Light arms grip me from behind and struggle to heave me to my feet. An overpowering smell of neroli, citrus and musk invades my nose, and I stifle a sneeze. Only one person wears perfume that strong other than my English teacher.
Once on my feet, I smooth my uniform and brush off the gravel from the back. Then I turn to Trina who stands close beside me, with my shoulder bag in her hand.
‘You OK?’ she asks. I nod but my lips start to tremble and my facade starts to crack. She grabs my arm and leads me inside the cold sterile building that no longer seems familiar or comfortable to me. The New Me. I look down at my growing belly, that pushes against the waistband of my grey tights.
We brush past curious faces, turning heads, whispered voices and reach the door of the toilets. Trina glances up and down the hallway, suspicious of everything and everyone, and pulls me inside. She slides the lock across the door and drops our bags by the bin. I bend at the sink and splash cold water on my face and neck. It cools me down but the heat still burns inside me. I hate him. I hate Steve. I don’t know what I expected from him. An ‘I’m Sorry’ hug? A grand gesture where he promises to support me throughout this pregnancy? Maybe just an acknowledgement that he played a role in this, in any of this – the pregnancy, Sophia’s bullying, her suicide. Anything.
How can anyone be that cold? That cruel?
Or maybe he’s just scared.
I can’t fault that. I’m terrified too. And if I had the opportunity, I would run as far away from this as I possibly could.
Trina eventually steps closer to me and leans against one of the sinks. ‘So, is it true?’
‘Which part?’
‘All of it? Is Steve really the father of…of…that?’ she says, pointing to my belly.
Rubbing a paper towel across my face, the scratchy texture nipping at my skin, I turn and lean against the sink too. ‘Yeah.’
‘When? How?’
‘Matthew’s party in August, where I saw you and Rhys together. I was so upset, so mad at you both. I really thought Rhys and I’d get back together last summer, at least before school started back and when we didn’t…I was just so angry, so hurt. And I got drunk. Really drunk. And Steve was there, without Sophia. She never came to parties.’
‘She was smart.’ Trina smiles.
‘Smarter than us.’
‘Are you going to get an abortion?’
Tears well up in the corners of my eyes, and I place a palm to my face. ‘I can’t now. I left it too late, I think.’
‘Maybe…’ She edges closer to me. ‘Maybe you did that on purpose without really knowing. Maybe deep down you’ve always wanted to keep this baby.’
I laugh and roll my eyes. ‘No way. I never wanted this baby.’
‘Didn’t you? Because you would have got rid of it by now if that’s what you really wanted—’
‘I’m seventeen years old! I’m going to uni. When exactly would I be having this baby?’
‘It’s a new life for you—’
‘I don’t need a new life! I already have a life, one that I happen to love and I have no intention of saying goodbye to so I can raise a child all by myself.’
‘You don’t think you could manage?’
I turn and kick at the metal pipes at the bottom of the sink, the intricate coils turning and looping and getting sucked into the white subway tiled floor beneath us. ‘No, of course I’d manage. But the point is I don’t want to be wheeling a buggy down the street in my school uniform while people whisper behind my back—’
‘No one is whispering or passing judgement.’
‘No, but I know what they’re all thinking. It was a mistake, and I don’t plan to pay for it every day of my life. What will people at school say about me?’
She turns too and stares into the mirror at me. ‘Who cares what people at school say?’
‘I’m not you, Trina. I care what people think about me.’
‘I do too. I’m not immune to gossip. It hurts me too. But I don’t see why we have to live our lives a certain way because we’re scared about what people will say or think about us.’
‘I—’
‘Look what happened to Sophia.’
My shoulders suddenly twist and shake, and I curl into my hands, sobbing. Trina places a hand on me and I roll into her. I rest my head on her shoulder and gaze out onto the tiled flooring.
‘It’s not your fault,’ she says, holding me tighter. ‘It’s not anyone’s fault.’
‘Have you seen Ulana?’ I splutter out.
