So I recalled that entire night, that party, upstairs in the bedroom. I told her everything. I even told her what I wore that night, and that I was drunk. But she didn’t seem to care about that, and I thought she would. She just said, ‘If you said no, then you didn’t give your consent. And it doesn’t matter what you were wearing, or that you had been drinking. What happened to you wasn’t consensual. It was against your will.’
And it was. I didn’t give my consent. I said no. She wrote it all down on a piece of paper, asked me to sign and date it, and told me to go home and tell my mum. She said she would take care of it. That HE would never be allowed to do this to anyone else again.
When I left the police station, I started to worry a little. What if he denies it? What if he says I’m the one who’s making it all up for attention? What if everyone says that I ‘asked for it’? That I caused it, let it happen?
Again, I thought about Lucy. And how I’d blamed her for everything. She didn’t cause this. She didn’t let this happen. And neither did I. It wasn’t what I wore, what I said, what I drank, that I even drank at all. It wasn’t my make-up, or my hair, or that I flirted and maybe led him on. It wasn’t any of that. It doesn’t matter what I wore, what I did. All that matters is that I said NO. This is my body. And I didn’t consent to what happened to me at that party. And by not doing anything at all, I could let what happened to me, happen to someone else. I know now that it’s OK to be scared. But it’s not OK to be a coward. Life is too short to not be brave. Life is too short.
I still think about Sophia sometimes.
I think we all do.
I wonder what her last thoughts were that night, whose face she saw in her mind if anyone, if she texted her parents right before, what she felt – what she must have felt to do that.
I hope I never feel that alone.
I wish I’d confided in her. Then maybe, she would have done the same and we could have been there for each other.
I wish so many things had been different.
I’m sorry, Sophia. I’m so sorry.
LUCY
Pink balloons rock gently in the breeze beside the window Mum’s just cracked open. The weather forecast had been cloudy with partial rain this afternoon so we decided last night to move the baby shower indoors. But now the sun shines bright outside. Mum was up most of last night stringing paper lantern lights from the corner of the dining room to the edge of the living room, wrapping baby pink tissue paper around the legs of the table, and tying ribbon onto mason jars filled with creamy white votives. Their flames flickered now in the soft wind.
The downstairs has been completely transformed from its usual state of strewn pillows, empty Diet Coke cans, dirty dinner plates and celebrity magazines boasting the newest diet trend of the season – the Bee Pollen Smoothie diet, the DASH diet, Keto Cure. The old me would’ve bought into all of those at one point; now I have different priorities. Now I see things in a new light, perhaps in a clearer light. To me, anyway.
I was angry at Cara, Lily and Mollie for a long time after the pregnancy came out. I thought they’d judged me, that they’d turned away from me when I needed them the most. But in truth, they were shocked and confused, just like me. I’d shut them out as I had a lot of people. And now as they sit here in my living room, drinking pink lemonade from pink striped paper straws and gossiping about celebrities who’ve just had babies with their co-stars, I realise that I’m not alone in this after all. I’ve never been. I just didn’t know that, or trust that. And maybe once they go off to university and start their own lives away from Birchwood we’ll lose touch gradually, slowly drift apart like branches in a river. But maybe we won’t.
‘You OK?’ Mum asks, nudging me away from the dining table.
‘Yeah, great.’ I refill my lemonade tumbler, slightly overdosing on the amount of pink in this room, and rejoin my friends on the sofa.
Mollie pops up and wanders back over to the food, while Lily smooths down the edges of her mint green tea dress.
‘Pretty dress,’ I say, actually meaning it.
‘Thanks. H&M.’
‘I haven’t been in there in ages.’
‘You should. They have a nice children’s section.’ She sips her lemonade, then dabs her coral lipstick with her napkin. Pink, of course. Everything here is pink.
Cara turns her head back to the table and I wonder whether she’s eyeing Mollie at the sugar end of the display. She never could turn down a caramel eclair. But she whips back to me, and then again towards the table. ‘Luce, your mum?’
