by Elle Croft
‘Why not?’ I ask as I pull the car into our driveway. I turn the engine off, and as Imogen reaches to grab the door handle, I grip her arm lightly. ‘Imogen. Answer me, please.’
‘God, Mum,’ she huffs, wrenching her arm away from me and opening the door with as much force as she can muster. ‘What part of “I can’t say” don’t you understand? Why can’t you ever just take my word for it? I thought you were on my side, but you’re not. You never are.’
She climbs out and slams the door, stalking towards the house as the car reverberates. I stay buckled in, my body trembling, my mind whirring, wondering what happened to my sweet little girl. But I don’t need to wonder; I know what happened. She grew up. This is just normal, hormonal teenage behaviour.
Isn’t it?
That voice, the one that’s been nagging at me since I received the phone call from the school, is growing louder and more insistent, gnawing away at me, eroding any confidence I might have had in my daughter’s version of events.
I close my eyes.
‘No,’ I whisper out loud. ‘She’s just a teenager. That’s all this is. It’s just a phase.’
And an inner voice comes echoing back, loud and clear, sending a chill down my spine, despite the baking heat.
But what if it’s not a phase? it taunts. What if that’s exactly who she is?
Chapter 2
IMOGEN
Slowly, methodically, Imogen rubbed the sudsy plate with a damp tea towel, going over the same spot again and again, smearing the water around rather than drying it. She could hear her parents whispering in the living room, discussing her. Well, not so much her as the incident. She tried to imagine their conversation. Her dad, level-headed and determined to avoid conflict, would be telling her mum to give their daughter a chance, to listen to her point of view. And her mum, who seemed to believe that there wasn’t a single good bone in Imogen’s body, would be coming up with every excuse not to trust her.
Imogen closed her eyes tightly, letting resentment take over. But then a memory surfaced – her mum’s dismissal of the school nurse, the way she had marched Imogen out of the office – twisting around the edges of her carefully arranged rage. She felt a surge of … what was that? Pride? Affection, maybe. It wasn’t anger, anyway. And that made things complicated, which was the last thing she needed. She’d had enough of complicated.
It seemed that, over and over, Imogen was learning that life wasn’t fair, no matter how desperately she wanted it to be. She’d done the only thing she could have done earlier that day at school with Emerald. She didn’t have any other choice, she was certain of it. But she couldn’t explain herself without making everything so much worse, so she just had to let everyone assume the worst about her. Imogen knew that wasn’t who she was – who she really was.
She almost let out a bark of laughter. What would her mum know about who she really was, anyway? She couldn’t see what was right in front of her.
‘Imogen?’ Her dad’s raised voice cut through the whispers.
Imogen finished wiping the plate, placing it carefully in the cupboard above her before walking through to the living room, tea towel hanging limply by her side.
She stood in the doorway and absorbed the scene: her dad sitting on the sofa, his hands clasped awkwardly in his lap – his serious pose. And her mum standing with her arms crossed, her face stony, like she was suppressing rage. Which, Imogen guessed, she probably was. They hadn’t spoken since arriving home, when Imogen had stormed to her room, slamming the door with a satisfying wham. She’d expected her mum to march after her, to continue their battle and insist on knowing everything. But she hadn’t come.
The silence in the house had been suffocating, even when her dad had arrived home an hour or so later, much earlier than usual. He’d picked Jemima up from school, and every so often her cheery voice had filtered through Imogen’s door, setting her teeth on edge. They’d all remained down the hall, not summoning her until dinner was ready. The meal had been torturous for Imogen, the storm that brewed in the kitchen crackling with tension and impending disappointment. Only Jemima seemed unaware, chattering away about an upcoming science excursion her class was taking and doing over-the-top impressions of her maths teacher until she was sent reluctantly away to brush her teeth and get ready for bed.
‘Imogen, love,’ her dad said warmly, patting the sofa next to him.
Imogen paused for a second, then sighed and crossed the room to sit down, focusing on the damp tea towel in her hands, refusing to meet either of her parents’ eyes.
