Things We Have in Common

by Tasha Kavanagh

  When I turned back, you were still smoothing your hair down.

  ‘Sunday’d be alright. I mean, if you want.’

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  You folded your arms and leant against the stair banister. ‘It’s just I’ve got something on and didn’t think before, but it’d be easier without Bea.’

  ‘OK,’ I said again.

  ‘She doesn’t like being left here on her own. Barks the place down.’

  I told you I’d really like that.

  ‘Five be alright?’ you said.

  I said five o’clock was great. I said thanks for the Diet Coke too and went out and started to pull the door behind me, but you caught it – grabbed it so fast and tight, it made me jump. I didn’t know how you’d got to it so quick. I stepped back onto the path. I still couldn’t see you properly because my eyes hadn’t got used to the light, but you weren’t smiling. You were serious and so was your voice.

  ‘Don’t be late,’ you said.

  Mum was obviously still upset because when she opened the door for me she just said, ‘Dinner’s on the hob,’ her voice all flat, then went back into the sitting room. Gary’s curry looked like a kind of alien autopsy – brown goo with strings of onion and pepper in it. I spooned some into a bowl and stuck it in the microwave, then took it upstairs.

  She hadn’t told Gary what I’d said, though. If she had, he’d have dragged me in to make a public apology. I knew she was waiting for me to say I was sorry on my own, but I couldn’t. Not yet anyway. And I wasn’t even sure I was sorry. I thought how she’d never cared about what I wanted because if she had, she wouldn’t have moved in with Gary like she did – like Dad never existed. I thought it was probably about time I started saying what I really thought.

  Anyway, it was good I didn’t have to talk to Mum because I wanted to be on my own. I wanted to think about everything that’d happened – everything you’d said to me. I thought how you’d definitely acted suspiciously when I’d told you I had a friend that went to live in Nottingham. I thought maybe I should go the police right then and tell them that – how I’d seen you staring at Alice and how, after investigating you, I also thought you’d taken Amelia Bell. Because if you had taken Amelia Bell, I bet they could prove it once they had your name, and then I wouldn’t have just prevented a murder, I’d have solved one too. And I’d still be Alice’s hero.

  I thought about how you’d stared at my legs and how the only thing that’d probably saved my life was telling you that Dad died, because once I’d told you that, you couldn’t do it. Not when you’d just lost your mum and knew how awful losing a parent is. I know it sounds stupid because it’s obvious, but I think I only realised then that losing a parent was something else we had in common – something much more important than being freaks or fantasising about Alice – except you were really the only one fantasising about Alice now, because she’d pretty much spelled out that she liked me when she’d given me her drawing.

  I remembered how her cheeks had gone the palest pink, how she’d said, ‘It’s nothing, ’kay?’ and I knew she’d never have given me a drawing if she didn’t like me, that the only reason she wasn’t being nice to me anymore was because she couldn’t deal with her feelings. I knew it’d be scary for her, realising how she felt about me when everyone else hates me. I expect she was scared of being a lesbian, too, because people don’t like lesbians, even though being gay is supposed to be all equal rights these days. I thought she wouldn’t feel so scared of showing her feelings if the police told her I’d saved her life, though. I bet she wouldn’t care what anyone thought then. And, in any case, if I saved Alice’s life, everyone would like me.

  I didn’t go to the police because, when I went into the kitchen the next morning, Mum said Gary’d moved a job especially so we could all do something together.

  ‘Like what?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ she said. She still hadn’t completely forgiven me. She was wiping the worktop and hadn’t turned round once. ‘He thought the forest would be a nice idea.’

  ‘The forest?’ I said.

  She turned round then. ‘Yes, Yasmin,’ she said, ‘the forest,’ as if going to the forest was something totally normal, something we did all the time.

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘I was only asking. I was going to go into town.’

  ‘Well, you can do that another day, can’t you?’ she said and then Gary walked in through the patio doors, his hands covered in soil, going, ‘Ah, she’s up then!’ all super-jolly, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to get out of it.

