by Cat Clarke
Sorry if that bit’s looking a bit blotchy now. I didn’t mean to get all heavy there. That’s about the least helpful thing I can do, and it’s the exact opposite of what these letters are for. Don’t be getting maudlin now, my precious Jem.
Anyway, my love, whatever it is that you’re doing, I hope with all my heart that you are happy. You deserve to be happy. Because I say so. And I’m always right about these things. So there.
Until next month.
Big, huge, fat bear hugs to you,
Kai
xxx
He’s chipping away at my heart with every letter and he doesn’t even know it. Wishing he wasn’t gay. That’s not Kai. He didn’t think that way. He didn’t. Not until they humiliated him anyway. They will pay for making him think that way.
He knew how I felt about him. He knew. I don’t feel the hot flush of embarrassment that I would have expected. I’m actually glad. I’m glad he knew that someone loved him like that. It must be nice to know that. He knew I adored him in every possible way. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t feel the same. (Why couldn’t he have felt the same? WHY?) I can’t help feeling sad that no one will ever love me the way I loved Kai. I’ll never, ever know what that feels like. Still, it didn’t exactly do him any good. It wasn’t enough to keep him here.
This kind of thinking really isn’t helping. Even though everything I’m doing is for Kai, thinking about him really, really doesn’t help. If he could see me now . . . I can’t even . . .
Yes, I’ve done all the things he asked me to, but I’m kidding myself if I think he’d be happy about what I’m doing. He wouldn’t have wanted this. But I can’t let myself think about that. All I can do is hope that he would understand why I have to do this. Why I have to take them down.
chapter thirty-four
Looks like the Dinner of Awkwardness might have to be postponed. I’m ill. Like, properly ill in a way I haven’t been for years. Never in my life have I been glad to feel so bloody awful, but it feels like this virus or whatever is a gift from God.
I wonder if the thought of being Lucas Mahoney’s girlfriend is so horrific that my immune system has revolted against it. Maybe this illness is my body rejecting Lucas like an organ recipient rejects a donated kidney or something. Whatever it is, it feels like someone’s been at my throat with a cheese grater and my brain is suddenly two sizes too big for my skull.
Mum comes in before she goes to work and does the old feeling-the-temperature-of-my-forehead thing that mothers always do, complete with a look of serious concentration. ‘Hmm … I think we should call Janice.’
My panicked ‘No!’ is followed by a strangled coughing fit.
Mum purses her lips so tight they disappear from view, then checks her watch. ‘She’ll be coming off shift now and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind … just to put my mind at rest, you know.’
I sit up in bed and somehow manage to ride the undulating wave of extreme dizziness that crashes over me. ‘Mum, I’m fine. It’s just a cold or something. Please don’t bother Mrs McBride. She’s always knackered after her shift.’ I can tell she’s wavering. ‘Besides, she’ll just say it’s a virus. They always say it’s a virus, don’t they? I’ll just rest up today and I’m sure I’ll be fine by the time you get home.’
I say a silent prayer to the god of mother–daughter interaction. The thought of having to talk to Mrs McBride, having to see her sad pale face … I briefly consider leaping out of bed and doing star jumps to prove I’m fine.
Mum sits on the edge of the bed and takes my clammy hand in hers. ‘OK … but I worry about you, Jem. If anything happened to you, I can’t even …’ She shakes her head and takes a deep shaky breath. I reckon she might be about to cry.
‘Mum, nothing’s going to happen to me! It’s just a cold. Now stop fussing and get yourself to work. If it’ll make you feel any better, you can text me on an hourly basis or something.’
She squeezes my hand but says nothing. This is getting a little weird. ‘You’re right. I’m just being silly because … yes. OK, I’m off, but you’d better reply to those texts – unless you’re asleep – but try not to leave it too long …’
And then she’s gone. Finally. I pull the duvet over my head, feeling twice as exhausted as when I’d woken up. It wasn’t as if she had to spell it out. There’s only one reason for her new-found concern/paranoia: Kai.
The crazy thing is that she’s right to be concerned. She’s right to be paranoid. Just not about me getting ill.
