by Cat Clarke
I knew she still pined over that boy Chris, so there was a potential suspect. She definitely would have told me though. We’d certainly talked about him often enough. I knew so much about that boy he could’ve been my specialist subject on Mastermind. He has his lip pierced (gross times three, but Sal obsessed over it). He defied all the usual school cliques … a little bit emo, a little bit skater boy, a little bit Mr Popular, even little bit geek (he was into physics). He wore glasses that were nerdy but cool. Sounded to me like he was suffering from some kind of identity crisis, but each to their own. Sal showed me a picture of him at a school ball. He did look fit, I suppose.
Sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the tea stains, I decided to rule out Chris. There was just no way on earth she wouldn’t have told me. Even if she was embarrassed about not using a condom. We’ve all been there. OK, maybe we haven’t all been there. But I have. It’s not exactly something I’m proud of, but at least I’d admitted it to Sal (who’d gone on to give me a ten-minute lecture, bless her).
Next, and pretty much the only other suspect I had, was Devon.
I’ve known Devon Scott for eight years, but before Sal came along I’d only talked to him a handful of times. He just didn’t really cross my radar. Sal sits next to him in History, and it was obvious from the first day they met that he worshipped the ground she walked on. Sal told me this, not because she was making fun of him (in fact she thought he was quite sweet), but because she thought he had potential. She always said that in a couple of years he would grow into his looks and be fighting off girls with a stick. I wasn’t so sure. He’s sort of skinny and his clothes aren’t great, but he’s got a nice, honest sort of face, I suppose.
Sal sometimes talked about him – almost like she was coming round to the idea. He never asked her out, and I can’t blame him. Girls like Sal don’t usually go out with boys like Devon. Plus, she still obsessed over Chris. She didn’t listen when I told her to get over him. Surely even with her shiny happy optimism she could see that nothing was ever going to happen there. Long-distance relationships are for idiots.
So … maybe Devon had finally worked up the courage to say something to Sal. Or maybe he just got her really drunk during a little literary get-together and made his move. She might not have told me if it was Devon. He was a sort-of-possibility.
The only other option was a complete stranger, but it just didn’t seem like a very ‘Sal’ thing to do. She believed in true love and romance and all that crap. She would NEVER have sex with a stranger.
And the thought that she might have been raped … well, that was just too much for me to deal with.
I gulped down the dregs of my tea and left the mug in the sink. The lack of dishwasher is a constant bone of contention between Mum and me. Washing dishes is not character-building. We had a dishwasher in the old house. We had a LOT of things in the old house.
I crept up the stairs and paused in the doorway of my room. Sal was still fast asleep – now with one arm flung above her head, bent at the wrist against the headboard, the other arm hanging off the side of my bed. She was even snoring – a tiny, snuffly, cute little snore. She was completely out of it.
I knew what I was going to do. She’d probably kill me, but it would be worth it.
I wrote a note and propped it up on the pillow next to Sal. Didn’t want her waking up and thinking I’d abandoned her. I grabbed my purse, crept out of the room, down the stairs and out of the front door. It had stopped raining, and the air was fresh.
I hardly ever go to the chemist’s down the road; the make-up selection leaves a lot to be desired and they don’t even have any decent nail-varnish colours. They definitely cater to the somewhat more mature lady. A bell rang as I opened the door, and the girl behind the counter looked up from her book. NO NO NO NO NO!
I was expecting some kindly old dear who smelled like lavender, with glasses hanging on a gold chain around her neck.
Not Sophie Underwood.
Sophie Underwood. Seriously, it could have been almost ANYONE but her. Sophie and I go way back. We used to live on the same street – of course she still lives there, while I’m stuck in suburban terraced-house hell. We were friends in primary school, and in the first year of secondary too. Until I started to realize that maybe she wasn’t the kind of friend I wanted to be lumbered with for the rest of my school days. Harsh, I know.
