Under Rose-Tainted Skies

by Louise Gornall

  ‘Knock, knock.’ Mom pops her head around my door and I snatch the piece of paper out of sight. Mostly because I’m embarrassed by the meal I’m making out of this. ‘I think I’m going to call it a night,’ she says. ‘I can’t wait to be in my own bed.’ She’s all kinds of dreamy, imagining her fluffy duvet and soft sheets as she says this.

  ‘It’s good to have you back.’ I mean it. Listening to her potter around downstairs has been music to my ears. ‘Goodnight.’

  She looks at me, uncertain for a second, and then her bloodshot eyes spot my phone on the floor. It slipped off the bed about an hour ago, and I’ve yet to pick it up, a what’s-the-point attitude oozing out of my pores.

  ‘Uh-oh.’ Mom steps into my room. ‘Did he not text back?’

  ‘No.’ I sit up, clear my throat, and braid my fingers together. ‘But then, he has nothing to text back to. I didn’t send anything yet.’

  ‘I see,’ Mom replies. She scoops up my phone and perches on the bed. The faint scent of industrial-strength disinfectant and antiseptic still clings to her clothes.

  ‘TV didn’t adequately prepare me for talking to boys in real life.’

  ‘Is there maybe something I should have done?’ Mom winces.

  ‘No!’ I exclaim. ‘Not at all.’ What’s she supposed to do? Tag on some boy advice after she’s done convincing me there isn’t about to be an apocalypse? Talk me through dating etiquette once she’s finished assuring me I won’t choke on my food? ‘You’ve done everything.’

  Also, let’s be honest, two weeks ago, the likelihood of me ever talking to another human being beyond her, Dr Reeves, and the staff over at Helping Hands was slim to none. At least for the foreseeable future. Two weeks ago there was still an infinite amount of time to talk to me about boys.

  ‘Maybe I can help now. What are you thinking?’

  My face crumples and I give her that look, the one that says Have you got a spare sixty years while I take you through the list?

  ‘Right,’ she replies, reading my mind. ‘So what’s your biggest fear?’

  ‘I have two.’

  ‘Hit me.’

  I count them out with my fingers. ‘I don’t know when the right time to text is. Like, I’m thinking today is too soon?’

  ‘Not at all. Did you not see the size of that boy’s grin as he left? Any time would be a good time.’ When she smiles her nose scrunches. I like the way her long-since-dead Southern accent wakes up when she says ‘boy’.

  ‘You lie.’

  ‘Hand to God. That boy wants you to text him as soon as poss, I guarantee it.’

  ‘Huh.’ My eyes go glassy and I get lost in thoughts of Luke and his smile, his eyes, his arms, the way his shirt grabs his body. Click. Mom snaps her fingers in front of my face.

  ‘You need me to get you a cold compress to go with that swoon?’

  ‘Ha ha.’ But in all seriousness, that might not be a bad idea. It’s hot in here; I have to shed my sweater.

  ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Right, the second thing . . . I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing.’

  She starts chuckling. Not quite the reaction I was hoping for. ‘Hey. Why are you laughing?’ I give her a slight nudge with my shoulder. ‘This is serious.’

  ‘Ahh, baby,’ she says, running her palm down my cheek and giving it a slight pinch. ‘You realize what this is?’

  ‘Horrible?’

  ‘Perfectly normal,’ she says, wrapping normal in air quotes. That’s a thing we do a lot around here. Both her and Dr Reeves are forever exercising their fingers to defuse the definition. ‘There’s not a person in the world at your age who doesn’t worry about this stuff. Bad news? There is no one answer. You just have to be yourself and do what you think is best.’ She kisses my forehead and stands to leave.

  ‘That’s it?’ Normally her advice is more helpful, more . . . more.

  ‘That’s it.’ She shrugs, and her palms slap down against her thighs. ‘You’ll figure it out. Have fun. Be yourself. That’s all you need.’ Her tone is teasing. I’m surprised she doesn’t slip in a wink before she disappears down the hall.

  ‘Ugh!’ I exclaim, feigning an aneurysm and falling back on my bed.

  Why do people keep telling me to be myself? Honestly. It’s like they’ve never even met me.