I feel a big smile stretch across my face. ‘Yeah, she looks amazing, right? She’s been doing really well the last couple of months, ever since I told her about this one here.’ I gesture to my growing belly, my fingers caked in icing sugar from the eclair I had just polished off. Best thing about pregnancy: indulging in every food craving. I mean, second-best thing about pregnancy, of course. The first is seeing Annabel’s little face as she enters this world. Annabel Sophia McNeil. I haven’t told anyone yet. I want her name to be a surprise. It was a surprise to me too. I finally succumbed and picked up one of the many baby name books my mum had bought me and before I’d hit the B names, I saw ‘Annabel’. One of the passages in the books associated it with ‘Love’, ‘Grace’, ‘Beauty’ and ‘Favour’. It’s also a variant of Anna, my grandmother’s name. She died when I was seven, but my mum talks about her often. A black and white photo of her with my grandfather at a disco in Perth sits in a copper frame in my mum’s bedroom, which she now sleeps in. Gone are the nights passed out on the sofa with the remote control in her hand and an empty wine glass on the floor by a fallen pillow. This pregnancy – Annabel – has changed everything, for all of us.
I don’t know when it was that I decided to keep her. I can’t exactly pinpoint the moment I made the biggest decision of my life. It was as if one day I’d woken up knowing that I’d give birth to her and raise her, like it was never a decision at all but more of a sudden realisation. And then I started telling people. My mum first, then my dad, Auntie K, teachers and friends at school, neighbours. I even found myself making a joke that I couldn’t drink coffee for another few months at Jo’s BusStop Cafe by the school while proudly pointing to my swollen belly. It suddenly became not just acceptable to be pregnant, but just a part of who I am. I’m not just Lucy McNeil, high school student. I’m Lucy McNeil, Annabel’s mum. And I’ll be just that in every sense of the word, because I owe that to her. I owe that to myself. I’m going to be a good mum. And I don’t just tell myself that at night to calm the nerves. I think – I know – I actually mean it.
I’m going to be a good mum.
‘What are you smiling about?’ asks Cara, playfully nudging me.
I shake my head and merely rub my belly.
‘Love your mum’s new haircut. She should totally set up a profile on one of those dating apps!’ laughs Mollie, as she plops down in the sofa beside me, eclair in her hand.
‘One day, definitely. We’ll make sure she does. She’s cute for her age, right?’
‘I’d date her,’ shrugs Lily, peeling off the armchair to skip the song on my iPod.
‘You’d date anyone,’ mutters Cara, leaning into me.
‘Oi, I heard that!’
Taylor Swift’s new song blasts from the speaker that perches on the bookcase next to a gold-rimmed frame that up until last month used to hold a photo of my dad. Now a photo of my first scan rests inside, not quite big enough to fill the 5x7 frame.
‘Is Trina coming today?’ asks Cara, looking around.
‘She’ll be here soon,’ I nod. ‘She’s picking up the shower cake from Frederick’s.’
Mollie pulls half an eclair from her glossy sugar covered lips. ‘There’s cake? Oh no, why didn’t anyone tell me?’
‘You can have both,’ I laugh, gripping my stomach. ‘Ow.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s just kicking.’
‘She wants cake,’ says my mum, w
alking past.
‘She’s not the only one,’ sighs Mollie.
‘Trina’s coming up the drive now,’ calls my mum, peeling back the lace curtain.
I slowly stand, still uncomfortable from Annabel’s kicking, and reach the door before Trina has had a chance to ring the bell.
She stands on the step, hands empty.
‘No cake?’
‘No hug?’ she laughs.
Wrapping my arms around her, I see a familiar figure shuffling up the driveway towards us. My throat suddenly feels dry and I no longer feel Annabel kicking.
Trina pulls away from me and bites her lip. ‘Guess who I ran into?’
Steve continues the slow walk up to me, then stops slightly behind Trina. His hands are full with a rectangular white box wrapped in a pink satin ribbon. More pink. He smiles, a forced smile, and holds out the cake to me, but I don’t take it.
