by Juno Dawson
I drew the curtains and denied the rest of the world. I pressed pause. I was in sad stasis.
Slipping in and out of a semi-opaque sleep, riddled with dreams of waking up somewhere better, I wished her back. It really, really hurt, like holding it all in so tightly had left finger bruises all around my heart and ribcage.
My hair was chip-shop greasy and my teeth felt furry and my breath smelled of dog but I couldn’t have cared less. You know what killed me the most? She hadn’t meant to, but she’d left ghosts everywhere. In my recent calls list; her photo was still in my contacts; her little red light on Facebook to show she was offline (and wasn’t she just); her most recent tweet about an episode of Sherlock. It sounds stupid, but it was like they were rubbing it in.
Swinging from fizzy, hot sulphuric anger about how sodding unfair it was – why, why her when there are so many awful, awful people in the world, why her? – to sad, sad for my loss, sad she was gone, sad she wouldn’t ever get to the good bit. Sad is heavier than chain mail and, for a while there, I couldn’t get up.
I took her for granted, you know. I think we all did. We were gonna have to live with that. I needed a few days away from everyone – they only reminded me of her too. I took some time out. It was necessary.
I wrote something in my poem book. It helped.
For Daisy
How to put someone bigger than the sky
on a piece of A5?
Cruel to confine her to little ink cages of
font 12 Times New Roman.
Full stops hammered around the coffin.
Breaths like ellipses.
Her skeleton too was an insufficient beaker:
Skin and bones too small
For her litres and gallons,
Spilling over the edges.
Better rid of it and free to be
Bigger than the sky.
Chapter Eighteen
Toilet
It’s not that we got less sad about Daisy after the funeral, it’s just that other stuff required immediate attention. The sadness was there, a fat black slug stuck to the side of my heart. I was trying as best I could to ignore it.
A ‘development deal’ is when a record label pays for an act to record, rehearse, write and (apparently) buy new clothes and haircuts in return to all rights, earnings and the band members’ souls. This was what The Band Formerly Known As Judas Cradle – ‘Oh, we changed the band’s name. They didn’t like the ass-torture thing. They like Action Station, what do you think?’ – now had.
I couldn’t stay mad at Nico forever, and it felt like I was deliberately pissing on his chips, so I joined the celebrations. I figured that Daisy would have been over the moon so I should be too.
Of course I made him sweat it out. We had our own personal memorial the day he got back from London. He left flowers at the flippers of the Disapproving Seal and said a few words (‘You dying proves that life is totally unfair. You, of all the people in the world, should have lived forever.’).
We hadn’t had any time together all week, so the weekend after the funeral, we had a day under the duvet on his sofa, watching back-to-back episodes of Game of Thrones on his laptop. He explained the deal to me. ‘The development deal is for two years, so I don’t think anything’s gonna change overnight.’
‘Will you leave college?’
‘Not unless I have to. I think Cleo is sorting stuff out with them. I think we might rerecord the demo in a better studio in a few weeks so they have something to start talking about. Oh, and we might start doing gigs in London. You know, to build buzz.’
I suspected I might start hearing a fair bit more PR speak like that.
It was exciting though, even if everything happening to Nico made me feel less exciting somehow – me, the muggle to his wizard, the Lois to his Clark. It also served to remind me that I had literally no idea what I wanted to do with my life. Even thinking about it was like staring into a bottomless pit. I didn’t even know if I wanted to go to university, let alone what subject to do if I got there. It must be delightfully easy for Nico: he wanted to be a musician and nothing else would do.
I kind of wanted to wear pyjamas and play on the internet all day. Is that a job? Can it be?
One perk of the deal was that Nico now got an ‘Inspiration Allowance’ to help him write songs. His budget included DVDs. This I would not be complaining about. I decided not to mention the fact that we hadn’t had so much as a grope since before Daisy died.
Something was wrong. You know when you’re worried about something but you can’t remember what it is you’re worried about? Germans probably have a really long word for it. There should be a word for it: I’ll call it the Niggly Noos. I had a really bad case of the Niggly Noos. Something was up and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was leftover fallout from Daisy, maybe it was Nico … all the changes … the fact we hadn’t had sex in a while … but none of those answers felt quite right.
