by Rhian Ivory
I put the book down and turn to look at her properly. Her whole body, face, arms, eyes, mouth and all the bits I can see, everything that isn’t tucked away under hijab and hospital sheets, changes. ‘Someone might die soon, someone who is a perfect match for me,’ she says brutally.
I hide my shock. I can’t imagine waiting for someone to die.
‘What? You think I’m disgusting, yeah? I know it, I just don’t normally say it out loud,’ she admits.
‘I don’t think you’re disgusting. Actually, I think you’re really brave,’ I tell her. ‘I’m the opposite of brave… When my dad died, Mum told me that he was on the register to be a donor. We hadn’t ever talked about it so it came as a shock. Nonno – my Italian grandad – he didn’t know either and there was a lot of arguing. Mum wanted to donate Dad’s organs, but Nonno wanted to bury him, to have a proper funeral and not give his son away,’ I explain, the words leaking out of me. She doesn’t say anything so I keep talking and talking and talking. ‘So that’s what I think about when someone says organ donor, the bits that are missing from my dad. I wasn’t thinking about you. I was thinking about my dad.’ I stop, finally.
‘Sorry about your dad, but that doesn’t give you an excuse,’ she says. Before I can argue, she carries on. ‘In France – where my cousins live – everyone’s on the register. It’s like an automatic thing. They’ve got it the right way round over there. You have to sign up to a refusal register if you don’t want to be a donor.’ She looks proud but angry too, like she almost wants an argument about this. ‘So, are you signed up then?’ she asks.
‘No.’ I don’t bother to defend myself because what could I say that would make this alright?
‘All my family are. After I collapsed in school, Mariam came in and did an assembly on it and most of my friends are now on the register and the teachers, loads of them,’ she tells me proudly.
‘That’s amazing.’
‘It is amazing! Some people, like your dad, are amazing!’ She’s getting a bit loud. ‘So, are you going to go on the register now, like he did?’
‘I don’t know. I keep thinking about it…’ I stick to the truth. I don’t want to lie to her just to end this conversation. ‘But I’m worried that my heart… that there’ll be a problem with me,’ I admit.
‘Well, don’t think for too long, time isn’t exactly on our side,’ she says. ‘It isn’t up to you to decide whether they’re any good or not.’ She opens the book and passes it to me, signalling the end of the conversation.
When I come back from the toilet, I realise I’ve completely forgotten to check my phone all morning. All morning. I normally click on the envelope, just in case a text has come in that I’ve missed, but this morning nothing. And it feels good. I press out two painkillers from the foil packet and swig them down with a sip from my Coke can. Pryia gives me an understanding look before launching into a play-by-play account of the latest argument with her girlfriend over who puts the bins out on a Thursday morning versus who does their weekly food shop. I’d go for the bins any day. I try suggesting using an online delivery service for their shopping but am met with an overly long sigh. ‘If only it were that simple.’ On my right Owen and Nikhil are deciding how they’d spend their lottery winnings, if they actually played. I tune both conversations out.
It’s time.
I swipe it open.
I can do this, I can cope with this now.
I am reinstalling WhatsApp. It takes seconds.
So easy.
My finger hovers over the Facebook icon and the Instagram app but I’m not ready for those yet.
Small steps to start.
I check my texts.
Hopeful.
And there he is.
Excitement.
Ready and waiting.
Smile.
A little yellow envelope with a red 1 above it. Flashing and flirting with me.
Butterflies emerge from my stomach cocoon.
I open it, of course, because no matter how much I fill up my day with this place, there’s still room for all my thoughts and feelings. These strange little texts are something to cling on to, as I sit in the steamy staffroom alone.
So, what’s the craic? Stopped your whining and moaning yet Myrtle?
Shine on you crazy diamond,
R ;))))
SOME people might take offence at the word crazy, just so you know.
Ah, come on now, I didn’t mean to sound like a gobshite. I was just messing with you.
Yours til Niagara falls, R ☹
Care to explain Niagara Falls? And what’s a gobshite?
