Silence Is Goldfish

by Annabel Pitcher

  “Since when?”

  “I can’t believe you don’t know that a sow is a female pig.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? I always thought it was the other way round.”

  “We can Google it, if you like,” Mr. Richardson says. “My phone’s in my bag.”

  “No!” Mr. Goldfish shouts as the handle moves, descending in a slow arc as I plummet to my knees. I throw the wallet into the pocket but it ricochets out again, spinning away from me in the worst possible direction. It stops just next to the door, which opens only a fraction then stays where it is. “Grab it! No, leave it! No—get it!” Mr. Goldfish cries, swimming about in my head with my thoughts, bouncing off in all directions.

  “You’re just trying to get out of the art contest,” Miss Gilbert says, sounding louder now, her voice traveling through the gap in the door. “I’m right, aren’t I? You know I’ll win, even if farmyard animals are your so-called specialty.”

  I lurch after the wallet on my hands and knees, pretty much like a farmyard animal myself. I am a sheep, bleating in panic, and a cow—

  “Crapping yourself stupid,” Mr. Goldfish says, which is not that far from the truth. I reach out for the wallet, dangerously close to Mr. Richardson’s shoes. Two slivers of mismatched socks are just about visible beneath the hem of his trousers. It takes me by surprise, these splashes of color in an otherwise all-black outfit.

  “It’s because of my sister,” Mr. Richardson explains as my fingers make contact with the leather. “The youngest one. I’ve told you about her?”

  “The vet?”

  “Yeah, Katie. Well, she was always asking me to draw animals. Pigs. Cows. Horses in particular,” he says as I reverse, wanting to move quickly but scared of making any noise. The result is a semi-fast backward crawl while holding my breath, as if somehow this will make me lighter and more silent. “I’ve had years of practice, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “And I’ve had years and years of practice, that’s all I’m saying.” I make it to the bag without being noticed. “I am an art teacher, Mr. Richardson, so if we’re having an art contest then of course I am going to win.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Oh, please. You teach math, the least creative subject in the school.”

  “But I can draw.”

  “Well, we’ll see about that,” she says.

  “Yes, we will—right now, if you like?”

  “I do like.”

  “Come on in then, Miss Gilbert.”

  I shove the wallet into the pocket then leap away from the bag without doing up the zip, panting as if I’ve run a marathon. The bag is back where it belongs, but it’s facing the wrong way I realize with a jolt of panic that explodes down my spine with the force quite possibly of lightning. My legs cave so I pretend to sit down on a table and do my best to breathe normally. I count it out—in for two, out for two—and brace myself for whatever is about to happen next because there’s nothing I can do now apart from pray.

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven,” starts Mr. Goldfish, “hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be—”

  “Tess?” Mr. Richardson says. “What are you doing in here?”

  I am absolutely not allowed to look at the bag.

  “So why are you looking at the bag?” Mr. Goldfish hisses.

  “Did we have an appointment I’ve forgotten about?”

  “Tess, it’s so nice to see you,” Miss Gilbert says, glaring at Mr. Richardson.

  “Yes, yes. Of course. So nice to see you.” The words are right, but the tone is wrong. He looks at me, and then at his desk, and then at his bag. Mr. Goldfish plays dead in my pocket.

  “Oh my God oh my God oh my God. He knows.”

  “A real treat,” Mr. Richardson says, his eyes on the open zip.

  “I think it’s a compliment, actually. I told Tess that she could come and hang out in my room if school gets a bit much for her, but she’s obviously chosen to come here instead. Says a lot about you, that does, Mr. Richardson, given that you’ve only been here five minutes.”

  His face softens.

  “What can I say? We do get on rather well.” I’m breathless for an entirely different reason now. “Very well, in fact. I’ve been keeping an eye on her. She’s obviously going through something difficult. I suppose you could say I’ve taken her under my wing.”

  “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” Mr. Goldfish crows as I look at Mr. Richardson in disbelief. I am under his wing and I never even realized it, and when did that happen and how long can I stay here are the questions fizzing in the champagne of my mind.

