All the Invisible Things

by Orlagh Collins

  ‘How ’bout Narcos?’ Rob says. ‘You’ve seen it, right?’ I haven’t so I shrug and he picks up Pez’s phone. ‘I’ll show you,’ he says, punching in a code, but Pez reaches across his chest, grabbing it back. Rob shifts right and Pez tumbles on top of him and doesn’t let go until Rob throws the phone down. ‘Man, I was only looking for the trailer,’ he says, sitting up and pulling one side of his shirt back on. ‘I wouldn’t touch your porn. Relax.’ Then he laughs to himself and stands up. ‘OK, everyone, that was a joke!’ he says, brushing the dust from his knees and looking around. ‘Let’s get out of here. Reckon we could all do with some fun.’

  Next thing Pez is up and soon me and March are too like it’s all been decided. He hands me my bike then walks ahead, leaving me and March to follow. I wheel along by the water beside her while he and Rob exchange an equal amount of whispers and digs up in front. Whatever this conspiracy is, it’s pissing me off.

  March stares ahead, chin high, like she’s above it all. Either that or she can’t hear a word. I don’t know what to say so I keep my eyes out front but much as I wish I’d never set eyes on the girl, I feel bad we’re not talking. I can’t help but notice the sureness in her step, whereas I’m conscious of everything, like how I walk, how my back isn’t straight and generally how unalike we are. I should at least try to be nice, but I can’t think of a single thing to say, except possibly to ask where she got all of her clothes.

  Without a word, Rob slinks away from Pez and back to us. It’s obvious this is where March is supposed to walk ahead with Pez, but he doesn’t slow down and the two of them walk along in single file under the bridge. For some reason, Pez takes the steps by Royal College Street which aren’t easy to climb with my heavy bike. Pez quickens his pace and soon he’s up on the footpath alone, leaving March trailing behind. I start to heave my bike by the handlebars but then Rob grabs the saddle and the bike sails up the steps and on to the path. I go to say thanks but he’s scrambled off after Pez. As we turn into Randolph, Rob reaches for Pez’s arm. ‘Wait up,’ he says.

  As Pez spins around March steps down off the pavement. ‘Listen, I’ll see you guys later,’ she says, just like that, but she’s got one foot on the kerb and the other on the road like she’s waiting to be persuaded. I’ve already convinced myself she’s the type that needs to be asked twice, and it’s irritating me that this is exactly what she’s doing, but then her other foot follows. Pez’s eyes are letting him down. Clearly a plan had been built around her and she’s just crushed it. Boy, this is awkward. Secretly, of course, I can’t help feeling a little pleased.

  Rob steps down on to the road beside her. ‘If you’re not feeling Narcos we could always watch—’

  Wow, this boy is not the sharpest. ‘Oh my god, leave it,’ says Pez.

  Rob stands there like a lemon while March eyes Pez, who’s pretending to be super interested in something by his feet. ‘Another time, yeah?’ she says.

  Pez nods without looking up but Rob isn’t as quick to let her go. ‘I’m having a party at mine soon,’ he says. ‘I’ll let you know details, yeah?’

  ‘Alright,’ she says, tucking her hair behind her ear.

  ‘Safe,’ Rob says. ‘See you later.’ Then he spins around to Pez, who rolls his eyes. I raise my hand to wave goodbye but she’s already slinked away up the road.

  8

  Pez’s kitchen overlooks the garden on the raised ground floor. The ceiling is twice the height of ours and huge, industrial hanging lights drop from the ceiling like something from a design show on TV. Obviously, Harland’s not here and Luna is out, so it’s just us. Rob is on the island in the centre of the room, sitting on the marble worktop rather than on any one of the many stools dotted around. ‘I can’t work that girl out,’ he says, scratching his chin. ‘I thought you were right in there.’ On the far side of the room, Pez listens to a message on his phone while giving Rob the finger against his Arsenal phone case. But Rob’s right. It was weird how March left like that. ‘Got anything to drink?’ Rob says then, up opening cupboards.

  ‘Try the fridge,’ Pez shouts, pressing the handset hard against his ear.

