When I got the call from a security guard at The Lowry Hotel named Joe to tell me that Cece had been caught after breaking into the spa with a bunch of other teenagers, I don't think I envisioned the woman who greets me at the door.

A short, soft silhouette and an accent somewhere between RP and estuary that's probably the furthest thing I've heard from intimidating. 'You're Nicolás?'

I nod as I bound up the steps.

This is a situation I'm more than familiar with. Last year, if a day passed without me getting a call from the headteacher's office, it were a breach of routine. But I didn't usually get greeted with a smile. The faint notch of a cleft lip only makes Joe's sweeter. The dark skin of her round cheeks catches the light from the hotel front. Coloured liner accentuates her eyes, virgin curls bud out of her scalp.

'You look like him.' She might be the first person to ever say that. 'I'm Joe. With an e at the end.'

I rub my wrist, hook up summat like a smile. She's just tryna be nice. It's not her fault I can barely move for the vines of dread cinched around my limbs. It's not her fault every second we waste out here adds a flood of adrenaline into my blood. I'm not sure there's any blood left at all.

'Anyway, he's inside.' Joe pushes through the door and I follow her to a lobby that calls me skint in at least ten ways. 'I'm sorry. I hope this didn't completely ruin your night, on Pride and everything. Honestly, he could've got away if he wanted. He–'

'They,' I correct.

'Sorry?'

'My brother goes by they/he pronouns.'

'Okay. They practically caught themself.'

I only register the rest of her words when Joe leads me between two reception desks into the offices behind. Did she just apologise? For doing her job? I'm the one who should be apologising, I'm the one who's supposed to be responsible for Cece. Why didn't I just let him into Spectrum? At least I could've kept an eye on them that way.

I forget everything I've ever learnt about manners the moment Joe opens the door to the security office; I shove past her, into the room, no "thank you", no apology. Cece leans back in the only chair, ankles crossed on the desk as he works on a rubik's cube.

His eyes don't move from it as he speaks. 'You took your time. You've no idea how boring it is here.'

'Pardon me if I don't give a fuck.'

Like I could've gotten here any faster. Too lazy to take the bus, I drove to Spectrum after popping home to walk Esther around eleven. So I drove here as fast as I could, faster than I should've. My bones have dispersed into trembling atoms, my lungs strangled by the infestation in my ribs.

But oh no! Cece is bored.

He's the only one here. The rest of them conveniently got away. He's dry, cast still in place, the spiders Caleb painted set over his eyes.

I grab his chin, not hard but firm enough to catch his face in the light before he twists free. 'Are you high?'

'No. My eyes are red because I'm evil.' He rolls them. 'I can smoke one zoot without going into psychosis. Relax.'

Relax? Relax? Would I be the asshole if I strangle him?

But I should relax. I should be comforting. I shouldn't get angry. Everything Google has ever said stresses the importance of not getting angry. Don't: Get angry.

How am I meant to not get angry when they grin at me smug as Henry fucking Hoover when he gets caught round a corner? F-U-C-K written on their teeth, flicking through that fucking rubik's cube without looking at it. He's not even tryna solve it; he's just winding me up.

'Whose idea were this then?'

'Do it matter?'

'Um,' Joe interrupts before I manage to seize the cube and stomp it into pixels. 'My supervisor would like to talk to you.'

As if summoned, the door eases open and a frazzled man slips inside. He halts when he sees me, stumbles over his own feet, and loses the thread of his fury for a moment.

'You're the parent?'

I seize my explorer bucket hat from my head and stuff it in my back pocket. Doubt that does much toward making me look like a respectable adult—I'm still in my white vest and school tie, my arms covered in so much glitter from the dancefloor that I could get cast in a UK remake of Twilight.

But I think he might be checking me out; the blotches of his flush darken. If only I'd learnt to flirt my way out of trouble. Unfortunately, all I know is how to plead.

He's young too, somewhere on the periphery of thirty. He can't be the owner. A freshly promoted assistant manager? A seedling of hope dares to sprout somewhere under my diaphragm. Maybe he won't want this to reach upper management. There's a chance he only wants us to leave as quietly as possible. Or: Maybe he'll want to prove he can handle trouble, show his capability of killing any pest that scavenges where it don't belong.

I ease out the smoke clogged in my lungs. It's easy to ram anxiety and anger into a compact lining around your organs when you need to hollow yourself out. 'I'm the brother.'

He casts a look at Joe and she hangs her head. Clearly, he had told her to get Cece's parents. Good luck with that.

'Well–' he shuts the door with the air of someone snooping where they're not meant to be and steps close enough for me to read his name tag: Seamus '–your brother has just broken into our spa with a bunch of his mates, well after opening hours and also without paying. They've stolen alcohol, they swam in the pool, the rest of them stole robes, used the deprivation tank–'

'Don't work, that.'

We all look at Cece. Despite them being the reason we're here, we've all forgotten their presence. They continue to rotate through the patterns on the rubik's cube without looking up. He's had too much practice with social workers and headteachers to be fazed by a flustered hotel manager.

