“I just wanted to say a few words about my dad,” I say, my tongue like sandpaper.
I get a vision of Dad in the living room, dancing to “Chiquitita” by ABBA. Pretending to play the trombone on the um-pom-pom bits. It used to make me laugh so much watching him, but then the vision vanishes and my eyes focus on Sally again. She is flicking her head to one side in a tiny, tense twitch, obviously suggesting I sit back down. I want to carry on but all that comes out is “ABBA.” The rest of the words are stuck somewhere in my head. I try to reach them, but they have gone. People are mumbling things. I try one more time to speak but the words are so jumbled, I can’t do it. I can’t say another word. I sit back down. That’s it.
The curtains close around the casket.
RENÉE
When I get home from the funeral I realize I’ve been so consumed by it all that I’ve completely lost track of time. I walk in the door half an hour before school normally finishes and am met by Pop, whose face goes from normal to bright red and veiny in under a second. As usual he presumes the worst of me before I’ve had a second to explain.
“Why aren’t you at school, Renée?” Pop asks aggressively. “I don’t want to be back in that headmistress’s office. What have you done this time? Have you been stealing again? Did you get caught smoking?”
“No, Pop. I’ve been to a funeral,” I say, hoping for some sympathy.
He walks closer to me. For a tiny moment I think he’s going to put his arm around me and ask me if I am OK. He stops inches from my face.
“Whose funeral?”
“Flo Parrot’s dad. A girl from my class. Her dad died of a heart attack last week, and I asked Miss Anthony if I could go to her funeral because I thought it was so sad,” I say, looking at him as confidently as I can manage.
“I have never heard of Flo Parrot. Who is she?” Pop scoffs.
The fact that he’s never heard of her is irrelevant. I’ve known Carla and Gem since we were five, but almost every time Pop sees them he asks them what their names are—if he speaks to them at all. It’s either a result of him not caring or his terrible memory, but Pop’s memory isn’t a problem. He remembers every bad thing I ever did.
“I don’t want you getting involved in other people’s business. Funerals are for family. It is not your place to get in the way,” Pop says dismissively.
“I wasn’t in the way, Pop. I sat at the back. I just wanted to let Flo know that I cared.”
“Well, if you spent as much time caring about your grandmother and sister, that would be better. Go upstairs. Nana will call you for dinner,” he says, pushing me toward the stairs.
At school the next day everyone else has moved on from the death of Flo’s dad. No one even mentions it. Apart from Sally, who takes great pleasure in telling everyone about the funeral—her rendition being the Hollywood movie version, of course.
“And then Flo stood up and she could hardly speak, she was crying so much. And everyone was sobbing so loudly. And Julian and I just watched her while she tried to get her words out. And then the curtain surrounded the coffin that her dad was in—it was tiny because dead people shrink. I reckon he was wearing his slippers in the coffin too.”
I can’t stop thinking about Flo. I even take the long way home at night so that I can walk past her house. I don’t know what I’ll say if she sees me. I just feel like I know what she might be going through. I know her dad dying is completely different than my mum dying, but somewhere inside of us the feelings must be the same. Apart from Nell, I’ve never known anyone else who has lost a parent before. I think maybe it might be quite nice to, in a funny kind of way.
After school on Wednesday, Sally and I stay behind for our detention, which she obviously blames me for entirely. I know I essentially started the fight, but I was more wrestling her out of frustration. It takes a certain kind of person to actually punch someone in the face. As far as I’m concerned, this is all her fault.
“OK, girls,” starts Miss Anthony. “I hope you have both had time to think about your behavior last week.”
“Yes, miss,” we say together.
“And you realize that fighting, and especially punching, Sally, is unacceptable?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Good. Well, as you are both friends of Flo’s and attended her dad’s funeral, I thought tonight you could spend the hour writing about the importance of friends and family at times like this,” Miss Anthony says, unaware of the can of worms she just opened.
Sally looks at me like the Grand High Witch.
“Why were you there? You’re not Flo’s friend!”
“Now now, Sally,” warns Miss Anthony.
Sally curls her lip and shows her teeth. If Miss Anthony wasn’t here, I think she might have bitten me.
“Right, then. Girls, let’s get started,” Miss Anthony continues. “I want a whole side on the importance of friends and family in times of upset. You have an hour, so I don’t expect any spelling mistakes. Think carefully about what you write—I don’t want to see anything crossed out. Off you go.”
I stare at the blank page. My pen seems repelled by it. What do I know about the importance of friends and family, other than that family is worth avoiding in times of need, and friends don’t really care that much about anything other than me being funny? It takes me about half an hour to think of something to write, by which time Sally, who has been writing furiously since Miss Anthony started the clock, slams down her pen.
The importance of friends and family in times of need By Renée Sargent
When people feel sad, what they need is attention. Not the kind of attention where they have to be told how amazing they are all the time. Just the kind of attention where they know that should they need you, you are there. I would like that kind of attention. I don’t care about the other kind, even though everyone thinks I do.