  The way Rob moves around this kitchen, I’m thinking either he also lives somewhere like this, or he’d like to think he does. As he crosses the room he glances at me again; not the intense flash of I-want-you-now that Pez was throwing at March earlier, but he’s definitely looking. Then he pulls the enormous stainless-steel door wide and grabs a carton of juice from inside.

  ‘Cheers!’ Rob says, taking a long slug and wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. ‘God, that’s good.’ He twists his wrist to read the label. ‘Where d’you live, Vetty?’ he asks, quieter now before looking up and raking his hand through his hair like he’s slowing down time. His eyes are fixed on me. It’s kind of weirdly intense and it’s also impossible not to notice how not-painful he is to look at.

  ‘Oh,’ I say, scraping one of the tall stools out from under the counter and perching my bum against it. ‘Across the road.’

  ‘We passed it on the way,’ Pez says, walking back into the room and whipping a baguette from the bread bin. ‘She moved back into her old place. I told you,’ he says, tearing the end off. Crusty flakes fly and he holds out a fistful of bread to me, but he’s staring at Rob the whole time.

  I raise my hand. No thanks.

  ‘I was just being friendly,’ Rob says, into the fridge.

  ‘Mmmm …’ says Pez, walking back out the door. When Rob looks to me, we share a smile that makes my cheeks burn. I quickly follow Pez into the TV room at the front of the house, and I soon hear Rob’s feet following behind. The walls have been painted dark blue and the corner sofa is definitely new. It’s so big I don’t know where to sit and I’m waiting for one of them to take up position but they’re both up in front of the TV, trying various controls and working out what’s what. I decide the middle of the L shape is a safe bet. I’ve only just sat down when Rob plonks down too. He’s so close his arm brushes off mine.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, quickly shunting down to give me more space. When I glance up Pez is dishing out a definite side-eye. I’m wondering whether this look is for me but then I spot the four-pack of Lilt on the coffee table and I decide the shade is for Rob for helping himself again.

  Pez throws a controller on to the couch between us. ‘I’ve got to call Mum back,’ he says, walking out and leaving the two of us alone.

  Rob messes about with the remote and I sink back into the soft cushions, trying to process everything that’s happened today. Music erupts from speakers in the roof, startling me at first, but soon we’re both doing tiny head movements along to the beat. It’s kind of embarrassing but also funny, like we’re in on the awkwardness together.

  ‘You into this?’ Rob asks, pointing upwards with one hand and cracking a can with the other. I’m almost positive it’s Kendrick Lamar but it would be too embarrassing to be wrong, so I make a face I hope says yeah. He unhooks another can and reaches it out for me to take, but I shake my head. ‘All the girls like Kendrick,’ he says, taking a long drink.

  It sounds like such a line. ‘All the girls, Romeo?’ I say. He smiles again and we share another look, even longer this time. It’s not a look I’ve been giving or receiving much lately. Holy crap, am I flirting?

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘All of them!’ Then he presses his lips together. ‘It’s because Kendrick’s a feminist, innit?’ he says. If Pez had said this I’d probably point out that Kendrick’s singing about the type of ass he likes on his bitches is a pretty low feminist bar but Rob looks so pleased with himself, I’m afraid I might laugh, so I move my eyes around the room, feeling slightly out-of-body while trying to digest what’s happening and why it feels good. ‘So, what’s it like, being back?’

  ‘Um …’ I’m hardly going to answer him honestly, besides the only word that comes to me is surprising. ‘Different,’ I say, eventually.

  ‘Different how?’

  Um … all of it? Pez, Mar
ch … sitting here like this, with you. ‘Dunno,’ I say, and his top lip curls and his eyebrows rise up. ‘What?’

  He’s about to say something when Pez reappears in the doorway, making little cough sounds. ‘Being friendly again, Rob?’

  Rob turns around. ‘That a problem?’ he says, but jokey.

  Pez steps further into the room. ‘No,’ he says, picking up the can of Lilt that Rob offered me earlier. ‘But I told you already, Vetty’s not like other girls. She’s immune to your charms.’ He cracks the ring pull and glares at me. ‘Isn’t that right?’ he says, smiling broadly now.

