorce. It’s just a matter of time: Mum with her guilty conscience over the affair I caught her out in months ago in Ebrington, Dad still with no clue. I want to cry but I can’t. I’m here, I survived. I will keep on surviving. It’s not even that hard if you just get a fucking grip.

Come on, Olive. Keep it cold, live up to your reputation. Be your old self. Except I’m not my old self. Everything’s changed.

Don’t forget your friends. Don’t forget that you finally get to see them again tomorrow. At school, not in hospital, where they all came to visit as soon as I was well enough. They couldn’t come so often once term started, though, and I get that. They’re in the upper sixth now. Without me.

Damn tears. I blink.

‘Are you OK, darling?’

‘Yes.’ I gulp and lean back on the headrest. Dad’s heading for Stockbridge, our part of Edinburgh. I feel it every single time he glances at me in the mirror. He doesn’t believe me. Because he knows me.

Nothing is OK. I’m tired, knackered actually, I’m in pain, and there’s so much rage inside me that I want to scream. The anger was there even before the summer, but for different reasons. It’s been almost a year now. Since everything’s been going downhill and I’ve been feeling like I’ve lost control of my life.

Why did it happen to me? Why did I have to be the one who headed back to school early on that shitty July night? Why didn’t I say, ‘Fuck getting eight hours’ sleep,’ ahead of the swimming meet the next day and spend the evening with my friends at the summer festival in Ebrington? All for a bloody competition I didn’t even take part in because I was in a coma, hooked up to the machines in intensive care.

That was nine weeks ago, and at first nobody was certain that I’d ever wake up again. It wasn’t just my lungs that were damaged by the heat of the fire and the toxic soot, a burning beam fell on me on the stairs, long after I’d blacked out. The biting smoke, my racing heart as I ran for my life down the west-wing stairs. I can’t remember exactly where I lost consciousness. I only remember how incredibly loud the flames were. And how dark it was. Black, hot, panic, panic, panic. And then, what felt like just seconds later, white, beeping, pain. Hospital. Still panic, panic, panic. The same fucking panic even now, like my brain can’t grasp that I’m safe. That it was bad but I’m apparently made to survive bad stuff. What choice do I have?

Lucky. I was lucky. I have to tell myself so again and again. What an incredible stroke of luck that I was the only person to get so seriously injured in the fire. Not that I’d wish it on anyone else. Not even my worst enemies. Not, incidentally, that I have any. Not even my mother and the man who decided to smash up our family with her. I wouldn’t wish a thing like this even on them. Not on anybody. But I wouldn’t wish it on myself either.

Unfortunately, what you wish for and what you get are two very different things. Everyone on my floor had gone down to the festival in Ebrington. It wasn’t so far for the younger kids on the ground floor and the first floor to get out, away from the flames. The stairs were empty as I ran down towards the flames, through the smoke, which was already so thick I couldn’t breathe, even holding my pyjama sleeve over my mouth.

I jump as Dad brakes sharply, swearing under his breath. The seatbelt cuts into my shoulder. I grit my teeth with pain but don’t make a sound. Dad has to believe I’m fine. Otherwise I can forget our deal. It took hours of arguing and tears of desperation before he and Mum finally agreed that I can do the rest of my physio as an outpatient and go back to school next week.

It’s bad enough that Dad can hardly look at me. He’s really trying to hide it behind his professionalism, but whenever he’s with me, it’s totally obvious. My own father, a doctor, can’t bear to see me like this. Even though it’s his vocation to help the sick. That clearly doesn’t apply to his daughter, and I’m not naïve enough to think it’s because I don’t matter to him. Quite the contrary, and that’s the whole problem. Mum and I are everything to him. My dad’s a loving man and the fear of losing me almost destroyed him. I know that. Mum knows that.

Livy, sweetie, promise me. Her piercing eyes, her hands on my arms when she caught up with me in Ebrington that time, months before the fire, back when I didn’t know what real problems were. Looking around frantically, low voice, still speaking. Promise me that you won’t tell your father. It would break his heart, Olive.

We’re approaching our house. Mum glances over her shoulder to me. I immediately look away. The sight of our drive and the façade of the three-storey townhouse in dark stone doesn’t exactly help. I’ve never spent less time here than in the last few months. And that’s saying something, given that I’m at boarding school and only home for occasional weekends in term-time.

