by Sara Barnard
I can’t remember exactly what he said, but it involved calling him ‘ginger pubes’ about five times. Connor was basically just ignoring him, eyes on the cards, and it was driving me crazy. So I leaned over and said – my voice can be pretty loud when I’m on Kett grounds, because it’s how you survive – ‘Why are you so obsessed with Connor’s pubic hair, Dean?’
And everyone around us cracked up so loudly that Dean couldn’t have got a comeback in even if he was smart enough to think of one. I’ll never forget how Connor looked at me: a kind of bemused surprise, like he was seeing me for the first time; but also like he was really seeing me, in a way that maybe other people didn’t.
The weekend after that, there was a party at someone’s house, and I went, and there was Connor, who I’d never seen at one of the Kett-crowd house parties before, wearing a light blue shirt like an adult, leaning against the wall and smiling at me. I said to him, ‘I’ve never seen you at a party before,’ and he told me that it was because of me, that he was there for me, and he kissed me and I kissed him, and that’s how love starts when you’re fifteen.
‘Daisy thinks it’s all so romantic,’ I say.
‘Yeah, so do a bunch of girls from Kett.’
I frown at the phone. Is that the normal thing to think? Is there something wrong with me for thinking it’s all just a bit gross? ‘Do you think it’s romantic?’
I hear a spluttered laugh. ‘No. I think it’s weird. I mean, I’m not so surprised about Mr Cohn. If I had to guess which teacher it was, I’d guess him. But I’d never’ve thought Bonnie would be the other half.’
‘How come?’
‘Because she’s so—’
‘No, not her. I know why that’s a surprise. I mean, how come you would’ve guessed Mr Cohn?’
‘Oh, cos he’s so smarmy, you know? Always talking to the girls instead of the guys. Being too friendly and stuff. Plus, all that extra time he was alone with Bonnie was weird, right? Maybe we should have noticed earlier.’
‘You mean the flute lessons?’ Mr Cohn had been giving Bonnie extra private tutoring for her upcoming exams for months.
‘Well, they obviously weren’t actually flute lessons, were they?’
‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘Thanks for that.’
He laughs. ‘You’re going to hear a lot worse, I reckon. Mum says the papers are going to go to town on this story.’
‘There’s some stuff that’s not in the papers yet,’ I say. I sink down on to the carpet and lean my head back against the wall. ‘Carolyn spoke to Bonnie’s mum this morning.’
‘Oh yeah? Like what?’
‘Like they found pictures of Bonnie on Mr Cohn’s laptop.’
‘Pictures like . . . those kinds of pictures?’
‘Yeah. Those kinds of pictures.’
Connor is silent for a moment, digesting this. ‘Shit,’ he says finally.
‘Yeah.’
‘Shit,’ he says again. ‘Bonnie Wiston-Stanley. Who knew?’
We talk for a little while more before he has to go, and then I have no other excuse to procrastinate from revision any longer. I make a blanket fort for myself in the living room, parked in front of the TV with my revision materials displayed in front of me, and stay there for the next few hours, every now and then glancing down at one of the books. I’m hoping that just having the information near my eyeballs will help somehow. You never know, it might be a thing that happens. Science doesn’t know everything, does it?
I’ve got used to the rolling coverage now, seeing the stories rotate with the same recorded voiceovers and interviews played over and over. When the story isn’t about Bonnie, I watch the red ticker tape scroll across the screen. Police appeal for help in search for missing schoolgirl Bonnie Wiston-Stanley and teacher Jack Cohn. Bonnie and Mr Cohn’s disappearance was the top story this morning but has now been relegated to second, partly because they haven’t had any fresh information since 8 a.m., and also because some old politician I haven’t even heard of died, and they keep showing footage of other old politicians saying how great he was.
The Bonnie and Jack story comes around again, and I pull my knees up to my chin, watching as Bonnie’s picture comes up on screen, the same one that was smiling out at me from the papers this morning.
God, that’s a terrible picture of Bonnie. She’d hate it. Bonnie’s mother must have given it out as part of a press release or something. Which is mean, because of all the pictures she could have chosen to represent Bonnie to the wider world, this is not a good one. It’s Bonnie’s school picture from a few months ago, the one where she had a little fairy ring of spots on her right cheek, and her ponytail was a bit crooked. She’s not even smiling properly. Mothers are mean.