In the end, Mum stays home from work for the next two days to look after me. It isn’t just a cold – it’s some hideous killer virus from hell which has basically killed a good chunk of my summer holidays. On the plus side, it means the awkward Lucas dinner hasn’t happened yet. On the negative side, I feel like crap and can only eat ice cream and soup and melon. (The ice cream should probably shift over to the plus side.)
Lucas wanted to visit me, but there’s no way I’m letting him see me like this – unwashed, pale and clammy. I don’t want him to think I’m vulnerable, someone who needs looking after. And I definitely don’t want him seeing me in my pyjamas. I texted and said I’d let him know as soon as I’m back in circulation, fit for public viewing. He made some crap joke about coming over to play doctors and nurses; all I could muster up in reply was a smiley face. He texts me every morning to ask how I’m doing; it’s kind of irritating.
By day 15 of my confinement I’m starting to feel better. Technically I’ve been feeling a little better since day 9, but I kept my mouth shut. I was starting to enjoy the extra attention from Mum. The soft, sympathetic voice, the blissful lack of nagging.
On Saturday I’m whiling away the afternoon flicking through the pages of one of the many, many magazines Mum bought me … Fashion! Boys! Makeup! More boys! Once I’m over the initial does-she-know-me-at-all revulsion, I actually manage to find a couple of almost interesting articles. Shameful.
The doorbell goes and I figure it must be one of Noah’s mates. It’s not until the timid knock at my bedroom door twenty minutes later that I get suspicious. Mum never bothers to knock (she reckons she forgets) and Dad’s knock is a machine-gun-like rata-tat-tat which always scares the crap out of me.
‘Come in?’ Definitely a question rather than a statement. I’m really not sure I want this person who is most definitely not a member of my family to come through that door. The only person I ever really want to see will never walk through that door again.
A plate laden with cupcakes is the first thing I see. Not quite what I was expecting. The hands holding the plate are dainty and perfect and everything you’d want hands to be. It’s Sasha, looking prettier and healthier than ever. Crap sandwich.
‘You poor thing! Why didn’t you call me?! I could have come round and kept you company!’
I clear my throat. ‘Um … I wasn’t really up for company, I guess.’
She perches on the side of my bed, a little too close for my liking. ‘Silly! What do you think friends are for?! I could have made you chicken soup or something.’ She sets the cupcakes on my bedside table. The frosting’s bright pink – it really doesn’t look like something you should put in your stomach. ‘Never mind, I’m here now. With cupcakes.’ She looks at me with her big brown eyes, all expectant and caring.
‘You made cupcakes.’ A stupid thing to say, but I’m struggling here. I look like shit. My vest has holes in it. There’s a spot on my chin the size of a golf ball. And worst of all, I’m not wearing any make-up.
‘I bake when I’m bored. And I have been majorly bored. Here, have one.’ She puts the plate under my nose and I manage not to puke on it.
‘That’s … um … really kind of you. OK if I have one later though? I feel a bit rough right now.’
‘Of course! Your mum said you’d been off your food, and now I look at you, you are looking kinda skinny. Maybe that’s what I could do with the rest of my summer – get ill, lose a few pounds.’
‘Yeah, like you reall
y need to lose weight.’
She smiles sweetly at me because that was exactly what I was supposed to say. ‘So anyway, your mum is so nice! And your dad too. You’re so lucky – my parents are just so blah, you know? And Noah’s just the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. He managed to sweet-talk me into giving him a cupcake – he’s super smooth, that one.’
‘Yeah, so smooth. It runs in the family. So … what were you and my mum chatting about?’ Trying to sound like I don’t really care, like I’m just making conversation. But the thought of Sasha talking to Mum makes me feel uneasy. I’d dodged a bullet by getting ill and avoiding Lucas coming over, but I hadn’t anticipated one of Them turning up unannounced. I guess that’s just the kind of thing you do when you’re popular – assume that people will be glad to see you. Assume there’s nothing they’d rather do than see your pretty, perfect face when they’re looking like utter shit.
