We Are Not Okay

by Natália Gomes

  She turns and pops the plastic lid off. ‘I can heat it up for you?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. But thank you.’

  She squints and inspects me, and I wonder if she has a Facebook account. I wonder if she has a son or a daughter at Birchwood. I wonder what she knows. Because she will know something. Everyone knows.

  I pick up the bag from the ground by my feet, for once empty of notebooks and papers, and swing the straps over my shoulder. ‘Bye, Jo.’ I try to smile, but it feels fake on my face. Ulana waits for me outside, her phone in her palm. She frantically types with her left thumb, but when she sees me walking towards her she stops typing and quickly slides her phone back into bag.

  ‘It’s just my mum,’ she explains. ‘She wants to know what time I’ll be home.’ She feels like she needs to justify why she’s on her phone, who she’s talking to. She wants me to know that she’s not on Facebook. She feels like she needs an explanation for every time I see her with her phone in her hand. My cheeks warm slightly.

  We start walking down Schoolhill Road, our shoulders almost touching.

  ‘I hope they expel Steve formally so it’s noted on his school records; no university will accept him then, I’m sure. It sounds harsh, but he really does deserve it. What he did to you was so—’

  ‘I don’t really want to talk about it,’ I say, turning my head away from her. ‘I’m sick of talking about it all the time.’

  ‘Oh sorry.’ Ulana tugs at her head scarf, her fingers fumbling. She’s uncomfortable, I can tell. I make everyone around me uncomfortable.

  ‘No, it’s fine. It’s just everyone wants to talk about it and I’m sick of being reminded about it.’

  ‘Are your parents trying to talk to you about it?’

  ‘Them, you, teachers and I don’t even go to school anymore. I even had one girl come up to me outside Jo’s on Monday and tell me how sorry she was and that I should get Steve arrested. I should just stop coming here.’

  ‘Don’t. This is your town too.’ She pauses then turns to me. ‘Can you though? I mean, get him arrested?’

  I shake my head. I’m not having this conversation again with her. ‘I don’t know, but I would never do that.’

  ‘I can’t believe that after all this, you still defend him.’

  ‘You wouldn’t understand,’ I mutter. I walk a little faster, a little further from her.

  Ulana jogs a couple of steps to catch up with me. She touches my arm but I shake her off. ‘A lot of people want to help, Sophia. You should take the help. You don’t have to go through this alone. You can—’

  ‘I don’t need to talk to anyone. No one can understand how I feel,’ I say, closing my eyes so I can’t see Ulana’s expression. I don’t want to know what she’s really thinking underneath all the kindness. Is it pity?

  ‘Then tell me. Please. I want to understand. Sophia, I want to help but you won’t let me.’

  ‘You can’t help. No one can!’

  ‘You keep saying that, but it’s not true.’

  ‘What about my parents? Are they helping? They can barely look me in the eye. They’re embarrassed probably. I’ve embarrassed them in front of their friends, in front of the neighbours.’

  ‘People will soon get bored of this and move on to something else, something more exciting. That’s what happens.’

  ‘No one’s forgetting about this! There’s new comments every day, more likes, more dislikes. More people know about this each day. I’ll never be able to live this down. I’ll never be able to live a normal life! These photos are out there and will stay out there for my whole life. Everyone I ever meet will be able to go online and see naked photos of my body…I…I…’ The words get stuck in my throat. My chest tightens and my jaw aches as I clench to hold back the tears. ‘I can’t do this anymore. I just can’t. It hurts too much.’

  I don’t look back to see Ulana following me. But I hear her. She’s calling me. I don’t turn back. No point. I know what she’ll say. And I know what I’ll say. Because nothing changes.

  LUCY

  I unscrunch the paper in my hand and skim the address again. Huntley Road. This is it. It looks different to what I thought it would look like. It looks…normal. Homey. Like a proper family home. I don’t know what I was expecting but this certainly isn’t it. Maybe a council flat in a large ugly building where the stairwell is open to the outside, and groups of kids hang out, eyeing up all those who don’t belong. Maybe I wasn’t expecting a house at all, maybe just a room in a relative’s house where a family of five are bundled into one room, each stepping over one another as they argue over who left the wet towel on the floor again.