  Actually the forest was OK, even though it was so obviously a plan to get me out of the house and doing some exercise, and even though it was the kind of place you only go if you’ve got a dog because everyone we saw there had one – at least one. I thought about pointing that out, but I couldn’t be bothered. It wasn’t like Gary’d care anyway, and he’d ignore the hint. He’d never say yes to us having one. He’s the kind of person that always gets what he wants and that’s what everyone else has to put up with (like going to the forest for example). And Mum’s so soft she just goes along with whatever he says, even when it means she can’t have a telly in the bedroom anymore. Can you believe that? Mum and Dad always had a telly in their room. I had a telly in mine. Not with Gary, though. Apparently, I should read when I’m in my room. Apparently, I don’t know how lucky I am having a laptop, even though everyone I know has got one. So, no tellies in bedrooms. No dog. End of.

  He picked up a long stick and marched ahead of me and Mum in his wellies, nodding at every single person we passed, going ‘Afternoon’, but apart from that he wasn’t too bad. He didn’t say, I told you to put some proper footwear on, didn’t I? when I couldn’t get across a massive muddy puddle. He walked back into the middle of it and said, ‘Here, lean on me’, as I wobbled round the edge. And he laughed at Mum’s story about how she’d caught one of the young lads that was supposed to be handing out shampoo samples in Asda canoodling with one of the shelf-stackers.

  ‘Did he know her?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Mum said. ‘I’ve no idea!’

  And when she said she hadn’t the heart to report him, Gary just shook his head, smiling and tutting, and said, ‘Well, you can’t stand in the way of young love, eh?’ and Mum put her arm through his and leant her head on his shoulder.

  I thought about you on the way back in the car – how you’d said that Bea was all you’d got now and how you’d looked really sad when you said it.

  Do you want to know what my favourite thing was that you said to me? It wasn’t any of the things I bet you’d think of. It wasn’t when you said Bea was all you’d got or when she was barking and you told her I was the nice girl that’d rescued you. It wasn’t ‘Whoa’ either, even though the way you said that was really nice, like when you said ‘Steady’ when I fell off your step the first time we met.

  OK, since you’ll never guess, my favourite thing you said was the last thing . . . ‘Don’t be late.’

  I loved that so much. ’Specially because you were so serious, like the whole time I was there you were all awkward and shy, but then when I was leaving you suddenly realised that me coming back really mattered or something, like if I was even one minute late you’d hate it.

  I thought how seeing as you’d only been in the area since your mum died, you probably didn’t have any friends and were feeling lonely and that that was why you wanted me to be on time. But it didn’t really matter why you wanted me to be on time. You wanted me – and even though there was no way I was ever going to be friends with someone like you – that felt nice.

  I decided there was no point in rushing to the police, because if you had taken Amelia Bell it was too late to help her now, and if I went to the police I might not get to see Bea for ages. Or maybe ever again, because I don’t know what happens to the dogs of people they arrest. They might even put them down, and I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if little Bea got put down. It’d be all m
y fault. So I decided to wait.

  I also decided I was going to be the best dog-sitter ever. The next morning I went and got some dog treats. I’d Googled pet shops and saw there was a Pet Planet in the industrial park that I didn’t even know was there. When I saw it, I don’t know how I’d missed it because it’s literally a planet. It’s massive. It’s got everything you never even knew you wanted, like cool T-shirts for owners with The Dogfather written on them and dog toilet seats and plastic dogs in all different breeds that come with refillable brown dog-poo sweets that drop out of the bum when you press down the head.

  There were loads of treats to choose from too. After a good look at them all, I got Betty Miller’s Tasty Treats for Good Dogs. They had the same make for ‘Whiffy Dogs’ or ‘Chubby Dogs’, but Bea’s definitely a good dog. I got an amazing idea looking at them all. I thought I could teach her some tricks and work on them with her every time I took her for walks, like in secret, and then when they were really super-perfected, we could amaze you out of nowhere. Like you’d amazed me with the singing glass.

