by Sara Barnard
The flat was large on the inside, stretching further back than the outside had suggested and containing a decent-sized living room and gigantic kitchen. We passed Sarah’s room, which was toward the front of the flat, and walked the full length of the hall to Suzanne’s, which was tucked away like an afterthought next to the bathroom.
Suzanne’s room was much smaller than I’d expected, with a sloping ceiling and hanging fairy lights that made the whole room feel more like a fort. Almost every inch of the walls was covered not just with photos, like in my room, but with posters and magazine clippings and postcards and scraps of newspaper. Post-it notes were stuck haphazardly over the cracks between the paraphernalia, and when I looked closely I saw they each contained scribbles in Suzanne’s handwriting. Poetry, maybe? Song lyrics?
“Wow,” Rosie said, taking it in. “This is . . . busy.”
“Bare walls make me nervous,” Suzanne said casually, hopping onto her bed and sitting up on her crossed ankles.
The only thing left bare in the room was the window, looking out onto the garden. Even the windowsill was empty. Seeing me looking, Suzanne shrugged and said, “Always leave an exit clear.” I couldn’t tell if she was kidding.
“Didn’t this take ages?” Rosie asked, still looking around.
I knew what she meant. The display looked like the kind you’d expect to have been built up over several years. Suzanne had only had about two months.
“Yeah, but I did it when I first got here. School hadn’t started and I didn’t know anyone, and it was like a project for a couple of weeks. Kept me busy.” She was still smiling, but there was a touch of anxiety on her face. “Maybe it’s a bit much, but I like it. Always have something to look at, you know?”
“I think it’s great,” I said, meaning it.
Suzanne beamed at me. “Sarah says it gives her a headache, so she stays out. Though she was the one who got me the Calvin and Hobbes prints.” She pointed to a large spot above the chest of drawers, plastered over with comic strips.
“You like Marilyn Monroe?” Rosie was looking at a black-and-white portrait of the actress I hadn’t noticed. I realized there were postcard-sized replicas of old posters of some of her films dotted around the walls.
“I love her,” Suzanne replied.
“Wow, I had no idea you were such a cliché.” Rosie softened this remark by flashing Suzanne a mischievous grin over her shoulder.
“There are worse things to be,” Suzanne said with a shrug, smiling. “I just think she was amazing. Do you know anything about her except her being a sex symbol? She had a really hard time, but she still became this icon.”
“A sex icon,” Rosie pointed out flatly.
Suzanne rolled her eyes. “You should read up a bit on her—you’d probably be surprised. Oh! We should watch one of her films!”
I drifted out of the conversation, knowing Rosie would never agree to spend her evening watching an old film from the 1950s, and looked at Suzanne’s mirror. It was almost full-length and bordered with photos and handwritten lists. I leaned closer to read one of them.
Brighton Rock
aka My Sister Moved to Brighton and All I Gave Her
Was This Lousy Playlist
1) Seaside Shuffle—Terry Dactyl and the Dinosaurs
2) End of the Season—The Kinks
3) Seaside—The Kooks
4) Waiting For The 7:18—Bloc Party
5) Pinball Wizard—The Who
6) Brighton Rock—Elastica
7) Green Eyes—Suggs
8) Rumble in Brighton—The Stray Cats
9) Brighton Rock—Queen
(NOT THE SAME SONG, DON’T SKIP!)
10) The Sea—Morcheeba
(Apparently this song is about Brighton—who knew!)
11) You’re Not from Brighton—Fatboy Slim
Bonus
12) Holes—Passenger
I’d lived in Brighton all my life, and I hadn’t heard of some of the songs. I pulled out my phone and took a picture so I could look them up when I got home. Rosie and Suzanne were still sparring over what film they should watch—“Some Like It Hot is a classic!”—so I glanced over a few more of the photos and playlists.
