I laugh. We settle down to wait for the rescue boat. But then I see McFadden heading our way. I have to get going. Look capable. In control. I jerk the steering thing (the tiller? the rudder? who cares?) back and forward, trying to get moving. The wind catches the sail and the boom cracks into my head.
‘Jesus!’
‘Want a hand?’ he calls. Smiling. As usual.
I give him the finger. Which was not part of the plan. Ignore him, I remind myself.
He laughs, pulls in his sail and speeds by.
‘Hey, Dave, where’re you going?’ Sarah calls after him. ‘I thought you were helping?’
‘Alex seems to have it under control,’ he shouts.
She looks at me, astonished.
‘I do.’
‘Ready about?’ I hear McFadden say to Rachel.
‘Ready,’ she says, like she’s having a great time.
‘He could have helped!’ Sarah says.
‘We don’t need his help.’
‘Why not?’
‘Freaking show-off.’
‘I’m sick of the rescue boat,’ she moans.
‘We don’t need the rescue boat. Here, grab that oar.’
We spend the rest of the week sailing. Or trying to. Actually, in the case of Sarah and me, it’s more like giving the impression that we’re trying whenever an instructor looks our way. Most of my energy is going into avoiding McFadden. On land, if he goes one way, I go another. If he looks at me, I look away. I learn from The Rockstar and surround myself with people. On Friday, though, when we break for lunch, he manages to nab me. By coming up behind me.
‘Nice wetsuit.’ He says it like he’s laughing at me.
‘Pity about yours.’
Then he does actually laugh. He walks off, singing: ‘Ice, Ice Baby.’
If I had a dead fish, I’d fire it at the back of his head. Instead, I go find Rachel and Sarah, who both rushed ahead to the loo. We hook up again. Get our packed lunches. And go outside to eat. We sit on the top level of the pier, huddled together against the cold, our legs dangling down. We’re so tired, no one speaks. I look out at a sea I’d no problem with until this week.
‘If you’re not eating that, can we swap?’ Sarah asks me.
I look down at the untouched lunch in my lap. Quiche and salad made by Barbara with her usual enthusiasm. I hand it over willingly. I get a chocolate-spread sandwich in return. It’s so badly thrown together, I suspect Sarah made it herself.
I start to squish the slices of bread together between my thumb and finger, making circular dents all over it. It’s kind of relaxing, feeling the bread cave in under pressure.
‘What are you doing to my sandwich?’ Sarah asks, disgusted.
‘Not yours anymore.’
‘Yeah, but I made that.’
‘Jesus, Sarah, I wouldn’t be proud.’
‘Hey,’ Rachel says suddenly, ‘why don’t you guys stay over tonight? We haven’t done that in ages.’
‘Great!’ Sarah says immediately. I’ve never known her to turn down an invite.
There’s no way I’m staying over. Late at night, conversations get deep. And deep is a place I don’t go. Not anymore. I make a disappointed face.
‘Eh, sorry, Rache. I can’t actually stay over, but I can probably come for a few hours. That OK?’
‘Sure,’ Rachel says. But sounds disappointed.
I take out my phone and check with Mike to see if it’s OK. I don’t call The Rockstar. Don’t want to disturb his busy schedule. Which is actually rubbish, given that Mike’s going to have to disturb him anyway. I just want him to get the message.
I love Rachel’s. It’s how a home should be. No hired help, no stylists – just family. Rachel’s father wears a shirt and tie. Not a clingy black designer T-shirt. No shades on the top of his head. No earring. No wedges. But what I love most about Rachel’s is her mum. Yvonne is warm and funny, like my mum used to be. She cooks simple meals, like meat and two veg, like mine used to do. She doesn’t spend hours on some French dish that’s trying too hard to impress. Even though we’re sixteen now she still reminds us to wash our hands. I love her.
Dinner is noisy, with Rachel’s brothers, Harry and Jack, talking over each other and slagging Rachel at every opportunity. It’s, like, how they get their kicks. Her comebacks are so quick, though, she keeps burning them. The only person not laughing is Sarah. Who is so busy eyeing up Jack she seems to have lost the power of hearing.
When everyone’s finished, I stand up and start to collect the plates.
