by Cat Clarke
Ethan’s just left.
He found me sitting at the table, sobbing. He brought my tray over and gathered up all the paper and put it on the floor. He put his hand on my shoulder ever so gently, and it stayed there while I cried. When the tears ran out, I picked up the fork and began to eat. I could only stomach a couple of forkfuls. I had to swig down some Coke just so I didn’t choke. Ethan sat on my bed and watched me.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘You should eat. You’ll feel stronger.’
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
‘Grace …’ He looked at me imploringly.
‘I don’t want you here. Please leave.’
He left.
day 11
Had a dream about Sal last night. Hardly surprising really.
She was here with me and we were sitting opposite each other at the table. Ethan was leaning against the wall, watching us. Sal and I were talking about something important and Ethan was repeating every single word I said. I got annoyed, and told him to leave us alone. And just like that, Ethan was gone, replaced by Nat. A smug Nat who smiled too much. Sal got annoyed and told him to leave us. I smiled at Sal and reached across the table to hold her hand, but she morphed into Ethan and said, ‘Maybe we’re getting somewhere, Grace.’ Then I woke up, wishing that dream people would at least have the courtesy to stay as the same dream people and not be so bloody confusing.
I thought I’d pick up where I left off yesterday, chronicling the complete life cycle of a friendship. After I told Sal about the cutting, things were OK for a while. No one else would have noticed a change, but I noticed a difference in the way she looked at me. I felt like she was always trying to gauge my mood. Like if I was in a mard for no particular reason (not exactly a rare occurrence), she’d cock her head to one side and look at me thoughtfully. I could practically hear her wondering if I was going to cut. Sal probably thought she was being subtle, but I often clocked her looking out for fresh cuts (which she never saw). I didn’t mind all that much. She was acting exactly like a best friend should. It was nice.
Occasionally she’d try to get me to talk about it – about why I did it. I would listen to her theories and then try to change the subject. Why does there have to be a reason for everything? Some things just are.
So our friendship might have seemed a bit unbalanced: me being all self-pitying, Sal looking after me most of the time. She certainly took care of me enough times when I was puking in the toilets of some cheesy club. And she had a nice line in rescuing me when I was about to do something I’d probably regret with someone I’d definitely regret.
I didn’t exactly relish the role of Pathetic Needy Friend, but Sal seemed to want to look after me. And maybe I needed looking after.
Everything changed a few months ago.
I’d been to Glasgow to visit my grandma over Easter. Had a fine old time: bit of shopping, lots of reading, nice long chats over a lovely cup of tea. (It was always a lovely cup of tea, never an average one.) I came back all cheery and bearing gifts from Sal’s homeland: a cuddly Loch Ness Monster and a Scottish bagpiper doll with super-scary staring eyes.
The Sal I found was not the ever-optimistic-little-ray-of-sunshine Sal that I left. Oh, it wasn’t obvious. She laughed at the presents I’d brought her and listened in an interested enough way to my enthralling holiday tales. But there was something wrong – I knew it. It was subtle, like when you mess with the brightness levels on your TV. She was duller somehow, faded. She didn’t seem sad or depressed or worried or anything you could put your finger on. She just wasn’t quite Sal.
I asked her what was up almost as soon as I saw her, but she was adamant that nothing was wrong. I knew she was lying, so I pushed it a little, but backed off when she started getting annoyed. I figured she’d tell me when she was ready. I didn’t realize just how long I’d have to wait.
Things carried on more or less as normal for the next few weeks. Sal was clearly doing her best to act her usual upbeat self, but I wasn’t buying it. No one else seemed to notice that anything was wrong. Her parents were too busy dealing with Cam, who was being bullied at school. And everyone at our school was too busy being wrapped up in themselves, as usual.
About a month passed and I watched Sal closely, looking for clues. She seemed to be getting worse. I noticed her pushing her food around on her plate at lunchtime – completely out of character. And she looked like she was losing weight. But still she maintained that nothing was wrong.