Hey Suze, Don’t Get the Blues
aka Cheerful Songs for Sadful Days
1) The Life of Riley—The Lightning Seeds
2) Here Comes the Sun—The Beatles
3) Simple Song—The Shins
4) It’s Time—Imagine Dragons
5) So Alive—Ryan Adams
6) Smile—The Supernaturals
7) The Diamond Church Street Choir—The Gaslight Anthem
8) Fascinating New Thing—Semisonic
9) Uptight (Everything’s Alright)—Stevie Wonder
10) Get Rhythm—Johnny Cash
11) Itchycoo Park—Small Faces
12) I’m a Cuckoo—Belle & Sebastian
13) Marvellous—The Lightning Seeds
There was a cartoon of a duck wearing headphones in the bottom right-hand corner of this one. On another list—Our Humble Beginnings, aka Look At All The Great Music Manchester Has Given the World—the same duck was smoking a cigarette. I looked for the duck on another list and finally found him partially hidden by a photo of two children—presumably Suzanne and Brian—on a beach. The duck’s head in this one was bandaged. This playlist was named And Sometimes They Write Songs, aka Survivors Come In All Shapes and Guises.
“Did your brother write all of these?” I asked, turning my head toward Suzanne and gesturing at the mirror.
“The playlists? Yeah.”
“He must really love music.” I said. What I meant was, He must really love you.
“Oh yeah.” She considered this, then smiled. “I really love music. We get it from our dad.” She said this casually, as if her father wasn’t a loaded topic.
“I haven’t even heard of loads of these songs,” I said. This was probably because I considered music one of life’s background essentials, and so had never really payed close attention to it. It was there, and that was nice, but in an added-extra kind of way.
Suzanne laughed. “Don’t give him too much credit. I think he Googles his themes and then picks the tracks he likes.”
I looked closer at the pictures on the mirror, realizing that a good half of them were of her and Brian at various ages. They looked nothing like each other: her, blond and wispy; him, dark-haired and stocky.
“You guys were so cute,” Rosie said, taking one of the photos for a closer look. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Suzanne flinch, as if stopping herself from reaching out to take it back.
There were no photos that I could see of anyone else who looked like a family member. The photos on the walls contained people around our age, strangers to me but unmistakably friend-shaped. I wondered, for the first time, what it must have been like to leave them all behind and start over. To trust the strangers you met with the weight of the second chance you’d been given. I felt the responsibility, suddenly, surrounded by the blueprints of her rebuilt life.
“Excuse me,” Suzanne said, her voice light. “We’re still cute.”
Rosie grinned at her. “Obviously.” She reattached the photo to the mirror. “He looks cool. Is he a good brother?”
“The best,” Suzanne said. “He’s the only one who loves me.” She said this lightly, in the same matter-of-fact way I’d say I was five foot three. Like there wasn’t even a question.
“Well, that’s not true,” Rosie said, in the same tone.
Suzanne leaned back fully so she was almost lying on her bed, her head on her pillow, eyes on the ceiling. “Do you think a dog knows it’s a dog if it lives with people?”
Rosie and I looked at each other.
“Like, what if it had never seen another dog,” Suzanne continued, as if this was normal. “How would it know?”
“Walking on all fours would probably be a clue,” Rosie said.
“Would it though? They’re not that smart.”
“I’ll make you one,” Suzanne offered. “And I’ll put loads of ABBA songs on it.”
Rosie laughed. This was clearly an inside joke I had no hope of getting. “No playlist is worth listening to if ABBA isn’t on it.”
Suzanne was grinning. She looked at me. “Want one, Cads?”
“Sure,” I said. “Go light on the ABBA though.”
They both cracked up as if I’d said something funny on purpose, when I’d actually been completely serious.
“You just wait,” Suzanne teased. “I’ll convert you.”
“You can try,” I hedged. “So—Some Like It Hot?”
Suzanne bounced up off the bed, looking thrilled. “Yes! See, Roz? Two against one. Now you can’t argue.” She gave my arm a spontaneous squeeze. “Caddy’s on my side. Right, Caddy?”
“Right,” I said. I couldn’t help grinning at Rosie’s sour expression. “Sorry, Roz. You’re outvoted.”
