The Argument (ARC)

by Victoria Jenkins

  Olivia thanks him quietly before leaving the room, not quite believing that she’s got away with it so easily. Now she sees why the other kids in her year take advantage of him so much. Mr Lewis makes it so easy for them, so why wouldn’t they treat him the way they do? Maybe that’s where she’s been going wrong, she thinks. She gets treated the way she has allowed herself to be treated.

  She gets to her registration class just as the bell sounds in the corridor, and the rest of the morning passes non-eventfully, each lesson blending into the next until English arrives. The class files into the room in relative silence, the only noise coming from a few of the girls who are laughing between themselves about something. Olivia knows that whatever has happened or whatever joke has been shared, it is nothing that relates to her, and yet every titter she overhears, every smile on every happy face she happens to pass, she feels like a sting, as though each student and every teacher finds amusement in her awkwardness and the gossip that has been spread around over these past few days.

  Olivia has always believed that she has stood out, and she knows it has been for all the wrong reasons. Now, for the first time, she feels as though there’s nothing more she wants than to continue to do just that.

  ‘Right,’ Miss Johnson says, commanding the attention of the class. ‘Exam practice. We’re just weeks away now, so the more of this we do now, the easier it’ll be for you on the day. Story writing,’ she says, introducing the topic by pointing to the whiteboard behind her. A few groans follow. ‘Take one of the titles from the board and plan as you would in the exam, please. You know by now what your story needs to include. No more than three characters, a clear beginning, middle and end, some dialogue where possible, and don’t forget to add description. Pick a title and plan your structures now, please – you’ve got five minutes.’

  Most of the class lower their heads over their books, although when Olivia looks around her there are some who are glancing down at their phones hidden beneath the desks and others who are staring blankly ahead, still clueless as to what they’re supposed to be doing. Olivia’s eyes rest on Miss Johnson, who has returned to her desk and is jotting something down in her teaching planner. She is wearing a dress today, knee length with a belt that pulls in around her slim waist, and Olivia finds herself staring, wondering what this woman’s life is like beyond the four walls of this classroom.

  She looks away when Miss Johnson looks up, meets her eye and catches her staring. Rather than say something, she looks back down as though she hasn’t noticed. ‘Three more minutes,’ the teacher says.

  Olivia looks at the board. There are three titles to choose from: The Party, A Bad Decision; The Visitor. Olivia already knows which she will choose and what she will write; she can almost see her story writing itself in front of her without pen having yet been put to paper.

  She picks up her biro and starts to write, ignoring the teacher’s suggestion that they use this time to plan first. Moments later, Miss Johnson stops the class, but Olivia keeps writing, her brain working faster than her hand is possibly able to keep up with as the words flow on to the page. She knows she should be listening to whatever it is Miss Johnson is saying, but she doesn’t want to stop now that she has started. She glances to her side, but the girl next to her pays her no attention, too busy picking at a split false nail. When Olivia looks up, she feels certain that the teacher must have noticed her not paying attention, but if she has, Miss Johnson says nothing. Olivia feels gratitude swell in her chest. It’s almost as if she knows.

  For the remaining forty-minutes of the lesson, the class works in silence on their stories. At the end, Miss Johnson collects the work and puts it in a pile on her desk. When the bell sounds for lunch time, the class is dismissed, but Olivia lingers near the doorway, waiting for everyone else to leave.

  ‘Everything okay, Olivia?’

  She nods and gestures to the pile of stories on the desk. ‘Could you look at mine?’

  Miss Johnson smiles. ‘I’ll take them home tonight and read them all by next lesson, okay?’

  Olivia makes no attempt to conceal her disappointment and knows it is showing across her face. Miss Johnson must notice it because she smiles again, this time as though trying to reassure her.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ she says. ‘You work hard. You’ll be fine.’

  Olivia knows she’s expected to be grateful for the comment, but she can’t be. Beneath the school shirt, that’s suddenly too warm and too stiff, her heart is beating unbearably hard and sweat is leaving her skin sticky against the polyester.

