by Sara Barnard
Something dark crosses Bob’s face then. ‘Love isn’t the word.’
We’re both silent for a while. I watch as he concentrates on the potato plants, reaching over every now and then to pluck out a weed.
‘What you want for your children,’ Bob says, several minutes later, ‘as a parent, is to keep them safe. And part of that is preparing them for the world and the kinds of people you can find in it. If it had been you, I’d feel like I hadn’t done that properly. That I hadn’t prepared you.’
‘If it was me, you could just blame it on everything before you adopted me,’ I point out.
I meant it mostly as a joke, but Bob frowns. ‘Part of being your parent is taking on all of that, too,’ he says. ‘I couldn’t blame anything on “before”. I think that would actually make it worse. It would be like I’d let you down twice.’
‘You think a lot about the whole letting-down thing,’ I say.
He laughs, properly this time. ‘Well, that’s parenting.’
I generally try not to tell people that I’m adopted, partly because it’s none of their business, but mostly because of the way people react, like it’s a novelty instead of my actual life. They always want to know things like the why and the before, even though that is clearly none of their business either. People seem to think there’s something inherently interesting about adoption. Maybe because there are so many films about orphans getting adopted by rich people and having amazing lives. (Thanks, Oliver! Thanks, Annie!) The reality is messier, of course. And there’s usually less money involved. And more social workers. There’s nothing glamorous about it, not at all.
‘So what was it actually like?’ Bonnie used to ask, in that way she does when she thinks she’s learning something Important and she should listen Very Hard.
It was social workers perched on our tatty sofa, smiling at me with tired eyes. It was an endless carousel of strange bedrooms, and adults I didn’t know calling me ‘Edie’ and trying to make me eat food I couldn’t manage. It was being carried away from my ragged, crying mother and then returned to her after she’d been neatened up, looking like she’d been put through a human car wash, but still ragged and still crying. It was dirty clothes and hunger and chest infections from the damp in the walls. It was me and Mum against the world – her and me. And being her precious baby, but not precious enough. Never quite enough. It was the way she held me before I got taken away again. The way she held me when they gave me back.
‘I don’t really remember it,’ I said to Bonnie. ‘I was super young.’
My mum isn’t a bad person – she wasn’t abusive or anything, it wasn’t like that – but me and Daisy were pretty much neglected for most of the time we lived with her. She just couldn’t look after children, really. Some people can’t and it’s not their fault. She’s an addict, and she couldn’t even take care of herself, that’s the truth. She was twenty-one when she had me, and she was all on her own, no parents or anything. And my dad – whoever he is – didn’t exactly stick around to help out.
I’ve never met my dad, and I don’t know anything about him except that his first name is Luiz and he’s from Brazil. That’s literally it. I don’t know how he and my mother met, or whether they were together for longer than a night. I don’t even know what he looks like. And I can’t ask my mother, obviously. But who knows? Maybe one day, when I’m an adult myself, she’ll have got clean – it could happen, right? – and we’ll have a relationship, and then we can talk about it. She’ll tell me how his smile was both cheeky and kind, how he drank Corona, how when she sees my face, she remembers him.
Or maybe that won’t ever happen, and that’s fine too. I have Bob, who grew me a rose garden and taught me about snapdragon seed pods, which look like little skulls. Carolyn, who brings entire gardens to life with just a pencil and paper. There’s blood, and then there’s family. They’re not always the same thing.
6
It’s not until after dinner that I finally hear from Bonnie. I’m half asleep with my Biology revision guide on my face when my phone buzzes by my head and I lunge for it.
Ivy
HI! How’s everything going?
Me
HI!!! It’s all VERY WEIRD. You know your face is all over the news, right?
OMG, yes. So bizarre.
How are you doing?
Great!
I frown down at the screen, trying to figure out how to reply. How can she be ‘great’? How? Doesn’t she care that her parents are going out of their minds with worry? Doesn’t she understand the trouble she’s in?
Me
Really? Aren’t you worried?
Ivy
About what’s going on at home? Nope. That’s just noise.
Me
But . . . Bon, don’t you think you should at least call your mum?
No way!
But she’s worried?
She KNOWS I’m safe. I told her I am! I messaged her before I dumped my phone. So she shouldn’t be worried.
So, what . . . you’re just never gonna come home?
Maybe! I can be free forever ☺
Bonnie, be serious.
This is so weird, E. It’s like we’ve switched places.
True. I’ve never had to tell her to be serious. Usually I’m telling her to stop being so serious. But it’s not like we’ve switched places at all – I’m just the same as I was last week. It’s more like my best friend has disappeared and been replaced by a total stranger. Or like she’s somehow managed to disengage the ‘responsible’ setting of her character – and maybe the ‘empathy’ one too, for good measure – and that’s changed everything.
