Keep Your Friends Close

by Janelle Harris

  I’m not a nerd, although I am naturally academic. I’ve a photographic memory and that makes learning easy, and somewhat boring. My classmates don’t know this, and it’s certainly not the reason they exclude me. I’m not ugly. Okay, I’m not particularly attractive either, but there are plenty of other plain Janes here with lots of friends. Why not me? I play team sports. Though I’m not really sure why. No one ever picks me to be on their team. They just get stuck with me because I’m the only one left.

  ‘Balanced teams always,’ the teachers say.

  The teachers mean an even number of boys and girls on each team. But the teams are never balanced. The popular kids choose each other first. Huddled in their groups as they laugh and giggle even when their team is losing. Life is all just a big game to them. And it’s not that they don’t want me to play. It’s worse. They don’t even notice if I play or not. I’d say it hurts my feelings, but that would be a lie. I stopped having feelings about most things a long time ago. These days, I exist only to observe. And to make collages. I love collaging. It’s quite possibly my only joy and the one thing that keeps me sane.

  Today, however, they’ve even ruined collaging for me. And I’ll never be the same again.

  I’m in the bathroom when the commotion starts. The shrieks and cackles from the dorm next door are so loud they make me jump out of my skin. I flush the loo, wash my hands and edge towards my dorm with caution. When I push open the door the noise inside is intense and overwhelming. Shrieks of laughter and someone shouting, ‘Let me see! I want to see!’

  Their shrill laughter claws at me. Then heads turn and they see me at the door. The girls nearest to me fall silent first. As if the sight of me has ripped their voices from their bodies. Some of them shake their heads, others stare at the ground. The silence seems to spread. The girls charging around in the middle of the room suddenly become statues. One after another they fall silent, until the only noise in the dorm is the squeak of the soles of my shoes as I enter.

  The mass of girls in the stuffy dorm moves aside for me, clearing a path from the door to my bed – the second to last from the wall, and neatly made as always.

  ‘Oh my God, she’s pathetic,’ a girl says. She is sitting on the edge of my bed swinging her legs.

  I recognise her from my science class, although we’ve never spoken.

  ‘Look! Look!’ Gillian clambers on to my bed in her black leather shoes, stomping all over my bedsheets. And in her hand, I can see it now, she is holding my scrapbook. My secret, private scrapbook.

  She opens it at the centre pages and the laughter starts again as everyone stares at the photo I’ve stuck there. It’s Luke sitting on the shoulders of his rugby teammates after scoring the winning try in the biggest game of the year. I’ve dedicated countless pages to the rugby team. Their wins and their losses. But this page is different. Because around Luke’s face I’ve drawn a bright-red love heart. Next to his beautiful face I’ve written, in red marker and in capital letters: ‘LUV U 4EVR’.

  Gillian flicks through the pages and comes to a sudden stop. A sadistic grin lights up her freckled face and she squeals with satisfaction.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ she says, as she raises the scrapbook higher so that everyone can see. ‘Is that a wedding dress?’

  Gillian points at the couple I have cut out from a magazine. It’s a tall man in a black suit and a woman in a crisp white dress. It’s Luke and me. I’ve stuck our faces on the models.

  Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

  I’ve never seen them as a bride and groom. Ever. I’m not weird like that. They’re just a couple. In love.

  She’s making this out to be something it’s not. She’s making it seem as if I have some strange obsession with Luke Hogan.

  Then I’m aware of all these eyes shifting from the scrapbook to me, burning with intensity.

  I want to move. I want to run and hide and never come back. But I’m frozen, like a deer in headlights.

  ‘It’s an actual bride and groom,’ Gillian says. She’s laughing so much she almost falls off the bed, which makes the other girls laugh even louder.

  It’s not! I want to shout but my chest is crushed by the weight of embarrassment.

  She’s not even showing them my other collages. The ones of sports day, for instance, or the time a well-being coach came to our school and told us about keeping a scrapbook of happy thoughts – that’s where this whole idea came from.