‘What are you doing?’ Rachel says, looking at me like I’ve lost it.
So I sit back down. When what I’d really like is to clear up, so I could hang around the kitchen with Yvonne. When Mum made me help after dinner, I’d think of all the things I could’ve been doing. I never once appreciated it was time with her. I never once thought that the conversations we had were important. Until we couldn’t have them anymore.
‘Thanks, Alex,’ Yvonne says, ‘but it’s Jack’s turn to clear up.’
‘Listen,’ Jack says, eyebrows up. ‘If Alex wants to help, I wouldn’t want to interfere . . .’ Yvonne gives him a look.
‘OK. OK,’ he says, hands up.
‘Off you go, girls,’ Yvonne says. ‘Have fun.’
Fun, I think.
If you walked into Rachel’s room you’d think she was a med student. Her shelves are full of medical encyclopaedias. Her walls are covered in posters of people’s insides. She has one of those plastic model thingies with dummy organs you can take out and put back. She even has a skeleton. Pierre. He wears a cerise wig, a beret and a scarf. He has one hand behind his head, the other on his very obvious hip. Rachel doesn’t just want to be a doctor, she wants to be a cardio-thoracic surgeon. Specifically. She also wants to be an actress. Which explains all the awards and trophies lining her shelves. She’s been taking acting classes since she was four. If anyone could do both, it’d be Rache.
On her bright red Budda Bag, there’s room for us all.
‘So,’ Sarah asks, ‘Jack going out with anyone these days?’ Rachel shoves herself up on the beanbag. ‘If you have even the slightest interest in Neanderthal Man, I suggest getting your head examined. And I’m serious about that.’
Suddenly, out of nowhere, when I should be laughing, it all comes down on me. Like a weight. Like a black cloud. Mum’s gone. And she’s not coming back. No matter how often this happens, it always floors me. One minute I’m OK, the next I’m drowning.
‘I’m going to the loo,’ I say, struggling to get up. Get out. Get air.
Their faces drop. They look at each other. Then back at me. I don’t know how they always know. But they do.
I put a hand up. Smile. ‘I’m fine.’
In the bathroom, I wash my face in cold water. I sit on the side of the bath. Take deep breaths. I try to think of something else, other than the fact that she won’t be in the kitchen when I go home. I text Mike to tell him I’m ready to leave. Because the only place for me when I’m like this is bed.
Finally, I get up and go back. The bedroom door is still open. Inside, I hear them talking. Their voices are so low, I know it’s about me. I stop. Listen. Not wanting to hear. But having to anyway.
‘How long’s this going to last?’ Sarah asks.
‘I don’t know.’
‘I wish she’d talk.’
A big sigh. Then, ‘Me too.’
‘I miss the old Alex,’ Sarah says, forgetting to whisper.
‘The one who used to beat me in pillow fights and smoothie races. Who threw parties and slagged the hell out of me.’
‘I miss her too.’
‘It’s like we’ve lost her.’
‘And it’s just getting worse.’
‘Can’t we do anything?’ Sarah asks.
‘I don’t know any more.’ Rachel sounds so frustrated. ‘I try to talk to her. I tell her we’re there for her. She just pulls further away.’
They’re silent an
d I’m about to walk in, when Rachel speaks again. ‘Mum says the best thing to do is just be there for her. Let her come to us. When she’s ready.’
Not going to happen, I think. Then I walk back in. They look so guilty that, if I hadn’t overheard, I’d have known they were talking about me.
‘Hey,’ I say, forcing cheer into my voice. ‘Mike just called. I have to go. Sorry.’
‘Sure,’ Rachel says. And gets up. ‘I’ll walk you down.’
Saturday afternoons are for my gran, my mum’s mum. Every time I call, I have to open the curtains. I know that when I leave first thing she’ll do is close them again. She says she’s fine, but isn’t. We sit together, surrounded by the clutter of a lifetime (Gran can’t part with anything, even the most useless of presents – ugly vases, a foot massager she never uses, two coat stands). We sit together and we pretend. She sews. Needle going in, needle going out. I talk about school. It’s all very positive. If she notices I’m really slapping on the old enthusiasm, she never says. I’ve always loved my gran, who’ll never be old, because she’s gutsy, always doing stuff for herself – and us. When I was a kid, every Friday night, she’d have me for a sleepover with my cousins. For an only child, it was heaven, a night of pillow fights, midnight feasts and talking late into the night. Sometimes we played tricks on her. No matter how late it was, she always laughed. Then my cousins moved down the country. And I grew up.