  I thought about it all the way home – me getting Bea to do all these brilliant things like dancing on her back legs and rolling over and stuff, and then me in your mum’s front room drinking Diet Coke and suddenly just snapping my fingers and Bea dancing round the room and shaking your hand with her paw and you laughing because you can’t believe your eyes. I thought we might even get on Britain’s Got Talent. I thought, that’d shut everyone up at school – me and Bea on TV! It even rhymes – me and Bea! Me & Bea. Bea & Me.

  I looked up Havanese dogs doing tricks on YouTube when I got in. There were loads of them of course, even tiny puppies playing dead and then jumping up, their little voices like squeaky toys. It was good that I’d got bite-size treats because that’s what the people on YouTube had – one treat for everything their dog did.

  I’d have given anything to have my own Havanese puppy, but the only way that was going to happen was if I got a place of my own, and the chances of that were like nil, even though in theory I could because I was going to be sixteen in a few weeks – unless I won the Lottery, which was unlikely because I don’t play it. Or unless I got pregnant so the council had to give me somewhere, but the chances of that were even smaller than the chances of me winning the Lottery without a ticket. It didn’t stop me dreaming, though, about how nice I’d make a place of my own, all white and black and clean. It’d be small, of course, because I wouldn’t be able to afford anything that wasn’t small, but it’d be really smart, with white blinds and shiny white kitchen cupboards and a black marble worktop, and I’d get the black dog bed I saw in Pet Planet to go under the counter because when I imagined my own place, there was always a dog in it. And now I’d met you, I knew I’d have a dog just like Bea. I imagined my dog and Bea meeting up every day out on their walks and Bea being like my dog’s mum or something – looking out for her and teaching her stuff that Havanese dogs need to know, like how to paddle their paws in the air and be mega-cute.

  I had a shower and dried my hair upside down to give it some volume and put my peach jumper and jeans on to go round to yours. I put some make-up on too. Not much, just some mascara and lip gloss. I kept saying, ‘What’re you doing?’ to myself in the mirror, because I knew I hadn’t put make-up on for Bea and if I’d put it on for you that meant I was putting make-up on to look nice for someone that was a paedophile or a murderer or both, which was a bit weird. But asking myself what I was doing didn’t seem to spoil my happy-bunny mood in the slightest, and seeing as I hardly ever got to feel happy like that, you being a murdering paedophile really didn’t seem like that big of a deal.

  Bea started barking in the hallway when I knocked, but you didn’t come to the door. Then I heard a noise and went to the corner of the house. The garage door down the drive was open and you came out of it carrying a canvas bag for tools towards the side door of the house.

  When I called ‘Hello’, you looked up like you were surprised, then threw your arm in the air to shoo me away. ‘Round the front,’ you said.

  Bea ran out when you opened the front door and skipped round my ankles. ‘Hi,’ I said, bending to give her a fuss, smiling up at you, but you didn’t even look at me. You just said, ‘You’re early,’ and started rummaging through the coats above the shoe rack like you were in a hurry, even though you couldn’t have been because you’d said I was early. Then you went down the hall, came back with Bea’s lead and held it out – but you still didn’t look at me. Not properly. ‘Probably best not to let her off it,’ you said.

  I took it. ‘What time shall I bring her back?’ I said. I was trying to sound upbeat, like I hadn’t noticed how off you were being, how you hadn’t even noticed I’d made myself look nice.

  You ran your fingers through your hair and looked at the path. ‘’Bout nine,’ you said.

  ‘OK,’ I said, nodding and chewing my cheek and trying not to show how I felt, which was stung. Stung and stupid and unable to say what anyone normal would’ve said, which would’ve been Nine? Are you mad, Mr Caldwell? It’s dark at nine! Not that I’d even have had time to say that because you closed the door – boof – just like that. No Bye then or See you later.

  I told myself I shouldn’t take it personally as I clipped Bea’s lead on and led her off down the street – that I hadn’t done anything, that I was the one helping you out. It didn’t make me feel any better, though. I still felt hurt.

