'WHO'S MAKING YOU?' ABSTRACT PRESSURES FROM SOCIETY AT LARGE

            By the end of the month, both Miles and I have learnt to relax at Hannah's Pantry. Unlike I expected, the amount of antagonising I receive hasn't increased since we started frequenting it, even if Lysander, and therefore the whole year, thinks that I'm the one being tutored, nor does Miles report any threats to his position in the hierarchy. I guess everybody's too absorbed in revision to have time to care much about anybody else's business.

Sonia never had any issues to start off with but on Monday she did state that she's glad we're "not on edge all the time anymore since it leaves more time for actual tutoring". Another remark she made entirely out of the blue and moved on from, wholly oblivious to the embarrassment it drenched us in, like beer cans discarded from boats by millionaires who never once look back to see them tarnish the ocean view.

Nonetheless, as most things she says, it's true, because it is much easier to focus on the task at hand when it's not necessary to blaze through stifling tension first. Tutoring turns out more enjoyable than I'd expected. On several occasions, like during Zuhr today, I've even found myself looking forward to it.

'What you keep gettin wrong is you're not realisin it's two separate functions.' I underline each within the trigonometric integral. 'You have to do the chain rule and then the product rule within that. The issue is that you're not identifyin all the separate parts of the composite function accurately.'

I glance at Miles for signs of understanding only to find him dewy-eyed. With a dopey smile on his face, he leans against his hand, elbow perked on the desk, and stares at me without noticing I stop talking and frown. He's not even listening. Daydreaming about football, no doubt.

'Oi, hello.'

When I snap my fingers in front of his face, he jerks upright and nearly knocks over his coffee. Once his mug is stable, he attempts to look at me, fails, and glances around the other tables instead.

I fling my pencil onto the notepad. 'You know, I've got my own exams to study for. I'm not gonna spend time tryna teach you if you ain't even listenin.'

Miles grips the back of his neck and forces eye contact, though interrupts it with rapid blinks. 'I am— I am listening... Sorry. I'm just reet rubbish at this.'

'I've got places to be, crimes to commit.'

Sonia snaps her head up. 'What?'

My hand rises to the knot of braids gathered at the top of my head as if to check the scrunchie hasn't torn without my notice. 'That was a joke.'

'Oh...' She scratches the eczema scars on her forearm before her wrist starts to flick repetitively. 'I can never tell when you're joking. It makes me feel like an idiot.'

'Sorry.' My voice remains heightened when I turn to Miles and repeat myself, putting in immense effort to stop a sigh from weaving into my voice. 'You're not identifyin all the functions within the first.' I explain the chain and product rules to him again and when he nods, I push the notepad back to him.

I watch him solve them again with a gentle knit in his brow. Miles has an odd habit of parting his mouth slightly and running his tongue along his upper canines when he concentrates. His hair has grown past its awkward phase and now falls into his eyes. He pushes it back at each hitch in his calculation which makes his hair perenially messy. From all this time together I've learnt one thing about Miles for certain: he's really not good at maths.

'Um... Have you already picked your unis then?' Hopefully, my voice is only nonchalantly curious and doesn't give away my desperation for someone else to be as clueless as I am.

'I'm going to Bath. I've told you that.' Rather than statement-like, Sonia's voice is dazed, because she has told me and such basic information can be expected to be remembered.

A selfish part of me hoped she'd changed her mind, or at least be a little less certain.

Nodding, I mumble an apology, and turn to Miles.

'Leeds is my first choice. Bradford's my insurance.'

A pang in my chest reverberates against the inside of my ribcage as if it's entirely hollow. 'Back north, then?' Did I expect him to stay here? He must despise our antics as much as I hate his northerisms.

Miles spins the frayed friendship bracelet around his wrist. 'Leeds is where my dad went so...'

'Your dad went to uni here?'

'Aye. My mum too.' Glancing down, he adjusts his notepad and coursebooks so they're all parallel to the edge of the table. 'Is that... bad?'

'No! Sorry. No. I didn't mean... Sorry. I always assumed you were second-generation.'

'No, third.'

The only response I manage is a feeble and pathetic oh before I slump into my chair. I shouldn't care about this. I don't care.

But somehow this reveal has torn the single string I'd managed to tie us together with. When did I sew it? It must've been in my sleep because the first time I'm consciously aware of it is now that it's cut like the ribbon to the opening ceremony of my own gullible sabotage.

If he's not a second-generation immigrant like I am, we have nothing in common, and if we have nothing in common, I have no sensible excuse to desire his presence.

He's known this all along. Has he been laughing at me, laughing as he watched me sew a connection, too preoccupied with not knotting the string that I didn't notice it's my skin alone the needle ever pierced? There's never been anything between us. We've never had anything in common. I shouldn't want us to. I don't.

He doesn't want us to. He certainly wouldn't if he knew.

If he knew...

The hollowness in my chest expands. My lungs disappear to lend space to it. I'm not breathing. My hand shivers as I reach to the top of my head to check my hair is still there and I haven't hallucinated it this whole time.

Dr Colas's voice manages through the fog. Violet: the covers of our maths books, the flowers on Sonia's tea mug, my tie, the braids which fall in front of each of my ears, the veins faintly visible on the inside of his wrist as he massages his neck.

My lungs return. I exhale only half of the smog locked into them so Miles nor Sonia notice the malfunction in my breathing abilities.

'I was only askin cause I've still not accepted any, and the deadline's comin up.' To ensure they don't think this is a serious conversation, I pick up my pencil and toy with it as if my own speech is as boring as Richards's lessons. 'Kinda hoped I'd only get into one so I wouldn't have to choose, but I got offers from everythin I applied to.' What a ridiculous thing to complain about: the curse of too much choice.

