The Words That Fly Between Us

by Sarah Carroll

  Mum comes into the kitchen behind me. She walks straight past us to the cupboard and takes out the granola. She fills a bowl and plonks it on the counter with some milk. Then she starts unloading the dishwasher.

  I look at Dad. His coffee cup is half raised. He’s watching Mum. There are no creases clouding his face. It’s like he’s waiting to see what she’ll do.

  No one speaks. Dad takes a sip. For a while, the only sound is the stacking of plates and the clink of Dad’s coffee cup. I’m almost through the whole bowl of granola by the time Dad says, ‘How’s your head?’

  Mum puts a mug on a shelf. She holds it there a moment too long. But then she drops her hand. ‘It’s fine,’ she says. She doesn’t turn round. She goes back to the dishwasher and takes out the cutlery holder.

  ‘Well, take it easy today, love, yeah?’ Dad says.

  Mum nods but doesn’t turn.

  ‘God, what I’d give to stay at home with you two today.’ His words are like one of those I’m sorry cards with a picture of a sad dog on the front. Except that he’s forgotten to write on it, or sign it.

  Mum comes over and takes the coffee cup from his hand. ‘Finished?’

  ‘Thanks,’ he says, letting her take it even though it’s still half full.

  The doorbell rings and I pretty much leap into the air and run down the hall. When I open the door, it’s Megan. Her bike is locked to the lamp post. I totally forgot she was coming over today. Her pink hair is in two spiky pigtails. I’ve no idea how she convinced her parents to let her do that. She’s wearing the shortest shorts known to man and a baggy T-shirt. I hadn’t even noticed it’s hot out today.

  Her eyes squint a bit as she looks over my shoulder, down our hallway, and I realize I’m just staring at her. ‘Okay,’ she says, like by not inviting her in, I’ve answered a question she didn’t ask. She points behind her. ‘I’ll meet you at the park then.’ She swivels around and follows her finger across the road.

  I don’t want to stay inside. I need air. Running to the kitchen, I tell Mum that I’ll be in the park, and then I grab a sketch pad from its hiding place in the sitting room.

  The park is right across the road from our house. It’s pretty big for a city park. There’s a playground at one end, a fountain in the middle, and loads of little gardens that are filled with flowers because it’s summer. Bushes and trees line the whole thing, but you can still see the roofs of the Georgian terraces that surround it.

  During the week the park gets busy, especially at lunchtime. This early on a Sunday, though, it’s quiet. Still, Megan has managed to practically sit on top of three boys our age.

  One of them is cute. Like, dimples and messy hair cute. Another is trying to play a guitar that seems way too big for him. He’s cute too, but in a toothpaste-ad kind of way. I drop down beside Megan and whisper, ‘Could you have sat any closer to them?’

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, she shuffles her bum an inch or two towards the boys and says, ‘I might learn the guitar,’ loud enough for half the park to hear.

  I smile.

  ‘What?’ she asks.

  ‘Will you sing too?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Can you learn at home alone in a room where no one can hear you, please?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I’m helping you,’ I say. ‘You don’t want to be that loser that insists on singing and no one wants to tell them they’re tone deaf. Trust me. I know. I’m tone deaf too.’

  ‘At least you can draw,’ she says. ‘I wish I was good at something.’

  ‘Drawing is not a real talent,’ I say. The words slip out from somewhere inside before I can catch them.

  ‘Yes it is!’ she says but I cut her off.

  ‘You’re good at loads of things,’ I say. ‘You are amazing on violin.’

  ‘But not good enough to get into the City Youth Orchestra.’

  ‘Because you don’t practise,’ I say.

  ‘Can’t be bothered to practise,’ she corrects.

  ‘And your blog is brilliant,’ I say. Her blog is called Penny for Your Thoughts and it’s about a made-up girl called Penny who always gets in awkward situations.

  ‘That’s not a talent. That’s just me messing.’

  ‘Nah,’ I say. ‘It’s definitely a talent.’

  Megan shrugs. ‘I’d prefer your talent,’ she says.

  ‘And you are good at jumping on trampolines,’ I say. ‘Remember your brother’s birthday party last year? You bounced higher than all the six-year-olds there.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Megan says. ‘And I’ve really neat handwriting.’

