(2) Roman is back in school but she hasn’t seen Gabe.
(3) She’s finally getting used to Amelia Bond’s lack of hairy face mole, but it’ll be a long road.
I suppose I’d rather Roman, Gabe and Pete went to the try-outs without me than miss out. But when I think about them getting into the final while I’m stuck at home I feel left behind. I have serious FOMO.
I wonder how Gabe could’ve done this for a year. I start going nuts after three days. Mum eventually lets me out for a drive with Dad after I start chalking up my days of incarceration on the bedroom wall with Lav’s eyeliner.
Victory! (Though I have to buy Lav a new eyeliner.)
And, with perfect timing, my aching back and nausea turn out to be not aquarium-related, but in fact my first period. Mum brings me a hot water bottle.
“It’s been a memorable week,” I tell her.
“It’s still not as traumatic as my first period.”
“Pffft. How many police were involved in your first period?”
“None, but I was dancing in the school play. In white trousers.”
She tucks me in with that horrible thought. I don’t dare sleep in case I dream.
The next day I’m catching up on some homework that Mr Peters dropped round. (“Lovely guy, dark eyes,” Mum said. “Bit skinny,” Dad sniffed.) With a stomach jolt I remember Hannah’s email. I cannot believe I haven’t thought about her since the broom cupboard, but concussion is a funny thing, the doctor said. “Hilarious,” I said, feeling my lumpy head.
I beg Mum for my phone. She’s about to say no, but I tell her about Hannah’s latest messages, about her getting more and more stressed and her parents putting loads of pressure on her. Dad comes downstairs and loiters behind me, making a sandwich and earwigging.
“I am going to look through your phone,” Mum says, in a voice that expects me to argue.
“’K.”
“Lavender would go nuts if you tried that with her,” Dad mutters, head in the fridge.
I roll my eyes. “That’s cos she has loads of boys begging her to go out with them and all I have is an argumentative synchronized swimming team.”
Mum leans against the counter and scrolls through my phone. I look at her face for reactions.
“Anything?”
“Your friends from the swimming team want to know if you’re OK, babes,” she says wryly. “You’ve got two new emails from Hannah.”
“Can I read them?” I say, getting up to look.
“No. Not after the week you’ve had.” She begins to read.
Dad stands behind Mum and looks over her shoulder. Their faces become grim.
“What?” I demand. “Come on, she’s my best friend!”
They read on. At one point, without taking his eyes off the screen, Dad reaches out and holds my hand. I think he forgets to let go. It goes on a while as he and Mum are bent over my phone, heads almost touching as they scroll through all the older emails and still we keep holding hands. Am I going to have to drag him off to university with me?
“Hi guys, this is my dad, could you get the door? No, it’s cool, we go through sideways.”
Finally they finish and they look up at each other. Their noses are practically touching and for a mad moment I think, Are they about to kiss? They’re not a couple, they had better not kiss. Plus Dad’s still holding my hand!
Thankfully they don’t kiss and he lets go of my hand. Double-win.
“What’s a thigh gap?” Dad asks. I explain.
“Back fat?”
“Um…”
“Maybe fat that is on your back?” Mum says patiently.
“Right.”
Mum catches my eye. I suppress a smile. She holds my hand and looks thoughtful. “So. It doesn’t look like Hannah is coping very well with the pressure. Or that her parents are being very helpful.” She pauses.
“What?”
They’re clearly thinking something about me, I just can’t tell what. Maybe the usual I hope she’s not going to get any taller.
“OK,” says Dad in his I Have a Plan voice, the one in which he usually announces his intention to experiment with pudding recipes.
He hands me my phone.
“Lou, you email Hannah and ask her what she wants to do. Tell her we can call her parents—”
“No,” I interrupt him, “she will flip out.”
“Lou, she has already ‘flipped out’. Read her thesis on back fat. So just be honest with her. And then…”
“Yes?”
“You can give me your phone back.”
28
Dear Hannah, I’m so so sorry, I didn’t realize you were going mental.
