Going Solo

by Zoe Sugg

  I run my fingers along the metal edges of the table. There are loads of kids from school all around, but most of them don’t give Noah and me a second look. He’s just part of the Brighton scene now. “Did you know that this is where I had my first major panic attack?” I say.

  Noah raises an eyebrow. “Seriously?” He puts his arm round me protectively, and I smile up at him. But I check all the signs: my heart rate is normal, my vision is clear, and my hands are still. I’m not at risk of another attack right now.

  “Yeah. Megan was there for that one too. In fact, she pretty much triggered it.”

  “It sounds like it’s a good thing she’s out of your life,” he says. “She doesn’t exactly seem like the best influence.”

  “You’re probably right about that.” I frown. “I thought the attacks were linked to when I got scared—I mean, that’s what happened during the car accident.” Even now, if I close my eyes, I can picture that moment. I can’t remember the details any longer—I can’t even remember where we were driving to—but what forms my memory of it now are the flashes and feelings. The headlights spinning on the road. Not being able to take a breath as we turned over. And my hands, flat against the side of the car, unable to escape. “But I think it’s not just when I’m scared. It’s the feeling of being trapped  : in that car, in a place, in a . . . in a friendship.”

  “Penny, you have to promise me, if you ever feel trapped when I’m around, you’ll let me know.”

  “I will. But it’s weird—when I’m with you . . . you’re like an escape route for me. I look into your eyes and . . .” I blush, feeling I must sound stupid.

  Noah’s finger brushes the underside of my chin, causing me to look up into his eyes. “I know. I feel the same way.” Then he chuckles. “Trust me, when you hear my new song, you’ll know what I mean.”

  “And when will that be, Mr. Mysterious?”

  “Soon! And don’t go calling me Mr. Mysterious, when you’re not willing to tell me about what you’ve been working on!”

  “All in good time, all in good time.”

  There’s a bustle at the front of the diner and I hear someone call my name. I spin round and see Alex. His hair is in disarray and his face is pale and wan. Something must have happened . . .

  “Alex? Is everything OK?”

  His eyes open wide with relief as he spots me. “Oh thank god you’re still here!”

  I had a text from Alex about an hour ago asking where Noah and I were meeting after school. I assumed it was so he and Elliot could meet us again. But there’s no Elliot with him this time.

  He rushes up to our table. “Have you seen Elliot, by any chance?”

  I frown. “No, but then I thought he’d be with you.”

  “So, he hasn’t texted you? Or called?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh no. I was hoping . . .” He paces up and down by our table, too wound up to sit down.

  Noah reaches out to stop him. “Alex, man, what is it?” he says.

  “It’s so stupid! We had a bit of a fight last night, after everything that happened with his parents . . .”

  I swallow. Elliot wasn’t in a good place emotionally last night, and the last thing he’d have needed was a fight with his boyfriend. “What did you say?” I ask.

  “It’s all my fault! I . . . I can be so cold at times. I told him that divorce is something some people go through and it won’t be that bad. It was the wrong thing to say—it was too soon for him to hear that, and I should’ve known. He told me to get out of your house, so I left. But we’ve never had a fight that’s lasted longer than a couple of hours before. After the shock and everything, I thought I’d give him time to sleep—I mean, everything seems better in the morning, right?—and then he’d be OK again. But, Penny, he hasn’t answered any of my texts and, according to some of his friends at school, he didn’t go in today!”

  I’d noticed that I hadn’t received any replies to my messages, or any random Elliot factoids today as usual, but then I hadn’t thought that strange, because of what he was going through.

  “Have you checked his room at my house?”

  Alex grimaces, then drops his eyes to the ground, his shoulders slumping. “Of course I have. He’s not there, but no one saw him leave this morning either. His bed doesn’t look slept in . . . and his bag has gone.”

  I feel my blood turn cold in my veins. “You’re kidding?”

  “No. I wish.” A tear rolls down his cheek, and I know he must be worried out of his mind. “His parents don’t know where he is either. As if they’d even notice or care.”