  ‘And you are great at covering school books in that sticky plastic stuff; I always get bubbles caught in mine. And your hair’s the pinkest I’ve ever seen. And you’re good at making friends. That’s a real talent. A practical one. And it’s good for me because I don’t need to make loads of friends because you do it for me.’

  I’ve managed to rob Megan of words, which is probably a talent in itself. She crashes sideways onto the grass like I’ve beaten her with too many compliments and closes her eyes against the sun.

  After a while, she says, ‘Yeah, well, they don’t hang blog posts in museums.’

  But imagining my portrait in the gallery doesn’t make me feel proud. I shake my head and look towards my house.

  They didn’t fight again. That’s good. So why does it feel wrong, like there’s something I’m missing?

  I see Hazel coming through the park gate. She’s wearing shorts and a tube top and her curly hair has been straightened by a steamroller.

  She comes over and sits down beside Megan. ‘I’m so sick of being stuck inside practising all day.’ She flips off her sandals and stretches her legs out until her feet are almost on my sketch pad. Orange tan streaks her ankles like dripping paint. ‘I’ve hardly been out all summer. The Youth Orchestra is just . . .’ She flicks her head. ‘Just . . . urgh!’

  ‘Check this out,’ Megan says to Hazel.

  Hazel waits as Megan leans backwards until she’s in Guitar boy’s face. ‘Can I try?’

  He looks confused and he hands the guitar out like she’s holding a gun to his head. Megan takes it but holds it the wrong way round and I have to hide my smile.

  ‘You need to . . .’ he says, making a turning movement with his hand, but Megan pretends not to understand and Hazel laughs. The guy doesn’t know what to do until Megan goes, ‘Oh!’ and flips the guitar over. Then she makes a shape with her hand and strums. ‘Like this?’

  The guy winces at the sound. ‘Kind of.’ He tries to show her where to put her fingers without getting too close but his hand shakes a little. She’s making him nervous and I feel kind of sorry for him. Megan’s always like this: the more awkward boys get, the more confident she gets.

  I lean over and whisper so quietly, only she can hear, ‘He fancies you.’

  She nudges me away. ‘Okay, like this?’ she says and tries again. This time it’s perfect.

  He says something that could be, ‘Yeah.’

  Megan says to Hazel, ‘Think I’m a natural.’

  Hazel laughs. ‘You are. You should have auditioned for the City Youth Orchestra on guitar!’

  Megan holds out the guitar for the guy to take. ‘I was only messing,’ she says. ‘I know violin and a bit of guitar, so I can do a few chords.’ She doesn’t look directly at him now though, which means she fancies him too.

  ‘You are a natural, Megan,’ Hazel says. ‘I don’t know why I got in and you didn’t.’

  Megan just shrugs. The thing is, though, Hazel’s looking at Megan, but you can tell her words are for everyone. Because she’s saying Megan’s good. But she’s also saying she’s better.

  Am I the only one that notices stuff like that?

  ‘There are loads of kids in the orchestra coming to The Green!’ Hazel says.

  The Green is short for St Cormac’s on the Green, our new school.

  ‘You’re coming too, right?’ Hazel s
ays to me.

  I nod.

  ‘Do you know many other kids coming?’ she asks.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, at least you know me and Megan, you can hang out with us,’ she says and smiles, which is actually kind of nice of her.

  ‘And we know everyone,’ Megan says.

  ‘Or will within a week,’ Hazel says.

  ‘Hey.’ The voice is from behind Hazel. There’s a girl around a year older than us standing there. Maybe it’s the angle I have, but she’s long. Long hair, long legs, long nose, long face. And she’s wearing the same colour tan as Hazel.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ Hazel says, and jumps up.

  ‘Did you forget I’d be over?’ Before Hazel can answer, she says, ‘Your mum said you’d be here.’ Then she takes one look at the boys and lays a towel on the grass on the other side to them.

  ‘This is Lisette, my cousin,’ Hazel explains to me, sitting back down beside Lisette. ‘Lisette’s already in The Green but she’s in the year above us.’

  Lisette waves at me. ‘You’ll love it, it’s a blast!’ she says and Hazel laughs like what she said was funny. Then Lisette whips off her T-shirt and lies down in her bikini top and shorts. A few seconds later, Hazel whips off hers too. Then she looks over at Megan as if she just asked her a question and is waiting for an answer.

