As if the day hasn't been bad enough, Iya is waiting on the wicker chair opposite the door and jumps to her feet the moment I open it. All I manage is to get a whiff of cumin and garlic before my face is clasped in her hands tightly enough for my lips to pucker.

'What took so long?' Iya runs her palms along my neck to pat down my shoulders as if to check I'm solid. 'I thought you would be home at least ten minutes ago.'

Does she need to lose her head over ten minutes? For once, I'd like to be two minutes late without her concluding I'm dead.

Not that I have anyone to blame but myself. Ten minutes is plenty of time to die.

I twist myself free but force a smile so she doesn't take it as a sign of disrespect, recoil, or self-isolation. 'Sorry. There was a queue.' I hand her the shopping bag.

Because she's looking, rather than kicking off my shoes and leaving them wherever they land, I undo the laces and ease them off, then place them onto the rack, using only my right hand, the left still deep in my pocket.

'Your baba has made dinner.'

I nod but make for the stairs. 'I'll just go change first.'

'Pourquoi? The food will get cold.'

Iya beckons me to follow her into the kitchen. Considering I was already late, I'll be testing my luck if I insist on going upstairs, so I trail after her and bury my hand further into my pocket. Baba looks up from the mint and sheba he's washing for tea.

His lips clamp together as he scans my reddened eyes. Still, he smiles and greets me with equal cheer to any other day.

When he carries bread to the table, I get the opportunity to wash my hands without either of them looking. I sink into a chair and hide my left wrist between my thighs. Salads are easy enough to eat with one hand but tagine proves more of a challenge. By the time I've spent half a minute trying to break off a piece of bread, Iya's patience has worn out.

She flicks her wrists in annoyance. 'Qu'est-ce que tu fais? Are you too tired to use both hands? Have you gone paralysed? This is your dinner, not a toy. Stop playin with it.'

I look at her blankly. Maybe I should pretend to be a tourist and ask to eat with a fork.

I edge my gaze to the blood. It's not a large stain by any means but it's still immediately identifiable. Why did they have to make white shirts the uniform? Couldn't we wear black ones?

Knowing there's no avoiding it, I lift the hand over the table's surface. My plan of pretending to be entirely unaware so as not to call attention to it fails. Her eyes fixate on it immediately.

'It's nothin–'

I don't get the opportunity to attempt lying before Iya already has her phone out. She doesn't have to ask.

Hot tears scorch trails down my cheeks and what dinner I've managed to eat revolves in my stomach. 'It's not a big deal. Can you, for once in your life, please not overreact? I've got my session next month– I don't need– She's got other patients– It's not a big deal.'

With a silencing glare, Iya presses the cell to her ear.

I'm filled with a vigorous desire to swipe dinner off the table for no reason other than to hear the dishes shatter. I expel my frustration instead by digging my fingers into my scalp and screaming against clamped lips.

'This is why I don't tell you stuff. Cause you always blow everythin out of proportion.'

Iya presses a palm over her free ear to block me out as she greets the receptionist at the other end of the line.

'Baba! Baba, tell her it's not a big deal.'

He raises his hands slowly in surrender and shakes his head.

My anger evaporates and takes all my energy with it. Eyes drooping, I sink onto the table until my cheek presses into the patterned tablecloth. I had planned on revising chemistry this weekend but it's unlikely I'll do anything other than sleep. I wish I could visit Dal, he'd make me feel better. I'll have to settle for talking to him on the phone until Iya un-grounds me for non-tutoring-related things.

Despite the fatigue screaming through every cell of my body, I jerk upright at the next thing Iya says on the phone: 'Yes, Wednesday is good.'

'No, it isn't.' My voice recovers anger with ease. 'I've got tutoring on Wednesday. Iya, I've got tutoring on Wednesday.'

The only response she gives is a not-now-I'm-busy wave of the hand and I slump back onto the table. Sure, I could ask to do tutoring after considering sessions are only fifty-five minutes but they're so draining that I can never manage a second activity for the day. Now I'll have to come up with something to cancel on them for.

On the bright side, at least that means I only have one more forced interaction with Miles.

My lips flatten at the thought of him. "You confuse me". What the hell am I supposed to do with that? Is it an insult or constructive criticism and who do you think you are to give me either?

The thud of the first aid kit on the table startles me upright. Iya slides into the chair beside me and pulls my left hand closer. With the kind of care that can only result from practice, she folds up my sleeve and peels the blood-soaked paper from my wrist. She washes the fresh tooth imprints with saline solution, then spreads an antibacterial cream over it.

My throat tightens as I watch her hold a non-stick bandage over it and peel the edge of a roll of medical tape with her teeth. 'Désolé.' I apologise to her fingers as they secure the gauze in place.

'You will go at three on Wednesday.' That's all she says until she has returned to her normal seat opposite me. 'Mange.'

My eyes remain drooped through dinner and my thoughts fixated on Miles.

"You confuse me".

Because I don't tell him about things that happened before he even knew I exist, when I have no reason to trust that he won't tell everyone? When I know he'd be revolted and I can't bear the thought?

You confuse me. As if he's not confusing with the way he becomes a completely different person depending on who's around. How am I supposed to figure him out when he's unavoidably woven into the best and the worst parts of the past month?

You confuse me. Because as easily as I can censure him for being mates with Tristan and Lysander, can I confidently say that I would reject the opportunity to do the same?

You confuse me. I lived here for seventeen years before him, and now I can't go to the bus stop or school or Barua's Market without thinking about him.

In a burst of energy, I rip my cell from my pocket and punch in a text: "you confuse me too, dickhead".

Notes

Pourquoi?: (French) Why?

Tagine: Moroccan dish and also the pot it is cooked in

Qu'est-ce que tu fais?: (French) What are you doing?

Désolé: (French) I'm sorry

Mange: (French) Eat