How else could she be acting this way? Not just the running-away bit, but the part where she doesn’t seem to care about the absolute clunking clusterfuck she’s left behind for everyone else to deal with. And the part where she’ll have to come back and deal with it herself. Bonnie is smart – she can’t be thinking that she really can escape this forever. She knows that life doesn’t work that way. Even if she really is in love with Mr Cohn – and euw, I’m sorry, but euw – that doesn’t change reality. It doesn’t change mothers and GCSEs and having your face plastered all over the national press.
I don’t know how to reply to this, so I change the subject.
Me
Where are you actually? Like, where are you staying? Are you camping in the woods or something?
Ivy
Camping in the woods?!? LOL. No.
It’s not that weird! Somewhere with no CCTV, no people?
We’re in a little cottage by the sea.
OK but really.
Seriously! Jack’s friend owns it as like a holiday rent and we’re just staying here until we figure out what to do next.
So someone’s helping you?
No, the guy doesn’t know we’re here. So shhh
Wtf
Ivy
I can’t believe you thought I was just squatting in the woods
Me
Yeah, that’s the unbelievable bit of all of this.
Haha!
What ARE you going to do next?
The plan is Ireland.
Ireland?!
Yeah! If we can get there without anyone knowing – like pay someone to take us across on their boat, Jack says – then we can properly disappear. Start over ☺
My heart has tightened in my chest and I feel a panicky kind of numbness in my hands. I’m starting to wish that I hadn’t asked, that I’m having any other conversation than this, that Bonnie had never even told me she was leaving.
Me
Maybe it’s better to not leave the country?
Ivy
Why not?
Because that’s so extreme! That’s like next-level. Like something you can’t come back from, you know?
Eeds, I’m not coming back anyway.
Me
Just good to keep your options open, is what I mean.
Ivy
☺ i love you xx
This seem
s like a bit of a weird response, but OK. I love you too, I reply. I hesitate, then send another message: Promise me you’ll tell me first if you’re going to leave properly like that?
Her response is almost instant: Promise x
Me
Are you sure you’re OK?
Ivy
Better than OK!
Everyone’s worried about you.
Why? They don’t need to be. I have Jack. I’m golden.
Have you actually read the stories in the papers?
Not properly! Jack says not to, they’re all tabloid trash, they’ll just upset me. Are they saying awful things about him? ☹
Um. Yes.
☹ ☹ He’s done this all for me. It’s not right if they’re making him out to be the bad guy!
Has he? Why?
Ivy
Because I was miserable. He’s saved me.
Me
When were you miserable?
My whole life was miserable! Eat, sleep, study, repeat.
I didn’t know.
You didn’t ask.
So it’s my fault?
No! It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m happy now. With Jack.
It’s so weird you calling him Jack.
Haha! I’ve been calling him Jack for ages, way before you knew ☺
For how long?
98 days. And about 14 hours ☺ ☺
Shit, Bon. Why didn’t you TELL me?
Let’s chat later! Got to get some dinner.
Can you go out if you’re on the run?
Ivy
Well, not to restaurants or anything. But there’s a chip shop! If we go around separately, no one notices. They’re looking for a pair. And anyway, I’ve dyed my hair ☺
Me
WHAT.
It’s red!
WHATTTT.
And short.
BONNIE.
Jack says it’s sexy ☺
Euw.
That’s why I didn’t tell you.
Conversations That Took on a Different Meaning after Bonnie Disappeared
The ‘Vienna’ Edition: four months before
‘Have you heard of Billy Joel?’ Bonnie asked. We were both lying across her bed, her on her laptop, me with my Maths book, copying her homework.
‘The singer guy? Sure. Why?’ I had a system. One correct answer – with lots of crossings-out added in for good measure – for every two wrong answers. We were in separate sets for Maths, but there was enough of a crossover to make it worth it.
‘Isn’t he amazing?’
I shrugged. ‘I guess?’ My playlists weren’t exactly overflowing with Billy Joel tracks.
‘Listen to this song,’ Bonnie said, shifting closer to me and nudging my shoulder. ‘It’s called “Vienna”.’
The music started, a trilling piano. I recognized Billy Joel’s voice from the albums Bob liked to play in the car on long trips to visit his parents in Norfolk. ‘Wait, are you saying you hadn’t heard of Billy Joel before this song?’
‘Shh,’ she commanded. ‘Listen.’
Obediently, I did. When it ended, I said, ‘It’s pretty.’
Her nose wrinkled. ‘It’s not pretty. It’s life. It’s so true, you know?’
‘Uh, sure.’
‘Did you listen to the lyrics?’
‘Something about slowing down, something about Vienna.’
‘It’s about not having to be perfect at everything just cos you’re young,’ she said. ‘It’s about living your life in the right way. Vienna is, like, a metaphor. Vienna is life.’
‘OK,’ I said.
‘Mr Cohn said he thought I should hear it,’ she said, a dreamy smile on her face. ‘He said it would change my life.’