  But this isn’t it. It’s a real house, with a real garden, and a real person living inside.

  It’s not big. And the paint around the windows is chipping, exposing a rusty hue of tangerine on the surface. The garden is overgrown and a turned over wheelbarrow sits in the corner, likely now used as a pew for Trina as she lights up another cigarette. But soft amber fills the windows, beyond the lace curtains. And smoke billows out the chimney, the dense cloud getting quickly swallowed up by the cold outdoor air. The TV flickers against the glass panel on the door, and soft sounds spill out from the house. The house is much smaller than mine, and tiny compared to my dad’s new house. But it looks comfortable. Not completely different to mine in many ways.

  My feet ascend the four stone steps up to the panelled door, but my hands stick by my side. It’s taken me a little longer to come here than it should have, after what she did. My mum said she saved my life. That I could have bled out or suffered long-term damage if she’d left me. But even when she’d stood over me – as I lay there in the rain, screaming in agony – I’d never once considered that she’d leave me there, like that. Not even when she hurled insults at me, not even when she posted that photo of me at the Family Planning Clinic on Facebook. I never thought she’d leave me out there. Perhaps because deep down I know she’s a better person than I am. A better person than I will ever be.

  My fist meets the door before I can rethink being there. No answer. I knock again. Still no answer. I can hear the TV on so I know someone is in there. Maybe she knows it’s me and doesn’t want to answer. I don’t blame her. I probably wouldn’t answer the door either. I’d probably leave me standing here on the doorstep in the cold.

  As I turn to leave, a click from behind turns me. Trina stands in the doorway, in an oversized grey jumper and pink leggings. Her hair is tied back, scraped back off her face, and she wears no make-up. Her usually black-rimmed eyes are fresh and wide, and her unmarked lips are naturally rosy and matte. She looks…pretty. For once.

  A half smile fills her youthful face and she moves away from the door. I think she’s inviting me in, so I shift forward and wait for her to correct me, to shut the door in my face. But she doesn’t. She moves further inside and opens the door wider for me.

  Inside, her house smells of cinnamon and apples. Candles line the bookshelves, which are surprisingly filled with actual books. I couldn’t picture Trina huddled up on the sofa with a book in her hands, but unless these are her parents’, she must enjoy reading. There are far too many on the shelves to be the result of an accidental collection.

  ‘Are your mum and dad home?’

  She shakes her head, and glances towards the living room. ‘Do you want to sit down?’

  I don’t want to get too comfortable here, in her house, with her. But my body still aches from the last week, and I’m still so exhausted that I worry if I stand any longer, I might fall backwards. My fingers fumble to unfasten the toggles on my beige peacoat, struggling with the last button. When I eventually get loose, and slip my arms out, I don’t know what to do with the coat. Trina doesn’t move to take it from me; she probably doesn’t have a coat rack like we do. So I fold it over my arm and follow her into the living room.

  School photos and family memories sit upright in thin silver frames on the mantel that surrounds a small fireplace. A large w
orn-through recliner is positioned in the back corner, slightly too left to be symmetrical with the wall. Trina collapses down onto the shaggy blue rug in the centre of the room and crosses her legs. She leans back onto her hands and stares up at me, waiting. I drop my coat onto the armchair, and fold down into the same position on the floor, mirroring her.

  She loops a strand of her hair around her index finger and twirls it. I realise I know nothing about her, and suddenly have no idea what to say. Outside, cars pass beside the house, their engines a welcome distraction. Birds chirp on the trees then fade out, probably getting ready to fly south with the cold weather beginning to set in. A group of kids laugh and scream as they drift past the windows. I wonder if she knows any of them.

  ‘Do you have any siblings or anything?’ I eventually ask, finally breaking the silence in the air.