My daily ‘Hiya, how’s it going?’ now had a hidden meaning, as in ‘Hiya, how are you, really?’ But Sal wouldn’t take the bait. She seemed more and more distant. I felt like she was backing away from our friendship. It was upsetting.
One Thursday afternoon just before our exams, Sal and I meandered towards the park. We were headed to my house for a bit of English revision. Not that we needed to do any, but we had to at least look like we were making an effort.
It had been a gorgeous morning, a kind of birds-singing, break-into-song, 1950s-movie-type morning, but as soon as we left school, top-heavy dark clouds seemed to fast-forward through the sky, finally letting loose a torrent of stupidly heavy rain as we passed through the park gates.
We just stood there, looking at each other and giggling. Within a minute or so, we both looked as if we’d taken a shower in our clothes. I grabbed Sal’s arm and ran towards a huge old oak tree near the swings. We sat with our backs against the trunk, laughing and shivering and watching mothers frantically trying to fasten up waterproof covers on pushchairs. Soon, we were the only ones left in the park. Still the rain drummed on.
We sat there for a while, hypnotized by the show the rain was putting on just for us. Sal turned and looked at me like she was trying to read my mind – or maybe trying to weigh something up in her own mind. Uh oh, here it comes. I felt a bit sick. Scared.
‘There’s something I need to tell you.’ Did I know that what she was going to say would change everything? Maybe not. But I knew it was going to be big.
‘I think I’m pregnant.’ Four words, that’s all it took. All I could manage to splutter out was ‘Jesus!’ Nice. Good work. Very supportive.
Sal began to cry and it just about broke my heart. I put my arms around her and held her tight. She kept saying the same thing over and over again: ‘What am I going to do?’ I said that it would be OK and that we’d figure it out and was she really sure? But I wasn’t getting through to her, so I held her face between my hands and made her look me in the eyes. ‘Listen to me, Sal. Are you sure you’re pregnant? Have you done a test?’ Sal shook her head and sobbed, ‘I know I am. I know it, I know it. How could this happen?’
We must have sat there for a good twenty minutes before I noticed that Sal was shivering really badly. She looked terrible. We headed to the bus stop, me with my arm around Sal’s shoulders, her stumbling along in a kind of dazed stupor. I think she was all cried out.
We sat in silence all the way home. I could not have been more shocked. How could this happen? I thought she was supposed to be a virgin … Surely she’d have told me if … When? Who with? And why hadn’t she told me before?
I led her into my house and straight up to my bedroom. We changed out of our wet clothes. I even let her wear my favourite jeans. She sat at the dressing table while I ran a comb through her matted, damp hair. She was looking in the mirror, but I could tell she wasn’t really seeing much of anything.
I looked at Sal’s reflection. Would I call her beautiful? Maybe. Definitely. Blonde hair that skims just above her shoulders. She often gathers it up in some complicated arrangement that always looks completely effortless. Brown eyes and permanently honey-hued skin. Lucky cow.
When I was done with Sal’s hair and had quickly run the comb through mine (boring brown beneath MANY layers of red dye), I sat down on the edge of the bed. Sal turned around on the stool to face me. We were practically knee-to-knee, but somehow m
ore distant from each other than ever before. ‘So, are you going to tell me what happened?’
She shook her head. No eye contact.
‘Okaaay, how late are you?’ The words almost got stuck in my throat. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.
‘Two weeks,’ she said softly. Two weeks? Could she be two weeks late just from stress or something? Or did it definitely mean she was pregnant? Aargh. I haven’t got a clue about this stuff.
‘OK, two weeks. You know, you can’t be sure till you’ve done a test. You could just be late cos you’ve been stressing so much. Let’s not jump to conclusions here.’ That sounded all right in my head, but pathetically inadequate when said out loud. Maybe you just know when you’re pregnant. Maybe your body feels different? How the hell was I supposed to know?
The supply of tears had been replenished and began to spill out again. ‘I know I’m pregnant. I’ve known ever since …’
‘Please tell me what happened, Sal. I’m your best friend – if you can’t tell me, you’re screwed …’ I winced. ‘Sorry … bad choice of words.’ She half laughed at my bad joke, but then shook her head and looked at me sadly.