  ‘What are you reading this week?’ she asks, hearing the strange lilt of her own voice. She points to the book on Miss Johnson’s desk. She has told the class before that she tries to read a book a week, sometimes bringing whatever she’s reading to school with her to try to encourage reading in the students. They’ve talked about the books before, though Olivia doubts that any of the conversations that have been had with the class has ever made anyone go and read them for themselves. More than likely, those book related chats have been nothing more than a way of delaying the lesson and eating into time working.

  ‘It’s quite a sad one this week,’ she tells her. ‘It’s set during the second world war. It’s about a young couple who get separated and try to find each other.’

  Olivia knows she is staring at her, but she can’t help it. ‘Do you like sad stories?’

  Miss Johnson gives Olivia a look that she’s not quite able to read. She looks uncomfortable, her usual smile having fallen from her face and been replaced by something that makes her look awkward somehow. ‘I like all types of stories. Right,’ she says, glancing at the clock. ‘You’d better get some dinner before all the best stuff’s gone. I’ve got a meeting to get to. See you next week. I’m looking forward to reading what you’ve written.’

  When she smiles, Olivia is convinced that this one isn’t meant. It is forced, and she wonders what is going on in the teacher’s head, what she thinks of her right at that moment. She wants to say something else, but the words are trapped, and even if she had them, Olivia isn’t sure that they would make much sense even to her.

  ‘Thanks,’ she mutters, though she couldn’t feel less thankful if she tried.

  There is a whole weekend to pass until she sees Miss Johnson again, until she knows that she has read her story and will be able to see how she reacts to it. Olivia isn’t sure she can wait that long.

  Throwing her bag on to her shoulder, she leaves the classroom and heads downstairs. She leaves the Humanities block and makes her way across the school yard, heading towards the Art block. What she is going to do has come to her like an epiphany, a moment of madness and triumph that she knows she must act upon now, quickly, before she allows herself a chance to talk herself out of it.

  The Art block has a partial flat roof, which Olivia knows can be accessed from the back of the building. Students have got into trouble in the past for climbing up on to it, though it has never properly been blocked off from stopping them from still doing so. She leaves her school bag on the concrete and climbs over the gate, making poor work of her efforts and scraping the inside of her leg on a sharp prong of metal. She winces at the sight of blood bubbling to the surface of her pale skin, and at the stingy pain that follows.

  Once beyond the railings, it is easy to make out the route that others have taken, and Olivia pulls herself up on to the first ledge of flat roof, cursing her lack of upper body strength. Minimal exercise and frequent inertia have rendered her muscles useless; it takes all her effort and the power of her determination for her to make it to the top of the roof.

  Olivia makes her way to the far edge which overlooks the main yard. Other students have started to filter from the surrounding buildings, scurrying between blocks as they make their way from one lesson to another. She watches them like an outsider, as though these people are alien to her. For a moment, she closes her eyes. It feels disorientating, dizzying, yet just being up there is breathlessly exhil
arating.

  People have started to notice her. She can hear raised voices in the yard below, students calling one another, and when she opens her eyes, she sees them pointing to the roof to draw attention to her, not wanting anyone to miss out on whatever scene is about to unfold. It’s higher than Olivia expected it to be. She feels like a bird, the people small and insignificant so far beneath her. She steps closer to the edge of the roof and peers down. The distance makes her dizzy and the air that circles around her seems so much stronger than it did just minutes earlier, with her feet on the ground.

  ‘Olivia!’

  She looks down, searching for the voice that has called her name. Among the crowd that has gathered is Mr Lewis, looking paler than Olivia has ever seen him. He puts a hand in front of him, his arm stretched high as though he has any chance of pushing her back if she is to decide to jump now. She watches as he begins to dart between the students, hurrying to the building to get help.