Sonia adjusts her octagonal glasses to stare at me better. 'You're going to Oxford, aren't you? I heard you got into Oxford.'

'Why does everyone know everythin about my life?'

What if somebody knows everything? I tighten every muscle in my abdomen to grip my lungs before they can flake on me again.

Palms clammy, I swab them on my trousers. 'I have an offer. I'm not gonna accept it.'

Miles laughs. A full, unrestrained laugh that makes his head fall forward. 'You're joking.' That's a statement: I'm joking. 'It's the best school in the country.'

I shrug, a painfully fake gesture of nonchalance. 'It's too far. I can't commute that every day but I'm not allowed to move out till I'm twenty cause of juvie. Also, my parents are African so I probably won't be moving out till I'm forty-eight.

'Can't afford it neither. And I know scholarships exist, but it's not just the tuition. It's the rent and the travellin and the clothes and the food and the laptop and everythin else, innit. And I don't want to go there cause I'll never feel comfortable.'

Though Miles has stopped laughing, humour lingers on his features. Sonia is looking at me like an arithmetic puzzle, trying to figure out if this is a joke.

'I'm perfectly happy with Sussex. The courses I've got are media and journalism, international relations and anthropology, ecology and conservation, and fashion communication and business marketing which is at Brighton.'

I don't tell them that I want to move to Brighton because it's the "gay capital" of the UK and I've always wanted to live there. Dal took me to the Pride parade the summer before I tried to clean my insides with bleach and even at the age of fifteen, I felt welcome in a way I never have anywhere else. Maybe it'll be easier there for me. To make friends and to exist.

It's Miles's turn to be confused. 'Those are all... completely different. Just pick the one you're most interested in.'

Oh, thanks, I'd not thought of that.

'I don't have one. They're all fine.'

Sonia turns back to her maths equation with the kind of grimace that says if she's going to be confused, she might as well be confused by the task at hand. 'You should make a pros and cons list.'

'They've all got the same pros: interesting. And the same cons: I've got no clue what career I'll have after.'

A grin regrows on his lips and Miles shakes his head. 'Grand. Go to Oxford. Why would you go to such shit unis when you could go to Oxford?'

I sink further. 'I don't want to go to Oxford.'

            I know nobody believes me when I say that but I genuinely don't.

Still, the fact that I got offers from all the other courses doesn't make the choice any easier. I'm once again seven years old, overwhelmed by all the flavours available at Raj's Ice Cream. Despite stepping into the parlour with a distinct craving for stracciatella, upon seeing the options, a range that my Sufsdale-raised mind could never even have fantasised about, I suddenly had no idea what I wanted. Is it even moral to pick something so mundane over popcorn and caramel or peach crumble?

I glare at the UCAS Track page and sink further into my malformed posture. For twenty minutes, I've waited for divine revelation to strike me but no lightbulbs have gone off in my head. The more I stare at the computer screen, the cursor hovering over the accept option of my Oxford offer, the more I waver. My skull is stuffed with the hum of the fan with no space for thorough evaluation.

Maybe the only reason those ice cream flavours sell is that people feel like they're not seizing life's opportunities if they don't pick the strangest one they can find. Even if it turns out unpleasant, it'll make a good anecdote: I once tried popcorn-flavoured ice cream in London. Bizzare, right? Chocolate or pecan isn't something you share with strangers or friends of friends in an attempt to make conversation that isn't personal. Your enjoyment of the flavour is irrelevant juxtaposed with the social capital.

I shove the mouse left to shift the cursor onto decline instead and click. The red thumb-up icon beside Oxford changes to a cross. Unsuccessful, declined and withdrawn choices.

Holding my breath, I sit in the thing nearest to silence that's permitted by the computer fan and wait. Wait for regret to crash onto me so that I smack my forehead, collapse to the floor or burst into tears before I scramble for the admissions phone number to plead to undo my mistake.

None of that happens. Nothing happens.

With less ardour, though no more hesitation, I accept international relations as my firm choice and fashion marketing as my insurance. If I change my mind, I can always find something else through Clearing.

'What's up?'

I jerk upright which sends the desk chair reeling away from under me and attempt to cover up the screen and shut down the browser at the same time. When had Baba come home? How did I not hear?

Face burning, I turn to the doorframe where he watches me with a horridly father-esque air. How long has he been there? He didn't see, did he? The office is so small that there's hardly a yard between the door and the screen.

'I'm watching porn.'

Baba smiles. Because he knows I'm lying and finds my choice amusing or because he thinks it's true and has to appreciate the cliché of finding your teenage son wanking?

Either way, he doesn't linger on it. 'Okay... Well, I need the computer.'

'It's yours.' I jump to my feet and log out, slipping past him when the computer is still processing the task, and hurry to my room.

I collapse against my door once it's shut and search for signs of regret in my body. But if anything, all I find is an ease of weight; even if I've made the wrong decision, I have made one. I no longer have to calculate every consequence of every course of action. All I can do is react to whatever follows.

Intending to change out of my uniform, I cross the room only to be caught by movement outside. Miles is returning from his run and, upon seeing me at the window, waves.

He's mocking me. Has he been planning this all along, finding an excuse to spend time with me to mislead me into imagining some connection, just to report back to his friends and laugh for hours like in American teen films from the nineties or Mean Girls? What if it's all just a scheme to dig for details about Edenfield?

I don't want anything between us.

But I wave back.