Lilah May's Manic Days

by Vanessa Curtis

  ‘Oh no,’ says Mum. ‘That’s really sad. I hope you’re not going to follow her example, Jay.’

  Jay shakes his head.

  ‘Nope,’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough of her. She can suit herself.’

  Mum exchanges a small smile with me over the top of Jay’s dark head. ‘

  ‘So what did you go out for?’ I say. I try not to sound suspicious and like a nagging adult but that’s exactly what my voice comes out like.

  ‘Nothing,’ says Jay. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘That’s a bit difficult, really, isn’t it? When I saw you doing a drugs deal in the street.’

  Jay gives me a look. It’s hard to read it but his eyes are brighter and there’s a faint splash of colour in his pale cheeks. At least he’s speaking to me. And the atmosphere feels different from yesterday – like a rubber band has stretched to breaking point and then snapped and fallen into a heap on the ground. The air feels softer.

  ‘Can we just drop the talking-about-drugs thing, yeah?’ he says.

  I pull a face.

  ‘I’m going to try to stop, all right?’ he says. ‘I can’t make any firm promises, though. It’s not going to be easy.’

  ‘Are you going to learn to drive?’ I say. ‘Can I come out with you?’

  Jay gives the smallest of smiles.

  ‘One thing at a time,’ he says. ‘Jeez, Liles. Drop the pressure, OK?’

  I risk giving him a smile and after a moment he gives me another tiny smile back.

  ‘Upstairs,’ he says. ‘Come on.’

  I look at Mum and she shrugs her shoulders so I follow my brother up the stairs into his bedroom and he throws himself onto the bed and then chucks an envelope at me.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Liles,’ he says.

  I’m so surprised that I can’t speak for a moment.

  ‘It’s not drugs, is it?’ I say, before I can stop myself.

  Jay buries his head in the pillow with an exasperated roar.

  ‘Will you shut up about drugs?’ he says. ‘Like I’d start trying to get you into them! OK – I made a mistake. I’ll be trying not to do it again. And Mum’s forcing me to go to some counsellor and I’ve said I will. So get off my case, right?’

  He’s not actually smiling, but there’s a bit of life in his voice for once. He’s looking a bit like the old Jay, except thinner, and a young man now, not a boy.

  I have this spark of joy building up inside me but I don’t want him to see that so I rip open the envelope and two tickets fall out.

  ‘The Manics are playing at Wembley,’ says Jay. ‘Want to come?’

  I stare down at the tickets in my lap and big fat tears plop onto them so Jay rescues them just in time and then comes and sits close to me. We’re not touching, because we’ve got a long way to go until that ever happens again, but I can feel the warmth of him next to me, and now that he’s had a few baths I can smell his real Jay smell, like the one he had when I was little. It smells of jumper and shampoo and hair gel.

  I take a deep breath. There are things I’ve been wondering for over two years and pictures I’ve had in my head and now I want to know whether they were right or not.

  ‘What was it really like, living rough?’ I venture. ‘How did you get food and stuff?’

  Jay grimaces.

  ‘Loads of ways,’ he says. ‘Spud was very good at conning people out of money and stealing stuff. Now that she’s gone, I wouldn’t have the money to buy drugs, even if I wanted to. Some nights we got soup and stuff handed out by charities and that. I used to beg, sometimes. All those posh people coming out of the theatres, you know?’

  I nod. I went to London once with Mum and Dad and we saw a play in a big theatre and then walked back to the Tube across a bridge where there were loads of dirty-looking people sleeping in bags and boxes underneath. Dad told me I shouldn’t ever give money to these people because they only spend it on drugs.

  ‘Where did you sleep when it was really cold?’ I say, because it looks like Jay’s going to answer my questions now.

  ‘Churches, sometimes,’ says Jay. ‘Broke into people’s sheds. Some nights we got lucky and got a bed in the Salvation Army place. And we got six months in a squat once until the owner came back and booted us out.’