  “That’s really nice,” Miss Gilbert murmurs.

  “You’ve got a good one here,” Mr. Richardson replies. My head turns into a firework, emitting thousands of sparks of bright white joy. “She’ll be fine in my class.”

  Miss Gilbert touches his arm with gentle fingertips that stay too long on his elbow. “I know she will.”

  25

  “It was brilliant! Brilliant! Operation Brilliant!” Mr. Goldfish says when I’ve floated out of the classroom and through the rest of the day on feet that barely touch the ground.

  “I told you it was a good idea.”

  “And I should’ve listened!”

  It’s already getting dark. I waited half an hour to make sure Connor and Adam’s bus had left before venturing out of school. I’m not in a rush. Jack’s going to the dentist after work and Mum’s staying late for Meet the Teacher Night at her school so I’m free for one more hour. It shines before me, a whole circle of time, the size and shape of a full moon, all silvery and spectacular. “We got it. We actually got it. The address!”

  Mr. Goldfish’s light seems to brighten as I point him at a street name.

  “Beech Road. We’re getting close.” I refer to my phone, open on a picture of Mr. Richardson’s driver’s license—a photo card with two lines of tiny black words that, let’s be clear, I will never tire of reading. Tapping the screen with my thumb, I zoom in on his address then flick to my map. “We want Reeves Road. I think it’s just up here. Near Gran’s house, actually.”

  My stomach lurches because this makes total sense. Gran’s lived in this part of Manchester pretty much her whole life and maybe Mr. Richardson has too. He might have known Mum when they were younger, back when she had dyed red hair like Miss Gilbert’s. Perhaps they even dated and that’s why he offered to donate his sperm when she was having trouble getting pregnant.

  “It’s possible,” I say defensively, expecting Mr. Goldfish to contradict me, but he salutes.

  “Whatever you say, boss!”

  He darts ahead, weaving between streetlights the same color as his skin. I follow, hurrying past a row of red semidetached houses, flushed with pleasure, like definitely they have been waiting for me to walk down this street is the exact feeling I get from their neat lawns, trimmed in preparation for my visit. A few Christmas trees are twinkling in living room windows. The world feels magical.

  Mr. Goldfish spins around a lamppost then returns to me with a neat backstroke. “What’s the plan when we get there?”

  “Peep through the window.”

  He smacks his fin against my palm. “Genius. Pure genius!”

  “As soon as I see Mr. Richardson, it will be obvious whether or not I belong in there with him. And then there’s Henry. If there are similarities between us, that will be proof, won’t it? That we share genes? That Mr. Richardson is my dad?”

  “Absolutely. Concrete proof. Bravo, Tess. It’s an excellent plan.”

  Nothing can go wrong, that’s how it feels in my body so powerful and strong as I stride down the road. I am Tess the Almighty, Tess the Conqueror, Tess of Getting Things Done and Making Things Happen and Taking Risks That Absolutely Pay Off.

  The first left passes in a blur, and the second, and then the third appears, this opening to a street that is about to become extremely significant in my life, I just know it. On feet that have never been so nimble, I speed along
the pavement until I reach number 24, larger and more impressive than the other houses on the street. In a row of red, it’s the most red, and its Christmas lights shine brighter and more magical than any others for miles around.

  “There it is,” Mr. Goldfish says.

  “Let’s do this.”

  I set off up the driveway.

  I am a quarter of the way there.

  Halfway there.

  Almost there—and with an injection of speed I weave around two plant pots then flatten myself against the house.

  I duck beneath the windowsill before peeping over the ledge, straightening my legs slowly.

  “The fruit bowl?” Mr. Goldfish suggests. Hiding behind it, I peer through a space between a tangerine and a banana. I can see it at last through a tiny gap, the amazing world of Mr. Richardson’s kitchen, basking in the light of a cozy lamp.

  Something finally clicks into place, or maybe I click perfectly into this place. Yeah, that’s what it is. I belong here. I fit. My awkward edges feel smooth and a weird sense of calm washes over me, even though I’m spying through a teacher’s window and could be caught quite easily. I’m serene. I know without question this is where I should be.

