# Read the first page of Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute by Talia Hibbert Read the opening of Highly Suspicious and Unfairly Cute by Talia Hibbert free, no signup. Ex-best-friend high school rivals are forced together in the wilderness. - Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/highly-suspicious-and-unfairly-cute-talia-hibbert - Genre: Romance - Year: 2023 - ISBN: 9780593482346 - Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780593482346&s=read-page - Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780593482346 - Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780593482346 ## The opening It’s the first day of school and I’m already being forced to socialize. “I’m dead serious,” Nicky Cassidy says, his eyes wide and his acid-wash shirt stained with what looks like tomato sauce. “Juice WRLD is alive, Celine. The planet needs to know.” My TikTok account has 19,806 followers—@HowCeline SeesIt, feel free to take me to 20K—so God knows how I’m supposed to inform the entire planet of anything. Besides, I make videos about UFOs and vaccines (conclusion: I believe in both) and that guy who hijacked a plane and literally vanished with the ransom money. I don’t make videos about people’s tragic deaths because it’s rude and tacky. Also, I don’t take requests. For God’s sake, I am a conspiracy theorist. There must be some glamor in that, or else what’s the point? “Sorry, Nicky,” I reply: “Still no.” He is appalled by my lack of sensitivity to his cause. “You’re joking.” “Almost never.” “Fine. If you don’t want to tell the truth, I’ll do it. Your TikTok’s shit anyway.” He storms off, leaving me to cross campus on my own. So much for Mum’s hope that I’ll make more friends this year. Oh well. I inhale the warm September air and stride through the school’s higgledy-piggledy pathways alone. Rosewood Academy is a rambling maze, but this is my final year, so I know it like I know Beyoncé’s discography. It takes five minutes to reach the Beech Hut—aka our sixth-form common area/cafeteria, a tiny, musty building that begs to be knocked down. I snag my usual table by the noticeboard and get on with the very important business of ignoring everyone around me. I’m on my phone stitching together some footage of cows that I filmed this weekend for a video about the possibility of cannibalistic bovine overlords running the beef industry when my best friend slides into the chair beside me and waves a glossy leaflet in my face. “Have you seen this?” Michaela demands, her pink curls vibrating with excitement. “I haven’t,” I say, “and if you put my eye out with it, I never will.” “Don’t be miserable. Look.” She slams down the flyer and crows, “Katharine Breakspeare!” Then she clicks her tongue piercing against her teeth, which is Minnie’s personal version of a mic drop. It works. I fall all over that shiny piece of paper like it’s a plate of nachos. There she is: Katharine Breakspeare, her wide mouth severe (no ladylike smiles for Katharine, thank you very much) and her hair perfectly blown out. They did a whole article in Vogue about that blowout, which is ridiculous considering Katharine’s famous for her trailblazing career in human rights law. Commentators call this woman the James Bond of the courtroom because she’s so damn cool; she’s won at least three internationally significant, high-profile cases in the last five years; she bought her mother an entire compound back in Jamaica to retire to. And Vogue is talking about her hair. I mean, yes, the hair is gorgeous, but come on, people. Katharine Breakspeare is the blueprint and one day I’m going to be her, building my mum a house in Sierra Leone. My eyes narrow as I study the leaflet. “Apply for the Breakspeare Enrichment Program,” I read. “Her nature bootcamp thing? But that’s only for undergrads.” “Not anymore.” Minnie grins, tapping the words in front of us. “Award-winning enrichment program now open to those aged sixteen to eighteen—” “—for the first time ever,” I finish reading. “Set yourself apart from the crowd, nurture early bonds with prestigious employers, and be in with the chance to win a full university scholarship. . . .” My mouth is numb. My throat is dry. My nerves are fried. “I need a drink.” Michaela is a dancer; she never goes anywhere without a disgustingly heavy two-liter flask of water. “Here ya go,” she says brightly, and causes a small earthquake by slamming it on the table. “Where did you get this?” I demand between desperate gulps, shaking the Golden Leaflet of Opportunity. “Mr. Darling’s office.” “Mr. Darling’s—Minnie. It’s the first day of school. How are you on his shit list already?” “I’m not,” she says primly. “It was a preliminary warning. You know: Focus on school this year, Michaela, or you’ll die homeless under a bridge by twenty-five. The usual morale-boosting stuff.” “Oh, babe. That’s not true. He’s just jealous of your fabulous hair and giant brain.” “Stop. You know I don’t listen to him. I have bigger plans.” It’s true. She’s going to be like Jessica Alba in my older sister’s favorite film, Honey, except much cooler and actually Black. Then she winks and taps the paper. “And so do you.” No, I don’t: focusing on school is my big plan, because that’s how you get into Cambridge, which is how you get an excellent law degree and