He looks different today. He’s wearing a smart collared shirt in pale blue plaid, and ironed trousers. His shoes look like they’ve been polished to a shine by his mother. He clears his throat. Then he clears it again.
Trina looks away, feigning interest in my mum’s garden gnome that looks like Mick Jagger. I think that’s why she bought it. ‘Actually I think I might just go inside and see if your mum needs any help.’ She scoots in, leaving us alone on the doorstep.
He leans in. ‘Um…you have every right to just shut the door in my face, but I just wanted to say how sorry I am for how I’ve acted this year to you—’
‘To Sophia too?’
His jaw clenches and the cake box tilts slightly. ‘Especially to – to—’
‘Sophia. Is it hard to say her name?’
He nods and that’s when I see them; the tears in his eyes. My shoulders soften and a fluttering in my belly draws my eyes down. This is about her now, not us, and not the past. I have to stop pointing fingers at everyone else and accept my part in it too.
I inch the door away from us, opening it wider.
He takes a slow deep breath. ‘I can come in?’
‘It’s a full house in there,’ I mumble, shrugging my shoulders. ‘Just women “ooh-ing” over an unborn baby.’
‘I know. I’d still like to come in, if that’s OK.’ He smiles at me and this time it looks genuine. I suddenly remember the Steve I once knew, the Steve I became close friends with, the Steve Sophia once knew. He can’t erase the last year of our lives, the last year of Sophia’s life. But he’s trying. It’s a start.
‘Yeah, sure.’ I hold the door out and he walks through, cake still gripped in his hands. Probably squished by the way he’s holding it. I slowly close the door and hear Steve’s voice booming over the end of the Taylor Swift song. ‘Whoah. There’s a lot of pink in here.’
ULANA
I thought I saw her today. Her face in the lunch crowd, her ponytail bouncing up and down in PE, her long outstretched fingers sliding a scrunched-up portrait of me across the table in biology when she should have been focusing on the whiteboard. I always think I see her. But I never do.
A couple of months have passed already but this isn’t getting any easier. I’m still so confused about what happened, why it happened, and why I let it happen.
My phone beeps from under the pillow, and I think it might be Trina or Lucy. They text me now. Lucy invites me out for a tea after school, Trina asks if I’m OK. I didn’t really know Lucy until this year, until…everything happened. But she’s different now. Everything is much different at Birchwood.
Another beep fills my empty room, void of any light from the lamp. I raise the screen up to my face and for a split second, I think I’m going to see Sophia’s name. One of her old messages.
Do you want to come over to watch a movie this weekend?
Have you listened to the new Ed Sheeran song yet?
Do you want to go shopping on Saturday?
Have you done your biology homework yet?
Steve isn’t texting me back. Is he with Aiden tonight?
I kept all of our old text threads, and I probably always will. But I might delete the ones from the past couple of months because that’s not her. That’s not the Sophia that I knew. That was a very different Sophia. One that stepped out into the middle of the road to end her life.
That’s not my Sophia.
But it’s not her on my phone screen. It’s Aiden. He also texts me a lot.
I’m downstairs. Can you come outside for a minute?
I rush to my window and peer down. A hooded figure stands in front of my house, at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the front door. I know that sweatshirt. I know that stance.
I won’t ring the bell. I just want to see you for a second.
The hallway is empty so I creep downstairs, avoiding the fifth stair which creaks. My feet hit the last step, softly landing on the carpeted flooring at the bottom. I look back at the closed kitchen door and hear a clash of ceramic. Mum is setting the table for dinner. I glance back one more time before turning the Yale lock so it clicks open. A gush of air rushes in.
Aiden stands, a couple of steps from the top, his hands in his pockets. His face immediately softens when our eyes meet. ‘Sorry, I know I shouldn’t be here again. And I definitely don’t want to get you in trouble. I just didn’t know what else to do. You weren’t at school again today. I wanted to make sure you’re doing OK.’
I step out into the warm early evening in my bare feet. ‘I’m fine. What’s been happening at school lately?’