  ‘What?’ Megan says.

  ‘You don’t want a tan?’ Hazel asks.

  Megan looks down at her oversized T-shirt. ‘White’s the new tanned,’ she says.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Hazel says. She starts to lie down but suddenly Lisette bolts upright, clutching her stomach. Her face scrunches up in pain and her hair falls around her like a half-closed hospital curtain. As Hazel watches her cousin, her own face scrunches up too.

  ‘You okay?’ Hazel asks.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Megan asks.

  ‘Is it appendicitis?’ I ask, half joking. I’ve had appendicitis and it’s like a burning hot poker in your side.

  Lisette does a fake laugh. ‘Funny,’ she says and, groaning, she holds her stomach as if it’s a gaping wound. But she’s like the hero at the end of a badly acted movie who’s been shot and is trying to convince you she’s going to die, but really everyone knows she’s going to pull through. ‘Just that time of the month,’ she says.

  ‘Oh,’ I say.

  Watching Lisette, it looks terrifying. But then her phone beeps and for a second the pain falls away from her face as she reads a message. Then, just as quickly, she’s back clutching her side and moaning. I look at Megan to see if she has noticed, but she hasn’t.

  ‘You poor thing,’ Hazel says. She looks at Megan. ‘Trust me, it’s a blessing you don’t have it yet.’ And again, it’s there. That vanilla voice, spiked with thorns. Because she’s pretending to be nice, but what she’s really doing is letting Lisette know that Megan doesn’t have her period.

  ‘It’s okay,’ Lisette says and lies back again. ‘It’s passed. For now.’

  Hazel shakes her head at the unfairness of it all.

  ‘At least we’re only five miles from the nearest hospital,’ I whisper to Megan. I take out my phone and put it on the ground between us.

  ‘We better ring ahead, let them know the severity of the situation,’ Megan says.

  ‘Tell them to stock up on more supplies,’ I say. ‘Gauzes and bandages and towels. Anything they can get their hands on.’

  Megan bites her lip, but it doesn’t stop a laugh coming out like a snort.

  ‘What?’ Hazel asks.

  I’m about to make something up, but from behind us there’s a yell and Megan turns to see what’s going on, and in the next second a water balloon smashes straight into her chest. Another comes sailing over my head and bursts on the ground. Hazel and Lisette jump up to get away but I stay where I am because when I turn, I see Guitar boy tackle another boy to the ground and pummel him with water balloons.

  Megan’s white T-shirt is soaked. I can clearly see her red bikini top beneath it before she holds the T-shirt off her body and wrings the water out. Hazel and Lisette check each other and then they sit back down.

  ‘Such kids,’ Lisette says.

  ‘I know,’ Hazel says. ‘Why are we sitting near them?’

  Megan hugs her knees in tight and pulls her T-shirt over them.

  ‘Take it off, it’ll dry in the sun,’ Hazel says.

  ‘It’s fine,’ Megan says.

  But Hazel looks at Megan over her sunglasses. ‘You’ve a bikini top on anyway, right?’

  Megan doesn’t answer.

  ‘So just take the T-shirt off,’ Hazel says.

  Megan doesn’t. Hazel raises her eyebrows and Megan opens her mouth. But for once, nothing comes out. Megan’s eyes search the trees for some excuse, and it’s so obvious why Megan doesn’t want to take it off, but Hazel just keeps waiting.

  ‘Here,’ I say, and whip my top off. I’ve a string top on underneath anyway. ‘You can wear this.’

  I hand it to Megan and she tries to find a position where no one can see her and switches tops as fast as she can.

  I’m right; she doesn’t want anyone to see her in a bikini because she doesn’t want anyone to know that she has nothing much to hide. Even though it’s completely obvious, Hazel is still saying, ‘In this heat it’ll dry in minutes,’ and there’s a smile in her voice, and you can just tell, she knows too.

  The girls lie down. Megan reties her hair. No one speaks. Hazel plugs her earphones into her phone and gives one end to Lisette and one to herself. Then she taps her nail on the screen as they listen to music, and I think of the clink of Dad’s coffee mug on the countertop this morning.