  Stupid bitch. This is all her fault. I feel the tears coming. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction, but I’m going to cry.

  ‘Hey, that’s enough now,’ a voice ripples from somewhere at the back of the dorm.

  My feet are frozen to the spot, so I crane my neck to see who it is.

  ‘Don’t be such a dry shite,’ Gillian says, finally jumping off my bed and closing the scrapbook. ‘We’re only having a laugh.’

  Darcy Flynn steps forward through the sniggering girls until she’s face to face with Gillian. ‘Well, I don’t think she finds it funny, do you?’ she asks me.

  I shake my head. It’s no surprise that Darcy doesn’t know my name, but I am surprised that she’s taking my side.

  Why is she helping me? I’m on my guard instantly.

  ‘Fine. Whatever,’ Gillian says, slamming my scrapbook into Darcy’s chest. ‘I’m bored now, anyway.’

  Everything goes back to normal surprisingly quickly. The girls start chatting, breaking into their usual little cliques as they grab their bags and books and leave the dorm. The drama is over as quickly as it began. And if it wasn’t for the stabbing pain in my chest, I could almost believe it had never happened.

  Finally, it’s just me and Darcy. I still haven’t moved, so she walks over to me and hands me my scrapbook.

  ‘You okay?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah. I’m fine.’

  Darcy looks at me with heartbreak-heavy eyes. And out of everything that just happened her sympathy makes me feel worst of all. That’s why I couldn’t bring myself to thank her.

  ‘Who was that girl anyway?’ Darcy asks.

  I look at her wide-eyed. I’m surprised she doesn’t know. ‘No one,’ I say, proudly. Besides, the way Darcy just pissed off Gillian, she’s going to learn the hard way exactly who’s who at St Peter’s.

  Gillian Buckley is popular. Although she has a complicated relationship with that status. As if being attractive and revered is too cliché for her taste. She has a particularly striking appearance. Her vibrant green eyes sparkle like emeralds and her hair is on the light-auburn side of red and long curls hang down her back. A smattering of freckles dust her nose, but she usually covers them with make-up. I often think if I dyed my red hair just a little darker and my hazel eyes were a fraction greener, people would think we are sisters. Maybe everyone would notice me then.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  TINA

  Sunday 30 June 2019

  I sit at the kitchen table with numerous windows open on my laptop. Andrew’s photo is all over the internet – complete, of course, with eye-catching headlines:

  Business Tycoon Slaughtered

  Father and Entrepreneur Lost

  The Man. The Murder

  The sensationalist words, chosen to tug at heartstrings, are bold and hackneyed. The spin to attract click bait has no shame. And, I won’t lie, I’ve clicked through my fair share of articles this morning before breakfast. I’ve trawled the internet, searching for Andrew’s name. I’ve read every article. And the comments. All of them. Every single stupid one! From the boring and pointless – So sad. R.I.P. – to the more self-centred – I don’t feel safe walking the streets any more – right down to the utterly ridiculous – I blame the government, there aren’t enough guards on duty.

  The whole country is talking about Andrew’s murder. But what nobody seems to know is who did it and why.

  I print off the most interesting articles. Some with pictures. Some without. I like the ones with pictures best. And I cut and paste everything into m
y new scrapbook waiting on the kitchen table. I sip coffee that I made before I became distracted with the news. It’s cold and scum has settled on the top. I spit it back into the cup and stand up to pour the whole thing into the sink.

  It’s only when I’m on my feet that I realise I’m shaking. My whole lower body is like jelly. I still can’t quite believe what’s happened. How it happened. Usually when I feel like this I replay the chain of events in my head that led me to this point – to the person I am today. But I don’t have time this morning. I want to get my hands on the Sunday papers before they’re all sold out. The traditionalist in me favours picking up a black-and-white broadsheet to truly understand the media’s take on Andrew’s death.

  With the taste of bitter coffee still in my mouth, I slide my feet into some Uggs waiting by the door and throw a long coat on over my pyjamas before I leave the flat.