When something horrible happens to someone, the worst thing anyone can do is tell them off, or accuse them of being mean, or make them feel guilty about stuff they did that they are sorry about, because you can do bad things and be really sorry. They should just listen to them, and talk about things, because when you don’t talk about things everything builds up inside you like a boiling pan with a lid on. All the water dribbles out the sides, but the lid won’t come off. It’s like that. Life just feels like little dribbles down the side of a pan.
I think friends and families are the ones who can lift the lid off, in a good way.
I don’t have time to read it over before Miss Anthony says the hour is up. I give it to her, and Sally and I leave.
“I will never forgive you for getting me a detention,” she growls as we walk out of the building.
In the car park, her dad is leaning against the bonnet of his car. His arms are crossed over his beige shirt, his mustache and beard somehow making him look even more angry. As I walk away I hear her begging him to forgive her. He doesn’t sound like he is going to.
I walk home. Nana has cooked Findus Crispy Pancakes with boiled potatoes again. The pancakes are burnt around the edges. Pop eats his in under three seconds even though they are so hot steam shoots out of them when pierced with a fork. Nell eats hers slowly along with two pints of water and then excuses herself and locks herself in the bathroom. Nana says she’s already eaten, and I sit there thinking, who are these people?
FLO
By Thursday Julian and I have barely said a word to each other about Dad. I decide to go to his room to chat about stuff. I need the support of my big brother. A long time ago Julian was the kind of brother who wanted to protect me, but then Mum corrupted him. She fell out of love with Dad and needed a sidekick, so she took Julian and soured his brain. I guess underneath his protective personality he was less like Dad and more like her than I thought, because it didn’t take long for him to become the worst older brother ever. The two of them became a force in the house, them against me and Dad. Julian and Dad fought all the time—big, loud fights about respect and “being a
man.” It was all so brutish and heinous, and for six months before Dad moved out I saw my role as protecting Abi from it all. When a row started, I’d take her to her room and sing as loudly as possible. Then I’d tickle her until her own laughter blocked out the sound of the hatred downstairs.
“Can I come in?” I ask, poking my head around the door.
He’s lying down, playing Nintendo. He doesn’t stop. I sit on the end of his bed to block his view of the TV.
“I miss Dad,” I say, staring right at him in a way that would be impossible to ignore.
He puts down the controller and exhales like I have just asked him to loan me some money. He huffs.
“Don’t you feel sad?” I ask.
Julian shrugs.
“Julian, you’re just like her.” I start to cry.
He looks at me. “Don’t you have anyone else you can cry to? What about that friend of yours? The one with the white jeans? The one who carried you home that night. Go and see her.”
“Renée isn’t really my friend,” I sniff.
“Well, what about the other one with the mean face and the big tits? Go cry at her.”
“Julian, our dad just died. Doesn’t any part of you want to talk about it with me? You and Mum act like you wanted it to happen. Do you care at all?”
“Of course I care, Flo. But he was a mess. Maybe his heart did him a favor.”
“Julian, don’t say stuff like that! He would have got himself back together eventually. He just needed to be away from Mum long enough to work out what to do. He was going to be fine.”
“Maybe he was. But I guess we will never know now, will we?”
I know. That’s all that matters.
FLO
I go back to school exactly nine days after Dad died. No time at all, really, but I feel like I’ve been away forever. When I walk into the classroom everyone goes quiet. Sally does an awkward skip up to me and links my arm as if to claim me before anyone else can, then leads me to my desk like she’s helping a granny cross a road. Something she would never actually do.
“God, stop staring, everyone. Her dad died, she didn’t grow another head.” The ease with which she says “her dad died” shouldn’t shock me as much as it does.
I sit down and she starts to arrange my things. This is very out of character and very annoying. I sit up straight with my hands by my side and wait until she’s finished.
“Best friends do this kind of thing for each other, Flo.”
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m organizing your things because it’s all such a mess.” She empties my pencil case and puts back only half of what she has tipped out before throwing the rest in the bin. “Less is more. When you are depressed you mustn’t be surrounded by clutter.” She turns around to look at Renée, who is scratching noughts and crosses symbols onto her desk. “This is what friends do for each other in times of need.”
“Good morning, everybody.” Miss Anthony comes in. She looks nice. She has a tight-fitting, gray wool turtleneck on with a silver brooch and a long black skirt. Seeing me at my desk, she comes over. Everyone pretends to talk while actually listening in.
“Welcome back, Flo. If you need anything, just let me know. I’m sure Renée and Sally will take care of you until you find your feet again,” she says.
I take a sharp breath. Sally’s face is fluorescent red, her lip curled up to show her teeth. When that happens I know she is seriously mad. As Miss Anthony walks away Sally puts her face right up against the side of mine and says, “If you ever become friends with Renée Sargent, I will make your life a living hell.”
Assembly is awkward. The usual shuffle is replaced by solid silence as I walk in. If I was more of an exhibitionist I might enjoy it, but the truth is I’d prefer to be invisible. I don’t enjoy attention at the best of times, but a room of four hundred girls in green uniforms staring at me is oddly chilling. “It’s because they all think he killed himself” is no reassurance from Sally.