She’s always been perfectly lovely and friendly and funny, but not too funny. But she’s just so good. Never has a bad word to say about anyone, which is fine and makes her a much better person than I am. But twelve-year-old me just ran out of things to say to her. Sophie started hanging round with a group of nice but not-so-popular girls, and somehow I edged my way towards the popular lot. And so we just drifted apart, the way lots of friends seemed to in those first couple of years. You decide who you’re going to throw your lot in with and just hope for the best.
Neither of us ever said anything about the gradual death of our friendship. We’d still say a vague ‘hi’ when we passed each other in the corridor.
It was just one of those things. One of those things that makes you feel like a horrible human being.
And now she was standing in front of me, with a look of mild surprise on her face. What the hell was she doing working here? She lived on the other side of town, for Christ’s sake. Hmm … awkward. I gave her a little wave – nice and nonchalant – and headed straight for the shampoo display. At least there I could have my back to Sophie while I figured out how to play this.
There was no way I could get away with saying nothing. No point in playing the old ‘It’s not for me, it’s for a friend’ card, because a) she probably wouldn’t believe me, and b) if she did, she would know it was for Sal because who else could it possibly be?
So I’d just have to say it was for me. Brilliant.
A few furtive glances around the shop confirmed my suspicions: the pregnancy tests were behind the counter. I took a deep breath and headed towards Sophie.
‘Hey, Soph, how’s it going?’ She looked at me with a half-smile, one eyebrow raised, as if to say, ‘When was the last time you called me Soph?’
‘Hi, Grace. Exams going OK?’
‘Yeah, y’know, the usual. How ’bout yours?’
Sophie rolled her eyes. ‘Nightmare. I didn’t even finish my chemistry exam yesterday.’ Yeah, right.
‘Er … Soph. This is really awkward, but I’m sure you get stuff like this happening all the time, working here. The thing is … I need a pregnancy test. This is really embarrassing and I don’t want anyone to know, and I know I can trust you not to say anything …’ Babble babble babble. If anything, Sophie looked the more awkward and embarrassed of the two of us. A flush of red came to her cheeks – more on the left side than the right, I noticed.
‘Oh. Right. Of course. I would never … I would never say anything. Are you OK?’ She looked genuinely concerned. She reached across the counter as if to touch my arm, and then pulled back at the last second. Obviously remembered that we weren’t friends any more, and that touching me would be a weird thing for her to do.
I shrugged. ‘Yeah, I’m fine. I just want to get this over with. It’s probably nothing. I’m just being paranoid.’ I briefly considered giving her some sob story, but reminded myself that it’s always best to keep things simple when you’re lying.
Sophie turned her back to me and scanned the shelves. ‘We’ve got this digital one, if you want to try that. It’s a bit more expensive, but it says it’s ninety-nine per cent reliable. Or you could just go with the old kind. I think that’s good too …’
‘I suppose I’ll take the digital one. How much is it?’
Sophie picked a box from the shelf and put it on the counter. Her face was still blotchy. She told me the price and I handed over the cash. She tapped away at the till and handed me back my change, avoiding eye contact. She handed me the box and asked if I wanted a bag.
I just looked at her.
Sophie
winced. ‘Of course you want a bag. Sorry. This is just, well, it’s a bit weird, isn’t it? Listen, if there’s anything … well, you know …’ She trailed off into silence while she fumbled to find a bag under the counter.
The bell on the shop door rang again, and we both jumped. It was just a little old man, stooped and shuffling. I knew a chance to escape when I saw one. I took the bag, said a quick but sincere thanks to Sophie, and scarpered.
I hurried back up the road feeling weird and wistful and sad. Pushed all that to the back of my mind to focus on the task ahead.
I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. Sal was standing right in front of me, eyes bleary, hair all over the place.
‘And where do you think you’re going …?’
‘I …’ she faltered. Sheepish, big-time.