Gran still smiles, though not with her eyes. She sighs a lot and thinks I don’t notice. We never talk about Mum – we’d just upset each other – but just being together is like a tribute to her in some weird way. She was Gran’s only daughter. She was my only mum. Well, obviously.
Today, for, like, no reason at all, I start telling her about this really annoying guy in my class. Whose kiss I can’t seem to forget. Not that I mention the kiss. Or the fact that he called me ‘Ice Queen’. That might make her think I’ve emotional problems or something.
‘I mean, he’s obnoxious.’
She lifts her head and looks at me. I mean, really looks at me. For the first time in six months, I have her attention. Her full attention. It’s kind of like a victory. So I get on a bit of a roll, telling her exactly what I mean by obnoxious. Him making me shove the boat off. Practically dumping me in the water. Taking me way too far out. And tricking me into putting on a harness and hanging out the side of the boat.
She’s laughing. Genuinely laughing. ‘I like the sound of him.’
‘Oh no, you’d hate him. He is so full of himself.’
She’s laughing again. ‘Sounds like your grandfather.’
I’m horrified. ‘Granddad was nothing like that.’
She goes all dreamy. ‘Once he was. When we met.’
You never really think about your grandparents in love, do you? I mean, it must have been so long ago.
‘I hope you’re giving that young man a run for his money.’
‘Don’t worry. I don’t put up with any crap.’ Gran doesn’t mind bad language.
‘Good girl. Now, keep me posted on developments.’ There’s a sparkle in her eye, and suddenly I know what’s got her so excited. She thinks this is another boy-meets-girl story. And I hate to burst her bubble, but I quickly reply:
‘There won’t be any developments.’
She gives me a look that says, ‘I know better.’
She so doesn’t.
‘D’you know what?’ she says, ‘I think I feel like a walk.’
‘Really?’ It’s a good sign. She always used to walk.
Sometimes I see my mum’s face in mine. But never when I try. Sometimes I draw it in my sleep, clearer than I can remember it. At night, I go to bed with a sketch pad, pencil and the dog, hoping that in the morning I’ll wake to a picture of her. If I don’t, I’ve always got Homer.
She didn’t hide it from me. Because she didn’t have much time and wanted to use it, to get me ready . . . But you never do get ready. How can you? Maybe if we weren’t so close it’d be easier now. But I wouldn’t swap that for anything. She was my best friend, though I didn’t know that then.
I wanted to hold on to her forever. Sometimes, though, I wanted it to be over. For her. So there’d be no more pain. But always I wanted a miracle. I prayed for one. Every minute of every hour of every day. Though I knew, maybe because she kept telling me, it wasn’t going to happen.
Her last words to me: ‘You’re going to be so great.’ Great is the last thing I feel.
Monday, and everyone’s moaning about being back in class. McFadden acts cool but I’m pretty sure he misses having someone to boss around. I carry on the Ice Queen routine. And it’s going fine.
In the canteen, I sit with Sarah and Rachel as usual. He sits with Mark, also as usual. Only now Orla and Amy are joining them.
‘We are seriously due a party,’ Sarah says.
I look at her. My first thought is: It’s too soon.
My eyes slip back to the other table. Does that guy ever get cold? I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in his school jumper. Always just the shirt – hanging out, sleeves rolled up – and his tie looking like he’s just been in a fight. He’s doing all the talking. Amy is leaning across the table towards him, fiddling with her hair. Oh my God, she’s totally flirting. Tipping her head back and laughing. Ha. Ha. And now she’s lowering her chin and looking up at him with big eyes. Slag. I glance at McFadden. Crud! He’s caught me. I look away.
‘My parents are going away for the weekend,’ Sarah’s saying. ‘For once in my life, I have a freer. And I’m going to make the most of it.’