‘No. She hasn’t been at school all week. I don’t know when she’ll be back.’
‘Do you think she’ll come back?’
Trina releases me and drops her hands by her side. ‘I’m sure. She’s strong. Like you.’
‘I’m not strong.’ I lean back against the sink.
‘You’re stronger than you think.’
‘So are you.’
Trina smiles at me and slowly reaches to touch my belly. ‘Can I?’
I nod and let her. I drop my chin to my chest and gaze down at the growing life inside me. A smile creeps across my face before I can stop it.
ULANA
‘Sophia.’
I speak her name as if she’s still here. As if she stands in front of me still. Golden brown hair. Blue eyes. A heart too big for this life.
‘Sophia.’
But she can’t hear me. She will never hear me say her name again, or anyone else. She will never know how loved as a friend she was and how much she mattered to me.
I failed her.
I knew she was struggling, knew she was having a hard time. But what did I do? I sent her texts, hugged her when her relationship with Steve ended, told off the girls in the cafeteria. But what did I really do to stop this?
Nothing.
I should have told someone. Her parents. My parents. Headmaster Tomlinson. The guidance counsellor. Everyone. I should have done everything to help her. I had the opportunity to speak up, more than once, and I never did. I thought that it would all blow over in time. But it didn’t blow over. Not for Sophia. It got worse for her and I wasn’t there to help her through it.
My pillow is damp from warm tears. Hair sticks around my temples and to my cheeks. I tremble, shivering from the dying radiator heat but I don’t slide into the covers. I want to feel the cold wash over me, cool me down.
A light tap at the door startles me. Feet shuffle behind it, and the handle presses down but doesn’t release. It slowly moves back up into position. ‘Ulana?’
My mum doesn’t know whether to come in or not. She’s scared of entering, timid of approaching me when I’m like this. I wouldn’t know how to take to me either.
‘It’s OK, come in,’ I say to my mum from behind the door. I don’t sit up, or even look down at the door to see if she enters.
Finally, light trickles in as she edges inside the room. It’s only 6.05 p.m. but it’s already dark outside. Still winter. Sophia’s favourite time of the year. She loved the winter months because she loved Christmas. She loved the music, the lights, the decorations. She’d watch those American movies where families would string lights up on the roofs of large suburban houses in cookie cutter-shaped streets. They’d bicker, like typical families do, but always come back together just in time for Christmas Day. She loved a happy ending.
I wish she’d got one for herself.
My mum clears her throat and starts for the light switch. But she stops, her fingertips on the clip, and drops her hand back down to her side. ‘Are you coming down for dinner?’
I wipe away a tear with the back of my hand, and settle further into the damp pillow, deeper into the soft fabrics of the pillowcase. ‘I’m not hungry.’
I can hear her sigh at the doorway, and shift weight, her hipbone popping. ‘You have to eat, Ulana. I know it’s tough, but you not eating and not sleeping and not going to school will make it worse.’
How could it become worse?
What’s worse than this?
&nb
sp; ‘I’m not hungry,’ I say again, turning over, my back to her. I lightly touch the thin slivers of cracks in the paint. I wedge my thumbnail into one and imagine splitting the entire wall open. Crack it open, shatter the plaster and beams, expose the ugly darkness inside it.
‘I’ll keep a plate for you anyway, just in case you decide to come down later.’
‘Mum,’ I say sitting up slowly.
She turns to my voice and her face brightens slightly.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry I’ve been so…difficult this week.’ I curl my legs up into my chest and hug myself tightly.
She shakes her head and glances down at her feet. ‘Oh Ulana, I am so sorry for Sophia. I sent her parents a card yesterday. I will stop by this weekend with some food maybe?’
I smile and hug my legs closer, so my knees dig into my collarbones and it starts to hurt. My mum really thinks a hot meal will make them feel better. But she’s trying. Who knows what to do in this kind of situation? What is the right way to behave?
‘They’d like that.’