  Hi :)

  That’s it. After a millennium, an ice age, a fricking era of dissecting dialogue, that’s the grand conversation starter I settle on. I hit send and a fizzing current zips through my veins, making my body buzz. Excitement is electric. It reminds me of this one Halloween night, for ever ago, when me and a couple of kids from school dared one another to knock on the door of the abandoned house beside Bennick Marsh. Legend had it a witch lived there.

  My phone bleeps to tell me the message has been sent, and without thinking, I throw my cell to the end of the bed. I don’t know, maybe my subconscious was going for out of sight, out of mind. It doesn’t matter; I retrieve it a half second later because it feels like a galaxy too far away.

  My heart is in my throat, my intestines all tangled up. I’m not sure any more if it’s nerves or excitement. Maybe a bit of both. I place my phone on my pillow, flip over on to my stomach, and lean up on my elbows. With hawk eyes I watch my screen fade to black, then start willing it to light up with a text.

  It doesn’t.

  The second hand on my clock goes round and round and round, sending my head into a spin. Reluctantly, I stop scrutinizing the dial and collapse into the crook of my arm. I don’t have the latest cell, one of those that tell you when a text has been read. I’m completely in the dark. An agoraphobic obsessive-compulsive’s most favourite place to be.

  I’m listing forms of torture that would be infinitely more merciful than waiting for a boy to text back when, at last, my cell bleeps.

  My fingers are slicker than oil as I unlock my phone and punch buttons to find the message: Amy?

  Ouch. At least the message I sent him was better than that. A picture of a monkey scratching its butt would have been better; almost anything else would have been better.

  One Thanksgiving my mom bought a deep-fat fryer. On Sunday mornings, she likes to load it with everything she can find in the fridge, and the smell of greasy food floods the air. It lingers for hours, clings to your skin, your hair, and the fabric of your clothes. It’s sticky and gross and the only way to get rid of it is a scalding-hot shower and plenty of soap. I feel like that right now.

  Deep breaths.

  My brain starts pitching ideas: don’t freak out. He couldn’t have known it was me texting. I didn’t sign my name and he doesn’t have my number. So how could he have known? But then, he was obviously expecting a message from Amy. Amy, the girl whose name keeps cropping up. Why doesn’t he already have her number? Should I be texting a boy who wants to talk to Amy? Should I be texting a boy that Amy wants to talk to? Am I going to become one of those girl-friends? You know, a girl that is his friend and nothing more? And if I am going to become that, will I have to hear stories about him and Amy?

  I chew on my nails, pick up my phone, heart thumping fast, and hammer on the buttons that spell out my name. This time it takes me less than a minute to write my message.

  It’s Norah.

  My thumb dances around the send button until I utilize a burst of courage and punch it. It’s gone. MESSAGE SENT flashes up on the screen. I hope to God I’m not texting someone else’s boyfriend. I’ve seen love-triangle fights go down on my Hub feed. It never ends well.

  I wait for Luke’s reply. I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more.

  He doesn’t text back.

  I watch my phone until 5.00 a.m., occasionally illuminating the screen to make sure my signal bar and battery are both still full. They are.

  It’s possible I’ve ingested enough of my own fingers to call myself a cannibal. They’re so chewed I have trouble straightening them. I very much doubt every girl my age does this. This is perhaps bordering more on my unhealth
y levels of panic.

  By 5.30, I’m begging sleep to drag me under.

  It’s only 7.10 when my cruel mind forces my eyes open. The sun is firing lasers through my curtains. I duck under my duvet, make a blanket fort to shield myself from the scorching rays.

  Despite what was probably one of the most restless sleeps in recorded history, I’m comfortable. My mattress is a giant marshmallow today, soft and squishy. I bear down and sink into it.

  I’m contemplating pulling a sickie, blowing off studying, eating and talking to stay here all day when I hear clattering coming from the kitchen below. Mom is like a bird, up at the crack of dawn and always pottering around in the garden. She loves growing things. There are forty-eight different colours of flower in our garden. Eight of them are roses. She keeps them in a pattern that reminds me of a rainbow. I would like to be able to go over and smell them one summer.