  There are math magnets on the fridge and a sudoku mug on the draining board and an actual goldfish in a tank by a comfy armchair where I could curl up and tell Mr. Richardson about my day as we drank tea and shared a chocolate chip muffin.

  “How about the bush over there?” Mr. Goldfish asks. “Is that the perfect place to pee because—”

  “Yes, I’m desperate. Thanks for pointing it out.”

  “It’s all part of my stellar service as your—”

  “Ssh!”

  “—I was going to say imaginary friend. As in, someone who talks inside your head. As in, someone who doesn’t make any sound so doesn’t need to be told to—”

  “Ssh!” I say more urgently, trying to quiet my mind and focus because the house is suddenly alive with noise.

  A TV has been turned on, or someone has opened a door to let the sound of it out into the hall. That must be it, because I can hear voices too—one male, one female—getting louder by the second. I can’t make out the words, but I know who it is from the tone. The unusual cadence. The cool, slow drawl.

  It could only belong to one person, and sure enough Anna walks into Mr. Richardson’s kitchen, accompanied by the best-looking boy I’ve ever seen in my life.

  “What’s she doing here?” I mutter, definitely not as surprised as I should be. For some reason, I am just not that shocked to see Anna stroll into the place I want to be more than anywhere else.

  She’s standing in the middle of the kitchen as if she owns it. Tara and Sarah appear next, and then two other boys. It’s the girls’ first visit, I can tell by the way they’re looking around, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings before carrying on chatting, like they’ve just entered any old room in any old house rather than the most incredible kitchen of all time.

  Mr. Goldfish tugs my sleeve. “Let’s go, Tess! This is too risky.”

  He’s right, but I can’t seem to move. The boy who must be Henry stoops to open the fridge and a hungry look flashes in Anna’s eyes for something other than food. She wants him, no doubt about it. It’s written all over her face that’s normally so unreadable—and then it’s gone, deleted, the sizzling letters of her red-hot DESIRE disappearing the instant the boy stands up with a six-pack of Coke. It’s impressive, how cool she is when he offers her a can, shaking her head as if thirst is beneath her, something that affects lesser mortals with weaker throats.

  He shrugs, chucking cans to everyone else. He really is the best-looking boy in the entire country, never mind Manchester, tall and blond and—

  “Maybe also your brother,” Mr. Goldfish reminds me. “You’re supposed to be looking for clues that you’re related, not lusting after someone who might be—”

  “Don’t say it again!” I squeal, horrified with myself and my incestuous thoughts, in no way appropriate. Henry takes some snacks out of a cupboard, reaching up to the top shelf so his T-shirt lifts to reveal abs that make me blush. Putting on my most rational head, I pull him apart, divide him into arms and legs and face and hair, performing a postmortem because he’s dead to me as a romantic option.

  Our hair’s the same color when mine’s not dyed.

  He’s broad-shouldered, and I’m broad-shouldered.

  And we have the same strong jaw.

  And similar noses.

  And also our skin is pretty much the identical shade of beige.

  I duck beneath the windowsill and press my back against the wall, needing it for support.

  “Whoa,” Mr. Goldfish says. “That’s uncanny.”

  “I’d love to see his eyes.” In case there’s any confusion, I add, “Just to check the color. Not as he leans in for a kiss or anything. I would hate that.”

  Mr. Goldfish says nothing.

  “Honestly. It would be totally wrong and disgusting. Horrid. I can’t think of anything worse.”

  Still nothing.

  “It makes me feel sick just thinking of it. Yuck,” I say, my mind lingering on an image strictly forbidden before I can banish it out of sight. “I am not into that kind of thing.”

  “I hope not, Tess. I wasn’t wearing a My Friend Loves Incest and I Am Proud of It T-shirt last time I checked.… What?”

  “Nothing. It’s just—nothing.”

  “I know,” he says. “Isabel. You miss her. Come on. Let’s go before they realize you’re here.”

  “We’re here,” I correct him. Holding him out, I slip down the driveway and follow his light all the way home.

