Things We Have in Common

by Tasha Kavanagh

  It was the drawing. The Manga girl. She’d cut the page out.

  I didn’t take it.

  ‘I thought you’d like it,’ she said. She looked a bit embarrassed.

  I was trying to compute what was happening. I was thinking, if I put my hand out, she’ll snatch it back and say As if, you freak! or something, only she didn’t. Katy or Sophie or Beth or anyone else would’ve done that, but she was Alice. She let me take it.

  Then she glanced round again. She said, ‘It’s nothing special.’ She looked in my eyes. ‘Don’t tell anyone, OK? I just thought, after what happened, you know, with Katy . . .’ She shrugged, her cheeks going a bit pink. ‘I felt bad. Anyway, it’s nothing, ’kay?’ And then she walked off, leaving me standing there with her drawing in my hands and thinking the only explanation was that any second I was going to wake up.

  I thought Alice giving me her picture must’ve happened because God was pleased with me for going to see Dad. Then I thought maybe it wasn’t God but Dad that’d made Alice like me, and I loved the idea of that so much it made my heart want to burst – like Alle-blimmin-luia burst.

  I gave the Manga girl a name – Juliet – and sat on my bed that evening staring into her black eyes, re-running in my head what’d happened from the second I’d heard Alice call my name to when she’d turned the corner at the end of the corridor. Every time I saw her face again, her pale skin turning pink, I had to bite my bottom lip and close my eyes – and every time I heard her voice in my head going, ‘It’s nothing, ’kay?’ I had to laugh out loud and hold my hand over my chest to stop it from exploding. Nothing? NOTHING?! I thought. If that’s nothing, then nothing’s all I ever want, Alice! And I kissed Juliet all over.

  When I got into bed, I propped her up on my bedside table. Then I snuggled down, kissing the tips of my fingers and touching them to her lips one last time before I turned my lamp off. In the dark, I closed my eyes. ‘Don’t be scared to love me,’ I whispered, hoping I’d drift off into an Alicey dream. ‘Don’t be scared to love me.’

  I couldn’t get to sleep, though. I was too happy, too excited about seeing her again. I thought, there’s no way you’re going to get your hands on her now, Mr Badass Paedophile. I’m going to find you and find out everything about you and get you put away, because she’s mine now. She’s my Alice. And I’ve got Dad and God helping me too, so you don’t stand a chance!

  I got this picture in my head of me and Alice walking up the High Street in town, her arm linked in mine, and I knew what I should do . . . I should ask her out – like on a date, only I wouldn’t say it was a date. I had enough money on my debit card. I didn’t know how much, but enough to get us something to eat. I thought I had to do something to show her how much I loved her Manga drawing, or she might think I didn’t. She might even think I didn’t like her, and I didn’t want her to think that, not even for a second. I wanted her to know she could rely on me, that I’d never play any games with her feelings, that I’d just love her and love her and love her forever.

  I thought about taking her to Yog first, but it’s right in the middle of the shopping centre and much too conspicuous for a secret affair (not that this was going to be just an affair). Anyway, I thought Yog might not take debit cards, so I moved us somewhere more private – first to Starbucks, in the bit round the back near the toilets where it’s always dark, then to the café on the top floor of John Lewis. We’d definitely not be seen there. Not by anyone that mattered anyway – only middle-aged women.

  I’ve no idea what they serve in the John Lewis café, but for some reason strawberry tarts kept coming into my head, the strawberries all juicy and chopped and pushed into the vanilla cream on the top in a spiral pattern and sprinkled with icing sugar. I imagined me spooning one of the strawberries from my tart into her mouth, only some of the juice from it dribbles down her chin and it makes us laugh so much we’re crying and clinging to each other and all the old ladies are staring in horror.

  I tried to remember what my PIN number was after that, because I hadn’t used my card for so long I’d forgotten, and then, even though I knew Mum would’ve kept the bank letter that told me, I had numbers pedalling round in my head for the rest of the night. It was getting light outside when I finally dropped off.

  Things didn’t go exactly like I’d hoped the next day. I never ate strawberry tart, put it that way.