take over the world. But I’ve done the research and read the forums: companies including law firms—fall all over themselves to hire Breakspeare Enrichment Program alums because the program produces uniquely driven and capable candidates with work ethics and abilities worthy of Katharine’s own reputation. It’s not like other enrichment programs where you memorize textbooks and complete work experience. In this one, you’re put out into the wilderness where you try to survive and, ideally, thrive, for what I’m sure are completely logical reasons. (It is true that I’m hazy on details, but I trust that Katharine knows what she’s doing.) Nature isn’t really my thing—not anymore. But I would gargle pond water to get within three feet of this opportunity for the clout alone, never mind the scholarship. So it turns out this is it: my new agenda for the last year of school. Goodbye, Latin Club, and farewell to volunteering at the animal hospital. It’s time to make space for camping with Katharine. Apparently, anyone interested in the details can attend a meeting in Nottingham later this week. I flip the leaflet over, searching for a map, but instead I see a QR code labeled “RSVP” and the logos of all the companies involved. The list is long. Some are huge, like Boots; some are small but powerful, like Games Workshop; and I see plenty of law firms, too, which is— Oh. My dad’s firm is a sponsor. Minnie sees my face, then follows my gaze. “What? What?” She squints at the page. “Wear your glasses, Michaela,” I mutter sharply. “Not with these lashes.” She bats her falsies at me (I think I feel a breeze), then reads “Lawrence, Needham and Soro, corporate law, established 1998.” I swallow hard. My throat is dry again. I chug some more water. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Minnie says. “I do need that, you know. You want me to dry up like a prune?” She reclaims the mammoth bottle and says, “Soro. Why does that sound familiar? Soro, Soro—” “My dad works there.” Minnie winces. She’s my best friend, so we know stuff about each other’s families. As in, I know her gran’s a lesbophobic cowbag and she knows my dad ditched us for his second family ten years ago and I haven’t seen him since. The usual girl stuff. Grimacing, she squeaks, “Maybe the sponsoring firms won’t be super involved?” “I honestly couldn’t care less.” I’m not lying. He’s the one with something to be ashamed of. I’m the one who’s a credit to my family name. Which is Bangura, not Soro, thank you very much. I slip the leaflet into my bag, pressed between the pages of a textbook to keep it fresh and uncreased. “I’ll think about this. Thanks, Min.” She blows me a kiss as the bell rings, and we get up for class. Only then do I realize who slunk into the Beech Hut while Minnie and I were talking. Bradley Graeme is here. Alongside, you know, a ton of other people, but he stands out as the King of Uselessness. He and his breathless fan club are ensconced at their usual table, miles away from the admin office, which allows them to get away with breaking all kinds of rules. Case in point: Bradley Graeme is currently bouncing a Completely Illicit Football off his head. His short, shiny twists are jumping, and his grin is wide and carefree the way only a truly terrible person’s can be. Minnie leans in as we walk by. “Do you think Brad’s applying to Cambridge?” “Of course he is,” I mutter. When does he ever miss a chance to show off? “So, you might see him at interviews and stuff. Right?” Ugh. God forbid. “I don’t care, stop looking at him.” She arches an eyebrow. “You started it.” Yeah, well. Who can avoid looking at Bradley? His sheer annoyingness creates its own gravitational pull. His fan club—consisting of 70 percent boys’ football team and 30 percent girls whose parents pay for their mammoth Depop wardrobes, which equals 100 percent skinny, glowing people who practice TikTok dances unironically and spend their weekends being bland and hooking up at house parties—is absolutely entranced by his tomfoolery like they’ve never seen a ball before. Except for Jordan Cooper, who rolls his eyes, snatches the ball out of the air, and says in his flat American accent, “Cut it out, or Mr. Darling will rip you a new one.” (Mr. Darling is our head of year, a tightly wound geography teacher who hands out detentions like he gets paid by the hour.) Bradley just laughs as if he fears nothing in the world—which is an absolute lie. But then, I’ve always believed he is fake and false and entirely made of earth-destroying plastic, so . . . that tracks. I’m in the process of looking away with withering disdain when he—inconvenient down to his very soul—glances up and catches my eye. Great. I give him my filthiest look, but his grin doesn’t falter. In fact, it gets wider. He raises his eyebrows, and I can practically read his thoughts: Watching me again, Bangura? I glare. You wish. His smile turns into a smirk. Ugh. September’s supposed to be fresh and crisp like the empty pages of my brand-new notebook, but so far, it’s murky and hot as balls. When Max Donovan drags the gang up to the field at lunch and asks, “Five-a-side?” I look at him like he’s off his nut. What, does he want me to sweat through my first-day-of-school outfit? “No thanks,” Jordan says while I’m still contemplating the horrors of