A Quiet Kind of Thunder

by Sara Barnard

  I almost die with how adorable it is. Exactly, I sign, somehow managing not to show my complete adoration on my face. (I think.)

  Want to get some lunch? he asks. I’m on my way to the canteen.

  Sure, I sign casually. I hike my backpack further up my shoulder and smile at him. Lead the way.

  On Friday, I give in to Tem’s constant begging and agree to go running with her. It’s a cool evening and the air feels fresh because it rained earlier. Even the pavement smells good. I bring Rita for moral support and meet Tem at the park near my school.

  ‘Hello!’ Tem shouts happily, throwing both her arms in the air before dropping into a squat to give Rita a hug.

  ‘You’re in a good mood,’ I observe.

  ‘I am!’ Tem jumps to her feet and bounces on the spot. ‘It’s perfect running weather. My best friend is running with me. Rita’s here. And . . .’ She wiggles her eyebrows at me. ‘I spent the afternoon with Karam.’

  We take a long, lazy route around the residential part of town, alternating left and right turns for a while and then doubling back on ourselves. Tem lets me set the pace and doesn’t complain when I have to stop and wheeze. I’m not really up to talking and running, which is fine because she talks enough for both of us.

  I hear all about Karam, who seems to have become even more perfect since the last time she’d told me about him. They’d apparently spent a couple of hours writing and printing leaflets for a march that’s happening in London in a few weeks’ time – Karam is arranging a coach to take people into the city – and then gone for a drink after.

  ‘An alcoholic drink?’ I ask.

  ‘For him, yes. For me, no. I wanted one, but he said no, so I had a Coke.’ She beams at me. ‘He’s really mature.’

  They’d ‘talked and talked and talked’, had two more drinks (‘He let me have a G&T after the first two Cokes!’) and then gone for a walk.

  ‘Is “walk” code for kissing?’ I ask.

  Tem grins. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So are you happier at college?’

  ‘Stef, I just told you I was kissing Karam Homsi. Ask me about that. College is boring.’

  I roll my eyes. ‘How much can you really say about kissing?’

  She chokes out a laugh. ‘I’ll remind you that you said that when you finally kiss someone.’

  I stop running and put my hands on my waist, squeezing out a breath. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘Oh, I’m teasing,’ she says easily. ‘I just mean obviously there’s loads to say about kissing. And he’s such a good kisser, Stef. Like, a kissing god.’

  ‘Are you going out now?’

  ‘You’re asking all the wrong questions!’ she says in frustration. ‘Can’t you be excited for me?’

  ‘For kissing a guy?’ I’m not sure why I’m feeling so irritated.

  ‘For getting noticed by Karam. He’s so amazing, honestly. And he wants to be with me.’

  ‘So you are going out?’

  ‘For God’s sake, Steffi!’ she snaps.

  ‘So no, then?’

  Tem lets out a growl of annoyance and then turns away from me, sprinting off down the street. I watch her go, still waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. I lean against the garden wall behind me and pull out my phone. I’m not sure how long it will take Tem to make her way back to me – she always does eventually – so I open jackbytes, hoping to see Rhys’s name on the online list.

  rhysespieces: howdy

  stefstef: ☺

  rhysespieces: wotcha?

  stefstef: i’m RUNNING

  rhysespieces: what really? right now?

  rhysespieces: don’t run and text, stef. that’s how broken ankles happen.

  stefstef: ok, i’m taking a break right now. how are you?

  rhysespieces: i’m good. playing gran turismo with alfie. he says hi.

  stefstef: hi alfie!

  rhysespieces: are you running by yourself?

  stefstef: no, i’m with Tem. did I tell you she’s a runner?

  rhysespieces: no, that’s cool. i run sometimes too.

  stefstef: you should come along some time.

  rhysespieces: cool! it’s not as fun running alone.

  stefstef: are you a good runner, though? bcoz i am not.

  rhysespieces: ha! i can do it without falling over, but i won’t win any medals iykwim.

  stefstef: still sounds better than me.

  rhysespieces: well, if you fall over, i’ll carry you home!

  stefstef: um. ok!

  rhysespieces: jk.

  stefstef: so you WON’T carry me home if I fell?