Maybe I’d left an oven on somewhere.
‘Wait up!’ Beasley chased Polly and I down the corridor. He almost collapsed, red-faced and out of breath. ‘Oh god, I’ve been following you since the Science block … couldn’t you hear me? I’m dying.’
‘We heard you, we just thought it was funny to ignore you,’ I said. That wasn’t true, but it was funny. ‘What’s up?’
Beasley, not likely to trouble the athletics squad, had to take refuge on a bench.
‘Jeez, Beas. Spit it out,’ Polly added.
‘I’ve come from your dad’s office. He wanted to see me and Alice.’
‘What for?’
‘The prom. A load of people – like Becca and Summer – have asked if the ticket money can go towards an eating-disorder charity in honour of Daisy.’
‘What?’ Polly said, and I swear her eyes turned red – just for a second. ‘No way. That money’s for the golf course.’
‘That’s what I said, but he’s agreed. He wants us to do it.’
‘****’* sake!’ Polly was already stomping in the direction of the sixth-form wing.
All Beasley and I could do was trail after her. ‘I can’t run any more, Toria! I cannot breathe and I have sweat patches under my moobs.’
We had to force our way into Mr Wolff’s office as he was in a meeting with the sparrow-faced bursar. He looked less than pleased.
‘Polly, you can’t come barging in!’
‘And you can’t take our money away. We raised that money.’
‘The prom was Daisy’s idea. A lot of people think it should be in her honour. I agree. I’m surprised you don’t. Becca Ferguson has found a local support group for young people’s mental health and I think it’s a fantastic idea.’
Beasley and I could only lurk at the back of the office. Problem was, I kind of agreed with the Pot-Pourri girls. Perhaps Daisy’s death and the funeral had deflated my tyres in general, but I couldn’t muster the same enthusiasm for the golf course any more. To be honest, with everything that had happened, it seemed pretty trivial.
I always said I was in the fight to the death, I just assumed it would be my death.
Polly went on. ‘I don’t give a shimmering **** what Becca Ferguson found. Daisy wanted to save Fantasyland.’
‘But that was before … Look, Polly, you can’t seriously be telling me that you think a crazy-golf course is more important than giving to an actual charity? And I think you’ll sell a lot more tickets this way.’
‘Dad, no! It’s not just a golf course! It’s a … tribute to Daisy now. Please.’
‘Polly. It’s a no. The money goes to charity.’
Polly’s whole body hummed with rage and frustration. I briefly pictured her flipping her father’s desk, Hulk-style, but instead her bottom lip started to tremble. She turned and silently lurched out of the room. It was much scarier. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Fantasyland was our place, you know?’
Mr Wolff shrugged. ‘You’ll find a new place.’
I nodded. ‘I agree. I think Becca�
�s idea is a good idea.’ I hated that he was right, but he was. However many rousing speeches Polly gave, our reasons for trying to save Fantasyland were selfish ones.
My afternoon session that day was Art, which I went to with a heavy heart. Another double period without Daisy. Mrs Ford, basically Judi Dench in a pashmina, was cool and we were allowed to listen to music while we worked but the only music I wanted was the sound of Daisy’s voice. Art felt like a lesson for the first time.
My style, if you could call it that, was sort of ‘Rave Kawaii’ if I had to sum it up. A lot of collage mixed-media stuff with a lot of Japanese and Korean influences. I don’t know if it’s cultural appropriation or not, but it looks hella cool. I was working on a laptop developing some videos. I was really into the idea of moving digital art and Mrs Ford supported it wholeheartedly.
About two thirds of the way into the lesson I got a text from Polly.
Pls meet me in 6 form toilets ASAP.
Mrs Ford was among the most laid-back teachers in the school. We didn’t even have to ask permission to leave so I closed the laptop and slipped quietly out. The sixth-form building was on the other side of campus. For some reason my heart beat faster and I quickened my step. Something was wrong. I’d felt it the night we found Daisy in the bathroom and I felt it now, like pins and needles in my head.
I ran.
