We Are Not Okay

by Natália Gomes

  ‘You’re being sensitive. You clearly misunderstood—’

  ‘I’m not sensitive, Aiden. I’m realistic! I heard them talking in the kitchen when you went upstairs. Trust me, if I were any different…if I looked like Sophia, or Lucy or anyone else, I would have been accepted no problem into your house on Sunday.’

  ‘You were accepted. They were so polite to you—’

  ‘Polite, yes. Welcoming, no.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘You don’t know them at all. How dare you insinuate they’re…they’re…racist or something?!’

  He’s angry. I’ve never seen Aiden angry before. I never thought I could make someone angry at me like this. My words did this. I did this. I’m no better than Lucy. My words sting just like hers. The worst part is that Aiden is someone I’d never want to hurt.

  ‘What I’m saying is that if I were white or you were Muslim, then this wouldn’t be so much work. Then this relationship might have a future.’

  He clears his throat. ‘That’s it then?’

  I want to scream, No, that’s not it! I love you, I don’t want this to end!

  But I’m tired. I’m tired of the lies. I’m tired of the truth. So instead I say, ‘That’s it then.’

  This is easier on us both. We’re too different. We’ll never be accepted as a couple, by either of our communities. It’s better that it ends now, than in a year, two years, three years.

  He hurls down the trail, back towards the school building. His trainers skid on the wet mud as he turns back towards me. ‘Goodbye then, Ulana.’

  ‘Goodbye, Aiden.’

  TRINA

  Journal Entry 7: 03.11.2018

  I sat beside her.

  Waiting.

  I needed to know that she was OK. I couldn’t leave her. I promised her I wouldn’t leave her and I had meant it. I still mean it.

  The hospital was really quiet. The rooms absent of emotion, absent of life in some, and absent of the past. Only the present was important. The hallway outside was silent. The occasional footsteps of a passing nurse or doctor interrupted the peace but other than that I heard nothing beyond the doors of Lucy’s hospital room. It was just her and me in there, no one else. The nurse had called her mum and while we waited for her, I sat beside her.

  Waiting. And talking. We talked for what felt like ages but it couldn’t have been that long. It was just new for us – talking, not fighting. It surprised me how easy it was to do that, how easy it was to confide in her, how easy it was to trust her. Then she closed her eyes again, and while she drifted in and out of consciousness, I replayed what happened in the woods over and over in my mind. Her face. Her anger. Her words. Then the screams. Those screams. She was so scared.

  One minute she was yelling at me and the next she was on her knees, doubled over in excruciating pain, and begging me not to leave her. She said the words, ‘Don’t leave me.’ I heard them. She definitely said them.

  We waited for almost fifteen minutes until the ambulance came. At this point, a small crowd of people had gathered at the foot of the hill, watching as a small team of medics and school staff surrounded us. They’d appeared from behind the large oak tree at the bottom of the trail and stayed there until the PE teacher shooed them away. Back to their classes. Back to their phones. Back to their gossip. This was exciting for them. Thrilling. Maybe even a little fun.

  But this was Lucy’s life. My life. And now, maybe a third life too – if He…She…It…survives. What do you call a person before it becomes an actual person? Is it too early to name? Has Lucy named her baby yet? I bet it’d be a really girlie name if it was a girl, or something she heard off a movie or an American TV show like Aria or Stella. Or maybe she’s waiting until – until – what if it doesn’t survive this? What if I didn’t call the front office quick enough? I should have directly called the ambulance. But I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. I called the school and they called the ambulance. I lost Lucy those precious, maybe even vital, few moments. And if her baby doesn’t survive, it will all be my fault.

  It was like it was all in slow motion – the medics lifting her onto a stretcher and carrying her down the hill. The rain had lightened but a mist still sat heavy around us and freckled her face with dew. I remember having a strong urge to wipe the rain from her face. I don’t know why. I shouldn’t have wanted to help her. I shouldn’t have wanted to brush the dampness from her cheeks, both from rain and her tears. Why would I have wanted to do that? I hate her.