“You’re not supposed to gang up on me,” Rosie said sulkily. “That’s not how this works.”
“Except it is,” Suzanne replied. She went over to her shelf of DVDs and began searching through them. “You just wait. You’ll love it. I promise.”
9
THE FOLLOWING WEEK THERE WAS parent-teacher conference night, a rare evening with both my parents. On the short drive to Esther’s, Dad attempted to cram in the six weeks’ worth of information he’d missed while being Superstar Doctor of the Year, which I found irritating, but Mum seemed to think was endearing. She kept making eye contact with me in the rearview mirror and rolling her eyes in a misguidedly chummy way.
The evening went as I’d expected. I worked hard. I was pleasant. My grades were satisfactory. I should speak up more during lessons. I should get involved more in extracurricular activities. These were the kinds of things Esther’s teachers said to the filler students like me. Credit where it was due to those of us who kept the boat steady while others created waves. I’d never really minded being one of those. It only ever bothered me when I knew it bothered Dad.
I could see the vaguely frustrated look on his face while he sipped coffee and made small talk with other parents, introducing himself as Dr. Oliver in a way that made me wonder if he was expecting applause. My mother kept putting her hand to my shoulder and squeezing gently.
“Your English teacher seemed impressed,” was all she could muster when we were finally back in the car and heading home.
“Mmm,” I said.
“It doesn’t hurt to stick your head above the parapet occasionally,” Dad said. “There’s no shame in being noticed.”
“John . . . ,” Mum said, a soft warning.
“I try my best, Dad,” I said, knowing I was wasting my breath.
I heard his short exhalation of annoyance and tried to ignore the pang of hurt that he always managed to induce at times like this. He never actually said it, but he didn’t need to. I was not the confident star he’d thought Esther’s would turn me into, and this became more and more apparent each year, with every parent-teacher conference and end-of-year report.
And it wasn’t just him. I wondered if I’d ever be able to shake the feeling that, for all my opportunities and privileges, I’d never be as good as Tarin, who had shone her whole life on her own merit. All the money thrown at my education, and what did I have to show for it, apart from a handful of A grades I’d probably have had anyway and a good school name to put on my resumé? What a waste I was. What a disappointment.
When we got home I took refuge in my room and curled up under the covers with my laptop and a bag of Skittles, hoping to be soothed by the combined comforts of YouTube and Buzzfeed. I had just started scrolling through a series of gifs entitled “17 Ways You Know You’re a Private School Girl” when my bedroom door opened and Mum came in.
“He doesn’t mean to be that way,” she said, forgoing both a greeting and an invitation. She sat down on the bed beside me, craning her neck slightly to look at my laptop screen. I pushed it down pointedly, and a flicker of disappointment passed over her face.
“Mmmm,” I said, deliberately noncommittal.
“It’s because he loves you and wants what’s best for you,” she continued. “We both do.”
Making me feel inadequate isn’t exactly a sign of love, I thought, but I kept the words inside my head, where they belonged.
* * *
On Saturday, I went to the marina with Rosie and Suzanne, who were meeting a group of their school friends at the movies. Rosie’s mother drove us, even though we could have gotten the bus, and then insisted on paying for our tickets. Rosie, hunched inside her jacket, complained about her interference for almost the entire time after her mother left and before the rest of the group arrived, until Suzanne made a pointed comment about it being nice that she had a mother who loved her that much, which shut her up.
The rest of their friends turned up not long after, spirited and loud, and I felt myself begin to shrink inside, even as I pasted my most sociable grin on my face. Charlie, Levina’s boyfriend, was leading the show as always. Everything was fair game.
“So how’s Esther’s, Caddy?” he asked me, the question deceptively friendly. He was looking at me, and he was smiling, but his eyes weren’t even focused on me. It occurred to me that if I turned away and asked him to name the band on my T-shirt (Haim) or the color of my eyes (brown), he wouldn’t be able to say.
“Fine,” I said stupidly, because what else could I say? There’s something unstoppable about being set up as the punch line to a joke. Even when you see it coming, there’s no avoiding the inevitable.
