by Manjeet Mann
Tara has her phone out and
takes loads of photos
on the minibus back to school.
Tara teaching me the right angle
for the perfect portrait.
The phone needs to be –
up high.
Our chins need to be –
down.
Our faces need to be –
turned to the left.
It elongates your face,
brings out your cheekbones –
apparently.
(Sometimes it helps
if you look away.
Like you’ve just seen something
in the distance
and the phone
just happened
to take a photo of you.)
Look up.
Slight pout –
not too much.
Don’t want to look like you’re pouting.
Don’t want to look like you’ve set up the shot.
Got to look natural.
Although
there’s nothing natural
about these photos.
They are posed to perfection.
Now silly ones.
Suck our cheekbones in.
Cross our eyes.
Stick out our tongues.
Tara looks great.
Even in the silly photos
she still manages to pose
just right.
This one’s great!
I’ll send it to David, she says.
No, don’t, I look horrible.
Why do you care? It’s just David.
Because … please just don’t.
What’s the big deal?
He’ll think it’s funny.
I know but …
Ooops, too late!
Tara!
I want to scream.
Tara’s laughing,
telling me
not to be so serious.
I stare out of the window.
Try and ignore
Tara sending David
every one of the photos
we’ve just taken.
Can’t get too angry,
can’t make it obvious,
can’t let on that
over the summer holidays
I missed him
and any feelings I had before
have quadrupled in size,
and I can’t tell Tara
that lately
I find myself wondering
where he is and
what he’s doing
more than I used to,
more than I should.
More like
all. The. Time.
Tara talks
non-stop about her
summer holiday.
Her summer holiday
with David.
I want to know everything
but at the same time
I don’t want to hear any of it.
I keep thinking about the fact
that he’s seen her in a bikini.
Tara scrolls through her phone,
showing me pictures of the holiday.
I take in every photo
of the two of them
together.
Analysing
how close they might be sitting,
if their hands are touching,
if they have their arms round each other,
but most of all
what their eyes are saying.
Tara talks about
eyes being the window
to a person’s soul.
Smiling eyes
sad eyes
dishonest eyes
pupils getting bigger
when you fancy someone.
I’m trying to look at their eyes.
Tara’s putting new filters
on old photos.
Cropping and changing,
brightening and lightening.
Till they look
unreal.
And she’s saying things like,
Isn’t it weird how we spent every day together,
and didn’t get sick of each other!
And,
Oh my God! That was taken just before
a bird pooped on David’s shoulder!
It was SO funny!
I smile
and laugh,
act cool,
but all I want to do
is take her phone
and zoom in on their pupils.
Especially in the photo
where they’re looking at each other,
drinking from straws
out of the same coconut.
They are my friends.
My best friends.
I don’t want to be feeling
all these things
but
I’ve noticed that they’re
both acting a little different.
I can’t ask them.
I don’t want confirmation.
(It’s better not knowing.)
But, at the same time, I do!
My brain feels like it’s going to
explode.
What did you do every day?
Did you kiss?
Are you in love?
Is three a crowd?
Did you talk about me?
Three’s a crowd, right?
If you did talk about me, what did you say?
Do you still want to be mates?
Do you want me out of the group?
He can’t love you. He can’t.
He can love you. He can.
Look at her, she’s beautiful. There’s no contest.
She’s your friend. Stop thinking of it as a contest.
You don’t own him. He’s not yours.
Why am I bothered? I’m not allowed to date – anyone.
STOP!!
Bury this.
Bury this like I bury everything else.
I’m trying to keep down
the eruption of thoughts
overflowing in my mind
but one escapes, and before
I have a chance to swallow
it spews out.
So when you got back from Cyprus
did you both still hang out?
Yeah, a bit, I mean, not lots.
I want to ask,
How much is A BIT?
What do you mean, NOT LOTS?
Every week?
Every day?
Every other day?
What is the measure of time between
A BIT and NOT LOTS?!
Are you OK? You seem really pissed off?
I’m fine!
I snap.