‘Have you got a crush on him again?’
Bonnie’s face snapped in annoyance. ‘“Crush” is such an adolescent word. And no, obviously. For God’s sake.’
‘So did it?’
‘Did it what?’
‘Change your life?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ she said. ‘Maybe.’
Monday
‘STOP FLIRTING WITH ME, SIR!’
LONELY TEACHER ‘LOVED YEAR 11S’ – TEXTED GIRLS AFTER CLASSES
CREEPY TEACHER Jack Cohn, 29, on the run with a 15-year-old schoolgirl, had flirted with pupils in his classes for YEARS, students tell The Sun.
Cohn persuaded A* student and prefect Bonnie Wiston-Stanley to leave her Kent home last weekend and run away with him as a COUPLE.
‘He loved our Year 11 class best and he was always really hands-on,’ pupil Michelle Grant, 16, revealed. ‘He even gave some of us his mobile number.’
‘Mr Cohn acted like he was one of us. He was always up for a laugh,’ another girl said. ‘I texted him and he replied with kisses. I told him he shouldn’t be such a flirt and he sent back a winky face.’
SICK
The perverted teacher sent more than a HUNDRED messages to schoolgirl Bonnie’s phone before she said she would disappear with him, a Kent Police source told The Sun. Cohn promised Bonnie that he LOVED her, despite being nearly TWICE her age.
Many of his texts to the underage girl were ‘explicit’ in nature, while promising that the pair would have a future together.
‘He was sick, we all knew it,’ explained Lewis Cooper, 15, another of Jack Cohn’s students. ‘The way he would flirt with the girls and get them to like him. But everyone knew he liked Bonnie most.’
TEARS
Distraught parents Clive and Matilda appeared on telly in tears this week to plead for their girl to get in contact, but there has been no word since the pair disappeared.
Parents have questioned Kett Academy staff over their knowledge of Cohn’s tendencies . . . Turn to page 4
7
The official first week of my GCSEs starts with rain. And I don’t mean a bit of a drizzle or a passing shower – I mean proper torrential rain pounding against the window, waking me before my alarm. I go down to breakfast to find Carolyn singing a Patty Griffin song at the kitchen sink. When I enter, she grins at me. ‘Raaaaaa-aaaaaa–iiiiinnnnnn . . .’ she sings.
‘Wow,’ I say.
‘Pop quiz!’ she says, pointing dramatically at me as I take a seat at the table. ‘What do we call it when the weather is used to show human emotions?’
I blink at her.
‘I’ll give you a clue!’ Only Carolyn can get so enthusiastic about a pop quiz she just made up on a Monday morning. ‘Your English teacher would know the answer.’
‘Can I just have breakfast?’
‘It’s raining,’ Carolyn says encouragingly. ‘What might that say about a person’s emotional state?’
‘That they’re miserable?’
‘Perhaps! And what would we call that as a literary device?’ She smiles expectantly at me, as if she thinks I’m going to suddenly become a different person and know the answer. Actually, not a random different person – it’s like she thinks I’m Valerie. Valerie probably loved spontaneous tests at the breakfast table when she was my age.
‘I don’t know, Carolyn.’
‘Come on, Eden! I’ll give you another clue. It’s a type of literary fallacy.’
‘That definitely sounds like the kind of knowledge that will be relevant to my life.’
I see her smile flicker slightly, but she doesn’t falter. Carolyn is the most unflappable person I know, which is probably why she was so successful as a foster carer.
‘Dramatic fallacy?’ I guess eventually.
‘Close!’ She’s triumphant, pleased with herself, setting a cereal box in front of me. ‘You’re thinking of dramatic licence, which is also a literacy device. Using the weather is pathetic fallacy. See if you can get that into your English exam if you can. It’ll look very impressive.’
‘OK,’ I say. My English exam isn’t for another week and a half, and no doubt I will have forgotten about this conversation by then, but the suggestion has made her happy, so I don’t say so.
‘Hurry up wi
th your breakfast,’ Carolyn says, glancing at the wall clock. ‘Isn’t the revision session at nine thirty?’
‘Yeah, but I’m not going,’ I say. The sessions are optional, and the last thing I want to do right now is go into school – a place I basically hate even on a good day – and have to face my classmates and my teachers. All anyone will want to talk about is Bonnie.
‘Yes, you are,’ Carolyn says simply. ‘So hurry up with your breakfast, OK?’
‘Carolyn!’
‘We agreed you would go to every one of these sessions,’ she reminds me.
‘That was before!’
‘The situation with Bonnie is already taking up enough of your headspace and time,’ she says. ‘God knows what an effect it’s already had on you. You’re not going to spend another day sitting in front of BBC News.’
‘But—’
‘This isn’t up for discussion. I promise I will call you immediately if there’s a breakthrough in the case. But that’s all, Eden. You are going to school today.’