Vicki seemed happy to spread her wings, too, socially. And where Steph’s bubbly loudness got her what she wanted, Vicki’s laid-back, effortless cool made people flit to her. She was the kind of girl everyone wanted to be friends with. She was my BFF, and seeing her friendship circle grow was hard for me.
I would admit to being a little jealous.
Now I was worried, as well.
If I kept refusing to hang out with them if it involved hanging with other people, would Vicki and Steph one day give up on me?
The thought caused angry butterflies to take flight in my stomach and tears to prick my eyes. Some days I wished I could be more like my friends. But if it meant pretending to be something I wasn’t, exhausting myself trying to please people who didn’t really care about getting to know the real me, then I chose lonerhood. I chose books.
I slammed into my bedroom, not caring if the noise jerked my dad out of whatever sentence he was taking a painstaking amount of time over, and launched myself onto my bed. Lying flat on my stomach, I stared across my large bedroom at the shelves that lined two walls. Books, books and more books. Just the sight of all the shapes and sizes, all the colors, all the textures, stretching up on bookshelves that were fitted to the ceiling, made me content. No matter what was happening in my life, in my room, I had over eight hundred worlds to disappear into, and over a thousand others on the e-reader on my nightstand. Worlds that were better than this one. Worlds where there were people I understood, and who if they knew me would understand me. Worlds where the boys weren’t like the boys in this one. They actually cared. They were brave and loyal and swoonworthy. They didn’t burp your name in your ear as they passed you in the hall or bump into you a million times a day because they “didn’t see you standing there.”
I stretched across the bed, picked up the paperback I was reading and flipped it open.
No way was some cruddy party hosted by Heather McBitcherson better than the world I was holding in my hands.
THE FRAGILE ORDINARYSAMANTHA YOUNG
2
If only you studied me
As hard as you study that canvas
It would set me free.
Instead bit by bit I vanish.
—CC
My dad wandered into the kitchen as I stood at the counter eating a bowl of cereal. As he strolled toward the coffee machine with his hair in disarray and his pajamas crumpled, he stared at me curiously.
He reached for a mug in the cupboard above the coffee machine. “You’re in uniform.”
I looked down at myself in misery. I loved clothes. I loved color and shape and throwing things together that other people might not think worked but that felt fun and adventurous to me.
I did not like the black blazer I was wearing over a scratchy white shirt, or the black pleated skirt with its frumpy knee-length hemline. I’d tucked in the waist, lifting the hem to just above my knees, so it didn’t look as ridiculous. The blazer had gold piping and a gold crest over the left breast pocket. Matching it was the black tie with the small gold crest beneath its knot. My only concession to fun was my black Irregular Choice shoes. They had a midheel, closed just below my ankle and laced up. The fun was in the bright gold stars that made up the eyelets for the laces.
“When did you start back at school?” Dad turned to me once his coffee was brewing. He crossed his arms, then one ankle over the other, and peered at me over the top of his glasses.
“Today.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think I’d seen you in uniform before now. Jesus, that was a quick summer, eh?” He turned back to his coffee and scratched his neck. “Did you do anything fun with your friends?” I barely made the question out through his giant yawn.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Aye?” He gave me a quick smile. “Good.” Grabbing his coffee, he moved past me and patted me on the head. “When did you get so tall?” he asked as he stopped to pour himself out some cereal.
I held in an exasperated sigh. “I’ve been the same height for the last year.”
“Really?” Dad seemed confused. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.” I was one of the tallest girls in my class.
“Well, you don’t get that height from Carrie.” He grinned.
I stared at my dad. All six foot three of him. My mum was five foot three. At five foot nine I certainly hadn’t gotten my height from her. Or anything really. In fact, if I didn’t already know my parents hadn’t meant to have a child at all, I’d have suspected I was adopted.
To prove my point, Carrie shuffled into the kitchen, her lids lowered over her eyes so far that they were almost shut. Paint streaked one of her cheeks and her hair. While she was petite, compact, with olive skin, and had light brown hair and dark brown eyes, I was tall, slender, ivory-skinned with pale blond hair and light blue eyes. I’d inherited my dad’s eyes, but otherwise we looked nothing alike. He was nowhere near as pale as I was and had dark brown hair. Apparently, I’d skipped back a generation, taking after my Swedish paternal grandmother in looks.
Carrie aimed for Dad, and he had just enough forethought to dump his bowl out of the way before she collapsed against his chest. “How long have I been in there?” she mumbled.
Dad chuckled and wrapped an arm around her, kissing her on the top of the head.
Painful envy stabbed my chest at the display of affection and I looked away so I didn’t have to see it.
“A few days, love.”
“Really?”
I sometimes wondered if Carrie really did get so lost in the art she was creating that the days just slipped away from her. Or if she only pretended to lose days because she thought it made her sound even more artistic. Dad was the only one of us allowed in her studio, and he’d creep in quietly to leave her food and beverages throughout the day.
“Wow.” Carrie pulled out of his arms and went straight for the coffee machine. She didn’t even look at me. “Diana better bloody love it, then. It’s been a while since I did the hermit thing.”