  Basically, Alice ignored me. I told myself she’d probably had a sleepless night too, worrying that she’d shown her feelings too quickly and frightened me off. Or maybe she’d frightened herself off with her feelings. Either way, I thought, watching her gather her hair in her fingers at the back of her neck and pull it so it all went over one shoulder, I’ve got to be patient. I’ve got to give her time to come to terms with how she feels about us. I thought, don’t screw this up, Yaz. Keep Calm and Carry On. Keep Calm and Carry On Loving Alice.

  I told myself she was only ignoring me because she wanted to keep us a secret, which was definitely a good idea, because if anyone at school got a whiff of us, it’d be ceaseless. We’d have to go into hiding . . . Elope. I told myself not to even get started on that fantasy because I could probably write a trilogy about eloping with Alice. The first one would be Eloping With Alice – Europe (because that’s probably where we’d go first), then Eloping With Alice – The Far East, then Eloping with Alice – The Americas. It’d be like an amazing adventure and romance story and travel guide all in one. And somewhere along the way – probably on a beach somewhere in the Far East – we might even get married. It’d be incredible (the wedding and the trilogy) and by the time we got back I’d be skinny and we’d both have bronze skin and we’d be this glamorous celebrity couple – like Posh and Becks only a younger, lesbian version – and people would queue for miles at our book signings. I thought it was a shame I’m rubbish at singing, because if I wasn’t, we could release an album too, because Alice was pretty good. Her voice wasn’t powerful but just like I’d imagined it before I ever heard it – understated and sweet and a little bit different. Then I thought maybe we could do the album anyway. I mean, if you look good having a rubbish voice doesn’t really matter, does it? We could call it Eloped, or, if it had more of a rock vibe, maybe even Lesbian Psycho Stalkers.

  Alice did such a good job of ignoring me that I couldn’t get anywhere near her. She didn’t even go to lunch because after I’d eaten I hung round the entrance right till the end of lunch break. I wrote her a note while I was there. I thought that’d be the most secret way to let her know my plan. It said DO YOU WANT TO GO INTO TOWN? MY TREAT. I didn’t put a kiss or anything sappy like that and I wrote in capitals and left off names in case someone got hold of it.

  I never even got to give it to her. She came into Science late, which wasn’t like her, and sat on the other side of the room where Sophie’d kept a space. Then, at the end, she rushed out, looking at her watch, and Sophie came and asked me if I’d heard what the homework was. It was obvious they’d planned it because Sophie’d rather stick pins in her eyes than talk to me. I told myself I was being paranoid, though – that Alice might’ve had something really important to get to. And maybe Sophie felt bad about the spitting thing too, like Alice. Maybe Katy’d dug her own grave spitting at me like she did, and now she was gonna pay for it and be the one that we all hated: Alice, Sophie, Beth and Me.

  I went into town anyway. I thought I’d go to the John Lewis café and see if they really did do strawberry tarts. I thought I’d go and see what else they’d got there too, because I was starving and felt like eating – as in EATING.

  I got off the bus at the bottom of the High Street and started walking up towards the shopping centre. I was about halfway there and thinking about when Alice’d given me her drawing, when I saw your dog. I could’ve missed it, because I was staring at the pavement, my head filled with Alice, but I saw it out the corner of my eye.

  It was sitting on the other side of the road outside Boots, tied to the bike rack with the brown leathe
r lead that was looped round your wrist when I saw you by the school fence. I told myself there were lots of small straggly brown dogs around – the kind that’d make Gary say, That’s not a dog, that’s a rat – and lots of brown leather dog leads too, but I knew it was yours.

  My heart thudded in my ears because I didn’t know what to do. I had to do something though, for Alice. Alice needs me, I thought. I let the whispers out to do their thing, help me think. I thought, maybe I should hang around, then follow you to your house. But you could’ve lived miles away. You could’ve driven into town. Then I spotted the little silver barrel dangling from your dog’s collar and saw what I could do.

  I crossed the road.

