A week ago, the school confiscated my kettle. It was a shame, really, since the only thing that helped me sleep was tea. Still, it didn’t stop me from finding one in the school kitchen, hidden under other equipment that they didn’t bother using or giving away.

I really needed the hot beverage as I’d slept through the whole day and now it was well past midnight. Mum had tried to explain to Hawthorne that I was responsible, that I needed the kettle, that I had issues with sleep but she didn’t buy it. The school had a policy and apparently, kettles were very much against it.

I got up carefully and realised I was still in my uniform. Instead of changing, I pulled a sweatshirt over my head, grabbed my stuff to make tea and headed out into the corridors. This wasn’t the first time that I’d snuck out but it was definitely the only time I’d snuck out for something so simple.

I squinted against the darkness and placed my hands along the wall to find my way easier. It was probably three am by now, the witching hour. Once, Yves and I snuck out of the school to attend a concert in the town. As we stumbled our way back to our respective dorms, he’d told me stories about the children who’d passed away at Cosima Memphis’s rooms who now returned as ghosts with vengeance. Tales of murder and suicide and accidents. None of it seemed real back then.

I saw stories of the past in the school but they only ever felt like stories. Like a book, I’d picked up and skimmed through. They never looked like real people, and their situations never seemed like real situations. But, that was before Archer died.

Now, I almost wished to turn a corner and see him slunk back against a wall with puffed-out cheeks and shy eyes. But, I didn’t believe in ghosts and knew I was most definitely alone. Would troubled teens of the future walk these halls and talk about Archer as though he weren’t real? Would they see his picture and write it off as a ghost story like I had when Yves told me tales of the other unfortunate souls?

It didn’t take long to get to the kitchen which was not locked, thankfully. I wasn’t sure what I would have done had it been. Straight away, I went to the kettle, filled it with water and left it to boil.

As I waited for the water to warm, I noticed movement from behind me as it reflected against the metal kettle. A split second of a head as it popped around the door before it disappeared and peered through again every so often.

I tricked myself into believing that maybe it could have been one of the many ghosts that wandered the halls but when the breathing was obnoxiously loud, I broke from the daze.

“You should just come and say hello instead of creeping,” I called out loudly, before turning to face the door.

Slowly, the person revealed himself with a sheepish smile. He was miles taller than me with wild brown eyes and dishevelled black hair. His shoes were filthy and he’d obviously taken a stroll around the school grounds. I didn’t recognise him.

“You shouldn’t creep up on girls in the night,” I reprimanded.

“You’re right,” the stranger answered. “I’m sorry”

He reached a hand up to smoothen out his curls and my head fell to the side as I observed him.

“Would you like tea?” I asked.

“Sure,” he smiled.

“So, why were you creeping?” I queried and retrieved another mug.

He gave a half-smile, dimpled and lopsided, before letting out a long sigh and dropping an old leather-bound notebook onto the counter.

“I saw you run down here and I followed you,” he shrugged.

“You assumed I was dragging a body to the river, right?” I rolled my eyes.

“Of course not, I knew you wouldn’t-“

“You don’t even know me,” I interrupted as the kettle finished boiling.

“I know you’re Eleanor,” he grinned.

“Eleanor,” I corrected. “I go by Eleanor. Sugar?”

“Two, please.” I placed the sugar in our cups and then the tea bags.

“Well, I didn’t mean any harm,” he mumbled.

“Don’t make me laugh as I’m pouring hot water,” I deadpanned.

He huffed, “I’m Heath, by the way. Heath Albion. I moved here this term.”

I backed away carefully to the fridge. Heath Albion, I recognised the name. He was handsome, I’d give him that. Perfectly soft hair and light brown skin.

“New kid?” I whistled lowly. “That sucks.”

“I’m a writer,” he explained. “Well, I want to be one, I mean. I’m just struggling with the biggest writer’s block in the history of writer’s block right now and reading that story that Isla put in the school paper sort of inspired me.”

“The story about a boy who died, you mean? A real-life death of a kid inspired you to write about death?”

“You’re very cynical, you know that Eleanor?” He shot back.

I scoffed and took the milk out of the fridge, wanting nothing more than to get back to my room and away from Heath as soon as I could.

“So, what? You’re going to solve it now?” I provoked.

“Yes?”

I poured the milk in silence, not wanting to comment further.

“You can help,” he then added and I sucked on my teeth to hold back any rude comments.

“You’re crazy,” I deadpanned while discarding the tea bags into the bin. “I’m already a suspect.”

“But you knew Archer. You can help me,” Heath argued.

I stirred the tea, trying my best not to get too aggressive and spill it.

I pushed the cup over to Heath with a tight-lipped smile.

“I won’t do it. I can’t.”

Then, I left with my tea in hand and half-moon marks on my palms from where my nails dug into the skin.