‘Please … you have to understand. I just can’t.’ I felt like I’d failed some sort of test – probably the most important test our friendship would ever face. If only I’d said the right thing I could have got her to open up to me. Instead, I’d put my foot in it as usual, making a joke of something that was so not funny.
I practically begged her to tell me, but she wouldn’t budge. And I couldn’t help but feel a seed of resentment planting itself within me. I’d told her my deepest, darkest secrets; shouldn’t it be a give-and-take sort of thing? I looked away and gazed out the window. The rain had finally stopped.
Sal took hold of my hand. ‘Don’t be angry with me, Grace. I couldn’t bear it if you were angry with me.’
‘I don’t know what you want me to say. How can I help you if you won’t even talk to me about it?’ I was angry, but I didn’t want her to know it.
‘It doesn’t matter what happened. I don’t want to think about it. Please don’t make me think about it. I don’t want you to hate me or think I’m any more stupid than you must do already. I just need you to be here for me.’ She was pleading with me now. Scared and vulnerable and sad. My anger faded.
‘Why would I hate you? Why would I think you’re stupid? Stuff like this happens. I mean, it’s a bit of a shock, but it’s OK. I’d never think any less of you, you daft cow. You know me better than that. But if you really don’t want to tell me, then I suppose I’ll just have to get over it, won’t I?’ Tell me tell me tell me NOW!
Sal seemed grateful that I didn’t push it any further. She stood and yawned. ‘God, I’m so tired. Mind if I just have a little sleep? Just for a few minutes.’ She curled up on the bed, kitten-style.
‘Er … Sal, don’t you think there’s things we should be talking about?’ How can she be thinking of sleep at a time like this?
‘Later, Gracie. Later, I promise.’ She sounded so exhausted that I decided to leave it – for now. Maybe she’ll be more rational after a bit of shut-eye. I lay down next to her and stared at the ceiling until I heard her breathing relax into sleep.
So, my sweet and innocent best friend was pregnant. Or at least she seemed pretty sure she was. There was a baby growing inside her. An actual real, live baby/ foetus/whatever. This was bad bad bad. Couldn’t get much worse in fact. First things first though. I had to make Sal get a pregnancy test, just to be sure. It would be annoying to be stressing this much over a false alarm.
I couldn’t even begin to imagine who she’d slept with. Sal wouldn’t have sex with just anyone – she’s too damn choosy for that. Oh God, maybe someone raped her. That could explain her reluctance to tell me what happened. I wanted to wake her up right that moment and ask her. But she looked so serene and peaceful – I just couldn’t do it.
I decided that a cup of tea was probably in order. Nothing like a cuppa in a crisis. So I went down to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Leaned against the worktop and sipped my tea. My mind was racing – it couldn’t seem to stay on one topic for five seconds before flitting on to something else. How could this have happened? And why the hell hadn’t she taken the morning-after pill? And where was I when this was all going on? Easter. It had to have been at Easter. If I’d been here, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. My fault?
Now there’s a coincidence. There I was talking about having a cuppa, and guess who walks in? Ethan: Man of Mystery, bearing a mug (white) of steaming hot tea. He set it down in front of me, carefully placing it in the corner of the table, far from the paper I’ve written on. Quite a pile now. Looks like it could turn into a pretty hefty tome. It’s already longer than any of the several false starts I’ve had at writing The Novel. Maybe this should have happened to me sooner. There are too many distractions in the real world, always some reason not to write. If only that was the case here.
The tea is good. Scalding hot, and not too strong. It’s the first cup of tea I’ve had since I’ve been here. Maybe Ethan was saving it as some kind of reward? I huddle over the mug, with my fingers wrapped around it. It feels like a crackling fire. Or a hug. I could do with a hug. Arms to wrap around me and make all the bad go away.
Finished now. And I’ve just realized that I missed the perfect opportunity to take Ethan by surprise. I should have chucked it in his face and made a run for it.