‘Oh, this and that. You, obviously. And she was asking me about Lucas.’ She sees the look on my face and rushes on, ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything bad. She just wanted to know more about him – said you’d been all secretive.’
‘Oh God.’ I pull the duvet up over my head.
Sasha yanks the duvet right back down again. ‘Chill! All I said was he’s a good guy. I didn’t tell her he was my ex or anything – didn’t want her asking anything too … er … intimate. Anyway, how are you feeling?’ She doesn’t bother to wait for an answer. ‘So … I hear you two are, like, official and everything. How does it feel?’ She’s got so much energy she’s practically bouncing on the bed.
‘Um … good, I guess?’
‘You don’t sound so sure.’ She scrapes some frosting off a cupcake with her index finger. Her nail varnish is the exact same colour pink. She licks the icing off her finger with feline delicacy.
‘I’ve been a bit preoccupied with fever, phlegm, vomiting … that kind of thing.’
‘Soooooo … you two haven’t done the nasty yet?’
I shrug. ‘You seem to know everything else about me and Lucas – surely you know that too.’ I don’t quite manage to hide the edge in my voice.
‘As if I’m going to ask Lucas if he’s had sex with his new girlfriend! Give me some credit … But I’m well within my rights to ask you. It’s, like, the law of girl talk.’ Sasha tilts her head and narrows her eyes like she’s considering how to draw a picture of me. ‘You know you can trust me, don’t you? You can tell me anything. I’m really good with secrets … unless they’re lame secrets that shouldn’t even be secrets in the first place.’
I open my mouth to tell her that no, Lucas and I have most definitely not had sex. But she holds up her hand to silence me. ‘It’s OK, you don’t need to say anything. You haven’t done it yet, I can tell. I swear I have a sixth sense about this kind of stuff. You’re going to do it soon though, right? Once you’re not so … mucustastic of course. I mean, Lucas is patient, but he’s not going to hang around forever …’
She witters on and on and on. I want her to leave; she’s more than I can cope with in my weakened state. I congratulate Sasha on her amazing intuition and admit that I have not ‘done it’. Then I fake a coughing fit that somehow turns into a real coughing fit and ends up with me nearly choking to death. That does the trick. Sasha leaves with promises to come back with more cupcakes soon. I even get a hug, despite my protests that I’m probably highly infectious. I can’t help noticing the overwhelming coconutty aroma of her super-shiny hair. It makes me crave a Bounty bar.
All I can think after she leaves is, Sasha Evans was in my bedroom.
chapter thirty-five
The timing of the family holiday to Spain couldn’t be better. I’ve just about recovered enough to have a decent time. I try not to dwell on the fact that it’s my last family holiday (or ‘halliday’ as Dad insists on calling them). Noah will have a room to himself next year.
Once we get back I become the master of excuses, avoiding everyone as much as possible. Mum and Dad seem to have forgotten about having Lucas over for dinner, which is a massive relief. I need to buy some time; I can’t make my next move until we go back to school.
The last few weeks of the summer holiday go pretty quickly. Before I know it, texts are flying around comparing GCSE results and celebrating or commiserating accordingly. Lucas did better than expected, Sasha did worse and the rest of them performed very much as predicted. Stu’s annoyingly smug about his A in biology, making some crap joke about being very familiar with the female anatomy (yawn). Nina’s been texting me from New York, pretending she’s not checking up on Stu. I’ve been replying, doing my best to keep her paranoid while trying to make it look like I’m being a supportive, understanding friend. It helps that she’s not exactly over-endowed in the brain department. It’s good that I’m still able to do something to keep the Plan moving forward – even something small.
I manage to avoid a party at Lucas’s house the day we get our results. I tell him Mum and Dad had planned this big family dinner, when in actual fact I had to beg them to take me and Noah out. Mum wanted to know why I didn’t want to celebrate with my ‘friends’. There was no point in telling her that I don’t have any friends any more. My friend (singular) is dead. I eventually convince her that I’m not missing out on anything, that everyone else is celebrating with their families too. Dad arrives late at the restaurant, then insists on embarrassing me by making a toast to his ‘little brainbox’. Since when has mostly Bs been enough to get you labelled a brainbox? Still, I’ll take it. I suppose I get a little bit of dispensation for Kai being dead. Mum as good as said so the night before my results.