A gobshite is difficult to explain, it’d be easier face to face. Hands down the best word I know. Niagara Falls is where I’m headed next. You should come too and we could see the world together and I could point out all the gobshites.
Yeah, right.
C’mon, take a risk, I like to live life by the seat of my pants. I’m definitely the pilot of my plane. Hop on board?
It’s a big enough risk texting you, I’m definitely not going anywhere near your pants. And you can forget hopping on board, you lunatic.
Oi! I thought we’re being PC and not calling each other names. And my pants are the height of fashion I’ll have you know. If you’d agree to Skyping I could show you ;)
As I text back I feel my smile grow. I look up to see Mum crossing the room. I clutch the phone tighter to my chest – a dead giveaway. I don’t want her to ask because the answer isn’t one she’ll like.
We had theSafe Social Media Talk when I first went on Instagram. I’d already suffered the other talk. This couldn’t be worse than hearing my parents explain about vaginas and penises and intercourse.
‘Don’t talk to any strangers. Don’t agree to meet anyone. Don’t go into any chatting rooms with anyone and you must not accept a friendship request from anyone you don’t know,’ she told me, using her pointy finger. Her loose curls shook as she emphasised each point.
‘And no phones at the table. We’ll all leave them on the key table in the hallway, sì? Don’t want your phone pinging throughout our meal, cara?’ Dad was more concerned about the sacred family mealtimes than internet safety.
‘Sure,’ I agreed, keeping my answers as short as possible to speed things up, but no, Mum had more rules and conditions.
‘And don’t worry about how many likes your photos get; it isn’t a personality competition.’
‘Or a popularity competition, amore,’ Dad corrected.
‘You know all about grooming, right? And paedophiles?’
‘Yes, yes, Mum! Oh, my God!’ I cringed.
‘Alright then.’ Mum nodded. I nodded. We all nodded. I got up, kissed them both, before running up the stairs as fast as I could, composing my first caption for my first picture in my head. The important thing was to sound interesting, blasé and super casual without being boring. I had to get as many likes as possible. I had some serious catching-up to do.
And now I’m texting a strange boy about his pants. He could be anyone from anywhere. Except he isn’t really a stranger because we’ve met. But this is all I know and if Mum knew she’d freak right out. Truth is I don’t know if he is safe. I don’t know what he wants from me. But I’m kind of in it now and I like it – whatever it is, I like how it feels.
‘I’m texting Callie,’ I tell her and she sighs quietly with relief.
I will text Callie later, which will make it a truth.
‘Want my advice?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say, in what I hope is an encouraging manner. The last thing I want is anyone’s advice.
‘I think you should invite her round tomorrow night. You’ve been very distant since Dublin. I miss her about the house.’ I nod, relieved. ‘Be good for the two of you to have some time together without rent-a-crowd.’ I smile. ‘You could invite her now, while you’re thinking about it?’ she suggests, pointing at my phone, so I do.
My phone beeps and she looks delighted, as if the whol
e world has been righted. ‘That was fast!’
I know the text won’t be from Callie, I know it’ll be from Riley, so I turn my phone off and shove it in my bag. Mum smiles. She thinks that I’m dealing with things, that I’m listening to her and taking action. And right now, I am. I am dealing with things, I’m not lying about that. But the rest of the time I’m just surviving and that’s a different thing entirely.
Callie stands on the doorstep and for a moment I think she’s not going to come in, that she’s just going to stand there glaring at me. It’s a pretty venomous glare, to be fair.
‘Hello stranger,’ she says, lingering over the strange part. Her purple doc-marten boots hover on the threshold, rocking back and forth, back and forth.
‘Hi,’ I reply and, as she suddenly pushes past, ‘Come on in then.’
‘Show me the Streep!’ she demands, throwing her bag on the floor. She pulls off her boots, which she’s painted with signs of the zodiac in silver – they look immense. I take in her new hair. She’s had it box braided again and it looks good, but she’s overdone the make-up, going too heavy on the metallic eyelids, channelling Beyoncé but not in a good way.