But at least it gives me an opportunity to be helpful. I find a picture I know Bonnie likes – one I took of her over half-term at the nature reserve. She’s relaxed and smiling, much more like the Bonnie we all know and love – and print off one version and copy another on to a USB stick.
‘Can you drive me to Bonnie’s?’ I ask Carolyn, who is sitting at the kitchen table, sifting through piles of papers. She and Bob have their own business, McKinley Landscaping and Garden Design, which is good because it means she mostly works from home, but less good because she basically never stops, even at weekends.
She starts, immediately alert. ‘Did you hear something from her?’ She turns to me. ‘Did she call?’
I shake my head, shrugging. ‘No, I just wanted to talk to her mum.’
Carolyn hesitates, then nods. ‘Good idea. We should see if there’s anything more we could be doing to help. I’ll come with you.’ She grabs her keys from the counter and we leave straight away.
Bonnie’s house is only five minutes away by car, and it’s a route I’ve both walked and been driven on more times than I can count, but when I arrive everything looks different, mostly because there are journalists camped out across the entire front lawn, as if Bonnie’s house has been replaced by a house from a crime show, or something. Is this story really that interesting? Isn’t there anything else going on? Don’t they know that Bonnie will obviously be back any minute, and this is all a huge fuss over nothing?
‘Oh dear,’ Carolyn says, looking at the journalists. The road is packed full of cars and there’s nowhere for her to park, so she’s stopped in the middle of the road, tapping her fingers against the wheel, considering. ‘Maybe we should try again later?’
‘We’re here now,’ I say, already undoing my seatbelt. ‘I’ll just run in.’
Carolyn frowns. ‘I’m not sure about this, Eden. What if they try and speak to you?’
‘I’ll just ignore them,’ I say. ‘I won’t be long. You can just wait here. I’ll be in and out.’
Her frown deepens. ‘I’d thought I might speak to Matilda. At the very least, let her know she has my support if she needs it.’
‘I’ll tell her that,’ I say, reaching for the door handle.
‘Eden,’ Carolyn begins. I can tell some kind of a spiel is coming so I open the door and hotfoot it out of the car. ‘Eden!’ she calls after me, surprise and exasperation mingling in her voice.
‘Back in a sec!’ I yell – I have to yell because I’ve already closed the door – and squeeze through an ITV news van and a car to get on to the pavement.
The men – they really are all men – turn to look at me as I walk across the driveway and on to the path towards the front door. I hear one of them mutter, ‘That must be one of the friends,’ before he raises his voice and addresses me directly. ‘Hello, love! Is Bonnie a friend of yours?’
‘Do you know where she is?’ another chimes in.
‘Has she called you?’
‘Has Jack Cohn ever tried it on with you?’
This one I can’t ignore. I’m startled into stopping on the pavement, almost tripping over my own feet. I give the man who asked this question the look it deserves (Dude, really?), which is apparently a mistake because suddenly all these cameras are flashing
, the sound of shutters clicking is filling the air, and I panic and sprint through the front door, which has opened to reveal Bonnie’s dad, face practically puce, already beginning to yell at the reporters.
‘Clive!’ Bonnie’s mother yells from somewhere else in the house. ‘I told you! Don’t give them any more ammunition, for God’s sake.’
Bonnie’s dad slams the door, swearing under his breath about fucking vultures, and turns to face me.
‘Hi, Mr Wiston-Stanley,’ I say awkwardly. Even though Bonnie and I have been best friends for eight years, I don’t think I’ve ever had a proper conversation with him. He’s not really the buddy type of dad. More like the stand-at-a-distance-and-frown kind of dad.
‘You listen to me, Eden,’ Bonnie’s dad says, pointing a finger at me. ‘You listen. You don’t give them a second of your time, you hear?’
‘Um, OK,’ I say.
‘Clive!’ Bonnie’s mother barks, appearing at the top of the stairs and stomping down them to reach us. ‘What did I say about swearing at the journalists?’
‘Hi, Mrs Wiston-Stanley,’ I say.