  Your dog saw me. I think she heard my whispers, too, because she went up on her back legs and started paddling her paws in the air. I say ‘she’ because once I got up close it was obvious she was a girl dog.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, squatting down to take her little feet. Her tiny pink tongue licked my hands, one then the other, over and over, the silver barrel on her collar jiggling about. ‘Aren’t you sweet,’ I said, and she was – so sweet – only then I remembered about paedophiles having cute props and thought I’d better hurry up and get your address out of the barrel quick before you came back.

  I stood up and peered through the shop window to check you weren’t paying or on your way out already. I couldn’t see you, so I bent down again. I reached under your dog’s chin and got the barrel, but it wouldn’t unscrew. My fingers were too sweaty. And she wasn’t helping any, either. She kept making gruff little noises and bouncing on her front legs, the whites of her eyes showing as she strained to lick my face.

  ‘Stop it!’ I told her as I tried to unscrew the barrel again, but it was so tight it wouldn’t budge.

  I started to panic. I was thinking, You’re gonna be here, like any second. Then take her came into my head. Just like that: TAKE HER!

  I fumbled with the knot round the metal bar, my heart thumping like crazy. I knew if you came out, I couldn’t pretend I was just tickling her under the chin anymore.

  Then her lead came free. I stood up, my legs so wobbly I thought they might not even work, put my hand through the loop, wrapping some of the lead round my wrist and tugged on it. Your dog tried to plant her feet in the pavement but when I pulled harder, she came.

  You know how when teachers say they’ve got eyes in the back of their heads? Well, I had eyes in the back of my head then – eyes that could see you coming out of the shop, looking up and down the High Street and clocking me . . .

  ‘Stop it,’ I whispered, walking as fast as I could.

  I took the first turn off, down Market Street and realised then where I could go. Without even knowing it, I’d gone the perfect way. I went left into the alley that’s dingy and always smells of pee, then across the outside car park towards the common land where the gypsies keep their horses.

  Your dog was going so fast, her little legs were a gingery blur and I was wheezing, but I kept on because I could still see you with those eyes in the back of my head, striding after me, coming out of the alley, your hands open at your sides ready to clamp round my neck.

  Then I was through the gate and into Lower Field.

  I stopped by the first tree with a big enough trunk to hide behind. I pulled the lead short to keep your dog close. It was a few minutes before I dared to even peep round it, back across the car park. Nothing. Just a woman tipping the front wheels of a buggy up onto the kerb.

  I took my bag off, had about five puffs on my inhaler, then sat on one of the tree roots. Your dog looked like she could use some of my inhaler, too. She was panting like mad, looking round everywhere – out across the fields towards the gypsies’ horses, behind her towards the train station, back across the car park.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I told her. I felt bad that she was worried. I pulled her closer, stroking her soft, straggly fur.

  She made little whimpering noises, licked my hand, then sort of dumped her chin on my leg and looked up at me with her big brown eyes. ‘Awwww!’ I said, stroking the silky soft fur between her ears. ‘It’s not for long, I promise. I’m gonna take you back.’

  Then I had a go at her barrel again. It came apart easily this time and a tiny scrolled-up bit of paper fell out onto the grass.

  No address.

  I turned it over.

  No address. No number, even. Just: ‘I am micro-chipped.’

  Brilliant, I thought. Fan-bloody-tastic. Apparently people don’t put their address or phone number on animal tags anymore. Everything’s computerised instead. I got brain-freeze then, thinking that, because I realised that I’d probably been computerised too – on CCTV. God, I thought, why didn’t I think about that? I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been. I’ve seen Crimewatch and CSI enough times to know that everything’s on CCTV. Especially on a bloody high street!

  I thought you were probably at the police station right that second, watching a replay of me untying your dog and pulling her off down the street, the policeman next to you smirking as he slurps on his tea and tells you, Well, it shouldn’t be too tough to find that kid. There are a lot (at least a million) of not-so-brilliant things about being ninety-nine and a half kilos. Being highly conspicuous is one of them.