On 23rd August I wake up early and go downstairs to make a cup of tea. My favourite mug’s in the dishwasher so I use Noah’s instead. I take the tea upstairs and get back into bed to read Kai’s letter. Only two more after this.
Jem,
So did you nail those pesky GCSEs? Are you pondering your future and wondering if maybe a career as an astrophysicist awaits after all?
Honey, I’m afraid I’m going to have to keep this brief. I am running out of time. I may have slightly underestimated how long this little endeavour would take. It’s 4.23a.m. already. The world is sleeping and everything is far too quiet for my liking. I want to shout and scream and throw something at the wall just to break the silence. But if I do that, they’ll know. They’ll know I’m not OK and I can’t have them knowing that until tomorrow today. It’s today.
I wish I could talk to you, pickle, but this is the next best thing. And I am talking to Future Jem. Do you have rocket booster boots and hoverboards yet? I wish I could hug you one last time. The last hug we shared was excellent though. Except it was cheating, because you didn‘t know it was the last one, did you? You had no idea. If you had, maybe you wouldn’t have let me go - ever. And maybe I wouldn’t have wanted you to.
Back to school soon, my dear. Better sharpen all your pencils and whatnot. I know how much you hate this time of year, Jem. I know how much you hate going back to that place and I’m pretty sure I haven’t made things any easier by not being there for you. I’m sorry. But hey, look on the bright side: at least you don’t have to wear that maroon monstrosity of a uniform any more. Small victories, remember?
Hugs,
Kai
xxx
chapter thirty-six
The first day back at school I stand at the gates, steeling myself to step through them and face the mayhem. I’ve been up since half five, going through all my clothes, trying to work out what to wear. I bet Sasha laid her clothes out last night. She’s probably got the whole week’s outfits planned, down to the last accessory. I never thought I’d miss the uniform, but I really do. The uniform reminded me of who I was. The girl who used her compass to pick the white threads out of her tie in maths lessons. The girl with holes in the sleeves of her jumper. It didn’t matter that the hair was different, the make-up was different, and the people I talked to were very, very different, there was still something lef
t of her. The girl who loved the boy who stared at the sky.
My wistful thoughts are shunted out of my head when someone barges into me. Serves me right for standing here, I suppose. It’s not just any someone though. It’s someone I haven’t seen the whole summer. Someone I’ve barely even thought about. Louise. And she’s running – no, more like frolicking – through the yard, being chased by Max. He catches up with her because she lets him, and he wraps her up in his arms and kisses her like it’s not quarter to nine on a dreary September morning.
Louise looks like Louise Version 2.0. She’s been rebooted. She’s blonder than ever before, without even a hint of roots (unlike me. Should have known better than to pay Fernando a visit in the middle of the summer holidays instead of the end. Rookie error, I guess). Louise’s haunted look is well and truly gone. I’d describe her as glowing, if that wouldn’t imply she looks pregnant. She most definitely does not look pregnant. Her shirt is tighter than clingfilm.
The reappearance of Louise on the social radar could be a real problem. I can’t have her turning the others against me. I’ve come too far, worked too hard, to let that happen. Why couldn’t she have just stayed skulking in the shadows? This is NOT a good start to my day.
I shoulder my way through the crowds towards the bench. The Hallowed Picnic Bench of Popularity. They’re all there, with an added (and most unwelcome) dash of Louise, extra-conspicuous because she’s the only one wearing a uniform. Nina jumps up and gives me a hug. She only got back from America yesterday, so I suppose a hug is warranted. It makes me feel uncomfortable though. Sasha’s waiting for a hug from me too, which is definitely not warranted – I only saw her a couple of days ago. It’s not that I’ve got anything against the act of hugging or anything. I just have no desire to hug these people; their hugs are all bony and ill-fitting.