  ‘Oh, yeah, absolutely.’ It flies out quickly, then I swallow and look around. Was that the right answer? I feel Rob looking at me. Pez as well. I think I’m still grinning but I’m gripping my thighs too. Finally, Pez sits, but the two of them exchange stupid faces before Pez picks up the remote and some game fills the screen. The music is still playing, and everything feels loud and confusing. I replay what Pez said in my head. What does not like other girls even mean? My pulse quickens so much it’s hard to think straight. I run my hands down my thighs but my head feels like a spinning bicycle wheel with a sudden puncture. ‘I better get back.’ I say, standing up.

  Rob shoves his hands into the seat. ‘Already?’

  I swat my forehead with my palm. ‘I have to make Arial’s tea. I forgot,’ I say, making for the door.

  When I look back Rob smiles a goodbye and Pez just raises his hand in a peace sign behind his head.

  PART TWO

  Not like other girls

  9

  The heat! My god, the heat! I lie on my bed, arms and legs stretched out wide. The blind is down but sunlight burns through the cracks like razors. I tossed and turned all night, planning how best to broach things with Pez. Find out what he meant. I ran through it all in my head, but this morning nothing feels right. Before, I’d have said something. Four years ago, I’d have come straight out with it, but it doesn’t feel so easy now. I’m afraid of the questions he might ask; questions I might not be able to answer.

  I decide to start one of the deep-breathing exercises that Wendy taught me to do when I felt panicky or when everything felt too much at school. I’m picturing the clear skies above the clouds just like she said, but the fact that the sky outside my window is already swimming-pool blue makes it feel kind of pointless.

  Pez saying I’m not like other girls is playing on a loop inside my head. Was he trying to tell Rob I won’t fall for his lines, or was he trying to tell Rob that I’m … different? And if so, how? Why do other people seem to think they know this stuff about me when I’m still working it all out? Do I give off some kind of signal? Was it a joke? Was it somehow about George and that kiss four years ago? Does he remember it as clearly as I do, or do I read too much into EVERYTHING?

  My insides feel cramped, like my internal organs are squashed underneath my rib bones and these are stacked too close together. I think about how everything outside is so tightly packed too. I picture the houses along the street outside and the cars with not an inch between them, then the people on the jam-packed buses heading into town, all pressed up against one another, all of it, all of us, melting to mush. I’m processing all this feverish heat when I look down at the woollen leggings and the hoody I slept in. OK, so I might be inappropriately dressed for July.

  Arial strolls into my room, singing. It’s Jason Derulo or one of those and she belts out the words at the top of her voice. At first I’m grumpy but it’s also hard not to mumble along. I start out quiet but soon I’m up off the bed, singing into her electric toothbrush alongside her. Her voice is amazing and she knows all the words but mostly I’m miming or making them up. Not that it matters; it’s fun. I’m staring at us in the mirror when all of a sudden, she squats down and does this move, exactly like the girls in the videos. I double-take and she does it again, very slowly this time, for my benefit and I copy her, putting my legs together, then bending my knees, while trying to keep myself in a straight line like her. She repeats it and I try again. My ten-year-old sister is teaching me dance moves and I’m actually trying really hard to pay attention. I’m crouched on the floor, sticking my bum out, having another go at curling myself back up like she’s just done, but I topple over. She stands above me laughing.

  ‘When did you learn how to do that?’ I ask her.

  ‘Ages ago,’ she says, pulling a piece of gum from her mouth and examining it under her nose. ‘Last week, maybe.’

  I can’t not laugh. ‘Where?’

  ‘YouTube?’ she says, like she can’t believe I had to ask, then she pings the gum back and does one more drop in the mirror before collapsing on to my bed. ‘I’m starving,’ she says. ‘Can we make pancakes?’

  I get up and shove her out the door. ‘Let me get dressed!’