  I shudder. I can’t imagine not having a roof over my head. I don’t even like it when Mum and Dad force me to go on camping holidays and sleep on rough wet ground under a canvas tent. And even though Mum and Dad sometimes drive me demented, I know they’ll always make sure there’s a bed for me here, even when I’m old.

  ‘But what about after that?’ I say. ‘How did you keep warm?’

  Jay gives a snort.

  ‘Didn’t,’ he says. ‘Spent a lot of nights kipping on park benches or just walking up and down to try and keep blood flowing, you know?’

  I nod, even though I don’t know. The thought of Jay all small and sad and sleeping on a park bench has haunted my dreams for two years but I never actually thought that he really did end up doing that.

  ‘Oh,’ I say in a low voice. I can feel tears coming up again into my eyes. I spent the entire two years that Jay was missing being unable to cry, and now I can’t seem to stop.

  When I’ve finished my embarrassing sob-fest I blow my blocked nose. I have one more question to ask Jay, though. I’m not sure he’s going to be able to answer it.

  ‘Jay,’ I say. ‘Why did you come home?’

  Jay fiddles about with his guitar strings and makes a few twanging noises. He doesn’t look me in the eye but his voice goes a bit huskier when he answers.

  ‘‘Cos it’s home,’ he says.

  I sense it isn’t the whole reason. I reckon Jay came home because he needs our help but he’s not going to admit that because of silly boy pride.

  ‘Yeah, of course,’ I say. I apply a rim of Vaseline to my cracked, sore nostrils and laugh at my reflection in Jay’s bedroom mirror.

  ‘Oh groo,’ I say. ‘No wonder Adam Carter doesn’t like me. What a sight!’

  Jay’s picked up one of his many other shiny red guitars and is strumming the strings with his dark hair falling over his face, but he looks up when I mention Adam.

  ‘Why do you think he doesn’t like you?’ he says.

  I laugh.

  ‘Erm, because he slept with my best mate, d’oh!’ I say. Visions of Adam and Bindi flash in front of my unwelcoming eyes.

  ‘Maybe he slept with your best friend because she was easier to work out than you,’ he says.

  ‘Well – yes,’ I agree. ‘And that’s because I was angry all the time. Because of – you know what.’

  ‘Me,’ says Jay. ‘Sorry. I’ve been such an arsehole, haven’t I?’

  There’s not really any way that I can deny this so I just smile and nod a bit and he looks sad and guilty so I grab the guitar off him and play the chords to ‘Mull of Kintyre’, which is the only thing I can play, and he groans at my pathetic attempt and we stay up there for another hour.

  It’s great, but all the time his words about Adam echo in my head and I think, What if he’s right? What if Adam only went out with Bindi because he couldn’t cope with me? What if I stopped being angry and was nice to him instead? Or does he really love Bindi?

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I say to Jay. ‘I just want to make a phone call.’

  I leave him playing along to the Manics. There’s a faraway look in his eyes and his hands have started to shake and I realise that Jay and I have still got a long way to go before things can ever be ‘normal’ again (whatever that means).

  I shut myself in the bedroom and pick up my mobile phone.

  Adam answers in his lovely gruff voice.

  ‘Lilah? This is a surprise.’

  I nod, which is stupid because he can’t see me, and then I decide I’m going to come right out with it.

  ‘I know it’s probably too late,’ I say. ‘But I want to say I’m sorry. For being angry all the time. I’m not now. Things are better wit
h Jay. So I just wanted to kind of say that, OK?’

  ‘Yeah, OK,’ says Adam. ‘You are a bit of a nightmare, Lilah May. But that’s why I like you. Never a dull moment, right?’

  I laugh. So if you’re still going out with Bindi,’ I say. ‘I hope the two of you will be really happy.’

  To my surprise I kind of mean that, even though I still get a pang inside to think of the two of them together. But getting Jay back is the best thing ever so I figure I can’t be too greedy and want everything.

  Adam gives an embarrassed sort of laugh.

  ‘Erm, I’m not going out with Bindi,’ he says. ‘I never was. It was one day, one mistake. I was mixed up about you, yeah?’

  I sit down because my legs have turned to custard.