‘You think I’m just going to let you do a runner? Wearing my jeans too – the cheek of it!’ I grinned at her, grabbed her shoulders, turned her round and marched her back upstairs. Once we were back in my room, I sat Sal down on the bed and launched into my spiel:
‘Right. Here’s the deal. You think you’re pregnant. You don’t know. You can’t possibly know till you’ve done a test. Sooooo, I got you one.’ I could see Sal was about to interrupt, so I carried on speaking as quickly as possible. ‘Now I know you’re scared, but you know as well as I do that you have to be sure. Let’s just find out one way or the other and then we can get on with things. I’m here now. You don’t have to go through this by yourself. We can deal with whatever happens – I promise you.’
The seconds seemed to stretch forever while I willed her to give in. I started drumming my fingers on the dressing table, partly because I was anxious, but mostly because I knew it was the one thing that drove Sal mental. She HATED it.
‘That’s not going to work, you know.’
‘What’s not going to work?’ I asked, the picture of innocence.
‘You’re not going to irritate me into doing what you want.’
‘It’s hardly what I want, now, is it? You know you’ve got to do this. C’mon, Sal, you’re the sensible one, remember? That’s how it works: I do something stupid, and you tell me how to put it right. If you carry on like this, it’s going to upset the delicate balance of our friendship. The repercussions could be serious!’
That managed to raise a teeny-tiny smile from Sal, which seemed like progress. So I took the box out of the bag and opened it. A quick scan of the instructions was enough to tell me what I already knew. I handed Sal the stick/wand/thingummyjig. She stared at it like it was going to explode, or at the very least bite off her hand.
‘Now, off you go. You know what to do. There’s none of that blue line malarkey to try and decipher. It’ll tell us in words and everything – the marvels of technology, eh?’
Sal got up and took a deep breath. I hugged her hard, and whispered, ‘It’s going to be OK. We can do this.’ She left the room, and I heard the bathroom door shutting. I flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The wait was hellish.
I heard the toilet flush and before I knew it Sal was back in the room. I bolted upright, making my head spin.
‘I can’t look, Grace. Will you …?’ She handed me the test. Her thumb was over the little screen. I took it from her without looking.
‘OK, so it says you could get a result within a minute, but let’s just wait a little bit to be sure.’
We sat facing each other on the bed, my hand wrapped tightly around the test. So this was it. In a few seconds we were either going to be going crazy with relief (in which case we were going to get seriously wasted – exams or no exams), or …
I grabbed Sal’s hand and squeezed it, as much to reassure myself as to reassure her. Then, when there was really nothing else to say or do, I looked down at the screen.
day 13
So last night was weird. Yet another dream about Ethan. He was my doctor and he was examining me as I lay on a hospital bed. He listened to my heartbeat with a stethoscope, looking worried. Then he shone a light in my eyes and shook his head. And then I woke up. My leg must have kicked out, and my foot touched something that was definitely not bed.
Ethan was sitting at the end of the bed, watching me. I freaked out.
‘What the hell are you doing?! You need to watch me sleep now? Jesus! What is wrong with you?’ I grabbed the duvet and cocooned myself in the corner of the bed, as far away from him as I could get. Ethan just looked at me, cool as you like. His face was half lit by the light streaming in through the open door. The open door! Maybe this was my chance to get out of here. I had to think fast. First of all, I had to try not to look at the doorway. I didn’t want Ethan realizing his mistake until it was too late. I had to calm down. My heart was drum-drum-drumming loud as anything.
We sat in silence for a little while. I got a chance to look at him properly, while doing my very best to ignore my escape route. He looked different. Not only was he wearing a proper colour for the first time, he was wearing my colour – my favourite green. It was a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. The top three buttons were undone, and I could see his pale smooth chest. I wondered if he knew it was my favourite colour. Of course not. How could he? He was wearing his usual jeans – frayed and faded, and his feet were bare. Aha! That could be a considerable advantage, if there was going to be some kind of chase scenario. Until I remembered I was in bed, and definitely not wearing a pair of super-fast running shoes. Idiot.
‘Were you dreaming, Grace?’ he asked.