“Got a girlfriend, yet?”
I felt my face flush scarlet, my heart seizing. “What?”
“We all know the truth about Esther’s girls,” Charlie’s eyes were dancing. “Lesbi honest.”
Almost everyone laughed, even Rosie, though she hooked her arm through mine and squeezed. But Suzanne, who was wearing an exaggerated not-amused expression, said, “Is that the best you can do, Charles? A lesbian joke about a girls’ school?”
Charlie’s smile dropped, but only momentarily, returning with a slight strain. “Who said it was a joke?”
Suzanne rolled her eyes at him, then looked at me, keeping her shoulders turned outward so she was still addressing the whole group. “So little imagination. How many times have you heard that joke, Cads?” Her sparkling eyes were focused on me, steady and sharp and encouraging.
“Every time a guy thinks he’s being funny?” I said, taking this unexpected gift of a chance to speak.
My voice wasn’t as strong as hers or Charlie’s had been, but it was enough. Everyone laughed, and even Charlie shrugged and grinned, accepting the shift.
As everyone turned to head into the multiplex, Suzanne bounced a little on her feet, taking hold of my free arm and hooking hers through it.
“Thanks,” I whispered, so no one else would hear.
She squeezed my arm rather than respond, a satisfied grin flashing across her face. We walked through the doors together, still connected, a happy line of three.
* * *
Suzanne and I were standing by the ticket machines not long after, waiting for the others, who were still queuing for popcorn. I took a sip of Coke, which already tasted a bit flat, and reached out to steal one of Suzanne’s nachos.
“What’s taking them so long?” she grumbled, angling the box toward me so I could swipe some salsa.
“Rosie’s always like this,” I replied. “She has real issues making decisions, especially when it’s food.”
Suzanne smiled. “Yesterday, at lunch—”
She stopped so abruptly I thought it was for effect, until I saw her face. The smile had disappeared, and she looked stunned. The bad kind of stunned. The horrified kind.
“Oh my God,” she said, and her voice was so f
lat it didn’t even sound like her. Before I could ask what, she said, in the same flat voice, “That’s my dad.”
I turned my head to see where she was looking. The man in her sightline was not the figure I’d have expected even if I’d been prepared for the sight of him. I’d imagined someone huge, with broad shoulders and thick fists. This man was lean and average-looking, with dark brown hair flecked with gray. He was wearing a white shirt and jeans, like my own dad did when he wasn’t working. He was laughing at something another man was saying, looking relaxed. Not at all like the kind of man who could hit a child. Could hit Suzanne.
In the few seconds it took me to take all of this in, and before I could even think of what to say to Suzanne, he must have felt our stares because he glanced over at us. For an instant his face registered shock, but just for an instant. I saw his eyes flicker slightly, taking in the full length of Suzanne, but then, his expression blank, he turned back to the people he was with.
I looked back at Suzanne just in time to see the agonized expression on her face before she shoved the box of nachos into my hands, turned, and bolted.
The last few seconds had been so confusing it was all I could do to hold on to my Coke and the partially upended nachos. Suzanne had shoved the box so roughly a bunch of the tortilla chips had fallen on the floor, and I saw a splotch of salsa on my jacket. I tried to right the items in my hands, but I felt strangely disconnected, as if my own world had itself been partially upended. Which was stupid, of course; it hadn’t even happened to me.
I hesitated in the middle of the foyer, torn between going after her and getting Rosie for backup. Despite myself, I glanced toward the man again. Now, he looked pained. Before he could turn and see me standing alone, I went to find Suzanne.
I found her bent double on a bench by the parking lot, arms clutched around her head. A woman sitting on the other end of the bench was looking at her half with worry and half with alarm, clearly wondering if she should say anything.
Before she could make a move, I kneeled on the concrete at Suzanne’s feet, careful to leave a bit of space for her to breathe. Once, when Tarin had been rendered almost catatonic after a particularly bad panic attack, I’d moved in too close in my attempt to help and she’d head butted me—completely by accident—when her head jerked back at the sound of my voice.