I feel like an intruder into the marriage of convenience that used to be my family. Dad’s carrying my stuff; Mum’s eyes are just as laden with expectation. You won’t say anything, will you, my darling? I can see it on her face. Every single time I’ve looked at her since that evening over a year ago. But I can’t worry about it now.

I step into the porch. It smells the same as ever. Coffee, old leather and the citrussy air fresheners Mum puts everywhere. I stand on the step to take my shoes off and feel like a failure because my body’s telling me it’s going to keel over in the next forty-five seconds if I don’t sit down. I, Olive Mary Henderson, can’t even manage to take off my shoes standing up. I didn’t know it was possible to despise yourself this much, but it really is.

Later, eating dinner with Mum and Dad, I feel like I’m on the outside looking in. I still hardly have any appetite, but I’ve got just about enough sense to finish up my plate of rice and vegetables. I’ll never regain my old fitness if I don’t eat enough. I didn’t have many reserves to start with and my time in intensive care has used them all up. The muscles built up from swimming and regular weight training – gone without a trace. My body’s like jelly, and even the bloody bowl is cracked. Everything’s so knackering.

‘Is it OK to go straight up to my room?’ I ask after dinner, because the fatigue is suddenly pulling at me. I long ago gave up being angry about going to bed when primary-school kids are still watching TV. I have to give myself time. Isn’t that what everyone keeps telling me?

I stand up. Dad hesitates. I should have known earlier, when he glanced at Mum. I sit down again.

‘We’d like to talk to you about something,’ he says slowly.

I don’t move. I manage to say, ‘OK,’ but it sounds more like a question.

‘We understand that you’re longing to get back to school, Olive.’

‘Back to normal life,’ I correct him. Normality. Everyday life, far from cheerless hospital rooms and constantly stressed-out doctors, who look at my shoulder, ask if I’ve had a bowel movement, as if I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old girl – i.e. someone embarrassed by their entire life at the best of times – then hurry on to the next room without even looking me in the face.

‘We know that, love,’ says Mum, glancing briefly at Dad. ‘And we want to make that possible for you.’

‘We spoke to Mrs Sinclair last week,’ he goes on. Hold on. Why didn’t I know about this? ‘She’s happy that you want to go back so soon, but she’s also very concerned about you and your health. As we all are.’

I nod, holding on to my self-control. ‘But you’ll be there to keep an eye on me,’ I say. Two mornings a week, at least. And any time Dad isn’t scheduled to be at Dunbridge as the school doctor, Nurse Petra will be there in the sick bay. It’s virtually the same as the hospital. I don’t need twenty-four/seven care: I need a glimmer of hope.

‘Yes, I will,’ he agrees seriously. He folds his hands over his lips. ‘Olive, your mum and I agree with Mrs Sinclair that it will be better for you to repeat the lower sixth.’

‘What?’ I laugh. I really laugh. Then my face freezes. Mum and Dad are looking at me in silence. ‘That . . . You can’t mean that.’

‘It’s the only way you can—’

‘The lower sixth?’ I interrupt Mum. ‘But they can’t just leave me behind! What about my friends?’

‘We know you found last year a struggle, Olive. It’s a big step up to A levels and you only just scraped through your exams.’

We may be in Scotland, but at Dunbridge we do A levels, four or five courses in the lower sixth, dropping to three for our final year. So she’s got a point. Not that I’m admitting to it. No way.

‘Yes, but Mrs Sinclair and all my teachers had faith that I could do it. She said so!’ My heart is starting to race, I’m raising my voice, starting to shout as I realize that Mum and Dad aren’t here for a discussion. They’re informing me of a decision they’ve made for me, as if I’d asked them to.

‘We know that, Olive,’ Dad says calmly. ‘And we’re not making this decision lightly. But that was before the fire. The new term has already started, and you know you’ve got to switch from A-level PE to Spanish – there’s a lot of catching up to do there. The upper sixth is stressful enough as it is, and you can’t just cram in a whole year’s worth of Spanish on top of that. It’s just not feasible.’

Not in the state you’re in.

Not while you’re still so weak, still having nightmares.

‘You can’t do this,’ I yell. ‘Mrs Sinclair said—’

‘Olive, we’re your parents. Until you’re eighteen, we have to take responsibility for you.’

I jump up. My shoulder throbs, but I hardly notice the pain. It’s nothing compared to the despair rising inside me.

‘You can’t do this,’ I repeat, because my mind’s a blank. Mum and Dad just sit there. The tears well up. ‘But what about my friends?’ My voice cracks. My friends in the upper sixth. Having this one last year with them before we’re scattered to the winds was the only thing driving me on to make quick progress.