Hmm. Delete.
Hannah, I’m really sorry. I’ve been making new friends and I hadn’t noticed you were
Even worse. Delete!
Hannah, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were finding training camp so hard. It sounds like a really difficult place. Do you want me to tell your parents? Maybe you could talk to the coaches about slowing down your training? I’m sure if you told someone you weren’t happy they would help you. It’s easy to feel like winning is the only thing that matters, but I don’t think it is. Take it from a loser! I’m sorry I’ve been so slow to get back to you – I’ve had a crazy couple of weeks. I’ll tell you more later, please let me know you’re OK!
Lots of love,
Weez xxxxx
It took me ages to phrase this, sitting at the kitchen table with tea cooling in front of me. But finally I think I’ve nailed it. I press send, then hand my phone to Dad, who puts it carefully in a box. He locks the box with a little key, which he gives to Mum, who pockets it with a smug face. Dad stands on tiptoes and pushes the box onto a high shelf in the kitchen cupboard that not even I can reach.
He turns back and stands shoulder to shoulder with Mum. They fold their arms – no one can take on Team Parent.
Almost immediately my phone makes a pinging sound and vibrates inside the box. Their faces drop.
“That’s probably Hannah replying,” I tell them, unnecessarily. Dad sighs and goes back to the cupboard and Mum digs in her pocket for the key.
It is Hannah.
DON’T SAY A WORD TO MY PARENTS. Seriously! This means the world to them. But you’re not a loser, you know you’re not. That video from the aquarium was AMAZING, I’ve shown it to loads of people here! I’m OK. I just feel low at night, things always seem better in the morning. Gotta go… We’re all off to the cinema. Only joking, trainingtrainingtraining. LOL/cry.
Xxxxxxxxx
That wasn’t the answer I was expecting. I don’t like how vague it is. Mum takes the phone, and she and Dad read the message.
“OK,” says Dad. “But I’d be much happier if we told her parents.”
“She’d be so angry at me. I already feel bad showing this to you.”
“Keep talking to her,” says Mum, and hands me back my phone. “I’m trusting you,” she adds, hanging on to it a second longer than she needs.
I head upstairs and spend the rest of the day googling all the things I haven’t known for the last week. It takes ages. By the time I’ve finished checking “distrawn” (knew it wasn’t a word) Lav is back from school and flopping wearily down on her bed, shaking her homework out of her bag.
“Good day at school?”
She sighs. “People are still bugging me about you.”
“Can’t they find out from Roman?”
“I heard this girl, Camo –”
“Cammie –”
“– is trying to flirt it out of him. He was quite rude to her.”
I really enjoy that news for several reasons.
I sigh and catch sight of my stomach. I lift my top up and look at it. It’s less muscly than it used to be. Cammie once said, “That would be so hot. On a guy.” She’s good at insulting me in a way that sounds like a compliment. Then I have to say thank you or else I’m rude.
I suck my tummy in and push it out as far as I
can. Then suck it in again. Skinny. Fat. Skinny. Fat. Hate Cammie.
“What are you doing?” comes a wary voice from the other bed. I look over and Lav is staring at me over the top of a textbook. I pull my T-shirt down primly. Honestly, no privacy in this room.
“I have you on Eating Disorder Watch, just so you know,” she informs me. “You’ve been on it since the time trials.”
“That’s sweet,” I tell her. “I have you on Pregnancy Watch.”
“Ha ha,” she says good-humouredly. She puts down her textbook and rolls on to her stomach. Dammit, everything Lav does is elegant. Probably because she has much less body to control. I’m so lanky that when I move it’s like trying to lead a school trip around the zoo – barely controlled chaos.
“I know you look different now you’re not training, but it’s OK, right?”
“OK.”
“Don’t you dare get an eating disorder. If you go bulimic you’ll rot your teeth. If you go ano you’ll get a hairy face.”
“I won’t!” I say, horrified.
