All About Mia

by Lisa Williamson

  ‘I had to, Mia! Flux were about to call the police on us!’

  ‘Jesus, Stella.’

  ‘Don’t get snarky with me. You’re the one who got so drunk you couldn’t even stand up. What was I supposed to do?’

  Silence.

  ‘Exactly. So anyway, I called Grace but Sam answered instead and said he’d come get us.’

  ‘Sam?’

  I glance at the note. Things are slowly starting to make sense.

  ‘Yeah. Grace was asleep so he picked up instead and said he’d come get us. He was there in less than twenty minutes, Mia. I swear, he must have driven soooooo fast.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Sam wanted to take you to hospital but I literally begged him not to because I knew they’d probably want to ring your mum and dad. He only agreed when you came round and chucked up for about a minute straight.’

  I close my eyes.

  ‘The door people were being all shitty about it, making out they were going to try and bill you for vomming all over their fancy upholstery or some shit like that, and that’s when Sam went mental at them, asking them why they were selling alcohol to sixteen-year-old girls in the first place and demanding to speak to the manager about their admission policies.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I know. If he hadn’t been there we’d have been screwed.’

  A fresh wave of fear hits me. ‘Does that mean Grace knows?’ I whisper. Because if she does, there’s no way she won’t tell Mum and Dad.

  ‘I dunno,’ Stella says. ‘Sam didn’t say much in the car.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘I told you those blokes were bad news,’ she says. ‘I told you, Mia, and you wouldn’t listen. You just kept saying you were having a good time, and the next thing I knew you were a total vegetable.’ She bursts into tears.

  I shut my eyes in an attempt to block out the guilt that’s attacking my entire body. Stella may be a drama queen but she only cries when she’s really upset.

  ‘You’re just so bloody selfish sometimes, Mia,’ she continues, her voice all jerky.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was drunk. You know what I’m like when I get drunk.’

  ‘That doesn’t make it OK. That’s not your get-out-of-jail-free card, you know. I was really fucking worried.’

  Her crying has been replaced with hiccups. It makes me want to hug her, to put things right somehow.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, meaning it. ‘I didn’t want to worry you, I swear.’

  She doesn’t answer, just blows her nose loudly down the line. I chew on my tatty fingernails and wait.

  ‘How are you feeling anyway?’ she asks finally.

  ‘Like my head’s been stamped on.’

  ‘Good,’ she says.

  It’s not really very funny, but we laugh anyway. It hurts.

  ‘He was really angry then?’ I say. ‘Sam?’

  ‘Yeah. With the Flux people though, not with you. He was really sweet with you.’

  A flashback. Sam rubbing my back as I threw up out of the window of his car. ‘There you go, that’s it, get it all out.’

  Another. Sam scooping me up like a baby, and carrying me up the stairs, my feet catching on the rungs of the banister.

  I peek under the covers again, at my T-shirt and knickers. I vaguely remember holding my arms up over my head like I used to when I was a little kid, and something soft and clean-smelling slipping over my torso. I sniff my T-shirt. It smells of washing powder.

  I can hear footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘Stells, I’ve got to go.’

  ‘OK. Ring me later?’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re OK, Mia.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘I’m still mad with you.’

  ‘OK.’

  I hang up and pretend to be asleep until the footsteps have passed my door and disappeared into the bathroom.

  The next time I open my eyes, the light in the room has changed and over an hour has passed. My conversation with Stella feels like it happened in a dream.

  Thirsty and desperate for the loo, I force myself to get out of bed. In addition to the series of small smudgy bruises on both legs, there’s a massive monster bruise on my right outer thigh, purple and painful. I poke it with my finger and wince. I pull on an old pair of jogging bottoms I used to wear for PE and dare to venture onto the landing. In the bathroom I pee for ages. According to the chart that has been sellotaped to the tiles for as long as I can remember, I’m firmly in the ‘dehydrated’ range.

  Gingerly, I head downstairs in search of water and carbs. Mum is in the kitchen, tapping away at her laptop. I can smell Dad’s famous jerk chicken in the oven. Audrey is at the kitchen table, homework spread out in front of her. Out in the garden, I can see Grace in downward dog position, her belly almost grazing the lawn.