  This is her moment, Olivia thinks, looking down at the drop below her. She likes Mr Lewis; she doesn’t want to cause him any more embarrassment than she already has today. She would rather do this when he isn’t there to witness it, but she knows that she only has one opportunity, and the time for it is now. She allows her focus to rest on a few random faces in the crowd gathered below her, some she recognises but whose names she doesn’t know, others she must live with daily and have contributed to making her life the hell that it has become. Phones have already come out from pockets, people desperate to catch what happens next on camera. She puts out a hand and waves, playing to her audience.

  Olivia stands at the edge of the roof, her toes pointing out over the drop. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and then she does it.

  13

  Thirteen

  Hannah

  * * *

  ‘What the hell were you thinking?’

  Olivia is sitting at the kitchen table, still dressed in her uniform. There is blood on her skirt, but Hannah hasn’t yet got around to asking her about it. She doesn’t even know whether it’s Olivia’s. She’s starting to believe that nothing would surprise her anymore.

  She hasn’t contacted Michael since receiving the phone call from the school; instead, she walked there to pick Olivia up, trying her best to ignore the expressions of the staff and the sniggers she heard from a few students who were lingering at the gates as they left. Their mirth might have related to some other subject, but Hannah doubts it. She remembers only too well what schools are like; gossip finds its way into every corner as soon as the act in question is complete. She doubts anything else could have happened that day to have earned the amount of attention Olivia was responsible for.

  Walking past that laughter, trying to ignore the whispered comments left loud enough to be overheard, Hannah had felt shame settle on her, clinging like a second skin, but Olivia seemed to breeze from the school grounds as though nothing had happened.

  She is not her child, Hannah thinks. She finds it difficult to fathom how she could possibly have produced this girl who now sits in front of her, who has been capable of doing what Olivia has done. Her daughter has exposed herself to half the school, having flaunted her bare chest from a rooftop overlooking the yard. It is the kind of thing that might be read about in one of the trashy magazines her mother used to read; the type of story that makes other people feel better about their own disastrous lives. It isn’t what Hannah ever imagined for her own family, not after everything she has done for them and the life that they have been given. She has tried to bring her children up in the right way, offering them everything she was able to give them; providing them with everything she never had. Though she knows she shouldn’t take it as a personal affront, Olivia’s behaviour feels like a punishment somehow, as though she is having all her efforts thrown back at her, disregarded and rejected.

  After she’d received the phone call from Olivia’s head of year and she had gone to the school to collect her, Hannah and Olivia walked home in silence. There were a million and one things Hannah would have liked to say to her daughter, questions she still needs to ask but can’t imagine even Olivia will be able to find answers to. There is no plausible answer to why she did what she did, not that Hannah can see, anyway. Rather than face exposure to Olivia’s prolonged silence, Hannah kept the questions to herself. More than anything, pride kept her mute. She has never been the kind of woman to air her dirty laundry in public, and she’s not going to be forced into starting it now by a wayward teen who seems intent on ruining the life she and Michael have built for them.

  Now, in the kitchen, her anger having had time to escalate and then subside, she stares at Olivia expectantly, waiting for her to speak. When Olivia refuses to answer her, heat rises in her chest. Hannah wants to scream, but she won’t. Last night was the closest she has come in a long time to losing her patience, and she won’t let it happen again. She would rather hold it all in than be reduced to wailing. Once that happens, she has lost control of the situation, and if there’s one thing Hannah knows she must maintain here, it is some sort of control, as little as she feels she may have remaining.

  ‘What you did today was shameful,’ she says, trying to keep the shaking from her voice. ‘You’ve made a fool of yourself. You’ve embarrassed this family. What the hell do you think people are going to be saying about us after this?’

  The smirk that crosses her daughter’s face makes Hannah want to slap her. She has never done that. This is what she wants, she thinks; Olivia is trying to provoke her, desperate for a reaction, wanting her to resort to violence because once she does that then Hannah has lost control. Olivia wins.