  There are lots of people out walking. I get some funny looks as they pass by, glancing at my winter coat and boots on a sunny summer morning. I’m used to odd looks. It’s the story of my life. I ignore them and march on towards the corner shop.

  The small shop isn’t busy. There are just a handful of people inside. And although none of them have bought a paper, they all seem to be talking about Andrew.

  ‘Shocking what the country is coming to, isn’t it?’ the lady behind the counter says, as a man approaches to pay for some bread and a bottle of Coke.

  ‘It is indeed,’ he says, nodding.

  ‘That’s three sixty-five, love,’ she says.

  The man passes her a five-euro note and says, ‘It’s scary to think there’s some psycho running around out there.’

  ‘Evil. Pure evil,’ she says, as she passes him back some coins.

  I try to ignore her comment, but it’s harder to ignore the way she stares at me.

  ‘You all right there?’ she asks, straightening so she seems a little less hidden behind the counter.

  ‘Erm. I’m just looking for the newspapers,’ I say.

  ‘Right there. By the door.’ She points and smiles, and when I turn around I find a shelf stacked with local as well as national papers.

  I laugh, embarrassed, and I pick one up. ‘Great. Thanks.’

  Andrew’s death – or as the cruder articles are reporting it, murder – is unsurprisingly front-page news.

  ‘Do we really know the man behind the facade?’ one bold journalist has dared to ask.

  ‘Man and mogul,’ someone else has printed. The paper in my hand promises to tell all inside. I flick through as quickly as I can, taking up too much space in the corner of the small shop with my arms wide as I hold the national broadsheet. My eyes can’t take in the words fast enough.

  ‘Let’s rewind. How much do we really know about the man behind the empire?’

  The article sweeps over Andrew’s present. His investments. Potential investments. Darcy’s Dishes is among the mentions. And I try not to let my back teeth snap too hard as my eyes glide over her name. But, more interestingly, it dives into his past. The man he was.

  ‘Andrew was a keen nurturer of talent.’

  Was he? I think, my eyes rolling as I read the blatantly clichéd words. The article sweeps over his donations to St Peter’s. Money for arts and sport and recreation. It rambles on at length about the fabulous tennis courts. There are even some photos interspersed among the gushing text.

  ‘Mr Buckley offered a bursary for the keenest entrepreneur at the school. A boy (or girl) after his own heart.’

  Boy. Or girl. My eyes ache as I stare at the bracketed text. I take a moment to remember that St Peter’s was once an all-male school and the introduction of female pupils was a step forward. A feather in their cap. And I hate that some part of me acknowledges it.

  ‘The funeral is tomorrow. He was a good man. Lord, rest his soul.’

  Oh, Andrew.

  The woman behind the counter clears her throat loudly, no doubt to command my attention. And it’s only when I look up and find her eyes burning into me that I realise I’ve been holding my breath.

  ‘Are you going to buy that?’ she asks.

  I fold the paper and gather up some more from the shelf. I’m not particularly paying attention to which ones, although I am careful to leave behind the trashy tabloids more concerned with Hollywood gossip than the hunt for a murderer.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, approaching the counter with a stack of papers in my arms. ‘I’ll take them all.’

  The woman looks at me as if I’m crazy.

  ‘Right,’ she says, and she makes no effort to hide that I’m irritating her. ‘That’ll be twenty-seven euros and forty-six cents, please?’

  I shove my hand into my pocket and realise I’ve left the house without my purse.

  ‘Twenty-seven forty-six,’ she repeats.

  ‘I’ve forgotten—’

  ‘Hello there,’ someone says, and I turn my head over my shoulder to see who’s talking.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the heavily pregnant woman behind me says, and I recognise her straight away. She’s the cop from the Pilates class. She’s shaking her head and stroking her chin as she adds, ‘I’m really terrible with names. I’ve forgotten yours.’

  I don’t remind her that I never told her my name. Instead I smile and giggle and say, ‘Me too. Dreadful. Sometimes I think I’d forget my own.’

  ‘Rose,’ she says. ‘I’m Rose.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Rose. Of course. How are you?’