  I thought then how it could be grief making you act that way and not because you wished you’d never said I could come back – because grief can make people act weird, like they’re not themselves anymore. I acted weird after Dad died. It’s difficult not to when the whole world around you feels weird. I remember forcing myself to join in the games in the playground and to laugh at things people said, but they could tell I was pretending. I used to catch Ella watching me whenever I said something or laughed at something, a funny expression on her face, and instantly my whole body would turn to cement and I’d stop whatever I was doing and stare at the ground. Then, one day she didn’t come and sit with me at lunch and that was it. That was the end of Ella being my friend. I didn’t know it then, of course, but that was the end of anyone being my friend.

  ‘Hey Bea,’ I said, realising that trying to figure out why you’d practically ignored me meant I’d been ignoring Bea, which wasn’t fair because Bea was suffering enough already, grieving for Mrs E. Caldwell. She didn’t look up. It seemed like your mood had rubbed off on her. Or mine had. Or yours, then mine. I told her I wouldn’t think about you anymore.

  At the park I sat on a bench, which was damp because it’d rained that morning, but because I had my long puffer coat on it didn’t matter. I patted the seat and told her to get up next to me, but she didn’t want to, and when I picked her up and put her there, she jumped straight down again. I roughed her head and told her her problem was she was too well brought up.

  Then I pulled the packet of doggy treats out of my pocket.

  When I was trying to open it, Bea made a noise in the back of her throat which didn’t sound very nice. I’m sure all it meant was ‘Really?’ or ‘For me?’ or something, but it sounded unfriendly.

  ‘Betty Miller’s Tasty Treats for Good Dogs,’ I read to her. ‘Are you a good dog?’

  She licked her lips.

  I leant forward and patted her. ‘Are you?’

  Then she barked like, ‘Hurry up already’, so I opened the bag and gave her one. She ate it so fast she was jumping up at the packet before I could stop her, knocking it out of my hands and onto the grass, spilling the biscuits.

  ‘Bad Bea!’ I scolded, pushing her out of the way because she was scoffing them all. I smacked her nose. ‘Naughty!’

  Then I picked the bag up and stuffed it back in my pocket and told her that if that was the way she was going to behave we’d forget the whole thing.

  ‘Bad dog,’ I said again. No matter how hard I tried to make myself believe that your weird mood ha
d been because of grief, I knew it wasn’t. I knew it was because you’d decided you didn’t like me anymore. I thought how it was exactly like it was with Alice, only for some reason with you it felt even worse. I mean, I never expect people like Alice to like me, but with you . . . it was different – because you’re a freak, I suppose, because you didn’t have any friends and dreamed of having Alice, and because you’d lost a parent too. I just thought you’d like me. Wrong. Wrong again.

  I thought about leaving Bea there in the park, tied to the bench, and going home and forgetting about the whole thing – going home and leaving you to your stupid murdering stuff and Alice to her stupid being murdered stuff and doing something far more productive like watching Star Trek or counting calories.

  It had spoilt things, that’s what it’d done. And now I didn’t feel like teaching Bea any tricks. There wasn’t any point anyway if you’d already made up your mind that you didn’t like me.

  I didn’t leave Bea there. I took her to the chip shop. I thought I’d feel better if I ate some chips. I went to the Belmont Road one I usually go to near Gary’s house. It’s twice as far as the one on Falconer Road, but they do the nicest chips and it wasn’t like I didn’t have four hours to kill before 9 o’clock.

  The second we turned onto Belmont Road, though, I stopped.

  That boy was there – the black one from the cinema that Alice was with. He was standing with his legs either side of his bike, holding a can of Fanta and talking to three other boys that were standing round him. He was waving his arm about again, like he had when he was with Alice, making them laugh.

  I turned to leave before he could see me, but a woman with a Jack Russell came out of her house on the other side of the road and it started snarling and barking at Bea, straining towards us on its lead, showing its sharp teeth. The boys all turned and looked then – and he saw me, the black one. He stared right at me.

  I walked away quick, yanking Bea from under the back of a parked car to make her come. She ran at my heels because she didn’t like being snarled at any more than I like being stared at. My heart was thumping and shivers kept racing up my neck. I kept thinking he was going to come up behind on his bike and grab me like before and breathe his nasty, hot words over me.