First across the courtyard, sneakers slapping on paving slabs, and into the sixth-form wing, squeaking and skidding on the linoleum. I got to the toilet and found it empty. Maybe Polly had given up on waiting and gone back to her lesson. ‘Polly?’
‘I’m in here.’ Her tiny voice came from the last cubicle. I pushed open the door and found her sitting on the toilet with the seat down. In her hand was one half of a pair of shiny silver scissors, unscrewed at the middle. ‘Will you please take this away?’ For the first time ever, I towered over her. She looked so small.
I took the blade off her but said nothing.
‘God, I’m so ******* weak.’ She wasn’t crying but she looked broken, defeated.
‘You’re not,’ I said, my voice wobbling more than hers. ‘You’re not. You did the right thing. You texted me. You stopped yourself.’
She gave me a grave look, peering up from under her lashes. She lifted the sleeve of her vintage Adidas T-shirt to reveal the very top of her arms. There were four or five red, sore-looking scratches, all recently made but healed over. ‘What the **** is wrong with my brain that I think this is the way to deal with stuff? I felt like I was going to ******* erupt.’
I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say.
‘It should have been me, Tor. It should have been me instead of her. She was the good one.’
‘No! Hell no! Don’t even think that! That’s just … crazy, massive sadness talking.’ I lowered myself onto the toilet seat next to her, motioning for her to shuffle over and make room. We could both just about fit one buttock each on the loo. ‘Look. This. It’s not a big deal.’
‘Tor, it ******* is! I hate this! I’m such a ******* cliché.’
This kept coming up with Polly. Her need to subvert other people’s expectations. I wondered why she was so at odds with herself, so combative, or why she cared so much about what people thought of her. I mean, does anyone really think that much about anyone else anyway? We’re all too busy ironing out our own mental creases.
‘That’s not what I meant. I mean, don’t be too hard on yourself.’ I squeezed her arm. ‘It’s a hiccup, a wobble, a bump in the road or whatever … It doesn’t mean you’ve, like, failed. There’s nothing to fail; it’s not a test. Remember Daisy, how she was after she went into hospital … she dusted herself off and got on with it. So you cut yourself. So what? You stopped before, you can stop again.’ I’m nothing if not a pragmatist.
Polly nodded. ‘I know. I thought I was fixed … for good. I hadn’t cut in so long. In the old days I would have gone to the golf course but …’
I missed that place so much. ‘Maybe that’s how it crept up on you. You know, when you least expected it.’
‘What if I’m never fixed? What if my head always tells me this is a good idea?’
‘Well, then don’t fight it. That’s how it is.’ I remembered Nico telling me something about the small print, but he’d done a much better job of putting it into words. ‘Maybe it’s not gonna go away, so … make peace with it. It’s a part of you. We all have parts of ourselves we don’t like but we can’t do shit about them. Just because you’re thinking about cutting doesn’t mean you have to. It’s like a little lodger in your head.’
Polly chuckled. ‘Well, can it kindly ******* find somewhere else to live?’ She rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair smelled of conditioner – the intensive hot-oil kind. Her poor hair had been through so much it probably needed it. I inhaled her scent and it was lush.
She nuzzled against me and I felt the tension ebb from her body.
‘You’ll be fine.’
I kissed her forehead and she tilted her face up. We were so close now. As she came up, her lips brushed my chin. They were so soft. Was she going to …? She was so, so close. She was. She was going to. We had to. We were too close not to. My heart raced way up in my throat.
Her lips touched mine.
Chapter Nineteen
Skin
Oh god. Look, I know what you’re thinking, OK?
1. SHE’S A LESSSSSBIAN.
2. That slut’s meant to be with Nico.
Yeah, I know, on both counts. It sounds so, so hollow but sometimes things really do JUST HAPPEN. This was one of those things. It was like we had magnets for mouths. I know this wouldn’t hold up in court but it really did feel out of our control.
Another true thing is that if something is a little bit taboo or naughty or exotic it is automatically, I’d estimate, a hundred times more appealing. In that moment, with her lips brushing mine, I couldn’t not kiss her. I’d never felt a rush of electricity like it. You could have charged your phone off us.