  rhysespieces: well obvs i would

  rhysespieces: i just mean that

  rhysespieces: like not in a weird way

  rhysespieces: oh my god

  rhysespieces: so how’s Tem?

  stefstef: she’s good. telling me all about this guy she’s madly in love with.

  rhysespieces: what’s his name?

  stefstef: karam

  rhysespieces: oh an actual guy

  stefstef: huh?

  rhysespieces: oh shit alfie’s getting annoyed, i better get back to the game

  stefstef: ok! see you next week

  rhysespieces: have a good run. don’t trip

  [rhysespieces has logged off]

  I wait for five more minutes before Tem reappears at the end of the road. When she reaches me she is panting and contrite.

  ‘Sorry,’ she says.

  ‘Sorry yourself,’ I say. ‘Thanks for the breathing time.’

  She grins. ‘Everything I do, I do it for you.’

  ‘I just had a weird conversation with Rhys.’

  Her eyes widen. ‘Oh my God. Show me.’

  ‘I can’t, it was on jackbytes. It doesn’t save the conversations.’

  ‘Well, that’s a bit bloody useless. What’s the point if you can’t reread the conversations afterwards? Tell me, then. We can walk back, if you want.’

  We meander back towards my house and I recount what Rhys said as best I can. She listens, a grin broadening on her face. When I tell her how he went back to playing video games with Alfie, she outright laughs.

  ‘Stef, you know he’s in love with you, right?’

  I flush. ‘No he isn’t.’

  ‘Oh my God, he clearly is. He wanted you to say that you were madly in love with someone, and that someone was him.’

  ‘That doesn’t make any sense. Why would I say you were talking about a guy if I really meant me?’

  ‘Because people are weird.’

  ‘Oh great. That helps. And people wonder why I get anxious about talking to people? Why can’t people just say what they mean?’

  ‘Because people are weird,’ she says again.

  ‘But he has a girlfriend,’ I add. My throat is getting tight with a confused sort of panic. ‘How can he be in love with me if he has a girlfriend?’

  Tem looks at me, a slight frown on her face. ‘You don’t actually know if he has a girlfriend or not, right? That’s all in your head. Remember?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure he does.’

  ‘Based on what? The fact that he had a girl in his Facebook picture a few weeks ago? God, Steffi. I thought you were smart.’

  ‘I . . .’ I’m suddenly so confused I don’t know what to say. ‘I’m sure he does. He . . .’ What am I basing it on? ‘He must have.’

  ‘Incorrect. Besides!’ Tem continues triumphantly – she is clearly enjoying this – ‘He could have a girlfriend and be in love with you. That’s totally possible. More than possible. It’s probable. You are Steffi Brons, complete knockout.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ I say, shoving her.

  ‘You could be a knockout if you stopped hiding.’

  ‘Tem,’ I almost whimper, completely pathetically, and she stops walking, turning to face me.

  ‘Steffi,’ she says, very seriously. ‘It is my duty as your best friend to explain these things to you. One: this Rhys guy clearly likes you a lot, w
hether that’s with or without an existing girlfriend. And two: he has good taste, because you’re awesome. You can be a knockout without being some kind of supernaturally beautiful extrovert, you know.’

  ‘I don’t think you can,’ I say. ‘That’s what “knockout” means. Like, you knock them out with how gorgeous and cool you are.’

  ‘Oh, spare me.’ She rolls her eyes again. ‘I think you’re a knockout, in a special Steffi kind of way. And I bet that’s what he sees too. Can I meet him? I like him already.’

  I try to imagine Tem and Rhys meeting. Him, cool and calm and sweet. Her, bubbling over with warmth and fire. There’s no question over whether they’ll get along, because they’re both the kind of people who get along with everyone. I’m the awkward one: the mutual, the hanger-on. I’ve never had people to introduce before.

  ‘Do you really think he likes me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tem cocks her head, Rita-style, and gives me one of her piercing looks. Her black curls are bound tightly into her running-bun, and her make-up-free face is open and gentle. ‘Do you like him?’

  I open my mouth, close it, nibble on my lip. This is a far more multilayered question than it may first appear to be. It is ‘Do I like him?’ and ‘Can I admit to myself that I like him?’ and ‘Can I admit out loud that I like him?’ all in one.