I feel the phone beside my left hip vibrate and when my mum leaves, I slowly slide it out.
Come outside, I’m here.
I shimmy out the open door and creep down the stairs. My mum is already back in the kitchen, dishes banging against the wooden table. I slowly unlatch the front door and see Aiden standing on my doorstep, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His cheeks are flushed red from the cold air and a tuft of hair sits across his forehead. His eyes are bright and wide, but they avoid my face. ‘You haven’t been returning my calls.’
I shuffle further out into the cold, away from the warm house, away from listening ears. Closing the door behind me, I seal the light and heat inside, and stand exposed to the cold and discomfort. ‘You shouldn’t be here. My dad will be back from work anytime. My mum is inside.’
He finally looks up at me, and I feel the warmth again, but not from the house. ‘I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to make sure you’re OK.’
‘I’m fine,’ I mutter, my eyes stinging from the wetness again.
‘Ulana, I’m so sorry, I—’
‘You should go.’ I let my voice soften, and swallow hard. ‘I’m so sorry too. I didn’t mean to insult your parents.’
‘That doesn’t matter now. All that matters is us.’
‘You don’t understand—’
‘You keep saying that, but I do. I really do understand. I love you, Ulana.’
I don’t know what to say to him. I’m just so tired. I miss her so much. I can’t think about anything else, not now. Maybe not ever. I’m tired of the lies, the sneaking around, checking my watch constantly. I’m tired of the nausea and knots that perpetually sit heavy at the bottom of my stomach day in, day out. But most of all, I’m tired of trying to keep away from him when all I want is to be with him. But I can’t. Not now.
‘Ulana?’
‘Dad.’
My dad climbs to the top stair and stands beside me but slightly in front as if blocking me from Aiden. Protecting me from this boy. If only he knew. ‘Are you OK? It’s freezing out here.’
Aiden wipes his palm on his jean leg. He holds his hand out for my dad to shake. ‘Sir,’ he says, like he’s seen this scene in a movie or TV show and he’s acting out a part he thinks is appropriate for this moment.
‘Are you OK?’ my dad asks me again, reaching his hand up to my shoulder. I nod frantically at him, and touch my cheeks to cool them down.
Aiden is still standing with his hand stretched outright. He’s still waiting for my dad to take it.
Please take it, Dad. Just shake his hand. Please.
My dad nervously glances between Aiden and I, then finally returns the gesture. They lock hands and shake.
‘Aiden was just—’ my voice hitches ‘—making sure I’m OK.’
‘Ulana and I go to school together,’ Aiden says quickly.
‘Oh.’ I feel my dad relax slightly beside me, as his hands drop down from his hips. ‘Well, we should go in, before she catches the cold out here. It’s nice to meet you, Aiden.’
‘You too, Sir.’
Aiden shifts from the step and turns back down the street. He glances back as I do, and all of a sudden everything I want to say to him right there comes flooding back, but I don’t open my mouth. I don’t say anything.
I just let the door close between us, separating us, maybe this time forever.
TRINA
Journal Entry 9: 22.03.2019
I read a book in Spanish class last year – I know, weird, right? In a class where we’re meant to be practising our foreign language skills and we’re asked to go home and read a book in English?
Anyway, I weirdly really liked it.
It was a book that had short stories inside it, rather than one big long novel that I’d just add to the list of things that I never get around to finishing. But anyway, this book – I finished it. All of it. And no, I didn’t just watch the movie like I did for Little Women when asked to do a book study on Louisa M Alcott for English. No, there was no movie for this – OK, I checked that first, I admit it, but I read it. Start to finish. And like I said, I really liked it.
It was supposed to give us insight into Spanish immigrants in America during the…I don’t know… Seventies or something. And I became transfixed by a character called Esperanza. What a name.
ESPERANZA
It has a nice ring to it. Better than Katrina. I was terrified people at school would call me Kat like Mum did sometimes, so I gave myself a nickname before anyone else could. Trina. It was no Esperanza but at Birchwood High School, it would get me by.