  Well, I thought I hated her.

  But now, I don’t feel that way. As I sat by her hospital bed waiting for her mum to come, all I thought was, I hope she’s going to be OK. I hope her baby is safe. I was worried about her. I still am.

  I remember the dirt on my boots as I left the trail. The way the mud clumped around the studs on the bottom of my heels. The little leaf that had got stuck in my boot buckle near the zip. My face after – all red and puffy. The fine hairs around my forehead that stuck to my skin after the rain. I remember her face when they loaded her stretcher into the ambulance. She looked right at me. Her eyes burned into mine. It was like everything changed, in that one moment. We were different. Everything was different.

  After they had shut the doors, I watched the ambulance pull away, the brake lights coming on as the van halted to a stop until a teacher moved the students that gathered again. Again, wanting a piece of the excitement, of the thrill, of the fun.

  Rhys was there too. He stood beside me at first, his arm wrapped around my shoulders. He asked if I was OK. I didn’t know what to say to him. There was so much to say, but no words came out. I’d pushed him away after the party. I didn’t return his texts or his calls. I was too ashamed. What we had seemed so long ago. It seemed so innocent, so trivial. It’s nothing to me now. Just a tainted memory of a nice summer with a boy I once fancied. I lightly brushed him off and shifted a little away. I don’t like people too close now. He took a step back too, then he asked me what I had hoped he wouldn’t. ‘Is it true? Is she really pregnant?’

  ‘You’d have to ask her,’ I replied, but he wanted more from me. I didn’t have more to give. I’d told the whole world she was pregnant, yet as I stood there in front of him, I didn’t want to share another thing about her without her permission. What I’d done before was wrong. I don’t care about her reputation. I don’t care if she lost her popularity crown at school, or if her shallow friends turned their backs on her, or if she’d ruined her chances with Rhys – again. I cared about my actions impacting the life that grew inside her.

  Rhys kept pushing for more. ‘I’m asking you, not her. Did she say anything?’

  ‘No. She didn’t say anything about that. But you should visit her in hospital. She’s probably feeling really alone and it turns out her friends aren’t really friends at all.’

  He rubbed his face, maybe clearing the mist from his skin, maybe wiping the last few weeks from his mind. ‘So sorry, Trina. I feel like this is all my fault and—’

  I hugged him before he could finish and said, ‘It’s not your fault. Lucy and I weren’t exactly friends before you came along.’

  ‘Maybe that will change now.’

  Mr Donaldson, the PE teacher, approached me from behind before I could say anything else and offered me a lift to the hospital to sit with Lucy until they could reach her mum. I said no. Why me? Why would she want me there? Why would I want to go there? But he said she’d asked for me in the ambulance. She’d asked for me to go to the hospital with her. And after that I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to say no. I wanted to be with her, to hold her hand and tell her everything was going to be OK. And tomorrow we’d figure out the rest.

  The drive to the hospital was long. The rain and traffic slowed us down. Mr Donaldson played the radio, and flickered between several stations before eventually deciding on Classic FM. I didn’t know what it was. I’d never really heard music like that before. I mostly listened to c
hart pop, rock, indie, and embarrassingly, the occasional (and secret) love ballad. But not this. This was nice. It soothed me, calmed me a little. While sitting there, I wondered if I’d ever tune into this station again. Me, listening to classical music? Maybe. After—

  After…

  I still replay what he said to me: ‘Don’t worry. Your friend will be OK.’

  Instead of thanking him or agreeing that she’s going to be just fine, I just stared out the window at the rain battering the glass and said, ‘She’s not my friend.’

  She’s not – is she?

  SOPHIA

  I shuffle past people, edging closer to the door, to my escape. I cradle a loaf of brown bread and a two-pint of semi-skimmed milk in my arms. Mum thought it would be good for me to get out the house, get some air, now that I’m not attending school anymore. ‘Authorised Absence.’ That’s what they’re calling it. I no longer have to skip classes or hide in the girls’ toilets until the bell rings. My avoidance of homework, peers, lunch in the cafeteria, is no longer deemed ‘truancy’. I don’t feel any different though; my head isn’t any clearer, I’m not happier. I feel worse if anything. I feel even more detached from everyone, from everything. From myself. Now I have even more time to replay the past few months in my head, and to text Steve and wait for a reply that never comes.