She doesn’t hug me, she goes straight into the lounge. I bet she wouldn’t act like this if Mum was here, she’d be watching her manners. She’s testing me, seeing how far she can go. I look at my watch as she cracks open the salt and vinegar Pringles she’s brought with her without offering me one. It’s going to be a long night.
‘Mamma Erin’s never out on a Saturday night, is she?’ she asks, taking a break from eating Pringles. She’s sat on the armchair instead of in her usual spot next to me on the sofa. That’s Dad’s chair and it’s a really uncomfortable back-support thing.
It’s Dad’s chair.
‘Mum’s starting Pilates tonight. She’s joined Nikhil’s class, he’s a friend from work.’ I look pointedly at where she’s sitting but she ignores me.
‘Yeah, I know. You’ve told me all about him in your many texts, remember? Long texts is the new way we communicate, isn’t it? Like we’re just anyone.’ Her words cut, as they’re meant to. She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. ‘So, where’s Meryl then?’ She puts her feet up on the coffee table, breaking another house rule.
‘Callie, can we talk?’ I don’t know what to do with this version of Callie. I’ve seen it in action at school and in The Bird’s Nest where she works, but this Callie has never been part of my world.
‘Nope, we’re here to watch and learn, to see the master at work.’ She fake-smiles as she picks the DVD off the coffee table. ‘There’s not much to say. You know it’s all on Facebook and Instagram. I’m sure you must have seen.’ She slides the film into the player. ‘Oh wait, unless you’ve unfriended me that is…’
So that’s what this is about.
‘Of course, I haven’t unfriended you, don’t be so melodramatic. I deleted my account, I deleted all of them.’
‘What do you mean, deleted all of them? Why would you do that?’
‘Because I’d just had enough,’ I begin but she has more questions.
‘Is this because of Dublin? You’ve been MIA since then.’ Her feet fall off the coffee table as she sits forwards, closer to me. I hear something in her voice soften.
‘I know, I’m sorry but I’ve been feeling really…’
Before I can answer, my phone beeps. I lean over to grab it.
‘Oi! I thought you said you’d deleted everything?’ Callie says, jumping up to grab my phone. I try and take it from her hand but she won’t let go and we fight over it. She shoves me to the floor and I land awkwardly, hitting my elbow hard on the coffee table. I cry out.
She jumps on top of me. I try and push her off but she’s not budging. I hear the film’s trailers playing in the background.
‘Get off! What are you doing? Callie!’ I shout.
‘No! I am not moving until you tell me what’s going on with you. Spill or I’ll read this text! And all the others too. OUT LOUD. In the street!’ She drops my mobile phone on the floor and pins my hands and arms down next to my head. ‘Whatever’s wrong, I can handle it. I can handle anything other than you lying to me. That’s what kills me. And I know you’re lying, Hope. Don’t you think I can tell?’
I want to tell her so badly. I need to tell her but I don’t know how to put it into words. It doesn’t even appear in sentences in my head.
‘If you don’t tell me what the hell is going on, if you don’t talk to me then … then what’s the point?’
She rolls off me. We both lie on our backs saying nothing. I sit up and so does Callie. ‘I’m sorry, Cal,’ I offer but it’s not enough. ‘I’m sorry for shutting you out.’
‘It was more than that.’ I can hear the hurt she’s trying to hide. ‘You’ve avoided me, you haven’t answered my calls. You haven’t been round our house. It’s not easy to explain to Ethan why you’re avoiding us. It doesn’t make sense to him. It doesn’t even make sense to me and I’m not autistic. Everyone’s been asking where you’ve been and have we fallen out and I can’t answer because I don’t know! You’re my best friend and I should know what’s going on with you. I should know,’ she finishes.
‘It wasn’t anything to do with you, it was me,’ I tell her, aware this sounds like a break-up conversation. ‘It was all about me,’ I stress.
She puts her head on my shoulder, her arms around my waist and we sit there saying nothing, just holding one another.
‘But you’re not just a me – we’re an us, remember? Promise you won’t ever just disappear on me again. Nothing’s as good if you’re not here with me,’ she says into my shoulder, which is now a bit damp. I guess I needed reminding of that.
‘Alright, I promise.’ I reach out, grab my phone and then hide it in my back pocket.