“Are you happy with it?” Dad asked.
Carrie gave him a sleepy grin over her shoulder. “You know I’m never a hundred percent happy with it. But it’ll do.”
Meaning she thought it was bloody fantastic. Her best work ever!
I grabbed up my book bag. “I better get to school.”
“Oh, Comet.” Carrie flicked a look at me as if she’d just realized I was there. “How is school going?”
The question was asked so she’d feel like she was attempting to care about her child’s life. “It’s the first day of term.”
She shot an amused oops look at Dad. “Really?”
Dad nodded. “Comet’s starting fifth year. Can you believe it?”
If it wasn’t already apparent, Dad was the more involved parent of the two. If you could call his vague interest in my life involved.
“Fifth year?” She yawned. “What age is that again?”
In that moment I wanted to run upstairs to her studio, grab a paintbrush, and smear I’M SIXTEEN, DIPSHIT! all over her newly finished painting.
“It’s sixteen, love,” Dad said gently.
“No.” Carrie frowned at me. “Did you have a sweet sixteenth?”
Wow. Okay. She was in fine form this morning. “Yeah.” I grabbed my house keys and headed for the exit. “I spent it with a biker called Vicious and we made sweet sixteenth love all night.”
I heard my dad’s laughter and Carrie’s confused murmurings as I wandered down the narrow hall to the front door. Outside, the cool morning breeze from the sea blew strands of hair free from my ponytail and I sauntered out of the garden gate onto the esplanade.
“Not saying hello this morning, Comet?” a familiar voice called out.
I stopped and looked over my shoulder into our neighbor’s garden. Only a shallow wall separated our pav
ed, no-fuss outside space from Mrs. Cruickshank’s well-tended front garden with its rows of flowerbeds and tiny stretch of lawn.
Mrs. Cruickshank was on her knees by one of her flowerbeds, wearing her usual uniform of baggy jeans, holey knitted sweater and garden gloves. Her long gray hair was twisted up on top of her head in an old-fashioned bun that I was certain wasn’t even in fashion when she was my age an unknown number of years ago. Thick, bright turquoise glasses were perched on her nose as she peered at me in amusement.
“Lost in your thoughts again, Comet?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Cruickshank. First day of school. I’m daydreaming,” I gave her an apologetic smile.
“First day, eh? Ready for it? Those imbeciles you call parents feed you properly so you have brain energy for the classroom?” she asked, frowning.
I stifled a smile. Not much got past Mrs. Cruickshank. While she would speak to me all day if I had the time, she barely even managed a smile for Kyle and Carrie. Not that they really noticed.
Instead of answering her question, I deflected, “How are the daylilies coming along?” Over the years, despite my disinterest in gardening, I’d learned much from my neighbor about the plants that could survive in a coastal garden. Mrs. Cruickshank had been having trouble with her pink-and-yellow-gold daylilies the last we spoke. It puzzled her, because it was apparently a plant that thrived in most places, and she’d never had problems with them before.
“I replanted them. These new ones are coming along fine. But it’s my lantanas that are looking well, don’t you think?” She nodded to the bright orange, cheery flowers at the bottom of the garden with a smile akin to that of a proud parent.
“They look wonderful, Mrs. Cruickshank,” I spoke truthfully.
She turned that smile on me. “Have a cracking day at school, Comet. I’m baking today. Be sure to nip around before tea and I’ll give you some of whatever I cook up. Just for you, mind.”
This time I did smile. My neighbor was a fantastic baker and generous, too. However, she wasn’t that sold on me sharing her treats with my dad and Carrie. I reckoned it was to do with the fact that Mrs. Cruickshank and her husband hadn’t been able to have children. She’d told me about it a few years ago, and it was the only time I’d seen her get emotional.
“Thanks.” I waved. “See you later.” I walked away, down the esplanade.
The beach always calmed me. The best thing my dad ever did was buy this house. Between the beach and my bedroom, I had a sanctuary here. I could spend longs hour on the sand, watching people pass by as I wrote my poetry. Houses, flats, bed-and-breakfasts, the Swim Centre, the Espy—a pub and my favorite place to get breakfast—sat along the sand-covered concrete esplanade.
I left early for school so I could stroll along it and enjoy the pleasant breeze of a mid-August morning. The sun was low in the sky, casting light over the sea so that it sparkled and danced as I walked along beside it in companionable silence. The salt air made me feel more at home than my own mother did.
What was new though, right?
There was no point in getting upset about it, because in five months I’d be seventeen, which meant in less than two years I’d leave for a university an ocean away. Upon which I had no intention of ever returning to my parents’ home.
It was a twenty-minute walk to school, and the closer I got to it, the more I fell into step with pupils wearing the same uniform. It was here I became truly anonymous, the bright glitter of gold from my shoes the only spot of difference between me and the girls in front of me.
Suddenly I was at the school gates, staring beyond them at Blair Lochrie High School. It was built a year before my first year at the school, and there were strict rules and regulations about litter and maintenance to keep it looking its best. It was a modern building, all white and gray and glass.
As I stepped inside, I couldn’t wait for the day I’d step out of it for the last time.
