RoseBlood

What I Do

It doesn't take me long to decide what to do. I wander around the house yet again after the Tyrels and Lizzie have gone that evening, around every quiet, still room, all modern furniture and white walls, like it's all been set up for display, not to live in. I keep thinking that something will tug at me inside, something will make me feel close to this house, because it's where I grew up, where I was born and where my parents died. But there's nothing.

Eventually, I go back to my bedroom, and kneel down by my chest, opening it up and rummaging through my random collections of stones, Polaroid pictures and trinkets. I look over my shoulder at my bed, at the pillow, remembering the note left hidden underneath it from Hayley. All this time, I thought I'd feel homesick, and that I'd want to go back to the place I was familiar with and knew all the ins and outs of, but now, alone at night in a family house with just me sitting inside, I can't feel it.

When I try getting to sleep, my thoughts drift to the Tyrels, to Elias, different from his brother in the way that he's joking and carefree, but has a clever instinct just like Emerson, only ever revealing it when he needs to, and that sensitive side, that protective streak over his family and friends. Emerson, on the other hand, is just like me, not bothering to hold back on the watchfulness, always suspecting everything simply because we can, because it's interesting. Edith is sweet and happy and chatty, and people can open up to her just like that. They're the perfect trio. Their skills fit in with each other like puzzle pieces. But then there's me and Emerson, finishing each other's sentences, acting on a shared idea, being in another place when one was somewhere else. This is what we do. What I do.

On the morning of the first week of term, I get my things ready for college, books packed, and check my timetable. Psychology and criminology. I can't wait to get started.

Emerson calls before I have the chance to call him first, and I answer it with a forced calm and cool tone, though I can't help smiling.

"Hi."

"Holly," he responds with the same mock-casualness. "I just wanted to wish you luck in college, though I doubt you need it."

"Thanks. Did you go to college?"

"Online classes," Emerson tells me. "But I think you'll prefer being there in person. You'll be the top of your class, won't you?"

"I better be," I smile. "But, yeah, I've got to get ready, and..."

"Of course. I only called to check up."

"Sure."

"And, Holly?"

"Yeah?" I can hear the smile in his voice mirroring mine.

"When should we arrange to move your stuff to ours and put your house on the market?"

"As soon as humanly possible."

I can't hold back laughter now, and neither can he, breathy chuckles on the other end of the line. "Okay, then. Well, tell me when you finish class and give me the address. I'll pick you up."

"Oh, is that right?"

"Yeah, that's right."

I do what he says, and end the call, grabbing my backpack, the camera from my dad in its case inside it. I slide a couple of the holly clips from my mum in my hair, and expect to look ridiculous, but when I give myself a wary glance in the mirror, it doesn't look too bad.

In college, I sit right at the front, in the middle of the long desk opposite the teacher's desk and board. Students file in, students that look just as booksmart and observant I do, no sign of any of those boys who jostle and joke annoyingly loudly at the back, no one in this class who doesn't have any reason to be.

The teacher himself is mad, but genius, with wild, curly blonde locks bouncing around his ears, making him look youthful, though he's probably around Brunsley's age. He's got thin, round glasses that he keeps flicking impatiently up his nose, and sparkling eyes that take us all in with interest. His gaze lingers on me, and I lock my eyes on him, raising a brow slightly, my arms crossed on the table. I half expect him to drop the eye contact with a sceptical look, but he doesn't, and grins approvingly, clapping his hands together and turning his attention back to the whole class.

"Right, then! I'm Mr. Huxley, but everyone calls me Lee. Now, I'll be teaching you this course for as long as you choose to continue with it, and we will have a lot of open discussions and debates. I want open minds and shared opinions, okay? None of that hunched over textbooks for six hours. There will be some of that, inescapably, but this room is a place where we put ourselves into every scenario we study. I teach all my students to be fully engaged with their course. Sound good?"

Sounds wonderful.

I have criminology all day today, and it's one of the most interesting days I've ever had in a classroom. There are even a couple of students I can talk to about crime books and example cases, and their answers are ones complex enough for me to listen to with genuine interest. Roman, a lanky, nerdy boy with freckles all over, and wide eyes, whose grandmother is a judge, has some of the most interesting ideas on criminal behaviour I've heard yet. I ask him if he wants to talk about it more later.

"I'd be delighted to," he says with an awkward grin. "It's good to meet someone that has the same interest in these things rather than calling me a nerd for it."

I hold back a smile, nodding. "It is good."

"I'd like to, as well," the quiet girl sitting on the other side of me pipes up. Milly, a soft-seeming girl that reminds be a bit of Clarissa, but ridiculously clever, who writes pages as one answer rather than the standard long paragraph. "I don't have much experience with this. But it sounds really interesting."

"And to our chatty trio at the front," Lee raises his voice, making Milly flinch and Roman frown in embarrassment. I look up at him slowly, composed, and Lee points at me.

"Miss Cassia. Holly," he addresses me, as he takes a dramatic step forward, "what would you do? There's a suspect you're interviewing, and you think that maybe they're lying. They're definitely hiding something. What do you do first?"

And at that moment, I know exactly what to say.

"I'd study their expression," I answer him. He raises his brows and nods slowly, intrigued.

"Really? Interesting."

"I'm good at it," I shrug, feeling a smile gradually pull at the corners of my lips as I look down from the teacher's stare down to glance at the lovely, thick new casebook poking out from under the hood of my bag beside my feet, "so it's what I do."