“Uh-huh,” she says authoritatively, disappearing back behind her textbook. “Your body goes fluffy everywhere, like granny’s chin all over.”
I think for a second, then hand over my phone with the thread of Hannah’s latest emails.
“Does Hannah sound a bit weight-obsessed to you?”
She skim-reads it.
“Yes. Are you going to tell her parents?”
“I told Mum and Dad, but if we tell Barbra and Damian, what if they pull her out of the training camp? Then she won’t get to be a swimmer and all her dreams will be ruined and it’ll be all my fault because I told—”
“Lou, breathe.”
“Sorry. It’s very stressful to think about it; it must be worse to live it.”
“Stop picking your lips, you’ll make them bleed. You’ve made them bleed. Hannah sounds pretty messed up.”
“Yeah, but I bet everyone there is messed up!”
She chucks me a tissue.
“Thanks,” I say, dabbing my split lip.
“Well.” Lav shrugs. “I would tell them.”
“I think Dad wants to. Mum and I say no.”
We both lie back on our beds.
“So it’s a tie,” says Lav.
“Hannah makes it three to two we don’t tell.”
“Hmmm.”
I tap out a quick goodnight message to Hannah. It’s so good to have my phone back.
I watch it send and I see she’s read it immediately. Some dots appear: she’s writing. They go. She’s stopped. They pop up again: she’s having another go. I watch the dots.
“Don’t watch the dots,” Lav says wisely. “It’s a rule of dating.”
I put my phone down. She’ll reply tomorrow.
29
Drafts Folder
Hi Gabe, are you OK? I’m OK. I’m sorry, I don’t know what happened.
Gabe, can we talk?
Hi Gabriel, what’s going on? Everything is so weird here.
Hi Roman, I don’t know if you want to talk to me but
Hey Pete
I haven’t broken my word to Mum, I haven’t sent any messages to the boys. I would, if only I could think of the right thing to say. Anyway, I’ll be seeing them soon.
Yesterday, Mum and Dad said I can go back to school if I think it’ll be OK. No, Mother, Father, bless your optimism, it will be far from OK. Lav says all anyone knows is that the three boys got arrested and I was there, and that could mean anything, right?
Bottom line: Loner Loser Lou Brown got three popular boys arrested. I can’t see this raising my social standing much higher, but how much lower can it possibly go? I bet people will want gossip for a few days then forget about it, so I’ll just keep my head down. Funny, after I’ve spent half a term desperate for anyone to talk to me.
I pack my rucksack the night before, and I feel something bulky at the bottom. It’s Swimming for Women and the Infirm. The spine is flaking away: it’s sat forgotten at the bottom of my bag since our last training session. The musty old smell of it reminds me of late nights at the swimming pool and I feel sad that all that is over. Even my shoebox full of twenty-pound notes makes me feel nostalgic. I’m not sure I’ll ever have the heart to spend it. Lav offers to take it off my hands if it’s too emotional. So kind, I tell her. But no.
I wake up early the next morning, and I’m eating cereal as Mum and Lav come downstairs. They give me supportive looks but I just stare into my bowl – I’m not in a good mood. I sneak out once in fifteen boring, nerdy years and all hell breaks loose. Because when I rebel, I really go in with both feet.
Dad gives us a lift. He pulls up in the school car park and Lav turns back from the front seat.
“Want to walk in together?”
“If that’s OK.”
“Course.”
She waits for me as I disentangle myself from the car and my rucksack. I’m nervous and clumsy and I can feel people’s eyes on me. (Looking, not actual eyeballs. That would be gross.)
I finally step out of the car, my legs feeling a little rubbery as Lavender and I walk towards the front doors. People are definitely staring, and I’m blushing already. But Lav doesn’t peel away from me to join her friends. She walks me right to my form room, and luckily we bump into Mr Peters in the doorway.