‘They’ll still be there, pet,’ says Dad.

Mum says nothing, won’t meet my eyes.

I shake my head and turn away. I can’t let them see me cry. Not again. I bite my bottom lip; I straighten and walk tall. I don’t cry until I get to my room.

‘I want to be alone,’ I snarl, as my bedroom door opens. My voice sounds gruff. I roll over to face the wall, not wanting Dad to see me like this. I’d have sworn he’d be the one to follow me upstairs. But just the firmness with which she shuts the door tells me that it’s my mother sitting on the edge of my bed.

‘Olive,’ she says.

I wriggle when I feel her hand on my back. ‘I’m tired.’

‘Darling, please. I want to talk to you about something.’

I stare at the wall and don’t move.

‘I wanted to tell you that the business between Alexis and me is over.’

The realization that she didn’t come up here to comfort me hits home with unexpected weight. She’s here to reassure herself that I won’t give her away. I could boak.

‘You haven’t said anything to your dad, have you?’

I shake my head automatically, then hate myself for it. The upside of fighting for your life in intensive care is that every problem you had before seems less important. But, sadly, they don’t disappear by themselves just because you ignore them for a while. On the contrary. Afterwards, they seem bigger than ever.

‘Dad deserves to know the truth, Mum,’ I mutter.

‘You don’t understand, pet.’

‘Stop that.’ I turn to face her, to look at her. ‘Stop saying that. You made a mistake, there’s nothing to understand. You’re cheating on him. And you know it.’

Panic fills my mother’s face as I raise my voice with every sentence. She looks as though she wishes she could clamp a hand over my mouth.

‘Olive,’ she repeats, fighting to keep calm, ‘you’re right. It was a mistake, and one I regret bitterly. Listen, pet. You can’t want this to break up our family.’

‘No, leave me out of this! You did it. It’s nothing to do with me. It’s bad enough that you keep trying to guilt-trip me, make me cover for you.’

‘I’ve never tried to make you cover for me.’

‘Oh, no? So what was that when you ran after me to beg me not to say anything to Dad? What is this now? How am I meant to react when he looks at me like he does because he knows there’s something I’m keeping from him?’

Mum eyes me coolly. ‘I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t say anything to your father while I’m trying to rescue this family.’

The tears sting my eyes. ‘We haven’t been a family for ages, Mum,’ I whisper.

She flinches. I’m not sorry. It’s her fault. She and that stranger who doesn’t give a fuck that he’s destroying families. ‘How can you say that?’ she asks sharply.

‘How could you do that?’

‘Olive, when you’re an adult, you’ll understand that things aren’t always as simple as you think now.’

‘When I’m an adult, I hope I’ll be a loyal woman, not someone who’d betray the people she means something to, just for a bit of fun,’ I spit.

Mum looks at me and, in that moment, I understand she doesn’t love Dad any more. Otherwise, there’s no way she could stay this calm. ‘I’m very sure you’ll succeed in that, Olive.’

She stands up. I’m struggling to breathe.

They’ll split up. I just know it. It feels like there’s no other option. It’s just a matter of time and I haven’t the least idea how I’m meant to cope with it.

‘Get some rest. It’s been a long day,’ Mum says, as she leaves my room.

Hate is a very strong word, in my opinion, but there’s no better one to express what I’m feeling for my mother.

My chest is tight, and my heart is racing. I can’t just lie there. I have to do something. But there’s nothing I can do. It’s an unbearable feeling, but it’s true. There’s no way of resolving this situation and that’s driving me crazy.

I don’t know why I go to the door and open it. Downstairs, I hear Mum’s footsteps followed by a quiet ‘And?’ from Dad.

‘It was a big shock to her, but I’ve spoken to her.’ Mum sighs. I clench my fists. ‘I hoped she’d take it better.’

‘She’s seventeen, Meredith. Of course it’s the end of the world.’

‘Do you think we’re doing the right thing, Neil?’

Silence.

‘I think we are, love.’

There’s only one thing worse than sitting on a plane that’s sending you directly into exile in Scotland, and that’s sitting next to your mother on a plane that’s sending you directly into exile in Scotland. But I guess I should be grateful that Ava Fantino didn’t put me in shackles before having me transported across the Atlantic, and is only accompanying me. God knows what she’s scared of. That I’ll skip the flight to Heathrow and get a charter to the Bahamas instead? I consider myself pretty clever but even I would have a hard time doing that after my parents froze all my cards. But, fine, it is what it is. First stop London, then we get the next plane to the middle of nowhere.