‘Your mum and I are worried about you.’
He was so transparent, Imogen thought bitterly. She knew that what he really meant was, ‘your mum can’t get the truth out of you, so she’s getting me to have a go’, but he was too loyal to say it.
Imogen’s heart squeezed at his complete refusal to betray his wife, even when she was being a total control freak. He was different. He trusted her; saw the best in her. But should she trust him? Should she trust either of them?
She didn’t like the way she was feeling, all of her emotions conflicting and jumbled and flip-flopping from one moment to the next. She didn’t want to think about it any more. She wanted the burden taken from her. She just wanted to know for certain.
‘Imogen,’ he said again, his tone sharper this time.
Imogen rolled her eyes, no longer concerned with gaining anyone’s trust. She wasn’t going to get it, so she didn’t see why she should try. What she wanted now was brevity – a quick exit from this charade so she could go back to her room and check for new messages.
‘Dad,’ she said curtly, ‘I told Mum that I couldn’t say what happened today. I asked her to trust me. She obviously doesn’t, but it would be nice if you did.’
‘That’s not fair, love,’ he said softly.
Guilt pinched at Imogen’s guts, but she pushed the feeling aside. This wasn’t her fault.
‘It’s true,’ she argued. ‘If Jemima was in the same situation, you’d trust her, wouldn’t you?’
Jemima, her baby sister, the child who could do no wrong. The one who was innocent until proven guilty, and even then sometimes long after being proven guilty.
‘This has nothing to do with your sister,’ her mum snapped. ‘Leave her out of this.’
‘Kat,’ her dad said gently, his palms out, pleading with her, with both of them.
Her mum threw her hands up and sighed, relenting.
‘It’s not that we don’t trust you,’ her dad said, turning to Imogen. ‘It’s just that the school is going to want answers. I spoke to your principal this afternoon, and she said that if you don’t offer an explanation, they’ll have no choice but to take Emerald’s word for it and suspend you.’
Imogen shrugged.
‘That’s not really what you want, is it?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Imogen said lightly. ‘But I don’t really have another choice, do I?’
‘Of course you do,’ her mum’s words burst out of her. She couldn’t seem to help herself. ‘Just tell us what happened – that’s the other choice.’
Imogen stared at her, attempting to convey her utter contempt with just a gaze.
Tears wobbled in her mum’s eyes, which only made Imogen’s anger burn more brightly. Her mum wasn’t the victim here. She didn’t deserve to act like one.
‘You can ask me as many times, and in as many different ways as you want,’ Imogen said coldly. ‘But I can’t tell you.’
‘Honey.’ Her dad took her hand. She considered snatching it away, but his was strong and tanned and rough from all those years of building. His were safe hands, and for a second she was tempted to forget the last few months, forget the events of that day, and curl up against his chest like she used to. But she couldn’t do that. Not without knowing. She squeezed his hand in response, and he looked into her eyes, the words that followed gentle and brimming with concern. ‘Are you being threatened by someone? Is that why you can’t tell us? Are you in
danger, Immy?’
He didn’t look mad. He looked … heartbroken.
Imogen could feel her resolve, so carefully and purposefully crystallised, dissolving in his protectiveness. She couldn’t let that happen. She needed to get away, to be alone.
‘No,’ she said firmly, taking her hand back. ‘I’m not being threatened. There is nothing wrong. I’m not some kind of awful person, OK? I did what I did for a reason, and I know you want to know what that reason is, but I really can’t tell you, and I can’t tell you why I can’t tell you, and whether you believe me or not doesn’t actually matter because it doesn’t change anything. So I’ll take the suspension, and I’ll deal with the consequences, OK?’
‘No, Imogen, it’s not OK,’ her mum said, her voice raised, her cheeks blooming pink. ‘This is serious, you know. Suspension? We didn’t raise you to be like this!’
‘And what did you raise me to be?’ Imogen’s anger flared as she stood to face her mum. ‘A liar? Want me to make something up? Fine, I beat up that girl because she called me ugly, is that good enough for you? Or what if I said it was because she was picking on a girl who always gets teased? Would you leave me alone then, would that make me acceptable to you?’