  26

  Except it isn’t my home. It’s more obvious than ever as I step into the kitchen, blinking three times when I turn on the light. It’s too stark, the complete opposite of cozy. Jedi scampers down the stairs and bounds up to me, ears flapping and tail wag-wag-wagging at top speed.

  I wouldn’t leave you behind, boy, I tell him in my head. He rolls on his back with his paws in the air so I give his belly a good scratch.

  “Do me!” Mr. Goldfish cries, bursting out of my pocket to lie on his back too. “Do me, not him!”

  I stroke Jedi’s whiskery chin. When I move in with Mr. Richardson, you’re coming as well.

  The sooner, the better. It’s suffocating in this house. Jack is everywhere, in the order of the shelves and the precision of the dishwasher and the neat stack of mail from the past few days. I check it quickly but there’s no letter from CAMHS.

  “Hello!” Jack calls, opening the front door. “Good day?” He takes off his shoes and pads into the kitchen. “Have you only just got in, Tess? Where’ve you been? Why aren’t you upstairs making a start on your homework?”

  I feel it more acutely than ever, the distinct lack of shared DNA as I stare into his cold blue eyes. He’s a stranger to me and I don’t have to do anything he says I tell myself firmly because part of me wants to run upstairs like a good little girl who’s still trying to impress her dad.

  Onto the counter, Jack drops a paper bag stuffed with food from the organic shop.

  “I’m sick of having this conversation with you, Tess. Please just do as you’re told, eh? This is a big year, isn’t it? Exams? You can’t afford to take your eye off the ball.” He points upstairs. “Go on, now.”

  I move to the kettle to make a cup of tea. I slink over to it, channeling my inner Anna, making my skin tougher and my pulse slower and my feet firmer as I stand in the kitchen as if I own it and look at Jack like he does not own me.

  The kettle takes forever so I play with Mr. Goldfish, twisting him in my hands.

  “For crying out loud, Tess! Stop messing about with that stupid kids’ flashlight and do something productive for once in your life!”

  I flare up because he’s gone too far this time. No one bad-mouths Mr. Goldfish in my presence and gets away with it.

  “Yeah, Jack,” Mr. Goldfish cries, making a fist out o
f his fin as he hides behind my shoulder.

  “I mean it, Tess.” I take a clean cup out of the dishwasher and a teaspoon out of the drawer. “Are you listening to me?” I get a tea bag out of the silver pot. “You’re really trying my patience, you know that?” I drop the tea bag into a cup, a plain white one with absolutely no pigs to speak of. “I’m warning you,” he says through gritted teeth. “If you make that tea, you will be going without dinner tonight.”

  I make the tea.

  And I take a couple of biscuits out of the tin and stuff them in my mouth. Chocolate and caramel ooze over my tongue as Jack’s lips tighten.

  “That’s not going to help, Tess.” I grab another biscuit. “Comfort eating is not the way forward.” I grab two more. “For God’s sake, you’re already big enough as it is!”

  He’s never articulated this so explicitly before, and he hangs his head in shame. This is the closest we’ve ever come to being honest and I silently dare him to say them out loud, all six hundred and seventeen words of his blog.

  “Look. I’ll make you something healthy, okay? That’s all I meant. Something nutritious.” He gestures at the bag of food. “I’ve got some tomatoes.”

  I love tomatoes, but not as much as chocolate. I take one more biscuit then walk to the table. Jack tracks my every move, his eyes narrowing as I sit down and grab the remote. We both jump at the sound of the TV because neither of us expected me to turn it on. I choose the most irritating program I can, something loud and brash and American, then make a big show of settling down to watch it, cradling my tea in both hands.

  “Fine. Fine. It’s your life you’re ruining, Tess. But just so you know,” he snaps, holding up his finger and thumb, deathly pale in the stark white light, “I’m this close to giving up.”

  He sweeps out of the kitchen.

  You can’t give up on something you were never on board with in the first place! I bellow behind lips that burn with how much I want to scream the words out loud. I saw your blog. I know how you feel so stop pretending that you care! You don’t love me and you never have!