There are hardly any direct flights from New York to Edinburgh and that tells you everything you need to know. Looks like Mom and Dad deliberately hunted out the most remote boarding school in the world.

We think a reset, some time away from home, would help you to redefine your goals and to get a grip on what really matters in life.

A reset. Seriously. I’m still laughing.

At least until things have blown over. I’ll take care of the whole business. And you’ll use this time, finally, to learn the meaning of respect.

I don’t know what I expected. That it would be just talk, same as ever. That we’d fight it out around the kitchen table in our zillion-dollar penthouse because I’ve crossed the line and I’m digging my own grave, et cetera, et cetera. But this time they were dead serious. Froze my accounts, informed me that if I carry on like this, I could forget about accessing my trust fund when I turn twenty-one. I still feel like this isn’t real life, just some stupid movie. Less than seventy-two hours after the gym at Ainslee Manhattan burned to the ground, Mom had gotten a place for me at Dunbridge Academy. Scotland. Europe. Thousands of miles from my whole life to this point. Still, I guess I can be glad that it’s this school. The people there will speak something like my language. Or I assume so. The alternative would have been this mountain school up in the Swiss Alps or somewhere. The promo video on their website alone was enough – students in fancy uniforms, speaking French and German with the sun setting in the background.

So, Scotland. Crappy weather, even crappier food, ruined castles, sheep, total wilderness. But you can drink when you’re sixteen so, hey, Europe has its advantages. Though I doubt there are many parties at this school. I zoned out when they got to the ten p.m. curfew and the alcohol ban on the school premises. Sounds like hell, but I guess I deserve that. Not that I care. I’ll be out of there sooner than Mom can turn around. If she’s lucky, I’ll be able to open the door to our Upper East Side apartment for her in person when she gets back from her business trip to London.

God, I’m bitter. No way I’m the kind of son Ava Fantino wished for. But, hey, she’s not the kind of mother I’d wish for either. I didn’t wish for any of this. I just want an easy life, back in New York, at another school, whatever. No way am I staying in Scotland. Just a few weeks and I’ll be back. Fuck it, I promised Cleo. And now I have to think about something else: if I remember my kid sister in tears at the airport as I went through security, my own fucking eyes start watering. I’ve hardly slept for days. It was bad. I dreamed about buildings in flames, sirens, ambulances, flashing lights. About getting into Paxton’s car and partying with them because I’m a goddamn monster. Yeah, I called the fire department, but I was too scared to wait for the cops and answer questions.

I turn up my music and stare motionless out the airplane window at the suburbs we’re already descending over as ‘All for Us’ by Labrinth and Zendaya pounds in my ears. Until a couple weeks ago, I didn’t even know where Edinburgh was. Why would I care? It’s not the kind of city I think about when I think about Europe. London would have been slightly better but I’d have had too many distractions there, as Mom put it.

I glance over at her. She’s sitting upright in the business-class seat beside me, not deigning to look at me. Her entire attention is focused on her iPhone, no doubt answering emails of earth-shattering importance, or cancelling vital meetings. I seriously wonder how she survived transatlantic flights back when there was no Wi-Fi on planes. I can’t talk, though. The new season of Euphoria was all that got me through the last few hours. Sleep was impossible. My mind was circling too much. Has been since last week. Since I read the headlines. Since there’s been no denying that I’m the worst person in the world, too chicken-shit even to take responsibility for my own actions. I don’t know why I didn’t go to the police but to Mom, who looked at me and nodded. She said she’d make a few calls and I shouldn’t speak to anyone. How was I supposed to know that she’d also be getting me a place at boarding school to keep me out of the line of fire? I should have gone to the cops and confessed. Simple. I wanted to, once I realized what Mom and Dad were doing. Calling in every favour to clear my – and therefore their – name. Because that’s all that ever matters. No way the press can ever hear that Ava Fantino’s son is in the shit. For real this time. But I didn’t even have to give evidence, unlike my classmates who were questioned by the police as witnesses after Homecoming. I’ve never felt as sick as I did when I saw their panicked messages in our group chat.

Since then, everything went so fast that I felt like I was watching from outside as I packed my suitcase and said goodbye to Dad and Cleo at the airport.