Later, after we’ve seen Meryl being magnificent and eaten all the Haribos, Pringles and pizza, we get my duvet from upstairs and tuck up on the sofa with Scout and finally talk.
‘Hope, can I ask you something without you totally losing your shit? Are you like … depressed?’ she asks, hesitating as she says the heavy word. And it’s just a word but it’s not my word.
‘No,’ I tell her, speaking the truth. ‘I’m not depressed and I haven’t been hiding out, not really. I’ve been busy working with Mum.’
She looks relieved. I wonder how long she’s been wanting to ask that question.
‘Then what is the matter? I’m worried about you and what the hell have you done to your arm?’ she asks. ‘Did you do that at work? I told you hospitals are dangerous places.’ She hates me working there – she knows I can’t stand the place and doesn’t get why Mum’s forced the issue after what happened with Dad.
‘I bashed it against my stupid drawer, you know, the broken one. I caught my arm on a bit of wood that was sticking out,’ I say without hesitation. She pauses, getting ready to say more, so I stop her. ‘I just thought I’d get in, you know: Dublin,’ I whisper, telling her the truth again. She hugs me, pushing my glasses up my face at a funny angle.
‘You know we were all so surprised when you didn’t get through. We thought they’d got you on the wrong list or something. Mr Davis couldn’t believe it. He didn’t seem as surprised that I didn’t get in, which was rude!’ She tries to make it sound like a joke, but I can hear what’s underneath it. ‘So, did you get any feedback from them?’
I realise that she’s been talking about me, they all have. It makes me so ashamed that I move away from her before I can stop myself.
‘Oh, don’t be like that, Hope. I know Dublin was different cos of your dad, but it isn’t the only drama college left. There’s loads of different schemes and courses and other things you can do. I didn’t get in either,’ she says, like it’s the same thing. ‘You’re not the only one feeling like this, ’kay?’ She’s forgotten the deal I made with Mum.
‘Cal, you’ve got your audition at the Birmingham Theatre School coming up.’ I believe in her, she’s an unstoppa
ble force. ‘So, just think for a second… Is there something else you want to do, for the rest of your whole life other than act?’ I know the answer is a resounding NO. ‘Forever. The End?’ She has the grace to shake her head. ‘And would you be okay with finding another way in? What if you never found it? What if you stayed as a waitress at The Bird’s Nest, as a jobbing actress and never made it past being an extra on Holby City?’ We’ve both been extras on Holby City thanks to Mr Davis and his connections, and we both want more. ‘Your parents will help you, won’t they. They’ll make sure you get there.’ I want to be happy about this, but I can’t. We’ve been working towards the same dream since we first met and hers can still become a reality.
‘You’re making it sound so easy, though, like I can just show up in Birmingham and do my thing and they’ll let me in. You know it doesn’t work like that. If I don’t get in I don’t know what I’ll do either. And Mum and Dad can’t wave a magic wand so stop acting like I’m living in a fairy tale. I’m telling you now, living in my house at the moment is the complete opposite!’ She looks upset and the last thing I want to do is upset her. I reach over and hug her.
‘What’s going on at home?’ I ask, trying to breathe through the guilt I’m feeling.
‘Just some stuff with Ethan and his TA at school. He takes up so much of Mum and Dad’s time and that’s fine, I get it. He’s my little brother and I love him but sometimes I wish there was more space for me… Anyway, I think you’re amazing. You’re the most talented of all of us with that voice. You always have been.’ She says the last bit quietly, but I hear it sneak in. Even with Callie, there’s a bit of jealousy there. But I don’t want to talk about singing; singing is the last thing on my mind.
‘I don’t care about my stupid voice.’ I wish everyone would shut up about my voice. Right now, I haven’t even got a voice. ‘All I want is to be an actress, like you.’ I say the last bit softly because it tastes like green bile in my mouth.
‘If you want it enough, you will,’ she tells me and she really believes it. But I don’t. We can be as us about this as we like but she’d choose her place over mine in a heartbeat. And I’d choose my place over hers, even though neither of us can say those ugly words to the other.