  ‘You OK, sweetheart?’ Mum asks, confirming my hunch she doesn’t know what happened. ‘Sam said you were feeling poorly.’

  My body floods with relief. She doesn’t know!

  She places the back of her hand on my forehead. It feels nice to have her attention for once, and for a second I almost wish I had the flu or something for real.

  ‘You don’t have a temperature,’ she observes.

  ‘It’s a stomach thing,’ I say quickly, hoping Sam hasn’t been too specific about my symptoms. ‘Maybe a virus.’ I reach for a glass from the cupboard.

  ‘There’s been a lot of that going around,’ Mum says. ‘Here, you sit down, I’ll do that.’

  She takes the glass from my hand and fills it up with water from the filter jug. I don’t protest, sitting down at the table opposite Audrey, who is looking at me oddly, her head tilted to one side.

  ‘What?’ I ask.

  She just shakes her head and returns to her homework. A few minutes later Grace wanders in from the garden, her rolled-up yoga mat tucked under her arm, her cheeks flushed.

  ‘Gorgeous day,’ she declares, propping the mat up against the side of the fridge and reaching for a banana from the fruit bowl. She notices me at the table, hunched over my water and the dry toast Mum insisted on fixing me when all I really want is a greasy old McDonald’s breakfast. I brace myself for her full repertoire of disapproval; the stare, the raised eyebrow of disappointment, the sad shake of the head, but instead she just smiles and says, ‘How you doing? Sam said you weren’t feeling well.’

  ‘Oh, a bit better, thanks,’ I stammer.

  ‘That’s good,’ she says, peeling the skin off her banana and humming.

  ‘Where is Sam?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s at work,’ Grace says. ‘Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  Dad comes in from washing the car, his jeans and T-shirt damp and soapy. ‘I hope Sam doesn’t mind but I gave his a quick going over too,’ he says. ‘Some dirty bugger was sick all down his passenger door last night.’

  Mum groans. ‘Some people really are animals, aren’t they?’ she says.

  ‘Disgusting,’ Grace agrees, pulling a face.

  I look down and concentrate really hard on my toast.

  19

  The rest of my day is spent in bed, drifting in and out of sleep. I ring Stella again but she doesn’t answer.

  I go through my phone. Of the hundreds of photos I took last night, only a handful are in focus. Miles and Greg look older than I remember, closer to forty than thirty. I delete every one they’re in.

  In order to add authenticity to my fake stomach bug, I miss dinner, sneaking some cake offcuts and a bag of crisps up to my bedroom while no one is looking, trying not to swoon over the jerk chicken smells floating up the stairs.

  I take a long bath, staring up at the peeling paint on the ceiling as I lie in the water. I stay in the tub so long the pads of my fingers and undersides of my feet grow all wrinkly and spongy to the touch.

  When I come out of the bathroom I walk slap bang into Sam. He’s wearing the tartan pyjama bottoms he wears to breakfast most mornings, an
d nothing on top apart from a towel draped over his left shoulder. He isn’t wearing his glasses and has pale grey rings under both eyes.

  ‘I thought you were working today,’ I blurt.

  ‘I was. I finished at six.’

  ‘Oh.’

  I re-adjust the towel under my arms.

  ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘Not great,’ I admit.

  ‘I suspected as much.’

  I look over his shoulder. Grace’s bedroom door is slightly ajar.

  I beckon for him to follow me back into the bathroom. He hesitates for a moment before coming with me. Once inside, I lock the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Just a bit paranoid Grace might hear us.’

  The room is hot and steamy from my bath and feels very small with both of us in it. I perch on the lowered toilet seat. Sam sits on the edge of the bath. The tattoo on his bicep reveals itself to be a tiny flock of birds. His body is pretty good, better than I thought it would be. I bet he grew up doing loads of sports – rugby and rowing and stuff. Posh sports.

  ‘OK, two things,’ I say. ‘Number one, how did I get undressed last night?’

  ‘Audrey helped me out,’ Sam says.