And you know what? It was hot. Sort of different and sort of the same. Her full lips, even her tongue, were softer somehow, although the kiss was no less hungry than Nico’s. It was weird. I was so used to Nico’s stubble. Her skin was so, so smooth; it was like double cream.
A trapdoor in my tummy opened and my heart plummeted straight through to my feet. In a split second I was high on the kiss: the whole cubicle spun like a waltzer and I had to grip the graffiti-strewn wall for support.
The second or two the kiss lasted for felt like years, like one of those parallel worlds in every science-fiction book ever where time moves more quickly. We lived a lifetime in that moment and that was the time it took for me to snap out of it and realise what I was doing.
Flowery prose over. The smell of bleach dragged me out of it. I was snogging Polly on a toilet. Clearly a no-no.
I pulled away. I couldn’t find any words so I just half smiled, half grimaced. Polly, thank the baby Jesus, had her shit together. ‘Wow,’ she said with a broad grin. ‘Mancini’s a lucky guy. You’re a great kisser.’
Was that it? I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.
‘Thank you?’
Polly rose and offered me a hand up. ‘Relax, Toria, I don’t think you can catch gay off a toilet seat,’ she said with a wink. ‘You were the last of my friends I hadn’t snogged. Glad I did though!’
She was lying, I could tell. That girl had more front than Brompton Pier. She was playing it down, playing it safe. Reducing the kiss to a game or a dare made it harmless fun. Well, it didn’t feel harmless to me. Already guilt was corroding my insides.
‘Come on,’ she said. She checked herself over in the mirror to make sure it looked like she hadn’t been crying. The cutting, the kiss – all forgotten in an instant. Polly Wolff is a typhoon – she hits hard when she hits but blows over in minutes. ‘I’ve had an amazing idea. Will you come into town with me?’
I didn’t want to be all BUT WHAT ABOUT THE KISS?
WHAT DOES IT MEAN so instead I said, ‘Sure.’
‘No! Polly you CAN’T!’ I said, jaw hanging open.
‘I can. They won’t even ask how old we are. I’ve got the money, why not. If I’m going to **** with my skin, I might as well get something pretty to show for it.’ We were standing outside Jack of Hearts, the local tattoo and piercing parlour. The whir of the needle from within was far too like the dentist’s drill for me to be comfortable. ‘I mean look at me. This was bound to happen sooner or later. Cliché, remember?’
‘But don’t you think you should think about it? It’ll be on your skin forever. What’ll it look like when you’re eighty?’
‘Which part of me do you imagine will look good when I’m eighty?’ It was a valid point. ‘And I’ve wanted a tattoo for ages. It’s just that now I know what I want. Something that means something.’
‘Are you sure? What will your parents say?’
‘They won’t know. And my dad might be able to take away our crazy golf, but he can’t do **** about my body.’
‘OK … if you’re sure.’ We entered and a little bell jingled over our heads. I’m not going to lie, I was pooping myself a little. I had never felt younger or more out of place. Aside from my ears, I’d never even had anything pierced, and I had those done at Claire’s Accessories.
An incense stick smoked from the wall but failed to entirely mask the smell of disinfectant. A girl who was more tattoo than skin popped up at a reception desk. ‘OMG, Polly! Hi, babes! How are you, darling?’
‘Oh my god! Bree! I didn’t know you worked here.’
God, how small was this town? The pair of them chatted away and I wondered, I confess, if they’d got it on. Any worries I had about us being underage melted away: clearly Bree wouldn’t challenge her.
‘What are you having done?’ Bree asked finally.
‘I want a daisy,’ Polly said.
I sat at her side as she had it done. She had to take off her bra and sat with her T-shirt pressed to her chest for modesty. For someone who had spent a significant amount of time cutting herself, Polly wasn’t great with pain and clutched my hand until it went numb. The artist, Pablo, didn’t speak brilliant English, so he worked diligently and the tattoo quickly took shape. It was quite, quite incredible. In my head tattoos weren’t art, but this was almost photorealistic. I couldn’t believe it. It was a simple pink daisy with a single green stem. It grew alongside Polly’s ribcage. The detail was unbelievable. As a final touch, a single petal fell from the flower, dancing free on some imaginary breeze. A petal representing our Daisy.