‘Oh, Eden,’ she says, not looking thrilled about my presence. ‘You didn’t speak to the reporters, did you?’
God, these people are obsessed. What do they think the journalists are actually going to do?
‘No,’ I say. ‘Um, have you heard anything?’
She shakes her head, the sudden hope on her face almost painful. ‘Have you?’
‘Oh, no,’ I say quickly. Maybe a little too quickly, because her face tightens in suspicion, so I add, ‘I brought a new photo.’
There’s a moment of silence. Finally, she says, ‘A new . . . photo?’
‘The one in all the articles is crap,’ I say, producing the picture I’d printed and holding it out towards her, the USB stick balancing on top. ‘Bonnie’d hate it. This one is much better.’
Bonnie’s mother looks at my outstretched hand, a look of utter bafflement on her face. Helpfully I add, ‘To go on, like, the news and stuff?’
Behind me, there’s a knock on the door. ‘Don’t answer that!’ Mrs Wiston-Stanley snaps.
‘It’s probably Carolyn,’ I say, just as a muffled voice sounds through the letter box.
‘It’s just me, Matilda!’
‘Open the door, Clive,’ Mrs Wiston-Stanley says. She still hasn’t taken the picture or the USB stick from me, and I’m just standing there, a little awkwardly now. ‘Eden,’ she says, her voice steady in a way that seems to take a lot of effort, ‘do you think this is the kind of thing I’d be worrying about right now?’
‘Well, no –’ I begin, meaning to say that it would be what Bonnie would be worrying about, and isn’t that just as important? But she interrupts me.
‘Because I’ve got an awful lot going on right now. I have a missing daughter and journalists cutting up my lawn and the last thing I need – the last thing I need – is to worry about how pretty Bonnie looks in the photos the police are handing out.’
‘You don’t need to worry about it,’ I say, staying polite, like Bonnie would have done. ‘I’ve already taken care of it. It’s this one, see?’
Mrs Wiston-Stanley snatches the picture out of my hand, the USB stick clattering to the floor. She looks about ready to explode. ‘I think you should reconsider your priorities, Eden.’
I glance at Carolyn, who is standing like a quiet sentry behind me. ‘I’m just thinking about what Bonnie would want.’
‘What Bonnie would want?’ Mrs Wiston-Stanley shrieks, her voice suddenly shrill. Oh dear. ‘What Bonnie would want? Forgive me, but I’m not in a position to care what Bonnie would want, not when she’s run away like this, no word, no warning, no phone calls. Like we mean nothing! Her parents!’
I take a little step back, bumping up against Carolyn. I feel the light touch of her hand on my arm. ‘Matilda,’ she says, soft. ‘Why don’t I make you some tea?’
‘Tea?!’ Bonnie’s mum repeats, still sharp but with markedly less bite than when she was talking to me.
‘Yes,’ Carolyn says. ‘How about you, Clive? Could you do with some tea?’
We have tea. Mrs Wiston-Stanley insists on having the radio on, so it’s not exactly a relaxing experience, but she does at least seem to calm down a little. Mr Wiston-Stanley holds his mug with both hands and looks sadly down into its contents, brooding and silent.
‘Eden,’ Mrs Wiston-Stanley says, her voice steadier now. ‘I didn’t mean to be so short with you.’
‘’S’OK,’ I say, shrugging.
‘It’s just that you’re Bonnie’s best friend,’ she says. ‘I know how close the two of you are. I just find it quite . . . hard to believe that she hasn’t been in contact with you. Or that you didn’t know that any of this was going on.’
‘You didn’t know anything either,’ I point out. ‘And you’re her mother.’
‘Eden,’ Carolyn says, warning.
‘Well, why does everyone keep saying that?’ I ask. The stupid thing is, I actually do feel pretty offended that they all think I’m lying to them. Even though I am. But, I remind myself fairly, I really didn’t know that anything was going on with Bonnie and Mr Cohn before this weekend. So that accusation is definitely unfair. ‘Why wouldn’t I tell you now if I knew? I want her back, too.’
‘Maybe you don’t realize how serious this all is,’ Mrs Wiston-Stanley says. ‘This isn’t a film. It’s not some grand adventure. It’s a crime. It’s kidnap.’