Anyway, so back to Esperanza. She comes from a big Latin family, another thing to be envious of – for me, it’s just Mum and I. She was an only child, and I’m an only child, and now that the man who I occasionally call ‘Dad’ has gone, well it doesn’t really leave us with many relatives. But Esperanza lives with her parents – both parents – her sisters, her brothers, her grandparents, all in this small house in Chicago. And she has these big dreams for herself. She doesn’t want to be pigeon-holed as just another Latin immigrant, someone whose background, whose house, whose family will define her. No, she wants something bigger than that life. And in this book she does just that. She surprises everyone by becoming something. And that’s what stood out for me. This girl from a nothing family, from a nothing neighbourhood, becoming someone.
Here, I have the book somewhere on my shelf.
The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros
That’s it. I might read it again one day.
Anyway, I was thinking about that book a lot today, and last year in general. When things were much easier, much simpler than they are now. When all I had to think about was reading a book about an eleven-year-old girl for a Spanish class. When all I had to decide was whether to have Nutella on my toast or Lurpak salted butter before school. When school was a place to hang out in, to meet friends, to catch up on the gossip. Now, it’s a place to avoid, to remind me that I no longer have friends, and school is a place where I am the gossip.
I still can’t get Lucy’s words out of my head, even though it’s been a few weeks since she was here. I’ve thought about our conversation almost every night since. I replay it over and over in my head, and wonder what I could have said, how I could have responded differently. But at the end of the day, I don’t know what I could have done differently. Because I know now it’s nothing that I did, so that means there’s nothing I could have done to stop it.
Lucy called me a coward. She told me I was scared. And for days, weeks, I believed her. Maybe I was a coward. Maybe I was too scared to do anything about it. But then that book came to my mind (probably because it’s actually the only book I’ve ever read and finished from cover to cover all by myself, so maybe that’s why it sticks out in my head during this time). This book – that girl, Esperanza, was she scared? I’m sure she was. She was eleven and living in a different country where people
thought she was weird and spoke in a funny language. But was she a coward? No.
Am I?
Not today.
Today I am not a coward.
Today I said his name out loud in front of the mirror, and I didn’t cry. Today I write his name.
CRAIG
Today I went to the police station.
I waited until the final bell, got dressed after PE – which I actually participated in today thank you, broke a sweat too – and walked there.
It was bigger inside than I thought it would be. The walls were a stark sterile white like the hospital where I sat with Lucy. The chairs in the waiting room were the same too actually. No framed pictures on the wall. Same water cooler in the corner. Same fake potted plant in the middle of a white plastic folding table meant to serve as the ‘coffee table’.
Police Station = Hospital
Both places for help, I guess, if you think about it. So maybe they should look the same.
I only had to sit in that waiting room for ten minutes before a female officer came and asked me to follow her back behind the counter, into the main hall. Desks, littered with stacks of files and papers white as the walls, mugs of cold coffee freckled with cooled milk deposits, ballpoint pens, paper clips. Much like my teachers’ desks.
School = Police Station = Hospital
She told me I needed my mum there but I lied and told her I was already eighteen. And then she asked me why I was there. Of course, I knew she’d ask me that. It’s a simple question – why was I there? She wouldn’t exactly be a great police officer if she didn’t ask me why I’d just walked into the police station asking to report a crime. It was then that I thought about getting up and leaving. Telling her that I’d changed my mind, or forgot what I was going to say, or that I had nothing to say at all and that I was just here wasting her time on a dare. But then I thought about a girl similar to me in a way. Maybe in many ways. A brave girl.
No, not Esperanza.
I thought about Lucy. And what she’s going through. What I could have been going through had a condom not been used by him. I could have been Lucy. It could have been me at the Family Planning Clinic that day. It could have been me on that hill, bleeding, needing an ambulance, begging for help. Begging someone – not just anyone, but my worst enemy – not to leave me alone.
We Are Not Okay Page 19