Could I have done that?
Could I do it next time maybe?
I don’t know.
Why am I being so pathetic? Got to get out of here somehow … don’t I?
Do I have to get out of here? Why would I want to go back to the colossal pile of crap that is my life? Nothing will have changed. I wonder how they’re feeling now. I bet they’re glad I’m gone. Probably makes it a lot easier on them. They might (pretend to) be upset for a bit, but I reckon they’ll get over it before too long.
Ooh, I wonder if I’m in the newspapers? I must be, unless they reckon I’m too old. ‘Missing seventeen-year-old’ just doesn’t have the same ring to it as a missing toddler, or even a twelve-year-old. I probably just made it into the local rag on the first day or so. I hope it was the front page, but I really really really hope they didn’t use my last school photo, cos I’d forgotten the photographer was coming that day and I’d slept in too late to wash my hair. Gross.
Mum probably had to ask Sal for a decent photo, given that we haven’t used our camera for years. We haven’t even got a digital one. Dad was the designated photographer in the family. There are photos of me at home. Eight albums full, in fact. All carefully dated and labelled, hidden in the cupboard behind the TV, under a battered Trivial Pursuit box. The (almost) complete childhood of Grace Carlyle. Mum’ll be wishing she’d made more of an effort to keep them up to date now.
Maybe Sal gave them the photo she took when I was asleep on the way back from a gig. The paper wouldn’t print that one though – I look like a corpse. If corpses drool, that is. But she wouldn’t do that to me, would she?
Who am I trying to kid?
Fingers crossed it’s the one from Kirsty’s party. Sal caught me by surprise, calling my name to make me turn around and then snapping away. She thought it was the funniest thing ever, cos she knows I hate having my picture taken these days. I grabbed the camera and looked at the little screen on the back, ready to DELETE DELETE DELETE. But the truth is, I looked kind of OK. My hair looked awesome (but only cos Sal had worked her magic on it earlier) and my eyes looked all twinkly and amused somehow. I looked like someone who good things were going to happen to (someone to whom good things were going to happen. Sorry). Plus, the top I was wearing actually made my breasts look big, which is a feat in itself.
Yes. The newspaper will have used that one. Unless they thought I looked a bit slutty. Dammit! I bet they went for the school one. Urgh. That would be enough to put anyone off their cornflakes in the morning. Let’s hope
they printed it really small.
I don’t reckon I’ll be in any of the national papers. People my age go missing all the time, don’t they? Everyone probably thinks I’ve run off with some guy I met on the Internet. Maybe Mum’s done one of those appeals on local telly, begging me to come home, and saying that I won’t be in any trouble.
Nope. I bet she’s actually gone on holiday, or swanned off to London to buy even more clothes she’ll never wear. Seriously, how many pairs of shoes does a woman her age really need? I mean, I like shoes as much as the next girl, but there has to be something wrong with a woman who buys three pairs the same and hoards them in the back of the wardrobe.
No one is looking for me. That’s the truth.
day 12
Slept well. Ethan brought me fresh fruit for breakfast – papaya and melon and mango and pineapple. He didn’t speak to me, and I returned the favour. He came back when I’d finished eating to take away the bowl. He always seems to know when I’ve finished eating. I never have to deal with congealing leftovers, which is good, because bad smells make me gag. I’ve looked around for hidden cameras or peepholes, but there’s nothing. Although I saw this TV programme once where there was a camera hidden in the end of a ballpoint pen. So maybe he’s watching after all, but I DON’T CARE. It doesn’t make a difference. I don’t even care if he reads this. Perhaps I should let him, and then maybe he’d realize that I’m slightly unhinged and he really ought to let me go.
Back to the saga of Sal, I think.
So who on earth had Sal had sex with? It’s a big world, and Sal is gorgeous, so pretty much the entire male population could be under suspicion. But Sal is fussy, like REALLY fussy. I was always pointing out hot boys to her, and sometimes she’d half-heartedly agree, but most of the time she’d look at me sceptically. It was frustrating.