* * *
“I’m studying at yours after school,” Vicki said without preamble as she sat down beside me in Spanish, our first class of the day.
“You are?”
She nodded vehemently, the tight corkscrews of hair several inches above her forehead swaying with the movement. “Otherwise, I’ll get locked into watching Steph audition for the school show.”
“They’re auditioning already?” I frowned. “It’s the first day back at school.”
“Surprise auditions. They want raw performances or something. They’re doing Chicago this year.”
“Isn’t some of that a little...I don’t know...adult?”
She shrugged.
“So why are you studying with me and not giving Steph moral support?”
Vicki rolled her hazel eyes. “Babe, you know I love her, but after last night I need a little break.”
This was not unusual for either of us. We did love Steph. Truly. But sometimes when she got lost in her own little world—which was a nice way of saying she became incredibly self-absorbed—it was hard to stay patient with her. The best thing to do, we’d discovered, was to discreetly take a break from her. “What happened at the party?”
Vicki glanced around to make sure no one was listening and then leaned into me. “The guy, the American guy, he wasn’t into her. He was already snogging Heather when we got there. So Steph went after Scott Lister.”
My eyes grew round. “Heather’s ex-boyfriend.”
“Ugh, aye,” Vicki huffed. “Not only did she dump my ass the second we got to that party, but she got into a huge fight with Heather, and then blamed me for not stopping her snogging the face off Lister.”
“I don’t get it. Why was Heather mad at Steph for kissing Scott if she was kissing the new guy?”
“This is Heather we’re talking about. Who knows what’s going on in that twisted mind?”
“And Steph took the whole thing out on you?”
“Yup. She apologized, but I’m still kind of pissed off about it. Totally ruined the last night of summer.” She nudged me with her elbow and grinned. “I bet you had a better night with whatever book you were reading.”
I blushed. My friend knew me so well. Most of the time, like now, it felt as if Vicki just accepted who I was, but there were days that she seemed a little distant and annoyed, like last night, and I worried my hermit-like qualities irritated her.
“Hola, quinto año! Quién esta listo para comenzar español avanzado?” Our teacher Señora Cooper strolled into the room. She shot Vicki a smile my friend easily returned. Because Vicki’s dad was a maths teacher at our school, a lot of the other teachers knew Vicki really well and liked her.
Although, I couldn’t think of anyone who didn’t like Vicki. Maybe Heather. But I didn’t think Heather truly liked any other girl. They were either competition or beneath her notice. Nothing in between.
Señora Cooper’s classroom door opened again, and my breath caught in my throat at the sight of the boy striding through it.
What the ever loving...
It was like he’d walked straight out of the pages of the book I had been reading last night!
Tall—very tall—with an athletic physique, the boy looked around the classroom and then at the teacher. “Spanish, right?”
I froze at his American accent.
This was cute American boy?
Okay.
Cute was entirely the wrong descriptor.
He had close-cropped dark blond hair, and his tan skin suggested he’d spent his life somewhere with lots of sun up until now. Light gray eyes scanned the room as we all looked at him, and he stood there seeming comfortable with the attention, like it didn’t bother him at all. I’d be blushing and squirming if a room filled with strangers were staring at me.
“Como tu te llamas?” Señora Cooper asked with a raised eyebrow.
He gave her a lopsided smile, all white teeth and b
oyish charm, and this little unexpected thrill fluttered in my belly. A feeling I got only when reading about swoonworthy book boyfriends.
I swallowed hard, not sure I was enjoying this new development.
“Tobias King. But you can just call me King.”
Tobias King.
Crap.
He even had a book-boyfriend name.
I groaned inwardly as Señora Cooper told him to take a seat after checking her register to make sure he belonged in her class. As he passed me without noticing me, I took in his face and wondered how it was possible for a teenage boy to look like that. Sure we had cute guys at our school, but none of them looked like that. Like...a teen Viking!
He had a strong, chiseled jaw, a slightly too-wide nose—an imperfection that only added to his attractiveness—and a smile that could charm you out of your last Irn-Bru. It occurred to me, as he angled his long body into a seat beside Daniel Pilton, that he looked familiar. He shared more than a passing similarity to a certain star of a dystopian book-to-film franchise I had pinned to my bedroom wall.
I hunched over, hating this sudden awareness of the stranger.
“They don’t grow them like that here,” Vicki whispered, amusement in her words.
I smirked and shot her a look, but I must have been blushing because her eyes widened. Vicki being Vicki, she didn’t push the subject, and Señora Cooper started teaching.
It was difficult to concentrate on that first class, because my imagination ran away from me. I could feel his presence, burning like a fire behind me, and suddenly he was the hero in a dystopian novel and I was the heroine. I was smart and sassy, he was brooding and taciturn. Whilst I didn’t need help to take down a regime that subjugated women, he was my protector all the same. He taught me to fight harder and I taught him to live harder. After one particular battle we had to hide out alone, share sleeping quarters, and things got—
When Vicki nudged me hard, I jerked out of my daydream and was stunned to realize class was over and the bell was ringing for second period. Blushing, I fumbled to put my books in my bag.
The Fragile Ordinary Page 2