  “I don’t think he’d have gone far without telling us,” I say, trying to inject more confidence into my voice than I feel. “He’s probably in one of his usual places. Come on. Noah and I will help you look.”

  “Thank you. I’m going to go back to my flat to get some warmer clothes and grab the charger pack for my phone—the last thing I want to do is have that run out in case he’s trying to get hold of me. Text me as soon as you know anything?”

  “Of course.” I’m already snatching up my scarf and winding it round my neck.

  Noah’s grabbing his coat at the same time. “Do you really think Elliot’s run away?” he asks.

  I bite my lip. “He might have done,” I reply.

  Elliot always runs away—whether it’s from fights with his parents or a bad day at school. When he and Alex broke up, he even ran away to Paris to find me. It’s what he does. I curse myself for not realizing in time that after the bad news he’d had last night this is what would happen. But he’s never run away from me. He has never gone anywhere without telling me, or without inviting me along too.

  Something about it this time feels different.

  More permanent.

  “We’ll find him,” Noah says, full of confidence. “He wouldn’t have done anything without telling you.”

  “That’s what I thought. But if it’s already been almost a whole day . . .” I stare down at my phone, looking at it like I don’t know what it’s for as there haven’t been any messages on it from Elliot.

  I try one more time.

  Hey, where are you? P xxxx

  It’s already dark by the time we step outside, the night falling early now that it’s November. It’s bitterly cold, but we’re all wrapped up, my white-and-gold-flecked scarf pulled up so high the wool tickles my eyelashes. I can barely feel my fingers inside my woollen mittens.

  “Where to first?” says Noah.

  The bright lights of the Pier catch my eye. I think of all the times Elliot and I, when we’ve needed to calm down about something, have escaped there to play on the 2p machines, our nerves soothed, bizarrely, by the jangle and clatter of the fairground games.

  “The Pier,” I say, and I take off at a run. Thankfully, it’s not far. There are still plenty of people milling about after work because of the fireworks. We dash past groups sipping hot drinks and eating churros dipped in chocolate. I can hear the whirl of the rollercoaster and see its lights flashing brightly, its circle giving the impression of dropping all its riders into the rolling sea.

  When we reach the first arcade I point to the left. “You go that way, I’ll continue down here. And after this arcade, keep going straight until you reach the end. Meet you by the bumper cars?”

  “You got it,” Noah calls, ripping the beanie off his head.

  Now that we’re indoors and surrounded by people, the atmosphere closes in around me. I’m sweltering from running in the cold air and my heart is pounding madly inside my chest, but I need to stay focused.

  Elliot—where are you?

  Each time I pass one of our favourite machines I hold my breath. But there’s no sign of Elliot. My heart misses a beat when I see someone in Elliot’s signature trilby hat and vintage striped scarf—but it’s not him.

  The Pier is definitely Elliot Wentworth–less.

  “Anything?” I ask Noah as I catch up with him by the bumper cars.


  He shakes his head. “No, no luck.”

  I pull out my phone and give Alex a quick update.

  Not on Pier. Will check a few places in the Lanes—then regroup back at my house? P x

  Home’s the last place anyone saw him, and if I’m not back in time for Dad’s signature pre-Bonfire-Night marshmallows, my parents are going to start worrying about my whereabouts too. At any rate, at my house we can talk to Mum and Dad and think about gathering a proper search party.

  Plus, something Elliot once said niggles at the back of my mind. Elliot’s Great Escape Card. If that’s gone . . . that’s when I’ll know to really worry.

  I fill Noah in on our conversation so many weeks ago, and he nods grimly. “Sounds like he’s planned for something like this,” he says.

  Tears fill my eyes unexpectedly, and Noah pulls me into a fierce hug. “He wouldn’t do this without telling me!” I sob. “That was the deal. We tell each other everything  !”

  “He’s almost seventeen . . . he’ll be OK.”

  “I don’t care,” I say. “I don’t care how old he is; he still needs his friends. He can’t just ditch his whole life . . .”

  But that’s exactly what Noah did—for a little while anyway. I can’t think about that.