  With reluctant fingers I reach up, snatch my phone off the dresser, and drag it beneath the blankets. A streak of pain, like toothache, flashes across my chest when I illuminate the screen and discover there’s no text waiting for me. I close my eyes, try to convince my brain that, unlike me, Luke goes to sleep at night. He probably hasn’t even seen my message yet. But it’s like trying to convince a kid that Brussels sprouts taste better than fries. Pointless.

  I’m mentally listing the benefits of being cryogenically frozen when I hear Mom talking and my eyes pop back open. It sounds like she’s conversing with a second someone. Maybe I’m mistaken. She likes to listen to the radio. Could be that. I narrow my eyes, because that’s what you do when you want a closer listen. There are definitely two voices, and one of them belongs to a guy. A burst of simultaneous laughter bounds up the stairs, confirming that it’s not the radio. She definitely has company.

  I morph into Nancy Drew, slip out of bed, pull on a sweater, and carefully inch open my door. Mom is explaining the accident to someone. A cop or an insurance guy, probably.

  ‘Wow. It sounds scary. But you’re okay?’ Luke. Luke is in my kitchen. Talking to my mom.

  I choke. My head turns into a tumble dryer, spinning fast and ferociously. Any upset over his first text message, and the preceding lack of, vanishes. I was expecting a little more time to prepare myself for his return. His return. Our chat. My explanation of why I can’t shake his hand.

  I slip into a trance, stare at my feet as I walk across the hall to the bathroom and brush my teeth. The conversations that happen in my head are unbridled. There is no line of questioning left uncovered. I lose count of how many brushstrokes I make and have to start over six times. When I’m finally done, my pearly whites are so polished they squeak against my tongue.

  I dab my mouth with a cucumber-fresh wet wipe – I can’t use the towel on my face on account of this article I read about bathroom bacteria that breed in fabric.

  ‘He’s nice. He’ll understand,’ I tell my reflection.

  And if he doesn’t?

  ‘Then it’s like Dr Reeves’s story. I don’t need him as a friend.’ I wish my bottom lip weren’t wobbling when I said that.

  As casually as I can muster, I trot downstairs, take the last step twice, and saunter to the kitchen. I’m trying to channel breezy, floating, pretending like I don’t even care that he’s here.

  I hope he can’t see the strain on my face.

  ‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ my mom chirps from beneath her oversize straw hat. She’s wearing the teddy bear sweater. ‘Look who I found while I was out weeding that pesky patch of daisies in the front yard.’ Luke jumps up from his seat, knocking the table with his elbow and making his coffee cup rattle.

  ‘Hi. My classes don’t start till ten. There’s this school administration thing going on,’ he says. ‘I was hoping maybe I’d catch you hanging out by your front door.’ I stare at him. He stares back. Something about his stance makes me think of a dog with its tail between its legs.

  ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me, I have more weeds to destroy,’ my mom says, picking up a trowel and swishing it around like a sword. She trots past me, plants a kiss on my cheek before heading out of the front door.

  Then silence.

  Amy. That’s the name of the enormous elephant he’s carted into my kitchen. I’m okay with that. The longer we spend talking about the text debacle, the more likely he is to forget about my life debacle.

  The tornado in my head picks up speed and I have to scratch. I need to stay busy. The silence is a lit burner and my panic attack is already starting to bubble. I exhale a breath, head to the fridge, pour myself a glass of orange juice, and take a sip. It makes me cringe. Freshly squeezed citrus and recently brushed teeth do not mix.

  When I turn around, Luke is channelling his inner psychic and attempting to read my mind, again. I wonder if he realizes that concentration won’t make my skull any more transparent.

  Does he want me to break the silence? I hope not. I’d be more comfortable sharing a swimming pool with a gaggle of potty-training toddlers.

  ‘About the text . . .’ he says. Half my brain is with him; the other half is straightening a tub of butter in the fridge. ‘You remember me telling you about Queen Amy?’

  ‘You said she was hunting you.’ Ugh. My voice wobbles nearly as much as my knees.

  ‘Right. See, she just broke up with this guy, Derek, and, well . . .’ He pauses, sits down, squirms in his seat. ‘She keeps dropping not-so-subtle hints that she wants to hook up with me.’ I glare at a jar of mayonnaise, try to melt it into mush with my mind. ‘She is one insistent chick.’