Imogen was crying now, which only made her more angry. At herself, at her parents, at the whole damn situation. She was sick of it; sick of dealing with the mess she was in; sick of feeling the tight ball of anger inside her.
She spun around and stomped out of the living room, throwing the tea towel on the ground as she went. Her mum’s shouts followed her down the hallway, but she ignored them. Her parents’ confusion wasn’t her problem.
As she passed Jemima’s room, she spotted her sister’s brown eyes in the space where the door had been left slightly ajar. Her anger surged, and she slammed her bedroom door as hard as she could, satisfied when the noise reverberated down the hall. She knew that she was being the perfect stereotype of a moody teenager, but she didn’t care.
She crouched down, fumbling on the ground for a second. Then, checking her door was properly closed, she reached down the back of her desk, her fingers scrabbling against the wood until she retrieved the device that had been on her mind all day, every day, for the past few weeks. Hope swelled in her chest as she pressed the home button. It deflated just as quickly: no new messages. The disappointment was physical, a hollowing out that made the tears stream more forcefully down her cheeks.
And then the device buzzed in her hand, as though the person on the other end could read her thoughts, and her heart leapt. She smiled as she read the words on the screen. She didn’t need her parents to believe her; to trust her, because there was someone else who always did.
Imogen typed a reply, wiping the tears from her wet cheeks, her anger gone. What did it matter if her mum thought she was a terrible person? Her parents’ opinions didn’t matter. What happened at school today didn’t matter. Her punishment didn’t matter.
She’d take the suspension. She’d let her mum and dad believe what they wanted. They always had, anyway. As long as things stayed the way they always had been, they’d see her as someone to be suspected, someone who couldn’t quite be trusted.
Which was why, Imogen knew, something had to change.
She crossed her fingers, and opened her inbox.
Chapter 3
KAT
Imogen’s door slams, the force of it making me blink. I did my best to stay impassive in the face of her anger – I even managed to refrain from crying in front of her. But still, her words stung, and the tears have started now that she can’t see me. I’m completely thrown, and totally unsure of how to parent our teenage daughter.
I wipe my eyes. Dylan will know what to do. Of the two of us, my husband has always been the sturdy, logical one, whereas I’ve always reacted emotionally. While I lead with my heart, he looks at a problem from every angle, working through all potential scenarios before arriving at a decision. He’ll be able to reach Imogen, to make her see that she can trust us enough to tell us what really happened. I want to believe the best in her, like Dylan does. I really do. But she’s not making it easy for me. What could be so important that she can’t just let us know the truth? And is it really that she can’t say, or does she just want to avoid us hearing that she was needlessly violent? Is this her way of appearing innocent, or at least maintaining enough doubt so that we can’t officially lay the blame on her?
I turn to face Dylan, needing him to reassure me, to tell me that I’m being ridiculous and that this isn’t a crisis that I need to obsess over. But he’s not even looking at me. He’s stretched out on the sofa, one arm over the back of the headrest, the other wrapped around the remote control.
‘Dylan!’
‘What?’
‘Are you kidding me right now?’ I seethe. ‘Our daughter punched someone, she won’t tell us or anyone else why, she just screamed at us and stormed out of here, and all you can think to do is watch the bloody cricket highlights?’
‘I know you’re upset,’ he says, putting the remote control down on the coffee table. ‘But I think you’re blowing this out of proportion. She’s a teenager. Not a criminal.’
I stare at him for a second, rage building and threatening to explode. When I speak, it’s with all of the restraint that I can muster.
‘I didn’t say she was a criminal.’
‘Well, sometimes you treat her like she is one. You make her feel like she’s a bad person.’
‘She told you this?’
‘She doesn’t need to. I can see it.’
He’s wrong. Isn’t he?
I press my hands against my face, then sink onto the sofa next to my husband. He switches the television off and puts his arm around me. I lean into his chest and listen to his heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Predictable.
‘You know I’m not trying to see the worst in her … right?’