  ‘Nope,’ is all she says. This is going to be harder than I thought. Like the house, I don’t know what I was expecting. Did I really think she’d open the door and scoop me up into a big embrace? Did I think it would be like the last few months didn’t happen and that we could just start fresh and be friends? The damage here was beyond repair, the cracks in this ‘relationship’, or whatever this is so deep down to the core, where not a piece can be salvaged or conserved for a later time.

  ‘So…it’s just you?’

  She shrugs. ‘It’s just Mum and me now.’

  ‘Oh…no Dad?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘So, your dad left you too?’

  She nods. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘I know where my dad is. But I don’t see him as much now. He has a new family now.’

  ‘Oh. That sucks.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  She fiddles with a loose thread on her socks. ‘I guess we don’t really know anything about each other.’ She clears her throat, then sets her gaze down on the floor by her feet. ‘Listen, um, what I said in the woods and then again at the hospital…please don’t—’

  ‘I won’t say anything to anyone, I promise.’ And I mean it this time.

  She nods slowly as if she’s trying to decide whether to trust me or not. I don’t blame her. Sometimes I don’t even trust myself.

  ‘I’m sorry about posting that photo of you outside the clinic. That was a horrible thing to do.’

  Heat builds inside my belly as I remember how I felt seeing that photo, seeing the reaction of my friends, of those around me who didn’t know me. A familiar sensation of anger trickles its way back into my blood. ‘Yeah, that was really nasty—’

  ‘OK, but what you said about me from the party was pretty nasty too. Especially when you didn’t know the whole truth.’

  ‘I was going off your reputation—’

  ‘What reputation?’

  ‘Seriously? “What reputation?” Are you joking? You’re not exactly known for your prudish behaviour at school.’

  ‘You’re calling me a slut?’

  ‘No…but you have dated quite a few boys at school.’

  ‘Unbelievable! If you’re going to come here to insult me, you can leave!’

  ‘Gladly!’ I stand up and yank my coat off her bed.

  ‘I should have known you weren’t here to apologise! You’re so self-absorbed!’

  ‘Why should I apologise? You’re just as guilty as I am!’

  ‘I am nothing like you,’ she says, standing up to face me. ‘You’re a bully, Lucy McNeil. And now you’ve tasted what it’s like to be on the other end, you don’t like it! People like you are just cowards deep down.’

  ‘I’m a coward?’ I laugh, heading down the hallway towards the front door. The smell of apples and cinnamon choke me. ‘You’re the one who’s too scared to tell anyone about what happened at the party.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’ I spin round. ‘Rather than moping about it, do something. If you’re claiming that it wasn’t consensual, that you said no, then go to the police.’

  ‘I can’t go to the police,’ she mutters, her voice suddenly nothing but a whisper.

  ‘Why not? Scared?’

  Her face hardens, and the soft youthful expression fades quickly from her face. Her jawline tenses. ‘Get out.’ She leans in, and opens the door from behind me, the door handle hitting me in the back. A cold breeze rushes in and strikes the back of my coat.

  When I step outside, night fighting with the last light of the day, she slams the door behind me. I resist looking back until I get to the front gate. She stands at the window, her frame illuminated from the TV glow. I wait for a moment too long, staring back at her. Then I button up my coat to my chin to battle the cold, and march down her street to the bus stop. As I get closer to the shelter, one glass panel smashed, the shards sitting on the pavement, I suddenly realise that I didn’t say any of the things I had intended to say to Trina. None of the words I wanted to say were spoken. Not once did I say, ‘Thank you’ or ‘I’m sorry.’

  I didn’t even try.

  ULANA

  ‘I told you, Dad. I’ve been going there every week since September,’ I mumble, checking my phone screen again. Why isn’t Sophia responding to my messages?

  My dad paces in front of the dining table. His tall heavy frame shakes Mum’s display plates in the glass cabinet every time he passes it. He only paces when he’s stressed or thinking a decision over, or both. He grips an A4-sized typed letter in his left hand. His right hand is free to occasionally rub his chin, massage his temples or run through his hair which is now salt and pepper-hued. He stops at the chair closest to me, then sits back down in it. ‘So why is the school saying that you haven’t been going?’