  If he starts detailing said insistence, I might have to pick up this damn fridge and throw it. At least, I would if I weren’t, you know, teetering on the precipice of panic.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me this. It’s really none of my business.’ I fight to get the words out.

  ‘Thing is, she kept calling, so I blocked her number. Last night, when you messaged, I didn’t recognize the digits and just assumed it was her, using a friend’s phone or something.’ I turn to him, relieved, though I’m sure I don’t look it. Holding off anxiety feels like clenching your teeth for a prolonged period. My face aches; pressure is building at the back of my neck.

  ‘I would have told you this last night, but my phone up and died on me. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Anyway, I just needed you to know that I don’t go around giving out my phone number to every girl I meet.’ He puts emphasis on the word you, a sentiment that I’m sure would make me feel like a million bucks under different circumstances.

  More silence. Stretching out for ever.

  There’s nothing to think about. There’s nothing to do. My head whips around the room searching for a distraction, which is when it hits me that I’ve forgotten to breathe. So easily done.

  ‘Norah. You don’t look so good,’ Luke says, the tempo of his words rising.

  My heart stops dead. It makes me light-headed, and I have to grab the countertop to steady myself. I’m free-falling.

  ‘Whoa. Are you okay?’ Luke panics, lurches towards me, and snatches my arm. His fingers close around my wrist.

  His flesh, pressed against mine. His palm is warm, damp. I think of pores, open pores on my arm, and his sweat settling on my skin. He sees me glaring, releases me immediately, and lifts his hands in surrender.

  ‘Norah, honey. Relax, take a deep breath.’ My mom swans into the kitchen, 700 per cent casual as poor Luke loses his shit all over our linoleum.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Luke splutters. ‘I thought she was going to fall.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ My mom dismisses his apology with a flick of her wrist then continues to wash the soil off her hands in the sink.

  The kitchen is turning. Words are melding into one.

  ‘Do you need me to do something?’ Luke can’t stand still. He’s looking at my mom like he might be getting irritated by her lack of haste. Thing is, when you’ve lived this a thousand times, it becomes less of a trauma and more of a scraped-knee type situatio
n. ‘Is there something I can do?’

  Go home, I think.

  ‘Stop worrying, for starters. I’m not sure I can handle two anxiety attacks at once.’ She smiles, all warmth. ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ Mom links her arm through mine and leads me to a chair. ‘This will all be over in a few minutes.’

  Why in hells bells would she offer him a seat? This is not a play, a production. He’s the last person I want around to witness this. But she is a lover, a Beatles song, one of those people who collect inspirational quotes. She thinks that all my baggage shouldn’t matter. She thinks people should see past it, should see that I am more than what is wrong with me. The clouds in her sky are always rose-coloured, which I know is a beautiful way to be. Alas, I have a mind that muddies everything. My skies aren’t so pretty; more tainted with fear than tinted with whimsy.

  I cling to the tabletop; the room is tipping upwards like the Titanic.

  ‘Norah, your lips are going purple. If you don’t take a breath, you’re going to pass out,’ Mom says, kneeling in front of me and resting her hands on the top of my legs. She rubs circles. ‘Come on, honey. Take a deep breath.’ She shows me how and I copy her. The rhythm feels unnatural. My chest fights it, tries to go faster, tries to go slower. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck.

  It goes on and on and on. I think maybe a century passes before my body gets so tired of twitching it comes to a complete stop. I’m still, calm, in the same way an ocean is before a big storm.

  I can hear Mom talking, but a bubble of awkward silence is expanding around me. My shoulders hunch over, my legs shake; my head sags and a curtain of blonde hair flops forward. I hide my face behind it, wishing I could stay cloaked like this for ever.

  Luke’s army-brown boots are in my line of sight. His left foot bounces. I attempt to think myself invisible. But that never works and I’m still here.

  ‘You need some water?’ Mom asks, standing and patting my shoulder. I nod. Can’t talk. My mouth is so dry I’m afraid my throat will split. ‘Luke, can I get you another coffee?’