Page 124 - What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours

running together” made her think of her Director of Studies, Professor

Chaudhry, saying: “I saw you with your Suffolk posse, Dayang. A colorful
gang!” She’d looked at him to check what he meant by “colorful” and
deciphered from his grin that other definitions included “delightful” and “bloody
well made my day.”

—

DAY COMPOSED an answer that centered on the evening she’d met Hilde and

Willa. She’d got on at Kings Cross with Pepper, Luca, and Thalia, all four of
them covered in sweat and glitter—they’d had their Friday night out in London
town and now they were ready to get back to Day’s room and crash. Hilde and
Willa sat opposite them sharing a red velvet cupcake. Day remembered trying
not to fret about two whole girls afraid to eat a whole cupcake each. She didn’t

know them or their fears. She noticed Willa’s long chestnut hair and Hilde’s
eyes, which were like big blue almonds. She’d never seen them before but
nodded at them, and they nodded back and continued their conversation, which
seemed to be a comparison between medieval and modern logistics of
kidnapping. Pepper and Luca were attempting to address Thalia’s complaints
about art school, and Day was about to throw in her own tuppence worth when
five boys who looked about the same age as them came swaying through the

carriage singing rugby songs. Actually Day didn’t know anything about rugby so
they might not have been rugby songs per se, but the men definitely had rugby
player builds. They stared as they passed Day and her friends; Day felt a
twanging in her stomach when they walked back a few paces and their song died
away. She could see them thinking about starting something, or saying
something. If these boys said something Luca would fight, and so would Pepper,

and then what were Day and Thalia supposed to do—broker peace? Hardly. Day
could punch . . . her parents had only been called into school for emergency
meetings about her twice, and both times had been about the punching. Not
necessarily the fact of her having punched someone, no, it was the style of it.
Day punched hard, and when she did so she gave little to no warning. She
punched veins. Aside from being disturbing to witness, the vein punching was
extremely distressing for Day’s target; the link between heart, lungs, and brain

fizzed and then seemed to snap, then the target’s limbs twitched haphazardly as
they tried to recover some notion of gravity. Every now and again Day’s sister
requested punching instruction from her, but this wasn’t something Day could
teach. She just knew how to do it, that was all. She thought it might be