I feel like Lav hands me over to him as if I’m a package, but it’s probably for the best. As I enter the form room some people stop talking and stare at me, while others talk more urgently, possibly about me. I don’t look good: my face is still a mess of bruises and I have carpet burns on my hands and a nasty scab on my lip. I sit at an empty desk at the front rather than risk walking all the way to the back. I’m next to Mr Peters, so no one dares to approach me.
The people at this school are the worst – it’s either ignore you or stare at you. Find a middle-ground, weirdos!
The bell goes for first lesson.
“Oi, is that a bruise?” some guy yells at my back as I race out of the form room, and I can hear a couple of girls gasp, scandalized but amused.
Three more years, Lou, I tell myself, hitching up my rucksack and walking head down towards my history class. Three more years, get your GCSEs, get your A-levels, change your name to Trixie McCool, go to university and deny that Louise Brown ever existed, let alone went to an aquarium after-hours.
I’m exhausted already. A week and a half in bed and I feel weak as a kitten. I snooze gently at the front of history with my Interested Face on. The teacher isn’t convinced but she leaves me alone today. At my height I’m not one of life’s natural sneakers, but today I do my best. I skulk in the toilet at break, then sit at the front for my next two lessons.
At lunch I’m heading to the canteen looking around for Roman and Gabe, but I don’t see them anywhere. Instead I bump into Melia. She smiles, looks genuinely pleased to see me.
“Hey, you OK?” she asks, jumping straight in without any chit-chat. Seems odd, but then Cammie and the rest of them appear behind her, putting an end to any conversation.
“Oh my god look at you!” drawls Cammie. “Who did that? Not Roman? Did he hit you? Were you in an accident?”
People are turning to look, exactly as she intended.
Melia looks mortified. “Cammie,” she murmurs.
“What?”
“Just … forget it.”
Well done, Melia, way to assert yourself. I take advantage of Cammie being distracted to nip past them.
I head to my old refuge, the library. I’m going to find the biggest book I can and hide behind it. If it’s big enough I’ll build a fort and refuse to come out till hometime. Immature, but that’s my plan.
I turn into an emptier corridor and feel myself calming a little. Honestly, all this drama! The worst thing I did was lie to my parents and maybe scare a few fish. There wasn’t half this much fuss when Lav sneaked out to a party, trod on a nail and ended up in hospital in sequinned hotpants getting a tetanus shot. The injustice r
ankles.
Head down, I march quickly down the corridor. I turn a corner and walk straight into Roman – actually banging my face on him.
“Owb!” I say pitifully, pinching my nose. It tastes metallic, as if I might get a nosebleed.
“Sor…” Roman begins, but he falls silent when he sees it’s me.
A mean voice in my head wonders if he’ll say hi. Bearing in mind that he didn’t talk to me at school before I got him arrested and nearly expelled. But a less bratty voice reminds me how he held on to me when we were running through the aquarium and didn’t let go even when I was slowing him down.
“You look awful,” he says, shocked.
A couple of boys from my year turn into the corridor, see us and openly stop and stare.
Roman glares at them and they remember they were on their way to something very important, actually, and bustle past.
“I know I do. It’s this new shampoo,” I tell him.
Roman laughs. He never laughs at my jokes. Perhaps it’s a pity laugh, but I’ll take it: I feel sorry for myself. Every time I speak, my lips tug at the scab on my mouth. Bleurgh.
“How are you?” I venture.
“I’ve … been better,” says Roman carefully. I feel like he’s hiding something from me, and also… “Stop talking to my scab, please,” I tell him.
“God, sorry.” He smiles. He’s so handsome when he smiles, but I’m not thinking about that right now – I’m preoccupied with something else.
“Where’s Gabe?” I ask.
“Ill,” Roman says, his friendliness cooling. “With the stress, he’s got ill again.”
I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach.
“I… I’m so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault!” He seems almost angry at the thought.
“I know it’s not my fault!” I retort. “I’m sorry for him, I mean. I like him, he’s my friend. I don’t want him to feel like he’s got flu all the time and be so tired that his limbs ache and stuff.”
“Did he tell you that?”
Girl Out of Water Page 13