  I don’t hear the taunts from my classmates or see sympathetic glances from those who were on my side. But I can still imagine what they’re thinking of me at school, what they’re saying about me when I’m not there. The silence, the distance, the not knowing.

  It’s worse this way.

  And now, with these discussions about me repeating my final year at school, it’s only going to get worse. I can’t handle this anymore. I’m so exhausted from crying, from thinking about it. I just want – I want – I don’t know what I want, but I know that something needs to change or else…

  ‘Sophia?’

  I turn and clip my elbow on the doorframe of the newsagent’s.

  Mr Mason, my history teacher, stands not too far from me, a bag of shopping in one hand. ‘How are you?’ He twists his lips into an awkward smile.

  I contemplate potential responses to make this exchange less awkward for both of us – maybe ‘I’m good, just taking a few days off to recover from the flu.’ Is that believable?

  He sets his plastic bag down on the floor by his feet and shifts his hand up to his waist. He’s getting ready to say something, I can tell. And I already know the general outline of this upcoming conversation. It’ll be like this:

  ‘Sophia, do you know you’re failing my history class?’

  ‘No, Sir. I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Really? Well, do you know why? No, well I do. It’s because you don’t apply yourself…it’s because you don’t submit your assignments on time…it’s because you’re not smart…or a problem-solver…or an analytical thinker… it’s because you fail at absolutely everything you put your name to…it’s because—

  ‘Sophia?’

  I glance up and see Mr Mason still standing there, tiny creases in his forehead like my dad gets when he’s worried about the football score.

  OK, here we go. ‘Um, I’m OK.’ The milk feels heavy in my arms.

  ‘We heard you’d taken some time off. I think that’s good.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The teaching faculty.’

  ‘Oh.’ Now everyone knows. Tomlinson must have told his staff why I was no longer attending school, not that they needed to be told. My photos were in their hallways for them to see for themselves. I wonder how many looked, how many recognised my face, how many were relieved it wasn’t their own daughter taped up on the wall.

  He lowers his gaze and clears his throat. ‘Listen, I… just want you to know that I’m really sorry about what you’ve been going through at school.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I’m trying too hard to sound surprised. I hear it in my voice. The fakeness. High pitch, the inflection at the end. He’s probably seeing right through it. I’m not a good liar. I haven’t had much practice. Until now.

  ‘Sophia, how are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ (Lie)

  ‘Sophia, have you eaten today?’

  ‘Yes.’ (Lie)

  ‘Sophia, where’s your homework?’

  ‘I forgot it. I’ll bring it in tomorrow though.’ (Lie)

  ‘Sophia, are you still texting Steve?’

  ‘No.’ (Lie)

  ‘Sophia, you have to get over him.’

  ‘I am.’ (Lie)

  ‘Don’t worry, Sophia, people will soon stop talking about you and the photos.’

  ‘I know they will.’ (Lie)

  Lie.

  Lie.

  Lie.

  I just can’t stop it now. I don’t know why I do it. Maybe I think that no one wants to hear the truth, that the truth is too sad for them, too difficult to hear. Because then they’ll know what I’m really thinking, how I’m really feeling. And they’ll want to help. But they can’t.

  ‘I’m obviously aware of what’s been happening and I want you to know that you are not to blame.’

  My eyes drop to the floor by his feet and I wonder what supplies he picked up today. I see a newspaper sticking out, and maybe some sandwich rolls.

  ‘How did the meeting go with your parents?’

  ‘It could’ve been worse, I guess.’ I shift to let people pass, and immediately feel their stares on me even though I know they don’t know me, or what I’ve done.

  Mr Mason’s hand is on my arm now. But it’s gentle, comforting. ‘Sophia, it might not seem like it now, but this will pass. People get bored of gossip quickly. Just remember that you have a lot of support here at school, even if you’re not feeling it from your peers. There are a lot of people there who can and want to help you in any way.’