  ‘I can’t even look at you,’ she says, crossing the kitchen and going to the window. She stands with her palms pressed on the rim of the sink and looks out on to the garden. Visions of Olivia as a five or six-year-old girl flit in front of her, the ghost of the child she once was skipping on the lawn, innocently engrossed with the task of not tripping on the rope as it swings back to the ground. Hannah feels the loss like a pain in her chest, gripping at her heart, yet there is something else too, something she has tried for years to ignore and has never known how to name. Perhaps Olivia was never that little girl, not really; not beyond the surface. Maybe Hannah saw what she chose to see, desperate to avoid a far uglier truth.

  ‘People will have filmed it on their phones, you realise that, don’t you? You’re probably halfway across the internet by now.’

  She hasn’t had a chance to look yet; she doesn’t know if she can bring herself to do it. She has heard of these things before, of stories about young girls who have allowed their boyfriends to photograph or film them in ways they wouldn’t want their parents to know about, only to find when the relationship sours their exes have shared the images with their friends online. And not just their friends, Hannah thinks. Once something is up on social media, it’s there for anyone to see. Already it might be the case that strange men have been ogling her teenage daughter’s bare chest, using the images to encourage all manner of fantasies. The thought makes Hannah feel sick.

  ‘Go to your room,’ she says, without turning to look at Olivia. She is so angry she doesn’t know how she can deal with her from here. She hasn’t wanted to admit that Michael might be better equipped for coping with Olivia’s recent behaviour, not having wanted to seem like a failure, but now she realises the decision about her future lies with him, and that everything he has said to her previously may be right. ‘Your father will decide what happens next.’

  She listens to Olivia leave without protest and head upstairs, hopeful that she will for once do as she is told. Olivia is headstrong and unruly, but she must know she has taken things too far. The vandalism of the house at the weekend…the call from Rosie’s school…now this. Hannah still doesn’t want to admit it aloud, but she knows her daughter is out of control. She wears it well, assuming an appearance of normality, but Olivia is harbouring a darkness that has yet to be fully seen. Hannah has failed h
er by not being able to keep the darkness from them all, and yet she believes that even had she done things differently, where Olivia is concerned the outcome would have been the same. This is more than nurture. Olivia is a product of something else entirely.

  Where do they go from here? she thinks. They can’t ground her; what effect would that have? Michael will know – Michael already knows - and yet the thought of telling him what Olivia has done now fills Hannah with so much dread it makes her feel nauseous. Their life as they have known it until now is going to be ripped apart. It is everything that Olivia has been trying to achieve.

  She goes to the hallway and retrieves her mobile phone from her jacket pocket. When she tries Michael’s mobile, it goes straight to the answer phone. She knows the name of the hotel where Michael is staying that evening; she always makes sure that she knows where he is in case there’s an emergency and she can’t get hold of him. She searches the internet for the hotel phone number, taps it into her mobile and waits for an answer. When someone picks up, she asks if she can speak to a guest called Michael Walters.

  There is a pause. ‘I’m sorry,’ the man says. ‘There’s no one of that name staying here this evening.’

  Hannah apologises, not really knowing why she does so, and ends the call. Her heart has slowed a little and a headache is pulsing behind her eyes, blurring her vision. Where is he? She knows that he’s got a lot on, but she needs him here. If he can’t be with her, he should at least make himself available at the end of the phone. If he’s not at that hotel, then where is he staying? And why has he lied to her about where he would be tonight?

  Hannah feels tears spike at the corners of her eyes, hot and sudden. She wipes them away, embarrassed by their appearance despite there being no one else to witness them. She feels gripped by isolation, suffocated by it, yet this feeling is nothing new. She has experienced it since she was a child, finding ways to make her loneliness more bearable. With Michael, she never thought she would feel this way. She has a beautiful home; she is blessed with children…this life is everything she ever wanted. Yet contentment hasn’t reached her yet. She wonders whether she is just ungrateful. Is she being punished for not fully appreciating everything she has? Does the fault lie with her?