  ‘Fed up,’ she grunts. ‘I just want to see my feet again.’

  I look at the large tub of ice cream and the multipack of cheese-and-onion crisps she’s holding.

  ‘I’m not comfort eating, I swear.’ She blushes. ‘It’s my eldest’s birthday today. We’re having a party. Ten eight-year-olds in the house. I must be mad.’

  I don’t have a reply for that and I can feel the eyes of the annoying woman behind the counter burn into me.

  ‘Do you still want these, then?’ the woman asks.

  ‘Wow. That’s some stack of papers,’ Rose says.

  I also don’t know what to say to that. Rose makes me irrationally nervous. I wish Polly hadn’t told me she is a cop.

  ‘It reminds me of when I was pregnant with my second. I had this weird craving to eat paper. Used to give me the worst indigestion, but I just couldn’t help myself. The doctors had to give me a stern talking-to and warn me it was dangerous. And even after that I struggled to stop. Thank God I don’t have anything like that this time.’

  Some more customers come into the shop. The small space is starting to feel overcrowded and I’m hot and clammy under my coat.

  ‘Oh Lord, you’re not going to eat them, are you?’ Rose asks, pointing to the papers and then to me.

  ‘No. God. No.’

  Rose tilts her head, concerned. ‘Why so many then?’ Suddenly Rose doesn’t feel like a fed-up pregnant woman. She sounds like a cop. And whether her tone and prying stare is intentional or a knee-jerk reaction from years spent on the force, the last thing I want is Rose thinking I’m someone to be suspicious of.

  ‘I’m decorating,’ I say, my mind racing to think of a plausible reason I’d be buying a mound of newspapers. ‘I’ve just moved into a new flat and it’s badly in need of some TLC. I want to put some papers down to protect the floor.’

  ‘Love, I really am going to have to rush you,’ the lady behind the counter says, and I’m actually grateful for her intrusion into the awkward conversation. ‘There’s a queue forming behind you.’

  She’s right. There are a handful of people lined up behind myself and Rose.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’ve forgotten my wallet. Could you set the papers aside for me and I’ll be back in a little while.’

  ‘Oh, for—’ The woman pastes on a smile and gathers the papers, moving them aside.

  ‘My husband is a painter,’ Rose says, stepping forward to put her crisps and ice cream on the counter space the woman has cleared.

  ‘Four eighty,’ the
woman says, and I can tell Rose is trying her patience as much as I am.

  Rose passes the woman some money and gathers up her goods. ‘He has lots of dust sheets in the shed. I’d be more than happy to lend you some. Save you buying a tonne of papers that you’re only going to end up throwing out.’

  I wince. I can hear the woman behind the counter curse us under her breath as Rose walks towards the door, and I find myself being ushered along beside her.

  ‘I have the party today,’ Rose says, once we’re outside. ‘But why don’t you give me your number and we can arrange something for tomorrow?’

  The bright morning sun makes me squint, but I still see Rose pull her mobile out of her pocket. There’s no way I’m giving her my number. Jesus.

  ‘I’m not around tomorrow, I’m afraid,’ I say, trying to keep the nervous wobble out of my voice.

  Rose looks disappointed.

  ‘Work,’ I add, feeling an explanation is needed.

  ‘Okay no problem. I’ll drop them around to you in the evening.’

  ‘No. No. I couldn’t put you to the trouble,’ I say, the mere idea of Rose coming to the flat makes me sweat. ‘How about I get them off you after Pilates this week?’ I suggest.

  ‘Oh. Great idea,’ Rose says, and I can hear tiredness in her voice. I hope she’s going to say she needs to be on her way. ‘And then maybe you’ll come for coffee with me and Polly after? If you’re new in the area you probably don’t have any mammy friends here yet and we’d love to get to know you more.’

  I smile way too widely. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Right. Sorry. I’ve gotta go,’ Rose says, abruptly opening the door of the car parked on the road next to us. ‘Need to pee.’

  I don’t actually have time to reply before she sits in the car, starts the engine and draws away with a wave.