  I drag two huge plastic boxes out from underneath the bed. Both have orange stickers and VETTY’S STUFF scrawled across the top in Wendy’s handwriting. I crank open the first lid and rummage under old hats and hairbands to find my beloved baseball shirt with VETTY printed on the back. I press the worn fabric against my cheek, then I spot my old silk bomber jacket with the green dragon embroidery and my purple tie-dye dungarees and I lay each item carefully on the bed. These are my favourite clothes ever but it’s so long since any of them fitted. I open the next box to find my current clothes, which include a far-less-loved flowery playsuit I bought on ASOS last year because Liv said it was cute, a skirt I never felt comfortable in and some basic jean shorts. I give these a sniff. Woof, musty, but they’ll do. I toss them to the side and fish out some salvageable T-shirts and vest tops along with a striped dress and some cropped trousers. I place what represents my summer wear collection beside the clothes I wore when I was twelve and my heart sinks. How have I gone from that to this? What’s happened? It’s not just the limited amount of clothes I own, but how little I feel for any of them that’s most disheartening.

  I yank my hoody off over my head and as I’m pulling down my leggings I notice a small hole between the legs. I stand in my pants in front of the mirror with its sticky Minion remains and step into the shorts, turning to examine myself from various angles. They don’t look right. Maybe they looked right before, but not here, not when I can see how far from myself I’ve drifted. Next, I hold up the playsuit, pressing it against my waist but it’s the same uncomfortable feeling and I toss it on to the bed. Then I grab the skirt, then the dress, and I can tell even by touching them that they’re not … me. It’s not that I don’t like any of these clothes; it’s as though they belong to someone else and I’ve been trying on versions of other people like playsuits or pairs of jeans. Technically they might fit, but none sit properly, none hang or hug me like I want them to. Besides, after what Pez said last night, it’s clear that disguising myself doesn’t even work. I still look different!

  I take everything off and lie back on the bed and for a good five minutes, I allow my face to become wet, properly sodden and wet. I feel stupid, expecting clothes to answer fundamental questions or magically change my life but what’s at stake feels so real. I hear Arial, through the makeshift wall, still singing along to her karaoke app. Her voice is clear and it gets louder as she moves around the room. I sit up and stare at my reflection. All I really want is to feel … right. I force myself up, kicking the boxes back under the bed.

  The door bursts open and Arial prances into my room again. ‘Um, breakfast?’ she says, reaching for my green silk bomber and holding it up to herself in the mirror.

  I grab it, needlessly rough. ‘Give it.’

  She hands it back, watching me carefully. I’m being unkind. Looking at her open face, the hurt is plain to see, and I realise that Arial is one of a very small handful of people in the world for whom what I say actually matters. I sit down and she skooshes up beside me. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I clear my throat, ashamed. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You’ve been crying,’ she says.

  ‘No I haven’t’ />
  ‘Yeah, you have,’ she says, leaning over and staring up my nostrils. I turn my face away and push up off the bed. ‘I can tell, you know?’ she says. ‘I can always tell.’

  I fold clothes, doing my best to ignore her, when my phone throbs on my bedside table. Arial reaches for it, so I grab it. ‘It’s from Pez,’ she says, peering to read it as I sit back down.

  Two weeks’ house arrest!

  I read the words quickly, then my eyes jump back to the previous date stamp – the one above his latest text. 28 Dec 17.25 – over three years ago.

  All those Christmases ago, he wrote, You there? That’s all his text says and my heart jolts. I start to reply to what he’s just said about his house arrest. Anything to avoid thinking about my inexplicable three-and-a-half-year silence.

  Will you be allowed visitors?

  I stare at the screen, waiting as his words emerge.

  Security is tight but you might get past mum.

  Arial tugs my arm. ‘Do you think they’ll be nice?’ she says.

  I look up and her head is hung low. I drop the phone and wrestle an old T-shirt over my head. ‘Who?’

  ‘The other kids,’ she says.

  I’d almost forgotten that Arial starts camp in Camden Square tomorrow. It was Dad’s idea and he signed her up for the whole summer. It was the deal so that I can have some kind of a social life. ‘Course they will,’ I say, but she sighs loudly. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s hard making new friends, that’s all.’

  I lift her chin. ‘No, it’s not.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ she says. ‘You used to talk to Wendy about it all the time.’

  I did, particularly at first, before Liv, Jess and Freya accepted me into their gang. What can I say? ‘Just be yourself, that’s all you can do.’