  ‘She seems to think that you still like her,’ I say. ‘And she certainly still likes you.’

  Adam sighs.

  ‘She’s been texting me a lot and following me about,’ he says. ‘Thing is – she might like me, but I don’t really like her that way. Well – not as much as I like somebody else.’

  My hearts falls into my biker boots and gets a sound kicking when he says that. Oh great. He’s found another girlfriend. Perhaps Bindi and I can set up some sort of ex-girlfriends-of-Adam-Carter club.

  ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I say. My voice comes out like a baby lamb, all wobbly and broken and faint. ‘I hope she’s pretty.’

  Adam laughs again.

  ‘Yeah, she’s pretty,’ he says. ‘She’s also a bit of a nightmare. Like I just told you. But I still really want to ask her out again.’

  I clutch at my pillow with one hand. Nightmare? Nightmare? But – that’s what he just called me . . . oh!

  I lie back on the bed and wave my legs in the air and make silent punches of victory and grin for England. Thank God my mobile doesn’t make video calls.

  ‘So how about it?’ says Adam. ‘Cinema? Tonight? My shout?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say in a small whisper. ‘Yes please.’

  Then I hang up the phone and bite my pillow with joy.

  I’m, like, so made up that I’ve got another chance with Adam Carter, the hottest boy on the planet.

  But there’s something bugging me.

  Big time.

  My life doesn’t seem quite complete, still.

  There’s one thing missing.

  I want my best friend back. But will she ever want to be friends with me again?

  I’ve been thinking about Bindi a lot.

  I’ve realised now why I miss her so much.

  It’s because Christmas used to be a time when I’d get together with my best mate and we’d swap silly presents and stuff ourselves with food and then go down to the January sales together with my Christmas money and her allowance and come staggering back with loads of plastic bags before trying it all on up in my bedroom.

  It’s because whenever there was a boy that I liked, Bindi would be the first person I’d tell and we’d spend hours discussing what I should say to him and what I should wear and how I’d react if he ever asked me out.

  It’s because even before I became a teenager, Bindi had come up to me one day at school with her shy smile and asked me where I’d got my gold ear-studs from and I’d taken the tiny heart shapes out of my earlobes so she could hold them. By the time that the bell rung for break we’d somehow become firm friends.

  It’s because when I was really down after Jay went missing, Bindi spent hours just sitting next to me and letting me ramble on about everything, or nothing, and even when I was quiet and miserable and didn’t want to talk, she’d send me little cards in the post with hearts and flowers on, and sometimes a bangle or a bookmark would fall out of the envelope and lift my heart a bit, even when I never thought I could smile much again.

  It’s because Jay really liked Bindi, even though some of my friends made him roll his eyes and disappear up into his bedroom, and he sometimes let her play on his guitar and even taught her a couple of chords before that dreadful day when he left home and didn’t come back.

  It’s because I really used to like going round to Bindi’s house and spending time with her siblings and her kind, dramatic parents with all their arm-waving and tasty cooking and loud exclamations. They sort of made me feel like I was one of the family, even though didn’t always feel part of my own.

  It’s because Mum and Dad always used to put their arguments aside and become more good-tempered whenever Bindi came round to do homework with me, and Mum was always telling me that boyfriends can come and boyfriends can go but true friends should last a lifetime, or at least a pretty long time.

  She’s been saying that to me all my life.

  And the thing is – I know she’s right.

  I give it loads of thought and I discuss it with Mum, and as usual she tells me just to be honest and to put my true feelings in a letter, if I feel that I can’t go round to Bindi’s house and deal with it face-to-face. I’m a bit scared she’ll be horrible to me again, even though I know that Bindi really isn’t a horrid person at all.

  So I sit up in my room with Benjie lying across my feet and I power up my computer and just write it all out in a big rush. This is what I write:

  Dear Bindi,

  Please don’t rip this up. It’s me, Lilah – the girl who used to be your best friend. And, deep down, I kind of hope that I still am. Or can be.