I couldn’t read Mom’s face as I gave my little sister one last hug. She clung to my hoodie, wouldn’t let go. Not even when I whispered again and again that I’d be back soon. I’m sure of that. Mom and Dad can send me to a goddamn boarding school across the Atlantic to stop the truth coming out but I’m a world champion at breaking the rules. It’s only a matter of time before I’m back in New York. And then . . . no clue. No way I can go back to Ainslee. But there are other private schools in Manhattan: Worthington, Burton, Atkinson . . . I’d have no problem with Carnegie or some public high school either. At least then I’d be with the people I call my friends, even if Mom and Dad see them as second-class citizens. My friends who thought I was kidding when I messaged them to say my parents were serious this time.

Mom looks up, so I quickly turn away. Can’t let her think this fazes me. It was damn hard to hold my poker face the whole flight, though. Earlier, when we transferred in Heathrow, and I suddenly saw prices in pounds on the signs and heard unfamiliar British accents as people hurried past us, it was a shock, made it clear that this was really happening. That my dad wasn’t making empty threats and that my mom is here in person to guarantee that I really get to this boarding school and don’t take some shortcut right back to the States. To be honest, she’s only doing it because she can combine it with a business trip to London. I think she’s filming an ad for Tag Heuer and then with Chris Marchant, a colleague who had a talk show in LA for years. He was never as successful as my mother, or not until he came home to Britain recently to start over. But in the States, Late Night with Ava Fantino has been the number-one talk show for at least ten years now. There’s not one A-lister that Mom hasn’t had on as her guest. Musicians, actors, politicians, influencers – everyone seems to be just waiting for the accolade of an invitation from her.

A humourless smile plays around my lips: nobody has a clue what this woman’s like off camera. The whole world admires Ava Fantino. A career woman with a quirky sense of humour, a beaming smile and a perfect family. But I see my mom on screen more often than I do at home. Dad’s not much different, even though he has no taste for the media spotlight. He’s just as busy as legal eagle to Mom and the rest of New York high society, covering their asses. And now mine. It’s as gross as it sounds. Every time I heard the doorbell in the last few days my pulse shot up because I was expecting it to be the cops, coming to take me away, like I deserve. But I didn’t speak to anyone, just got on the plane to England. I only read online articles and screaming headlines. Investigations. Potential arson. Electrical fault, accident, we’d know more soon.

I shut my eyes because I feel as nauseous as I did that night.

I stomped out the toilet tissue. It wasn’t burning when I left the bathroom, I know it wasn’t . . . But the fact is, the gym was on fire just a few moments later when I got outside and turned around. Flames lighting up the New York night sky, fire-engine sirens, people screaming. And I just ran away like a fucking coward.

I clench my fists and silently curse the airport security guy who confiscated my lighter back in New York. Obviously I know you can’t have open flames on a plane but I thought you were allowed a lighter. The officer wasn’t interested in a discussion about it, though, maybe because it’s one of those windproof ones that can make a pretty big flame, and I didn’t want to risk Mom hearing about it.

It’s not so bad. Of course there’s another in my checked baggage – and that really is against the rules. So I have to pray they haven’t removed it, in which case I’ll have to find some alternative. I guess I should be grateful I don’t have anything on me. Scratching and cutting and all that shit really isn’t my thing. But I don’t know whether I’d control myself if I could take a lighter to the bathroom right now. Fuck, I’ve got a real problem, I know that, but I can’t tell a soul. I haven’t self-harmed since the Homecoming Ball. God knows how I’ve managed that. Maybe because I was too scared of getting caught. All I know is that the pressure is building and I’ve spent days feeling like a vent with someone’s finger over it. It’s only a matter of time until the next explosion.

The fresh air as we step out of Arrivals in Edinburgh helps a little, but as soon as I sit down next to Mom in this car that’s taking us to the school, I feel like a caged animal. Then I almost have a heart attack as the driver turns into the oncoming traffic at the first intersection. I open my mouth but can’t speak. I stare in shock at Mom. She’s totally unfazed and it takes me three more seconds to get it. United Kingdom. Drive on the left. God, anyone would think I’d never been out of the States before. Let’s put it down to lack of sleep. Mom just raises her eyebrows scornfully as I sink down again. My heart is still pounding, my palms are clammy, and it’s only when I start to feel a bit dizzy too that I catch on: there might be some other reason for my edginess and horrible feeling of panic.

Mom’s eyes drift over me as I bring up the app where my current blood-sugar levels are transmitted from the sensor on my arm. She glances at the display as I reach for the croissant we were given on the plane and I’d kept for later. It’s gone stale and I hardly manage a mouthful