  Thank God. ‘Number two, I, er, wanted to say thanks. You know, for coming to get me last night. Oh, and for not telling Grace.’

  ‘About that,’ Sam says. ‘I’m really not comfortable about keeping this from her, Mia.’

  ‘What? Why not?’ I ask in a panic.

  ‘She’s my girlfriend. And you’re her little sister. It just wouldn’t be right.’

  ‘But you can’t tell Grace!’ I cry. ‘She’ll tell Mum and Dad and they’ll go mad. I won’t be able to leave the house all summer.’

  Which means no summer parties, no long lazy days at the lido, and definitely no Newquay.

  ‘She won’t necessarily tell,’ Sam says. ‘What if we explained?’

  ‘Explained what?’ I ask. ‘That I went to a nightclub and some random old bloke got me totally trashed? That’s hardly going to persuade her to keep the information to herself, is it?’

  ‘She might understand.’

  ‘No she won’t. You know what Grace is like, she expects everyone to be as perfect as her.’

  He winces slightly.

  ‘You don’t get it,’ I mutter, frowning at the bruises on my legs. ‘You’re not her sister.’

  I can sense him looking at me, really looking at me, like he’s peeling back the layers and peering into my brain. It makes me feel weird, exposed. I go to stand up.

  ‘Oh shit, your ankle’s bleeding.’

  I look. Blood is dribbling down my foot. I must have cut myself shaving. I rip off a few sheets of toilet paper and use them to soak the blood up.

  ‘You need a plaster,’ Sam says, jumping up and rifling in the medicine cabinet above the sink.

  ‘It’s fine. It’ll probably stop in a minute.’

  ‘Trust me,’ he says, grinning over his shoulder. ‘I’m a doctor.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘A-ha!’ he says, turning round, a box of Disney plasters in his hand.

  ‘Oh my God, those are ancient,’ I say.

  Grace and I used to argue over the Little Mermaid ones. Or rather I did. Grace was always the martyr who backed down and let me have first choice, always taking care to make sure Mum or Dad were there to witness her selflessness.

  Sam kneels on the bath mat and opens up the box. Two plasters flutter out.

  ‘I can offer you,’ he says, pausing to peer at them, ‘Mulan or Pumba.’

  ‘Mulan,’ I say.

  He nods and peels off the back of the plaster.

  ‘It’s probably lost its stick,’ I say.

  He tests it with his index finger. ‘Feels OK to me.’

  He applies the plaster to my ankle, smoothing it into place with his palm. His hands are warm.

  ‘There,’ he says.

  ‘There,’ I repeat.

  He puts the Pumba plaster back in the box.

  ‘Please don’t tell her, Sam,’ I say. ‘Please. I’m honestly begging you.’

  He sits back on his haunches and rakes both hands through his hair. ‘I really don’t know, Mia.’

  ‘Please. I’ll do anything you want.’

  He thinks for a moment then sighs. ‘If I don’t tell Grace about this, I need you to promise me something, OK?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘You’ve got to promise me that you’re going to stop getting into such a state. I get that you’re going to want to drink every now and then, and that’s fine, but you couldn’t even stand up by the time I got to you last night. What if Stella hadn’t been there to help you? What if you’d been all alone?’

  ‘I’d have been OK,’ I say.

  My words sound hollow though, to both our ears.

  ‘I just want you to be safe, Mia.’

  ‘Why? Why do you even care?’

  ‘Because I like you,’ he says simply. ‘And you’re my girlfriend’s little sister and I care about what happens to you.’

  Tears prick my eyelids. I bite hard on my lip and will them not to fall. I refuse to cry over something so stupid. After all, what do I care if Sam likes me or not? He’s just my sister’s stupid posh boyfriend.

  ‘Mia, are you crying?’

  I shake my head hard. ‘No. I’m just feeling a bit overemotional, that’s all. It’s the hangover.’

  ‘Right,’ he says. He doesn’t seem convinced, though.

  A single tear escapes before I can stop it, rolling determinedly towards my chin. I reach to wipe it away but before my hand can make contact with my cheek, Sam is hugging me.