  I slowly put the phone down on the table. ‘What? I have been going. Ask for the attendance. You’ll see I sign myself in every week. No absences.’

  ‘Every week?’

  ‘Yes…well except this week. But I came straight home that day, remember?’ If I’d gone to the UCAS Prep then I’d have been tempted to go look to see if Aiden was up there waiting for me on the bench. And if I had checked, then either he would be there and I’d find that conversation too difficult and probably cry, or he wouldn’t be there and I’d still cry. The outcome would be the same, either way.

  ‘So, I’ll call the school tomorrow and get this sorted out. I don’t want this sort of letter going into your file. Your record needs to be clean for going to university.’

  ‘Dad, my record is clean. Plus I have the best grades in the class. I’ll be just fine,’ I say, leaning forward and resting my hand on his arm.

  He claps it with his free hand and finally breaks into the warm smile I’m used to. ‘I’ll call the class tutor too, speak to him directly.’

  My body is suddenly on fire. ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to know why I’m getting this letter, but I also want to make sure you’re learning everything you should be. I want you to have a strong application to submit. If this prep class is a waste of time, you stop going.’

  My mouth is dry. If my dad talks to the teacher directly, he might confirm that I’ve been signing myself in every week, but he might also know that I’ve been sneaking out after about ten or fifteen minutes. What then? How do I explain that? I can’t. He’ll wonder where I’ve been going, what I’ve been doing, and soon, with whom I’ve been with.

  ‘He’s not a real teacher at school, Dad. He’s a rep for UCAS, so you won’t be able to contact him directly.’

  My dad’s forehead cracks and tiny thin lines scatter across it. I don’t think he’s going to let this go that easily.

  ‘But I’ll tell him next week that you want to talk with him, and see what he can do.’ I pat my dad’s hand and he smiles again. ‘I’ll start dinner with Mum.’ I hurry into the kitchen before any more questions arise, and turn the radio on loudly. Fragments of string and wind instruments seep through the speaker into the kitchen, and out from under the door into the rest of the house. My dad always keeps the radio tuned to Classic FM. Anything else he just doesn�
��t understand. Except for the Beatles. He understands the Beatles.

  My mum slips in behind me and slides out the spice rack. She starts pulling out the turmeric, cumin, masala. Fluffy powders of orange, yellow and dirt brown. A cinnamon stick lies by the white plastic chopping board, its edges stained with the colours of our country. My dad is last to enter the kitchen. He tenderly touches my mum’s shoulder as she sautés the garlic and ginger, then moves to the radio and tweaks it a little louder. He starts on the fish – a whole one too, eyes, head, teeth, too much. Together we cube the fish and simmer the spices, plum tomatoes, chickpeas and onions, until the smells fill the whole house. The steam keeps us in our bubble in our little kitchen, protected from the outside world which, like popular music, we don’t understand. I’m safe here in this bubble, in this family. So why would I want anything different? With Aiden, it would be a life so drastically different from the one I’ve been raised in. It would mean compromising on my beliefs, it would mean sacrificing everything I have for a future that’s not even guaranteed to make me happy?

  This is why I avoided Aiden for so long. At the time it wasn’t difficult for me because I barely knew him. But once we started to open up to each other, once the feelings got stronger, the decision became harder, and soon I couldn’t stay away from him. I thought about him all the time, even dreamt about him. So I started talking to him again. I reinitiated it. Not him. He gave me the chance to walk away, before we’d lost any time to it, lost any emotions to it. But I came back, not quite done with what I could never have. And those conversations moved from the classroom to the back of the school, to the woods, to the bench, and beyond. The sadness I felt without him far outweighed the negatives. But this summer changed things for us. The physical distance between us brought us closer. It made me realise that I needed him. That I wanted him in my life. But at what cost?

  Now I’d lost him. I’d lied to my parents, snuck around behind their back, skipped out on after-school activities. For what? A relationship that had ended all by itself. All that risk for nothing.