  We dash around the Lanes, checking all of Elliot’s and my favourite places: the Creperie, the cafe at Waterstones on the corner, Choccywoccydoodah; I’d check the library too if I could, but at this time of night it’s closed. The streets are steadily filling up with revellers heading toward the big public bonfire and fireworks display.

  “Come on,” says Noah. “I think it’s time we got back to your house. Who knows—maybe he’s come back already and is just waiting for us there?”

  “Maybe,” I say, but my trembling voice belies my real thoughts. No, Penny. Don’t give in until you know for sure.

  We take a taxi home as it’s the quickest way and we’re too cold to wait for a bus anyway. In a matter of minutes we’re there. I walk in and see Mum’s face, drawn and lined with worry. “Have you heard from him?” she asks me as soon as I’m through the door.

  I shake my head but leave Noah to answer. I can’t wait any longer. I dash up the stairs to Elliot’s bedroom. Alex was right: it feels empty and the bed is still neatly made. The one thing that gives me a shred of hope is that the book Elliot is currently reading is still upside down on his bedside table, his bookmark still marking his page. I’m sure he’d have taken it if he was going for good. He can’t leave anything unfinished—it would drive him mad, wouldn’t it?

  I look inside his wardrobe and rifle through his jackets and freshly ironed jeans until I find what I’m looking for. A small black box fastened with a combination lock. I know what the combination is—the same one we both use, a mixture of his birthday and mine—and quickly set it to open.

  I lift the lid.

  It’s empty. Elliot’s Great Escape Card is gone.

  The box clatters out of my hands and falls to the floor.

  He’s really gone.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “Penny, are you OK?” Noah comes bounding up the stairs. In Elliot’s room I’ve fallen to my knees without realizing it, and that’s where Noah finds me, in a crumpled heap on the floor.

  “He’s taken his Great Escape Card,” I say, between sobs. “That means he was really serious about going. I can’t believe it . . .”

  “Come on,” Noah says, helping me to my feet. “Alex is going to be here any minute and you have to tell your mum and dad what’s going on.”

  When I get downstairs, Mum has her arms round Alex while Mrs. Wentworth, Elliot’s mum, paces frantically round the room. My eyes must ask her the question I’m too afraid to say out loud, because she suddenly covers her face with her hands, saying, “I don’t know where he’s gone—I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

  “Where’s Elliot’s dad?” I ask.

  “He’s gone too!” She laughs bitterly. “But that’s not a surprise. He’s gone to live with his secretary. They’ve been seeing each other behind my back all this time!”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice sounding small.

  “I thought Elliot and I could start again. It seems so silly now, but I went out to buy him a chocolate caterpillar cake, the sort he used to love when he was little.” She gestures to a crumpled box on the dining room table. “A peace offering, if you like. But he’s not a child anymore. When I came back home, I found this.”

  She hands me a note written on a scrap of paper ripped out of a school notebook.

  Last night, you made it clear I wasn’t welcome here anymore. So I’m leaving. Goodbye. Elliot

  My heart constricts inside my chest. “Where did you find this?” I ask her.

  “It was on the table in the hall.” Mrs. Wentworth looks miserable, her face lined with concern. “In the space of a single evening, I’ve lost my entire family.”

  “Well, maybe if you hadn’t driven him away!” says Alex, pounding his fist angrily on the back of the sofa. “If you’d thought for a second about the impact this was having on him!” Mum strokes his arm and shushes him.

  I drift over to the dining room table and open the box with the cake. It’s like having an out-of-body experience—my mind is numb; my body is acting of its own accord. Now is not the time for a sugar rush, Penny, I tell myself. The picture on the box is of a little cartoon caterpillar.

  Something sparks in my heart and a lump appears in my throat. There’s still one place we haven’t checked.

  Where no one but me would think to look.

  “Mrs. Wentworth,” I say, “is the door to your house open?”

  “No, but I can give you the keys,” she says.

  “I’ve just had an idea of where Elliot might have gone, but I need to get something from his room.”