  I resist the natural urge to push him away, and let him hold me, my face pressed against his bare stomach. He smells of the pub – of spilt beer and greasy food. It’s weirdly nice. Comforting.

  We’ve been hugging for maybe thirty seconds when there’s a knock at the door. Sam’s grip on me loosens instantly.

  ‘Who is it?’ I call, my voice all wobbly for some reason.

  ‘It’s Grace, Mia. Can I come in? I’m bursting for the loo.’

  I glance up at Sam but he’s already heading for the door. I wipe away my tears with the corner of my towel and stand up as he opens it.

  ‘Well, this is weird,’ Grace says as the door swings open and she takes in the scene in front of her. ‘What’s going on?’ Her tone of voice is light-hearted but her eyes are alert with suspicion.

  Sam opens his mouth as if about to reply but no sound comes out.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Grace repeats, her voice less certain this time, her eyes flicking back and forth between us.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. My voice doesn’t sound like it belongs to me, though. It sounds weak, paper-thin.

  Grace folds her arms. ‘Mia, you’re locked in the bathroom with my boyfriend, I think I deserve some kind of explanation.’

  I open my mouth to respond but the words get stuck in my throat.

  Sam sighs heavily and I know exactly what’s coming next. I close my eyes and brace myself. So this is it. My summer down the drain.

  ‘We can’t tell you what we were doing,’ Sam says.

  I open my eyes. Huh?

  ‘What do you mean?’ Grace asks.

  ‘We can’t tell you,’ he says, ‘because it will ruin the surprise.’

  ‘Surprise?’

  ‘Yes. Mia and I are working on a little special something. For you and Bean.’

  ‘You are?’ she says, her mouth quivering upwards into a smile.

  ‘We are,’ Sam confirms. ‘Right, Mia?’

  ‘Right,’ I echo.

  There’s a pause before Grace bursts out laughing.

  ‘Oh my God, why didn’t you just tell me that straightaway? I feel like such a dope, barging in here and demanding to know what’s going on, like I’m in an episode of EastEnders or something. Wow, can I blame it on the hormones?’

  Sam puts his arm around her. ‘You don’t have to blame it on
anyone or anything. It’s our fault for acting so shifty.’

  ‘So can I have a clue?’ Grace asks.

  ‘A clue?’ I repeat dumbly.

  ‘Yes. About the surprise.’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Sam says smoothly.

  ‘Spoilsports,’ Grace says.

  She’s smiling though, probably overjoyed because she thinks I’m finally making an effort with Sam, and showing some interest in the baby.

  ‘I still don’t see why you felt the need to lock yourselves in the bathroom, though,’ she adds.

  Sam hesitates and it’s my turn to paper over the cracks in our story.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ I say. ‘Where else are we going to get any privacy? This house is tiny.’

  ‘Point taken,’ Grace admits.

  There’s a pause. No one moves.

  ‘Um, Mia, would you mind?’ Grace asks. ‘I really do need to pee.’

  She needs to pee all the time these days.

  ‘Oh right, sure,’ I say, backing onto the landing, leaving the two of them together.

  ‘Night, Mia,’ she says, shutting the door on me.

  ‘Night,’ I murmur.

  I’m getting into bed when my phone beeps. It’s a text message from an unfamiliar number.

  Friends? Sam x

  I hesitate before texting back.

  Friends. Mx

  20

  Last lesson of the day the following Friday is Sociology. Our usual teacher is off sick. For a few minutes we all get really excited and think we’ll be allowed to go home early, until some bloke we’ve never seen before sweeps into the classroom and tells us he’ll be taking the class. He’s wearing a super-ugly tie – red with tiny green frogs embroidered all over it, and announces we’re going to spend the lesson practising writing personal statements for our UCAS applications.

  ‘Kill me now,’ I whisper to Kimmie, who’s sitting on my left.

  ‘The January deadline may seem like it’s a long way away,’ Ugly Tie Man drones, passing out sheets of lined paper. ‘But take it from me, it’ll swing round faster than you think.’

  Five minutes later, I’m peering over Kimmie’s shoulder.

  ‘What are you writing?’ I ask.

  She’s filled an entire side of A4 already whereas I’ve barely written my name.