‘This anti-bullying campaign is really blowing up. Did you see how many followers Birchwood’s page has now? It’s crazy.’
‘Yeah,’ I whisper, playing with the fabrics at the bottom of my sleeves.
‘They’re filming for the YouTube campaign over the next week. Almost everyone’s signed up for a spot. Will you come? Will you join in?’
I laugh and rub my forehead, warm tears stinging my cheeks again. ‘It’s a bit late now, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Well, I do.’
‘No, Ulana, it’s not. Maybe it is for Sophia, but not for other people.’
His words pinch my insides and I know deep down, he’s right. It’s not too late. Not for real change. Maybe this is our opportunity. Maybe today’s my opportunity for change. ‘OK. I’ll be there.’
He smiles and reaches into his back pocket. Still smiling, he holds his arm out to me and slowly uncurls his palm. Inside are tiny yellow buttercups. Yellow was Sophia’s favourite colour too.
‘Are those from the meadow behind school?’ I ask him.
He nods.
‘Thank you.’ My voice is no more than a whisper between us.
‘Do you need anything? I mean, I’m here for you if you need anything.’
I nod and hold out my hand for him to join me.
Aiden steps up beside me and hands me the buttercups. His fingers linger a little longer on my hand and I bite my lip fighting back the tears. He holds out his arms and I collapse into him, like he’s a part of me. I know the buttercups are getting squashed as he holds me tight, not letting go, but I don’t care. I don’t want to move. I feel safe here. I’m where I should be.
Inside, my dad’s voice stretches out from the kitchen.
‘I should go,’ Aiden says, sliding his hands down my arms. He lets me go and takes a step away from me. ‘Can’t let your dad see me again.’ He glances over my shoulder into the house, then leans in and kisses me gently on the forehead. His lips are warm and familiar. He pulls away and turns to leave.
‘Wait,’ I say, taking his hand. I lock my fingers into his and tug him inside with me.
‘Ulana…’ He tries to pull away but I keep him close to me, leading him further into the house.
We stand at the kitchen door, my parents’ voices soft and muffled.
‘What are you doing?’ he asks, tiny creases spreading across his forehead.
‘Something I should have done a long time ago. I’m sorry I didn’t.’ I pu
sh the door open with my hand.
‘Ulana? I’m glad you’re joining us—’ He stops when he sees Aiden behind me and quickly rises from his chair.
‘Dad, you remember Aiden?’ I stutter, my lips trembling.
My dad nods, ‘Yes, I remember your friend Aiden.’ He glances between us, waiting for one of us to explain more. I feel my mum behind me, the smell of her perfume in the air around us. It smells like the flowers from home. Oleander and hibiscus. I realise then that both of these things are important to me – that both Aiden and my family are important. Both him and my family feel suddenly connected. My relationship with religion and my relationship with him give meaning to my life, and with everything that’s happened over these past few months, I don’t feel like I should have to choose one over the other anymore. Both are a big part of me. Both should have a place in my life. As difficult as it will be, I know now – I see now – that that’s not an impossible task.
‘Mum, Dad, I want Aiden to stay for dinner tonight.’
My dad’s brow furrows and he looks at my mum who stands beside him, plate and tea towel in hand. She’s setting the table for dinner, but she doesn’t put the plate down. She continues to hold it, as she flickers her eyes between us and Dad. ‘Ulana—’
‘I’m not asking to bring him upstairs to my bedroom. I understand we can’t be alone together under your roof. I will respect your wishes. I always have. I’m just asking if he can join us for dinner because I’d like for you both to get to know him.’
I glance at my mum. She doesn’t seem angry to see Aiden standing here, beside me. She doesn’t even seem surprised. She clears her throat, and eventually parts her lips to speak. ‘Are you hungry, Aiden?’
Aiden nods quickly, a small smile creeping across his face.
She places a firm hand on my dad’s shoulder, as if to soothe any unspoken concerns. He looks up at her, then back to me.
‘Good. I’d better set another place at the table then,’ she says.
We Are Not Okay Page 20