‘Of course I know that,’ Dylan says, kissing the top of my head. ‘But she doesn’t. And at some point you have to make a decision. Either you choose to believe the best, or you let fear get the best of you, and you keep obsessing over a worst-case scenario that’ll probably never happen.’
I nod slowly, trying to understand how I can make that choice, how to live with the risk, how to turn a blind eye to the facts.
‘Don’t you think that ignoring it – that burying our heads in the sand about the truth – could be dangerous?’
Dylan pulls away from me, twisting his torso to look me in the eye.
‘I know you find it hard, but you need to trust her. You need to trust all of us.’
I open my mouth to argue, then snap it closed again. I want to disagree with him, want to hide from the accusations he’s making, but I’m weary. We’ve travelled this path before, so many times that the way ahead has been smoothed over with use. And so I don’t fight.
Instead, I put into words the thoughts that I normally don’t dare say.
‘You know why I’m worried about Imogen,’ I say tentatively. ‘Don’t make me spell it out.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Dylan says immediately. ‘I know why you’re worried – of course I understand why. You think I’ve never thought about it myself? But she’s fine. You can trust her, you know. We’ve been through this. We’ve done everything we can.’ He pauses. ‘And you don’t have to worry about her finding out.’
‘That’s not what I’m worried about.’
‘Isn’t it?’ he asks, one eyebrow raised. ‘I know you’re trying your best, but I think you need to take a look at yourself. Because while you’re pretending that you’re protecting her, you’re smothering her. Imagine how that feels.’
Imagine how it feels, I think, to be waging constant battle with your daughter. But he can’t imagine. Of course he can’t. He’s the good cop, the one who always has her back, the one who’s always meant to have my back.
But I don’t say any of this. I nod and turn away, letting my husband get back to his sport. I’m not going to win this argume
nt.
I suppose I just have to accept my role as the bad cop. It’s not what I want – it’s not what any of us want – but this isn’t just about Imogen. She’s not the only one in this family. And no matter what Dylan believes, no matter how much he wants to look at the world through rose-tinted glasses, I have to do what I can to protect us.
Even if what I’m protecting us from is inside our own home.
Chapter 4
KAT
I grimace as a blast of hot, dry air hits me full in the face. It’s like I’ve stepped into an oven. Balancing a bowl of potato salad on my hip, I pull the door closed quickly behind me to keep the cold air trapped inside.
‘Kat!’
I turn my head towards the voice. Bill, one of the neighbours we invited over, is waving flamboyantly as he walks through our side gate and into the garden. I smile and tip my head back, a half-nod greeting in lieu of a wave, one arm wrapped firmly around the cold bowl, the other hand clutching the bottle of wine I just retrieved from the freezer.
‘You picked a scorcher of a day,’ he says, walking over and kissing me on the cheek. ‘Where do you want this?’ He brandishes a tray of sausages and a six-pack of beer in my direction and I flick my head towards the sizzling, smoking barbecue.
‘Dylan’s over there,’ I say to him. I can’t actually see my husband through the haze that’s wafting from the grill, but whenever we have a barbecue, that’s undoubtedly where he’ll be found. Men do meat. Women do salads. And the shopping. And the prep. And the cleaning up. But, of course, the guys get the glory. ‘He’ll put those snags on for you. And I’m sure he’ll take one of those cold beers off your hands, too.’
As Bill walks away, I stretch my neck to wipe the sweat that’s building along my top lip onto the shoulder of my T-shirt. There’s a pause between the songs that are playing from the overpriced speaker Jemima begged us to get her for Christmas, and in the few seconds of transition, I take in the noises of our summertime revelry. Meat hissing and popping above the flames. The little ones squealing as they run from one another’s water guns. Adults laughing. Beer bottles clinking. And the kids a few doors down whose cricket game is providing the odd crack as the ball connects with the bat. But the birds, I notice, have retreated. Their usual warbling has been silenced by the heat. They’ve headed for shade, I suppose, finding respite somewhere that isn’t this baking-hot garden. I envy them.