  Mum and Dad didn’t fight again. That’s good. But they didn’t talk about it either, they just pretended nothing had happened. Went back to normal. And that’s the problem. Because if no one says anything, normal just becomes waiting for the next time.

  Lisette removes the earphone and looks at Hazel.

  ‘I’m still not talking to Stephen,’ Lisette says.

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ Hazel says. ‘I don’t know how you can sit next to him in Youth Orchestra. Too bad you can’t move over to me at the other end of first row.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Lisette says. ‘Too bad.’

  They share pouty faces, and then Hazel asks me, ‘You play anything?’

  ‘No,’ I say. You’d swear by her look that I’ve just said I sit in a dark room all day staring at the wall, so I add, ‘I draw.’

  ‘Oh, right, yeah, you won something?’ Hazel says.

  ‘Yeah, it was one of those competitions on the back of a Cornflakes box,’ I say. Hazel thinks I’m serious. But Megan laughs. Then Lisette laughs. And just in case I don’t know what laughing means, Lisette adds, ‘You’re funny.’

  Hazel looks from me to Lisette, and when her eyes meet mine again, she’s smiling. Maybe she just got the joke. Or maybe she’s happy for me that Lisette thinks I’m funny.

  ‘Megan writes a blog,’ I say. I wait for Hazel to reply because she must know, she must have read it. But she stays quiet. ‘It’s really good.’

  Hazel says, ‘Mmmm.’ Then she turns to Lisette. ‘I doubt you’ve read it? Megan writes about her life.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Megan says. ‘Penny’s made up.’

  Hazel looks over her sunglasses at Megan. At Megan’s shorts first, but then at her T-shirt, or, more specifically, at what the T-shirt is hiding. ‘Parts of her definitely are anyway,’ she says. Then she sits back like she said nothing.

  I drag my eyes from her to Megan. But before I can make a face, Megan looks away. Again, she takes down one pigtail and reties it.

  Is everyone just going to pretend that Hazel isn’t doing this?

  I turn back to Hazel. ‘Which parts?’ I say.

  ‘What?’ Hazel says.

  ‘Which parts of Penny are different to Megan?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh, I dunno,’ Hazel says. ‘I was just agreeing that Penny is not Megan. Anyway, I like the blog. It�
��s cute. I keep a diary too.’

  ‘It’s not a diary,’ Megan says.

  ‘No,’ Hazel says. ‘I know.’ And she closes her eyes. ‘Are you going to forgive him?’ I don’t know what she means until she rolls on her side and faces Lisette.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Lisette says. ‘We were on a break, but it’s not just that he kissed someone else, it’s who he kissed. You know?’

  ‘I know,’ Hazel says really seriously, like one of those talk show hosts on daytime TV, and it annoys me so much that she can treat everything Lisette says as so important while putting Megan down every chance she gets, that I say, ‘I had the same problem. I kissed a boy and fifteen minutes later, he kissed someone else.’

  Lisette lifts herself up a little. Hazel watches me over her sunglasses.

  ‘We were playing spin the bottle,’ I add.

  ‘Oh,’ Lisette says and laughs. Then she holds her stomach and says, ‘Stop. It hurts too much.’ She wipes her eyes. ‘You’re funny!’

  Hazel says, ‘You are funny. We’re having pizza at mine later, want to join?’

  I look at Megan. Judging by her face, this is the first she’s heard of a pizza party. And I think I’d rather hang out in a wasps’ nest for the afternoon.

  ‘Can’t,’ I say. ‘Me and Megan are going out for lunch with my parents.’

  Megan gives me a look like she’s confused.

  ‘Actually, we better go,’ I say.

  I stand. So does Megan. She can’t seem to figure out what’s going on, though, so I grab her hand and start walking.

  ‘Where are we really going?’ Megan whispers as soon as we’re out of earshot.

  ‘Anywhere they are not,’ I say.

  CHAPTER 7

  We go out of the park and around the corner beside my house, onto the next street.

  ‘So . . .’ Megan says. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Does she really not see it?

  ‘Hazel,’ I say.

  ‘What about her?’

  I stop walking. ‘Is she always like that?’

  ‘Only on Sundays,’ she says.

  ‘You’re funny,’ I say and she laughs. I grab my side. ‘Don’t make me laugh. It’s that time of the month. You’ll have to call 911.’