I glance over again. He catches me again. This time he waves. Jesus. Now Amy’s looking over to see who he’s waving at.
‘I’m going to do proper invitations. I’m going to get fairy lights. And booze, obviously.’ Sarah frowns. ‘If I’ve enough money.’
And there it is, my one hope. That she won’t have enough money. And it won’t go ahead.
For the rest of lunch – in fact, for the rest of the day – I avoid looking at McFadden. I can’t believe how much willpower that takes. But I do it. And then, after trying so hard, it’s all a waste because, in our last class, I get paired with him for sign language. When our names are called out together, I stand absolutely still. I close my eyes, and can’t believe it. All around me I hear people starting to hook up. I don’t move.
‘Together again!’ I open my eyes and he’s in front of me. Beaming. I throw him a Bored-Ice-Queen look. ‘Except this time I didn’t set it up,’ he says.
I squint and shake my head impatiently. ‘What?!’
He shrugs. ‘I set it up for us to sail together,’ he says, matter-of-factly.
I stare at him. ‘You did not.’
Mr Regan (too scary for a nickname) walks over. ‘This is sign-language class. I’m not supposed to be hearing anything.’
‘Sorry,’ David says.
I’m thinking back to the course. He knew everyone: the guy with the loudspeaker, the instructor . . . Everyone. He could have arranged it. If he’d wanted to. But why would he want to?
‘OK,’ I whisper, and I know I’ve got him here, ‘so tell me, why would anyone deliberately trap themselves in a boat with . . .’ I put my fingers in quote marks, ‘“a stuck-up Ice Queen”?’
His smile couldn’t physically be any wider without breaking his face.
‘Shut up,’ I say.
‘Did I say something?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘Maybe I thought you could use a friend.’
I laugh out loud. People turn in our direction.
‘Well, thanks,’ I whisper. ‘But I have friends.’
‘Not according to Ms Kelly’s definition.’
‘What would you know? I’ve great friends, thank you very much.’
He shrugs.
‘You are so smug, d’you know that?’ I want to hit him (understandable). And kiss him (not). ‘I’m going to the loo.’
‘I’m not the person you need to
tell.’
‘Oh my God. You’re so obnoxious.’
I whip around to leave, ignoring Mr Regan and the need to announce my exit. At the last minute, I say one word:
‘Toilet’. I mean, we’re practically adults, do we really need permission? I march out, aware that the whole class is looking. Nobody behaves like that in Regan’s class. But, surprisingly, he takes it.
Outside, I regain my inner poise. When I come back, I’m cool. McFadden signs away at me. And I don’t know whether it’s his bad technique or my inability to get this whole signing thing, but I haven’t a clue what he’s saying – if he is actually saying something, that is. I wouldn’t trust anything he does, that guy. There’s so much I want to say. Like, there’s nothing wrong with my friends – the problem’s with me. They’d be good listeners if I was a good talker. And how do you know anyway? Are you spying on me?
What I do say, when the bell finally goes, is, ‘Thank God for that.’
As I’m leaving, I’m glad to hear the teacher call McFadden back. But it’s nothing. He just wants him to set up the room for an assignment tomorrow.
I power out of the school. I mean, who does he think he is? Talking to me like that. Talking about Rachel and Sarah like that. They’re my friends. And they’re good friends. Actually, you know what, I can’t let this go. I stop walking. Rachel and Sarah catch up. I hadn’t noticed I’d left them behind.
‘Damn. I forgot my mobile.’
‘We’ll go back with you,’ Rachel says.
‘No, it’s OK. You go on.’
Rachel looks at me a little too long.
‘You sure?’ asks Sarah.
‘Yeah, sure. See you tomorrow.’ I smile innocently at Rachel.
‘OK. Tomorrow,’ she says, and they both turn to go.
Back in the classroom, Mark Delaney’s helping McFadden drag all the desks into a circle. They look up when I come in. McFadden smiles. I start to walk to my desk like I’ve forgotten something.
‘You go ahead,’ I hear him tell Mark. ‘I’ll finish up.’
Mark looks from me to his friend, then shrugs. He flings his bag over his shoulder. ‘See you later.’
The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually) Page 3