unplanned exercise. He doesn’t mind sweating out of uniform; he just has this thing about treating his Yeezys right. Donno rolls his eyes and chucks the ball my way. “Brad-ders. You in?” I’m not, but I can’t resist the urge to keep it off the ground. A quick tap with my right foot, my left, then my knee, then my chest. “No thanks,” I say, and do it again. “Show-off,” Jordan murmurs. I stick my tongue out at him and kick the ball back to Donno, who snorts derisively. “Christ, you’re a pair of wet wipes.” He’s our team captain, in possession of a killer left foot, floppy golden hair, and sparkling blue eyes. His smiles are always wide and mocking, barely hiding his fangs. I used to have the most unholy crush on him. “What about the rest of you pillocks?” The guys milling around this makeshift pitch practically stand to attention. I imagine rigid salutes and a chorus of Sir, yes, sir! to match their worshipful looks. Donno has an ego problem—I’m qualified to point this out because I also have an ego problem—and the team really doesn’t help. Jordan and I leave them to it. There’s a weeping willow at the edge of this field creating a pool of cool, green shade that’s calling my name. Five minutes later, we’re curtained off from the rest of the world by a veil of leaves. I lie back, head on my rucksack, and crack open my well-loved copy of All Systems Red. I’m rereading the Murderbot Diaries again, mostly to torture myself with the fact that I’ll never write anything this good. Or possibly anything at all. But I don’t entertain defeatist thoughts. Dr. Okoro taught me not to invite them in for tea. “Hey, Brad,” Jordan says out of the blue. “What do you think of Minnie Digby?” I study him over the top of my book. “Minnie Digby?” “Yeah.” He looks down, probably hoping his mop of curls will hide the blush on his light brown cheeks. “You know, the one who hangs around with—” “I know who Michaela Digby hangs around with.” He smirks again. “Oh yeah. Of course you do.” “I’m a good friend, so I’m ignoring that comment.” Jordan has a twisted mind that contains batshit theories about me and persons I will not stoop to name. (Okay, fine: her name is Celine Bangura, and she is my archenemesis. Happy?) I shut my book—which is a real sacrifice, considering Murderbot’s currently deciding whether or not to rip someone’s arm off—and try to answer his question. “I think . . .” That Minnie Digby keeps poor company. That if she ever dares to disagree with her glorious leader about literally anything, ever, she’ll be dropped on her arse at the speed of light. That— Uh, Brad? Mid-conversation? Oh yeah. I put my completely reasonable amount of righteous Celine-hate aside and say something relevant. “I think Minnie’s gay.” “What?” Jordan squawks. “Like, you have a feeling she’s gay, or—” “As in, I heard she was gay.” Also, my gaydar is excellent and she’s giving solar-powered rainbow strobe lights, but I won’t mention that. “Oh.” My best friend droops. “Hey, I could be wrong. How do you know her, anyway?” He sighs. “She’s in my Lit class this year. She said something this morning about, like, toxic canon and how literary gatekeeping being intertwined with heartless cisheterosexist white supremacist capitalism has poisoned Western creative culture.” Jordan’s usual monotone is ever so slightly animated, which means he’s foaming at the mouth with fascination. “All right, Minnie Digby. I bet everyone loved that.” This school is not the most progressive. By which I mean: this school sits at the edge of a conservative borough and half of our classmates parrot everything their posh parents tell them. “Mrs. Titherly wanted to strangle her,” Jordan says dreamily. Maybe he’s in love. Maybe Minnie’s bisexual like me, and he has a chance. After all, Jordan’s cute—I know some girls don’t like short guys but I’m hoping Michaela is too enlightened for that. In ten years’ time, I could be at their wedding telling a story about this moment. I can see it now: my suit is impeccable and all my best-man jokes land perfectly. Celine is the maid of honor but she’s sadly absent because I snuck into her room and turned off the alarm on her phone. And then I locked her door from the outside. I snort discreetly and tell him, “If you like the girl, say something.” “Like what?” “Like, ‘Hey, Minnie, I also hate Dickens. Let’s get pancakes.’” “Bruh. Not Dickens. Everyone loves Dickens.” Well, that can’t be true. I had to read A Tale of Two Cities last year and almost clawed my own eyes out. ## Books with a similar feel - [The Best of Me by Nicholas Sparks](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-best-of-me-nicholas-sparks.md) - [99 Percent Mine by Sally Thorne](https://uncovered.ink/read/99-percent-mine-sally-thorne.md) - [Love Her or Lose Her by Tessa Bailey](https://uncovered.ink/read/love-her-or-lose-her-tessa-bailey.md) - [The Wake-Up Call by Beth O'Leary](https://uncovered.ink/read/the-wake-up-call-beth-oleary.md) - [I Kissed Shara Wheeler by Casey McQuiston](https://uncovered.ink/read/i-kissed-shara-wheeler-casey-mcquiston.md) - [Soul Searching by Lyla Sage](https://uncovered.ink/read/soul-searching-lyla-sage.md) --- Source: Uncovered (https://uncovered.ink). A short sample shown for reading and discovery. Rights holders can request removal at https://uncovered.ink/takedown.