‘What’s it to you?’
‘You looked like you were dreaming.’
‘I don’t remember.’ I didn’t want him to know that I’d been dreaming about him. And had been doing so A LOT over the past few days.
He sighed. ‘I like dreaming. It’s my favourite part of the day. Have you ever noticed that dreams can change the way you feel?’
I just looked at him, saying nothing. If he wanted to go off on one, he was welcome to. I was still trying to work out how to make a run for it.
‘Well, you might think one way about something, or someone, and then you dream about it. And it’s completely different to the way you thought it would be. You wake up, and everything has changed.’ I had no clue what he was going on about.
His eyes were intense, darker than usual. ‘The door is open, Grace. The door is always open.’ I turned my head towards the door, but it was closed. And it was dark. And Ethan wasn’t there. The old dream-within-a-dream situation. Bastard. WAKE UP!
I got up and padded quietly towards the door. It was locked. Of course it was locked. I started to cry.
I need to not be here.
I need to see the sky.
I need to run.
Ethan brought me an early breakfast. At least I think it was an early breakfast. There’s really no way of knowing. All I know is that I was still snivelling after that dream. It felt early though, like no one else in the world was awake yet. Ethan was not wearing green. He was wearing a black T-shirt and grey jeans. He looks exhausted today. It’s the first time he’s looked slightly less than perfect since I’ve been here. Maybe his conscience is keeping him awake at night.
He asked me if I had slept well. Not particularly, I said. I told him he looked tired and then mentally kicked myself – I didn’t want him thinking that I cared.
He seemed a bit startled that I had noticed. He paused and said, ‘It’s not easy, is it, Grace?’ I shook my head, not quite understanding. He smiled a cute, sad little smile at me and left the room.
I jumped in the shower straight after breakfast. I like the water to be almost scalding – it clears the fuzz out of my brain. I stood there for some time with the water streaming down my shoulders. I held my arms out in front of me; the scars stood out against the rest of my ruddy skin. I scratched my fingernail down my left forearm. Again and again. Harder and harder. I couldn’t make it bleed, but the pain felt good. I felt more awake. More alive.
Now my arm is covered in u
gly red scratches. Never mind.
But I don’t want Ethan to see. I don’t think he’d like it.
Sal was pregnant. That was the turning point – when everything turned to shit.
It didn’t happen straight away. Everything was kind of OK (in an awful sort of way) for a while. Of course, Sal was devastated. There were a lot of tears and late-night phone calls, but somehow the two of us managed to stumble through our exams without screwing up. Sal had to run out of an English Lit. exam to be sick, but she’d already finished the paper so it was no big deal. She blamed it on food poisoning from Gino’s. Not exactly fair on Gino.
It was a bad time for Sal, but there was something about it that made me feel sort of good. That sounds awful. But for maybe the first time in my life, I felt useful and … I don’t know … needed? My best friend was going through the worst thing imaginable, and I was, in some strange, perverse way, enjoying myself. How bad is that? I dunno, maybe ‘enjoying’ is not quite the right word, but there was a certain amount of excitement from the drama of it all. I felt beyond awful for Sal, and I truly would have done anything in my power to change the situation. But all I could do was help her through it the best I could – be the sort of best friend she deserved. And that’s what I tried to do.
I covered for her with her parents, as and when it was called for. When Devon came sniffing around because he’d ‘sensed’ something was wrong, I put him off the scent. I went with her to the doctor’s – it had taken weeks for me to persuade her to go. Sal maintained that she wanted to get her exams out of the way first. I pestered her and pestered her, but she wouldn’t budge.
Of course there was no question what Sal was going to do: there was no way she could keep the baby. We didn’t even discuss it as an option. Nothing like those cheesy TV programmes where there’s a lot of angsty decision-making, and heart-to-hearts about how it might be OK for a schoolgirl to raise a baby on her own. And how the baby was a part of her now and blah blah blah blah. Nope. Sal didn’t want the baby, and that was that.