'The deprivation tank,' he elaborates. 'Definitely don't cure anxiety. You should offer hotboxing.'

Joe makes a sound that might be a suppressed laugh.

'Right.' Seamus's voice cracks as though the deprivation tank were his personal pride and joy, the crux on which his entire career rests. His hand dips into his pocket and my breath is cut off by the vines around my neck. 'Think I'll–'

'No.' Cold sweat glues my vest to my back but I handcuff my eyes to Seamus's. Cece might not care but I will grovel. My knees are already weak, genetic predisposition to begging, to playing dead. 'No police. I'll do anything you want.'

Seamus shifts his weight. His stare squirms under mine until he manages to wriggle free, glancing at Joe mostly to look somewhere else before he settles an unsteady focus on me. His hand leaves his pocket. No phone. Thank fuck.

'Where are your parents?'

'No parents.' Cece transforms so abruptly it gives me whiplash. The solved rubik's cube (how the fuck?) is forgotten on the desk, their trainers planted on the floor as they hunch over. He stares at his hands, fresh black varnish glinting on their nails though they start to pick at it. 'They died. Mum had cancer. Dad were never the same after that. He drank a lot. It were a traffic accident that got him in the end—just when he got sober, too. So it's just us two now.'

The blotches in Seamus's cheeks deepen to the shade of prunes. 'Well, I... am very sorry for your loss but that doesn't mean you get to break in anywhere you like.'

'I know.' Impressive remorse tremors in their voice. Even I'm swayed to believe it. 'It's just... We came here with Mum once. Next day, we found out the chemo weren't working. I think it's the last time I saw her happy. She loved to swim. She never got the chance to teach me before she got too weak. I thought... if there's anywhere I can learn, it must be here. But we don't have enough money to pay for it. I'm sorry.'

Seamus's anger has sogged into pity. It's good Cece hangs their head because if he saw the expression, he'd probably have Seamus's teeth imprinted to their knuckles by now. Seamus looks at me but I'm too stunned to contribute owt. I've never been witty the way Cece is.

Seamus seems to forget that there were a group of seven teenagers and they were drinking, which hardly fits into this story. Or maybe he just realises that dealing with this is above his pay grade. He waves a hand. 'Just get him out of here.'

I don't wait for him to change his mind. I've pulled Cece out of the room so quickly that their goodbye of "think about that hotboxing chamber" is called from the lobby.

He laughs and my anger shakes off the dirt I've stomped it into, making my body burn so hot even the night wind don't cool me down.

'It's not funny.' The scolding only makes him grin wider, F-U-C-K shining on his teeth, but the second time I say it, they falter. 'It's not fucking funny, Cece.' I let go of his arm only when we reach the mouth of the car park, the cloak of shadow. 'Why would you–? You can't swim. And you're afraid of chlorine.'

'I'm not afraid of...' They scowl. 'I didn't go in the pool, did I? I've got a cast on.'

He turns away, clocks my Vauxhall, but I tear them back. Too hard. Harder than I should when they've got a broken wrist. But the indifference—the boredom—is more than I can swallow. 'Do ya understand how fucking lucky you are that he didn't phone the police?'

'What is it with you and pol–?' The word snags on their grillz. Cece drags a step back, cowers like a dog with its tail between its legs. I might even hear him whimper. 'Sorry.'

I exhale, try to loosen the vines around my chest. Just relax, right? Relax. The apathy is armour, it's not real. I know better than to fall for it now. If I'd understood that years ago, we might've never got to the point where these are habits Cece has to break. And then we wouldn't be in this fucking mess.

'Where are the rest of your mates?'

'Far away by now.'

'Are they alright?'

'Yeah.'

Behind the visors layered over his eyes, stowaways the twelve-year-old who learns that approval is earned by proving your willingness to be a sacrifice, the kid from group homes who understands he is a dog. The trust-building exercise Cece grew up with weren't a test to see who'll catch you but who would take the fall. Mould spores at the back of my tongue, a reminder that this is my fault, at the end of the day.

'Let's just talk about this in the morning.'

Notes

RP: Received pronunciation, also known as BBC English or Queen's English; an accent associated with the middle and upper classes. If you're not British, this is probably what you would call "the British accent".
Estuary: An accent that originated from the blending of the London Cockney accent with RP. Today, it's spoken widely in southern England and is possibly going to replace RP as the "standard" British accent as features like glottal stops become more accepted. Estuary is generally considered a middle-class accent.
They/he pronouns: Someone who is okay with being referred to with both they/them pronouns and he/him pronouns, preferably both in alteration. When they is positioned first (rather than he/they), the person generally prefers they/them pronouns as their primary pronoun and he/him as a supplementary one.
Henry Hoover: A vacuum cleaner that is very common in the UK. Henry is not actually a hoover because Hoover is strictly speaking a brand of vacuum cleaners but the word is today synonymous with any vacuum cleaner so you will hear people say Henry Hoover.

06: hotboxing is not enough

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