Miss Grut comes in. She is such an odd woman. I watch her, trying to work out why this stony, cold woman was the one who broke the news to me that my dad had died. It isn’t that she isn’t nice, she just doesn’t really have a personality. I’ve never seen her express anything more than slow claps and half-nods, the odd smile, and telling people off for running in the corridor. I can’t imagine her being any different at home. I can’t imagine her cuddling anybody, apart from her cats, which we all know she has because she is always covered in cat hair. How did my mother think it was OK that she was the one who told me my dad died?
“Sing, will you? The teachers keep looking at us,” whispers Sally and she elbows me in the ribs.
I manage to croak out a few lines of “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” but my tongue ties at the word “rejoice.” I close my mouth and shut my eyes. I can feel the tears building up again. I beg myself not to cry, not here, not in assembly with Sally right next to me so desperate for me to crumble. I feel a finger tap on my left shoulder. Sally, to my right, doesn’t notice. I look back. It’s Renée.
“Welcome back,” she mouths. Apparently not bothered that a teacher might see.
I smile for the first time in nine days.
RENÉE
“Renée, can I have a word?”
When teachers pull you aside after assembly it’s hardly ever good news, but Miss Anthony looks surprisingly happy.
“I read your detention essay. It’s really beautifully done,” she says, smiling at me.
“Thank you.” I wait for the “But.”
“Renée,” she goes on, “is everything OK at home? You told me a while ago that you have people to talk to, but I get the impression from your piece that might not be true. Is it true?”
“Sure, of course it’s true. I mean, my grandparents aren’t exactly the most expressive of people, but we get on OK. And I have friends. Loads of friends. I was just practicing my creative writing a bit. In real life I’ve got loads of friends,” I say quickly.
If ever there was an “I don’t believe you” face, then Miss Anthony is pulling it.
“OK, Renée. Well, I’m always here should you need to talk. And if that is a bit much for you, then I think you could use writing a bit more, to get things off your chest.” She stops. There’s a little furrow on her brow. “When my mother died I was so angry, but I couldn’t talk about it, so I wrote it all down. I wrote letters to all the people that I felt had let me down. I never intended to give the letters to them, but getting everything onto paper really helped me make sense of it all. You write really nicely about your feelings. Maybe you could try it?”
It is really nice to be told I am good at something. Even if it isn’t something I can get a GCSE for.
“Thanks, Miss Anthony. I’ll give it a go. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you still miss your mum?”
“I’m not sure I miss her, but I think about her every day,” Miss Anthony says slowly. “It’s just a part of who I am. Does that make any sense?”
I nod. That makes sense to me. That is how I am starting to feel. I miss missing her a bit at the moment, though. It makes me feel bad.
The bell rings.
“Thanks, Miss Anthony.” I walk away.
“Oh, and Renée,” Miss Anthony calls back. “I imagine you make a fine friend to other people too. Flo is lucky to have you.”
“I’m lucky to have Flo,” I say, feeling like a total fraud.
I take my place on the front bench of the science lab. A few weeks ago we had been dissecting pigs’ trotters, and all the vegetarians were huddled in a corner, trying not to look. I thought it would be funny to flick a bit of trotter at them from the end of my ruler. As it turned out, it wasn’t very funny. I only meant it as a joke, but it landed inside Kerry Bowden’s pencil case and she screamed like someone had run over her foot.
Vegetarians are so dramatic. What’s it all about anyway? I mean, I
respect animals, but I also respect the food chain, and one of the few pleasures I have living with Nana and Pop is that once a week I’m allowed to have a can of chicken in white wine sauce with a pouch of Uncle Ben’s rice. I have the whole can, in a bowl, poured on top of the rice, and I sprinkle so much salt on it that not all of it dissolves. The reason I love the chicken in white wine sauce so much is because Nana gives it to me while Pop goes to play snooker, like he has every Thursday for as long as I have lived here, and she lets me eat it with a spoon, sitting on the floor next to the heating vent, because that is my favorite place. That fifteen minutes once a week is my idea of heaven. Not only is canned chicken in white wine sauce the most delicious thing ever—with the possible exception of Wotsits, which are undeniably the greatest cheesy puffs of all time—but Nana only has to heat it up, so even she can’t ruin it.
Nell has recently announced that she is a vegetarian. When she told Pop, he shouted at me for filling her head with nonsense, and Nana cried. I think everyone in my family is actually starting to lose their minds.
When Mrs. Suiter turns to write something on the blackboard, something light hits me on the back.
Hey!
Thanks for coming to Dad’s funeral. I don’t know why you came, but I am really glad you did. I’m sorry if I was weird with you in the field that time. I guess I am quite jealous of you really. Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for coming. It was really nice that you did. x
My belly does a little flip, and I get goose bumps on my arms. I’m so used to people translating every nice thing I ever do as me trying to get something for myself, that I just presume people think the worst of me all the time. I have been wanting to apologize to Flo for ages about how mean I was to her that day we ate chips together. I think I just got defensive because she was right—I don’t really do anything apart from mess about.
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