I mean, I’m fine,
I say, softening
the snap.
You should definitely light that sage candle tonight.
She turns her body towards mine,
reaches across and
puts her hands on my shoulders,
her eyes closed.
What are you doing?!
Shhhh, I’m doing ‘hands-on healing’.
I don’t need healing, Tara!
I try to shrug her hands off my shoulders.
Shhhh. Everyone needs healing, Amber.
Someone starts singing
some annoying pop song.
One voice carries over the rest.
One voice that grates.
I turn to see her braiding her hair.
Our eyes catch for a moment.
Gemma. Griffin.
Gemma Griffin
thinks she’s all that.
Rich mum and dad,
little Miss Perfect.
Yeah, she thinks she’s all that.
Acts all shy,
victim-like –
couldn’t be
further from the truth.
She gives as good as she gets,
and that’s a fact.
Yeah, she thinks she’s all that.
I know what she’s thinking,
lo
oking down on me.
I see her,
she doesn’t need to say it,
I can just tell.
‘I wouldn’t say a bad word about anyone’ eyes
‘I’m so innocent’ face
‘I’m minding my own business’ HAIR
I see it.
Yeah, she thinks she’s all that.
Looks at me
like I’m …
like I’m …
Nothing.
Yeah, she thinks she’s all THAT.
I take my time getting off the minibus.
Tara’s telling me to get a move on.
In a minute!
I shout back.
I look through the minibus window.
What’s taking her so long?
I see her tying her shoelace.
I can see she sees me.
Taking her time,
hoping I’ll lose interest.
Not likely.
My mind wanders.
I see David waiting
at the school gates,
Tara approaching.
My jaw tightens
as I stare,
watching them
playfully nudge each other.
A momentary lapse,
forget I’m watching,
waiting
for Gemma.
Don’t notice her leg it off the bus
and run out of the school gates
till it’s too late.
You can run but you can’t hide!
I shout.
A group of Year Sevens
turn round.
What you lot looking at?
They turn,
quicken their pace
as I start walking.
Next time,
I think.
Next time.
Run towards Tara and David,
join in with them
and their playful game of nudge.
After school
we walk down Church Hill.
Me, Tara
and David.
This is a risk
but I’m not ready
to say goodbye,
not ready to
let go of David
for the day.
I’ll be safe in Mackie D’s
where I can find excuses to:
sit close
look into his eyes
watch his mouth
make him laugh
touch the top of his arm
put my head on his shoulder
twirl my hair
memorize his scent –
keep an eye on Tara.
I tell David to walk ahead,
not with us,
tell him
we’ll meet up in Mackie D’s.
But him and Tara keep talking.
He’s all excited about athletics club,
thinking he’s gonna be
the next Mo Farah.
My mind’s elsewhere.
Concentrating on not being seen.
Looking out for familiar faces,
avoiding well-known places
where aunties and uncles
might work or shop.
It’s rush hour.
Cars taking over
the quiet backstreets.
I look at the pavement,
hide my face as we walk.
Traffic lights.
We stop.
Waiting –
for that green spot
to turn to red.
David, don’t stand next to me.
Where else am I supposed to stand?
Not next to me!
He rolls his eyes.
He doesn’t move.
Cars passing by.
I hide behind Tara,
use her as a sort of –
barrier.
Traffic stops.
I cross quickly,
scanning each car.
Walk past Sainsbury’s.
This part of town isn’t safe.
Too many people.
Too many chances to be seen,
spied on
and reported.
I weave in and out
of the market stalls,
looking out for aunties.
Traffic lights.
Green.
Cars rolling by.
That’s when I spot
her.
Weighed down by a weekly shop,
standing on the opposite side of the street.
I duck down behind Tara,
crouching behind her legs.
I hide.
I mess with my shoelace.
Chin buried into my chest,
eyes down on the tarmac.
I tug on Tara’s sock.
Amber?! What are you doing?
That woman knows my dad!
My voice shaky.
My mouth dry.
A bead of sweat
trickles down my back.