Kidnap. I mean, honestly! Mr Cohn! A kidnapper?! Way to overreact, Mrs W-S. But probably best not to say that.
‘I know how serious it is,’ I say instead. ‘I’m not a moron.’
‘Eden,’ Carolyn says again.
‘Can everyone just stop saying my name?’ I snap, rattled. ‘I know what my name is. Find another word.’
‘Rethink your tone, please,’ Carolyn says. ‘It’s not helpful.’
‘Well, you should all rethink your tones too,’ I say. ‘It’s not fair that you’re all taking this out on me. I’m not some Bonnie surrogate you can be all mad at. She’s the one who buggered off, not me. I’m just trying to help.’
‘With a prettier photo?’ Mrs Wiston-Stanley says, snide. Sarcastic bitch.
‘Maybe you should rethink your tone,’ I say. ‘It’s not helpful.’
I leave before she throws me out.
5
Carolyn has obviously decided to take the understanding-parent approach because she doesn’t lecture me on the way back home like I’d expected. She just drives us in silence until I can’t help but mumble, ‘I was just trying to help.’
‘I know,’ she says, and that’s the only thing she says on the subject.
When we get home, I go straight outside and find Bob in the vegetable garden, earthing up potatoes. ‘Hello, love,’ he says when he sees me. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I went to see Bonnie’s parents.’
‘Ah.’ Bob angles the hoe against the earth and pulls it towards the stems of the potato plants, heaping the earth around them. ‘And how did that go?’
I shrug.
Bob smiles. ‘I see.’
‘Her mum yelled at me.’
‘Did she?’
‘I was only trying to help.’
‘I’m sure she knows that.’ This is a typical parent-club thing to say, so I let out an appropriately sceptical mm-hmm, which makes him chuckle. ‘I wouldn’t take it personally. She’s having an incredibly tough time right now.’
‘Well, so am I.’
Another warm I’m-older-and-I-know-better-but-I’m-not-going-to-tell-you-what-I-know smile.
I add, ‘She doesn’t have to take it out on me.’
‘I’m sure she didn’t mean to, Eden. But who knows what she’s going through right now? How it must feel to have her daughter missing like this?’
‘How would you feel if it was me?’
Bob is silent for a while, working the earth, his face red with exertion. Finally he says, ‘I’
d feel like I’d failed.’
‘You’d failed?’
‘Yes. I’d feel like I’d let you down, as your . . .’ He hesitates, his eyes flicking towards me, then back to the earth. ‘As your father figure.’
‘In loco parentis?’ I say, smiling so he knows it’s OK. This is a phrase I have heard many times in the course of my life. I don’t mind it, because it makes me feel smart, knowing a bit of Latin.
He smiles back. ‘Exactly. As your loco.’ He points his finger towards the side of his head and gives it a silly little spin. Bob has always been so careful with me, so kind. He could never let me down.
‘Why, though?’ I ask, getting back on track. ‘If it was my choice? How would it be you letting me down? Not the other way around?’
He hesitates again, grimacing, as if this conversation is as hard on him as heavy gardening. ‘Will you give me that look if I tell you that a choice made by a fifteen-year-old in this situation is not the same as a choice made by an adult?’
‘Yes. And I’m sixteen.’
He laughs, but it’s more like a sigh. ‘I know that, Eden. What I mean is, sometimes, when we’re young –’ I open my mouth to protest and he puts up a finger to halt me – ‘we can feel like we’re making a choice, when actually we’re not. We don’t have all the facts, or all the perspective. If there’s someone else who knows a bit more than we do, or has authority over us, sometimes they can take advantage of that knowledge, or that power.’
‘So . . . you think Bonnie’s been manipulated? By Mr Cohn?’ I’m dubious. Bonnie’s too smart to be manipulated, isn’t she?
Another hesitation. ‘I think people can do all sorts of things they wouldn’t usually do if love is involved. Or, worse, if they think love is involved. And in this case, I’d imagine Jack Cohn is justifying this whole thing by telling himself he loves her, and she loves him.’
‘But you don’t think it does justify it?’
‘No.’ There is not even a second of hesitation this time. ‘Not at all.’
‘But what if they are in love?’