  ‘Maybe?’ I say eventually.

  Tem grins. ‘I knew it,’ she says.

  On Wednesday, Rhys surprises me by turning up at the kennels during my shift. I come to reception with Anaïs – a whip-smart Frenchwoman who always looks immaculate but owns the scruffiest, dopiest terrier cross you’ve ever seen – so she can sign some forms, and there he is. Standing by the desk, holding a Labrador puppy in his arms.

  ‘Hi!’ I say out loud, startled into speech.

  He grins at me but doesn’t reply, his arms otherwise occupied with the weight of the puppy, whose name, incidentally, is Sally.

  Just a second, I sign to him, gesturing to Anaïs. I’m so flustered I mess it up and have to repeat myself. I’m suddenly very aware of my uniform – grey, long-sleeved T-shirt under green overalls. Not exactly high fashion.

  ‘It’s not a problem to move from three to four days a week,’ I say to Anaïs, reaching under the reception desk and pulling out the right file. I flip through it and pull out the Day Request form. ‘But it’ll be a notice period of two weeks to make the change, and an increase of £30 per month.’

  Anaïs nods. ‘I know. I read the forms when I first registered Toulouse.’

  ‘Here you go, then,’ I say brightly, sliding the form across the desk.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says delicately, taking a pen from her bag.

  What are you doing here? I ask Rhys.

  I don’t get an answer until I get rid of Anaïs, who manages to take her time over the form she apparently already knew all about.

  Hi, I say again to Rhys, unable to keep the smile off my face. Not that I’m supposed to notice these things, but he looks extra adorable when holding a Labrador puppy.

  ‘Hi,’ he says out loud. ‘I made a friend!’

  I can see that! Shall I take her?

  He nods and I lift Sally out of his arms, cuddling her warm body close. I came by to ask you something, and when I got here the bald guy – I assume he means Ivan here – said that you’d probably come through here soon, and in the meantime I should look after the puppy.

  I have a sneaking suspicion that Ivan did this on purpose. That man misses nothing.

  ‘Thanks for holding her,’ I say. Sally wriggles in my arms and tries to lick my face.

  No problem. She’s cute.

  ‘What did you want to ask me?’ My mind has already spun through the options. Will you help me with my Maths homework? Will you eat this cake I brought? Will you go on a date with me? Will you marry me?

  It’s my birthday on Friday.

  ‘Oh!’

  Yeah. He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. I know. I wanted to keep it quiet, but my parents want to take me out for a birthday dinner on Saturday. And . . . Do you want to come?

  I stare at him over Sally’s fuzzy yellow head. What does this mean? Is this a Maths-homework-buddy invite, or a go-on-a-date invite?

  My parents suggested it, he says.

  Oh. Well that’s my answer, isn’t it?

  I want you there too! he adds, looking mortified. But it’s too late.

  ‘Sure, I’ll come,’ I say. ‘Are you seeing your friends as well?’

  Yeah, on Friday night. None of them are eighteen yet, so we can’t go out drinking or anything. He smiles. Maybe next year. But on Saturday, Meg is coming. My friend Meg. You can meet her – I think you’ll get along.

  Friend Meg? Did he actually sign girlfriend but I saw friend because it’s what I wanted to see? The signs aren’t similar. I didn’t just hallucinate that, did I? Should I ask? No. No, Steffi.

  ‘Sure,’ I say again.

  Great! He looks relieved. They’re booking a table tonight so I’ll let you know what time and where and stuff.

  I give him a thumbs up. ‘I should get back to my shift.’

  He nods quickly. Of course. Sorry. I’ll see you tomorrow?

  ‘Yeah.’

  Rhys gives me a little wave before he leaves. I wait until he’s gone before I groan into Sally’s soft fur.

  ‘Come on,’ I whisper to her. ‘Let’s get you back to your mum.’

  Sally yawns, stretches her head against my arm and wees all down my overalls.

  Things I worried about on the bus: a snapshot of an anxious brain . . .