So?
I’m not supposed to be out after school, am I!
What can she say?
You were walking around town?!
Yes, that’s exactly what she can say!
Tara takes my arm,
pulls me up.
Don’t worry.
I don’t think she saw you.
Traffic lights change to red
and I sprint across the road,
my legs feeling weak,
shaken by the sighting,
heart thumping like it’s
gonna burst out of my chest.
Ten laps of the sports field
haven’t got anything on this,
this stomach-churning,
throat-choking
feeling.
I don’t scan the cars,
I don’t look up,
don’t want to catch anyone’s eye.
A little bit of sick makes its way up.
I swallow,
burning my throat.
I shoot off.
David catches up,
grabs hold of my hand
and pulls me back.
Even in this panic
I can’t help feeling
a tingle in my chest
as his fingers close
round mine.
Time feels like it stops
for a second
before I come back
to reality and pull away.
What the hell do you think you’re doing?!
He looks hurt.
His large brown eyes
drawing me in,
making me forget
where I am.
I just wanted to see if you were OK.
You ran off like a maniac.
I’d be a lot better if you didn’t walk next to me!
I’m so panicked
I don’t register
her.
Her
coming out of Wilko’s,
another auntie
double-taking me,
eyeballing me from across the road
and watching me,
watching me
walking with Tara and
David.
David who won’t walk AHEAD like I told him to!
I don’t see her
till it’s too late.
I leg it into a phone shop,
Tara and David
following close behind.
Why are we in here?
You gonna get a phone?
About time!
David’s looking all confused
and I’m trying really hard
not to get angry with him.
That woman saw me!
The one with the red jumper …
Don’t look at her …!
I don’t think she did, mate.
I think you’re being paranoid.
Have you been eating too much bread?
No, Tara!
This isn’t anything to do with lactose!
Gluten.
Whatever!
I shakily leave the shop.
I keep my head down.
Traffic lights.
Green.
I can see McDonald’s.
Once I’m in there
I know I can relax.
Red …
Speed-walk across the road.
Breathe, nearly there.
I’m on a mission,
I’m tunnel vision,
straight towards the safety
of Mackie D’s
for now.
I feel too sick to order anything,
my stomach in knots.
The money I stole
from Dad’s wallet
when he was passed out
on the couch
still in my pocket.
I roll the note
around in my fingers.
She didn’t see me,
I’m imagining it.
She didn’t see me,
she didn’t see me,
she didn’t see me …
Tara and David are sitting,
stuffing their faces with nuggets and fries.
I try and have a good time.
Tara’s giggling,
she and David sharing private jokes
from their holiday.
I check the time –
my twenty minutes is up.
That’s as long as I’ve got,
can’t push it more than that.
I’ll pass my lateness off
as a quick chat
with a teacher.
I’ll say it’s Mrs Wittle.
Dad met her at parents’ evening.
She’s got purple hair,
Dad will remember her.
He’ll believe that.
I’ve got to go.
David tugs on my sleeve.
Oh, come on, Amber,
stay a bit longer.
Don’t give me a hard time, you know I can’t.
Plus, didn’t you witness the mini heart attack I just had?
He places his hand round my wrist,
I don’t resist his hold.
I don’t try and pull away.
Five more minutes. Please.
We look at each other.
I’m desperate to tell him how I feel,
try and let my eyes do the talking.
Please.
His hand still on my wrist.
I wish I could.
I know it seems stupid to you.
Nothing you say or do is ever stupid.
His hand slides off my wrist.
Lingers a moment longer on my hand.
It feels wonderful.
Do you want me to cleanse your aura before you go?
It’ll only take a minute.
No, Tara. I think I’ll be OK.
Maybe try and meditate tonight, just so you’re not carrying this energy into a new day.
I take a look at the two of them together.
Sitting side by side.
They look like the perfect couple.
I feel my heart drop
out of my chest,
and I drag it behind me
as I leave.
Training on the way home
helps take my mind off the lie.
The lie I’m going to have to tell