  I know why you were angry with me. I should have stuck by you and been there for you to talk to when you thought you were pregnant. I should have noticed that you were lonely at home and had loads of pressure from your Olds. And instead I did a typical Lilah and I huffed off and got myself in a temper about it. It’s just that I liked Adam so much. I love him. You have probably heard that we’re giving it another go. I really hope that you can forgive me for this, but you’ll remember that, back in the days when we were mates, you encouraged me to ask him out, so I think you know just how much I really do like him and I hope you can understand.

  You were a brilliant friend to me when Jay first went missing and I couldn’t have got through it all without you. So I’d kind of like to be friends again if you can forgive me for abandoning you.

  If you can’t, that’s OK, but I’ll be sad. We were best friends for so many years and I miss you, Bind.

  That’s it.

  Love,

  Lilah.

  I print the letter off and then I decide to show it to Mum.

  ‘What do you think?’ I say.

  I elbow Jay out of the way. He’s trying to read over my shoulder.

  ‘Girl stuff!’ I say. He rolls his eyes and walks out into the snowy garden to roll a cigarette. Mum and Dad have allowed him to keep one filthy habit so long as he gives up all the rest.

  ‘Lilah, it’s lovely!’ says Mum. ‘I’m proud of you for being so honest.’

  She wipes her eyes and heads off to yoga with my letter sealed up and ready to post.

  Then I spend the next days in agony, waiting to see if there is any reply.

  There is.

  It takes five days for it to come and I’ve chewed my nails down to the quick and taken Benjie on about a million walks around the block to try and calm myself down but one morning when the mail plops onto our mat I see her neat black writing on an envelope and I nearly die of stress.

  ‘I don’t want breakfast!’ I yell as I pound upstairs with the letter clutched to my heart.

  I throw myself on the bed, offer a silent prayer up to the Great God of Friendship and rip it open.

  I smile.

  Bindi is still not very up to scratch with computers, even though we use them for loads of things at school.

  She’s written her letter by hand in a tight black scrawl. I have to scowl at the words and hold the paper near and far to try and work out what it says. This is what she’s written:

  Dear Lilah

  Thanks for your letter. Sorry I can’t type this one back to you but I can’t remember what my password is on the home computer. Useless with techn
ology, as ever!

  Anyway, it was brave of you to write. I was really rude last time you came round and I hate being rude so I’m sorry about how I behaved. It was a really difficult time – Mum had only just forgiven me for the pregnancy scare, Adam was being kind to me but I knew that he still liked you.

  I’m not stupid, Lilah. I could always see him looking at you. I just wanted to believe that he liked me better and that was stupid and childish, so I’m sorry about that too. Things are better now at home.

  I’d like to say that we could be best mates again but I think it’s going to take a bit of time. So could we just be mates, to start off with, and see how things go from there?

  Love,

  Bindi.

  I hug the letter to my chest and take a long, deep, calming sigh of relief.

  ‘It’s good,’ I say to Benjie.

  He pushes his wet nose into my hand.

  ‘I think I might one day get my best mate back,’ I say.

  Then I take the letter downstairs to show Mum.

  LILAH’S ANGER DIARY JANUARY 4TH, MIDNIGHT.

  ANGER LEVELS: 0/10

  I think I’m going to only write in this diary once a month or so, now. I don’t feel as if I’m going to be angry all that much any more, or at least, only as much as normal people are.

  You see, I’ve got my brother back again and my favourite boy at school, so I can’t really waste too much time being foul-tempered and miserable any longer.

  Mum’s just come upstairs and told me she’s hoping to go back to clowning full-time, which is brilliant, and Dad’s giving up his Friday nights in the pub and is going to spend time with Jay instead. So the May family are back to normal again – or, at least, as normal as we ever were in the first place – if you don’t count Jay’s drug counselling and our continuing sessions with Dr Cunningham.

  And I think – I HOPE – that soon I’ll be able to start working on my friendship with Bindi again. It will be different this time round, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be good, does it?

  I’m dreaming.

  I’m eleven years old and I’m on a canal boat with Mum, Dad and Jay.