  Seeing as my idea had failed spectacularly, and the police were probably on their way to Lower Field to arrest me, I thought maybe I should just leave your dog there and go back home. I couldn’t do it, though. She’s too sweet and anything could’ve happened to her – she could’ve got lost for real or run over or something. I mean, what do dogs do when they’re lost? I don’t know. ‘You’d probably follow me, wouldn’t you?’ I said to her.

  She lifted her head up and put it on one side, cute as can be. I bent my face closer and let her sniff all round my ear, making me laugh because it tickled. ‘Are you hungry?’ I said, and I got the Maryland Chocolate Chip Cookies out of my bag (the shop was still waiting for the Hobnob delivery). There was one left. I broke it in half and held it out. I thought some food might cheer her up. ‘I know it’s no Hobnob,’ I told her, ‘but beggars can’t be choosers.’

  Dad used to say that – Beggars can’t be choosers – quite happy, though, like he didn’t mind being a beggar in the least. He was always happy. Mum used to hate the way he’d trot out little sayings, but he loved them. He said they were some of the first things he learnt to say in English when he moved here. I wondered if he could see me – like, if no matter where I was, he could see me from up there in heaven, even though I don’t believe heaven really exists. I used to, when he first died, and I suppose I still think of him as being somewhere, even though I know it’s really all a load of story made up to make the people left behind feel better.

  Anyway, I wondered what he’d say, supposing he was watching. Something like What the hell are you doing? probably. Then I started to think about what he’d really think, like if he knew the whole story about you watching Alice the way you were, and I thought, if he knew all that, he’d think I was doing the right thing, and even though taking your dog was crazy (as well as illegal) he’d say something like Good on you, girl, and Don’t you give up. Or, I’m proud of you, love. He used to say that a lot, even though I never did anything to be proud of.

  This was my chance, though. I thought I’d definitely make him proud if I saved Alice’s life and I started to feel better. I stopped worrying so much about the police hunting for me and you hunting for me and remembered how I was doing this for Alice – to save Alice. I thought, she still needs me, whether your address is on your dog’s tag or not. So even though I was probably going to be arrested in the next couple of hours, I felt better. I wasn’t ready to give up anyway.

  ‘C’mon,’ I told her, throwing the cookie in the grass because she didn’t want it, and we started across the fields.

  A bell jingled when I opened the vet’s door. Your sweet little dog planted her feet in the pavement again and looked up at me like, Please no, not here . . . so
I bent down and picked her up. ‘It’s OK,’ I told her, nuzzling her ear. ‘Nothing’s gonna happen to you.’

  There was a woman behind a counter.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I found this dog.’

  She stood up and bent over the counter to get a better look at her. She was wearing a green smock for doing medical things in and a long thin badge that said ‘Veterinary Nurse’.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, pouting her lips out and talking in a baby voice, which I thought was a bit unprofessional. ‘Poor doggy!’

  ‘It says she’s microchipped,’ I said and handed her the little scroll of paper.

  She took it into a room behind the counter and came back with a metal scanner thing. ‘Let’s have a look then,’ she said, still in that stupid voice, and I put your dog on the floor. The nurse squatted down next to her, holding her by the collar. Then she ran the scanner backwards and forwards over the back of her neck, peering at a little screen on the top of it and making little cooing noises.

  Your dog looked up at me like, Is this nurse for real? and I wanted her to be mine so much I can’t tell you.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ I said, answering your dog in the same silly voice as the nurse and ignoring the nasty glance she shot me when she stood up and went back behind the counter. Then (in my normal voice) I said, ‘Has it got an address on it?’

  She didn’t answer. She sat down and pressed numbers into the phone, holding the scanner thing in front of her while she waited for someone to answer.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Blythwoods. Yes.’ Then she started saying numbers.

  I tried to remember them, thinking they were your phone number, but then there were too many. It was some sort of code, with loads of 7s and zeros in it.

  She started writing on one of those yellow Post-it pads. I couldn’t see what, because she had that way of writing with her hand all bent round above the words. People write like that a lot. Annabel Carver in my year does, and Kyle Lyons. And the man in the Post Office. Maybe it’s genetic or something.