  Is that car slowing down? Is someone going to get out and kidnap me? It is slowing down. What if someone asks for directions? What if – Oh. They’re just dropping someone off. The bus is late. What if it doesn’t arrive? What if I’m late getting to school? Did I turn my straighteners off? What if the bus isn’t running today and no one told me? Where’s the – oh. There’s the bus. Oh crap is that Rowan from Biology? What if he sees me? What if he wants to chat? Hide. OK, he hasn’t seen me. He hasn’t seen me. What if he did see me and now he thinks I’m weird for not saying hi? Did I remember to clean out Rita’s bowl properly? What if she gets sick? One day Rita will die. One day I’ll die. One day everyone will die. What if I die today and everyone sees that my bra has a hole in it? What if the bus crashes? Where are the exits? Why is there an exit on the ceiling? What if that headache Dad has is a brain tumour? Would I live with Mum all the time if Dad died? Why am I thinking about my living arrangements instead of how horrible it would be if Dad died? What’s wrong with me? What if Rhys doesn’t like me? What if he does? What if we get together and we split up? What if we get together and don’t split up and then we’re together forever until we die? One day I’ll die. Did I remember to turn my straighteners off? Yes. Yes. Did I? OK my stop’s coming up. I need to get off in about two minutes. Should I get up now? Will the guy next to me get that I have to get off or will I have to ask him to move? But what if he’s getting off too and I look like a twat? What if worrying kills brain cells? What if I never get to go to uni? What if I do and it’s awful? Should I say thank you to the driver on the way off? OK, get up, move towards the front of the bus. Go, step. Don’t trip over that old man’s stick. Watch out for the stick. Watch out for the – shit. Did anyone notice that? No, no one’s looking at me. But what if they are? OK, doors are opening, GO! I didn’t say thank you to the driver. What if he’s having a bad day and that would have made it better? Am I a bad person?

  Yeah but did I actually turn my straighteners off?

  By Saturday, I have no idea why I said yes to something as terrifying as a birthday dinner. In a restaurant. With a family I barely know. And the possibly-girlfriend-but-maybe-probably-not of the boy I’m trying not to like.

  Excellent decision-making, Steffi. You genius.

  But I can’t back out now, mainly because I can’t think of a way to do it without being rude or, at the very least, transparent.

  ‘I bet
he tells you he loves you,’ Tem says, which is both helpful and incredibly unhelpful.

  ‘Please don’t be disappointed if he doesn’t,’ I say.

  ‘I won’t if you won’t,’ she replies.

  Dad drives me to the Italian restaurant and doesn’t even get annoyed with me when I sit motionless in the front seat for five minutes.

  ‘Shall we talk through what’s worrying you?’ he asks, patient as a saint.

  ‘People.’

  ‘The Gold family, or the staff at the restaurant?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘Because you’ll need to talk to them?’

  I nod.

  ‘The Gold family invited you,’ Dad says. ‘They’ve spent an evening with you before, and they enjoyed your company. They’ve invited you to share an evening with them again. Because they know they will enjoy your company again. And why wouldn’t they? You are a sweet, kind, interesting girl.’

  I can’t help thinking that my mother would have kicked me out of the car by now and told me to stop being such a self-obsessed drama queen.

  ‘I thought that taking medication would stop me feeling like this,’ I confess. My throat is both tight and thick, like a tennis ball has got caught inside it.

  Dad is quiet for a moment. ‘Before the medication, I’m not sure you would even have agreed to go, love,’ he says softly. His words surprise me; I hadn’t even thought of that, but he’s right. I probably would have just said no straight off the bat. ‘Think of the staff at the restaurant. They see and speak to hundreds of people every day. To them, you’re just another customer. They won’t even notice you.’

  I let out a long, slow breath. ‘They won’t even notice me.’

  ‘Not even a little bit.’

  ‘Thanks, Daddy.’

  Dad smiles and ruffles my hair. ‘Have a good time, kid. Just call me when you need me to pick you up.’

  I get out of the car and wave through the window before he drives off. For a moment I think I see my own anxiety mirrored on his face, but he’s driving away before I can look twice. I can’t imagine Dad getting anxious. He has the quiet confidence I have always depended on. He is solid as a rock.

  I head towards the restaurant, walking fast so my brain can’t convince my feet to head in the other direction, and walk into the restaurant behind another family. I scan the tables quickly, hoping to spot the Golds before attracting the attention of a friendly waitress and, thank God, there they are.