  His words linger in the air, like Trina’s. But again, I leave them there, where they belong. Because like her, like my parents, like everyone else it seems, he wouldn’t understand. And because I’m too embarrassed to speak about it anymore. He looks at me, eagerly waiting for my response.

  I’ve always liked Mr Mason. He did his student teaching at Birchwood and quickly became one of the more popular teachers. He treats us like we’re adults, like we’re his friends. I’ve never seen him yell, or scold us as if we’re toddlers having a tantrum. He’s well respected. And I like that, which is why I feel so guilty failing his class. Of all my teachers, he’s the one I didn’t want to disappoint. But I can’t help it. His class is in the afternoon, after lunch, after the cafeteria circus where I usually see Steve and his friends, so I can’t concentrate. I don’t listen. And I don’t do the work. I want to apologise, but I can’t. I don’t know how to say sorry for something that I know I’m doing, for something that’s just such a low priority for me. I can’t think of anything else right now. I know he wants to help. But he can’t. No one can.

  ‘I should go. My mum will be wondering where I am. But thank you.’

  ‘You know where to find me, Sophia,’ he adds quietly, nodding his head as if defeated by my actions, or lack of them.

  I shuffle closer to the door again. Hand on the knob, I look over my shoulder in his direction but don’t meet his eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Mason. I’m honestly doing much better.’

  Lie.

  ***

  ‘Sophia?’

  My head whips back and Ulana’s slim frame and loose-fitting head scarf comes back into focus. Then I notice the silver metal table we sit at outside Jo’s BusStop, the plastic chair beneath me, the napkin dispenser tugged by the wind, and then finally the cold sharpened by the wind.

  ‘You were totally away with it there.’ She smiles. ‘Can we go inside? It’s freezing out here.’

  I nod slowly but suddenly can’t remember what question I’m saying yes to. What did she just ask me again? I roll a stone under the ball of my shoe, imagining what it would feel like on my skin, under my skin, inside my skin.

  �
�Sophia?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yeah, why?’

  ‘I bet you’re glad to be out of school for a few days. Has anything new happened?’

  I shake my head and look out past the red Toyota hurling down Schoolhill Road. My fingers grip the coffee cup, pressing into the cardboard sleeve even though it’s no longer warm on my skin. It’s still full, the contents barely touched. It’s my favourite. A sugar-free vanilla latte made with coconut milk. Jo even remembered to make it extra-hot for me. But today it’s doesn’t taste right. Today, nothing feels right. Everything is alien to me, nothing has any level of familiar comfort. It’s new, different.

  I look up at Ulana, her eyes actively searching my face for any clue as to why I’ve hardly said two words to her this afternoon. I know she had a fight with Aiden, but I can’t remember if I asked her about it, and I’m too tired to find out. ‘Can we go?’

  A faint smile softens her face and she nods her head slowly. ‘Sure.’

  I trudge up the bus steps, my body tired and heavy. I slide the coffee onto the wooden counter, not wanting to toss it in the bin in case it spills out and makes a mess. Jo, the owner, pops up from behind the counter, a sealed box of stirrers in her hand. She smiles at me and reaches for my cup. ‘You didn’t like your latte today?’ Jo asks me, gently shaking it. The liquid splashes up the edges and sloshes around.

  I came here with Steve too. When the weather was nice, we’d sit outside and sip our coffees while we made plans for the weekend. He switched between a mocha and a cappuccino, while I always stuck to my latte choice. He added sugar to his. Two packets of brown. Three packets if he got the large size. And we sat there, right where I was just sitting. But I don’t remember those moments now. I can’t seem to recall our conversations, our weekend plans. I don’t remember much these days. Just fragments detached from what’s real, and what’s not.

  The latte cup still sits in Jo’s hand, her fingers pressing into the sleeve that I once touched. ‘No, it was fine…I mean, it’s good…Sorry, I just let it get cold.’