  She nods, handing me her keys. Noah gives my hand a reassuring squeeze, and I can feel Alex’s questioning eyes on my back. I try not to seem too hopeful, just in case this turns out to be another dead end.

  Once I’m in Elliot’s house, I run upstairs all the way to his attic bedroom. The one that’s a twin to mine. I know that if I could see through the left-hand wall, I’d be looking right into my bedroom.

  The place looks ransacked—by Elliot’s mum, and by Alex. But they don’t know everything about this room, not the way I do. I know that behind his mirror there’s a hidden doorway that leads through into the low eaves of the house—as there is from my room too. It’s there in that space that Elliot and I used to stash away our most precious things—not expensive stuff, but the silly, only-important-to-us things that were the world to us when we were younger. Our memories—things we should have grown out of, that we promised to throw away, but never did. I kept my old diaries in there, along with too many packages of photographs to count, developed with the old wind-and-snap disposable cameras. Elliot kept all his most valuable books, along with items he was sure would one day come back into fashion. He’d also hung up his drawing of a giant peach (James and the Giant Peach was his favourite childhood book), with one of his mum’s gold stars stuck onto it. Her way of telling him “well done,” and her way of showing him she loved him.

  I move right to the back of the room and crouch down by the panelling. It takes me a moment to find where the catch is, but finally I manage to prise it open. The door is tiny, but still just about wide enough for me, so I poke my head through and crawl inside.

  I spy Elliot curled up in the corner, his dark blond hair dishevelled and laced with cobwebs. He’s got an old blanket wrapped round him and he’s staring at a scrapbook I’ve never seen before.

  “Hey,” I say quietly, not sure what else to say.

  “Hey.” He looks up at me, and behind his tortoiseshell glasses, I can see his eyes are rimmed with red. “How’d you find me?”

  “I know you, you goof.”

  He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was going to run away, you know.”

  “I know,�
�� I say softly. He lifts up the corner of his blanket and invites me to come in. I curl up next to him, wrapping his hands in mine.

  “I meant it too,” he continues. “I was going to run away for good. I crept back in here late last night only to grab some of my things—like my book.” He lifts up the copy of his Roald Dahl treasure, still with its cover of clear plastic to protect it. “But then I found this. I’d totally forgotten I’d made this scrapbook.” He flips to the inside cover, where I read:

  My Family by Elliot Wentworth, aged 8, 9, 93/4, 10

  I chuckle at even young Elliot’s desire for factual accuracy, even when it came to his age.

  “I think it started as a school project, but I kept it going for a while.” He flips through it. It starts with a family tree, with little pictures (meticulously cut out) of his grandparents, parents and himself, then it turns into a treasure trove of memories: a pressed thistle from their first visit to Scotland, various museum leaflets, cinema-ticket stubs and, best of all, pictures of Elliot and his mum and dad together. Happy.

  “Look, there’s you!” Elliot points to a photograph in the corner. Sure enough, there’s a picture of a chubby six-year-old Penny in a pale, spotted pinafore, her arm thrown round the neck of a lanky seven-year-old Elliot. Young Penny is wearing Elliot’s glasses; Elliot has one of my mum’s feather boas wrapped round his neck. We look like a pair of nutters. We look like best friends.

  “Oh god, look at my hair!” I groan, staring in disbelief at the upside-down pudding-bowl mop on my head.

  “I think you look très chic, darling,” says Elliot.

  “Liar,” I say, and I nudge him in the ribs.

  He catches my eye and then sighs. He strokes the outside edge of the scrapbook absent-mindedly as he talks. “I thought, this time, I’d really get away. I’m old enough now, or near enough. I could have made it. I didn’t want to have to rely on anyone. I didn’t want to love anyone. Love only brings you pain, right?”

  I squeeze his hand.

  “But then I came in here and I saw all the little things I’d collected growing up. OK, so our family was far from perfect—I mean, look at how my dad treats me now!—but there was love in our house. I was lucky to have that, even if it’s gone now. Just because it’s gone one day, doesn’t make it any less special while it lasted, does it?”