by Cat Clarke
In the evenings I stayed holed up in my room, not doing much of anything. I talked to Nat a couple of times and everything seemed fine. I wanted to see him so badly, but he had some random aunt visiting and he was expected to show her round town and keep her entertained. I wasn’t quite sure why his mum couldn’t do that, or Devon for that matter. But apparently he was her favourite nephew – no surprise there. Everyone loved Nat. He was golden.
By the time Friday came along, it felt like I hadn’t seen him for ages. It had been three days. Random auntie had a lot to answer for. Nat and I were planning to hang out on Sunday, so I just had to somehow survive one more day at school and one day at home. Not sure which was worse. Sal and I went out for lunch. Fish and chips on a Friday was the best way to start the weekend.
‘Urgh, I’m so glad this week is over. I can’t WAIT for the weekend.’
Sal nodded. ‘Me neither.’
‘What are you up to anyway? Fancy doing something tomorrow? I could really do with getting out of the house. I can’t handle being around Mum at the moment – she’s driving me loopy.’
‘Sorry, can’t tomorrow, I’m afraid. Family day.’
‘Family day? Since when do you have family days? I thought every day was a family day chez Stewart?’
‘Yeah, I know it’s lame. But Dad’s decided we’re going on some kind of day trip.’
‘Christ. Nightmare.’ But I was actually thinking it sounded sort of nice. That’s the kind of thing dads are good at, I guess. Planning stuff. Looking at maps and brochures for stately homes or something. ‘What is it with families at the moment? They’re everywhere, ruining my plans. Nat’s got his aunt monopolizing every minute of his time, and your dad’s scuppered my Saturday! How inconsiderate!’
Sal smiled. ‘Sorry, I’d get out of it if I could. You know how annoying Cam gets on car journeys – not exactly my idea of a fun day out. Tell you what – why don’t we do something on Sunday?’
‘No can do, sorry. I’m seeing Nat for the first time in forever. Well, first time since Tuesday anyway.’
‘No worries.’ Sal shrugged, but I could tell she was a bit pissed off. We usually spent at least one weekend day together, if not both.
‘But maybe the three of us could do something?’ I offered – pretty generously, I thought. Please say no please say no please say no. I want him all to myself.
She must have read my mind. ‘Nah, you’re all right, thanks.’
I was relieved, and I immediately felt ashamed for feeling quite so relieved. But Nat and I needed some alone time. Hopefully this time both of us would stick to the script. I certainly planned to, anyway.
I decided to go for a wander after lunch to walk off some of the fish and chips. Free periods were the only thing that made school tolerable. Sal had a free period too, but said she had to get a book back from Devon. I meandered down the side of the playing field, trailing behind some shiny new first years embarking on their first ever cross-country run. I never did understand exactly why we were expected to parade around outside the school grounds in nothing more than a T-shirt and some tiny gym knickers. Ritual humiliation, I suppose. It was enough to put you off sport for life, but somehow I’d managed to get through it and now I loved running more than anything. Not that you’d have guessed it though – I hadn’t been running in ages. Maybe that explained my mood.
I was half-tempted to run after the first years but a) I wasn’t exactly dressed for it (biker boots and teeny-tiny skirt), and b) it would be a weird thing to do, even for me. So I watched them run and stumble and meander into the woods ahead of me.
And then the herd of runners was out of earshot and I was utterly alone. It was peaceful. I found a comfy-looking tree stump and perched on it like a gnome. I got out my notebook and chewed on the end of a pencil. For the first time in months I felt like writing something – I just wasn’t sure what.
Writing and running. Two of my very favourite things. It struck me that I hadn’t done much of either since I’d met Nat, and that made me feel sad. Like I’d lost a little part of myself. Or given it away. These were the things that defined me, or at least I used to think they did. But how important could they be if I was willing to drop them as soon as I got a boyfriend? What else would I be willing to give up for him?
Before I could think of something to write, my phone rang, scaring the life out of me and making me drop my pencil. The cheery ringtone sounded all wrong in the silence of the woods. I didn’t recognize the number and nearly didn’t answer it, but curiosity got the better of me.
‘Grace? Er … hi, it’s me. Er … Devon, that is.’ He sounded unprepared, as if I was the one who’d called him, instead of the other way round.
‘Hi, how’s it going?’
‘Yeah, fine. I mean, not exactly fine. Um … look, where are you?’
‘In the woods behind school. Why? Is Sal with you?’
‘No, er … no. She’s not here.’
‘I thought she was meeting you in the library after lunch.’
‘Can I come and meet you? I really need to talk to you.’ He sounded like he was on some sort of covert mission, scared of being discovered by the enemy at any moment. He really was an odd one.
‘Look, if this is about Nat and that crap about him not being good enough for me, then I don’t want to hear it. And how did you get my number anyway? I was wondering after you texted the other day.’
‘I … got it off Nat’s phone.’
‘I don’t reckon he’d be too happy about that – do you?’
‘Who fucking cares what he thinks?!’ I’d never heard him swear before and it sounded wrong. ‘Grace, you have to listen to me. He’s—’
‘No, I really don’t.’ I talked over him, but I definitely heard the words ‘messing you around’. Now I was cross. ‘I could do without you putting ideas in my head. It’s really none of your business, but if you must know, everything’s just fine between me and Nat. And it’d be even more fine if you’d keep out of it. I won’t have anyone ruining this for me, OK? I’m going to talk to Nat as soon as your aunt’s gone. I think he has a right to know what his little brother’s up to behind his back.’ I left it at that, feeling better for venting my feelings. Sure that I was in the right. Until …
‘Aunt? What aunt? What are you talking about?’
I went to the bathroom to splash my face. When I was drying my hands I noticed something was different. Something impossible.
My scars have gone. Every single one of them. This cannot be real. I checked out my thighs, just to be sure. Not one scar, just milky smooth skin. It is real.
And somehow I knew what had happened. I didn’t know how I knew, but I knew.
I went to Ethan and lifted the covers I’d wrapped around him.
His arms are criss-crossed with silvery lines. My scars.
Two of the scars are different from the rest. Thick rusty red scabs running up the inside of each wrist. They have yet to heal.
The other scars are as familiar to me as my own reflection. But these two … they’re different. They’re new.
Ethan’s breathing is slowing, I think.
I wish there was something I could do.
‘Aunt? What aunt? What are you talking about?’
I disconnected the call. He called straight back, so I turned off my phone. I retrieved my pencil from the forest floor and wrote a single word in my notebook:
LIES
I underlined it three times, pressing harder and harder on the paper. Lies. Unless Devon was spectacularly unobservant and simply hadn’t noticed a middle-aged woman roaming round his house over the past few days. Unless Devon was staying at his dad’s house at the moment. Unless … unless … unless nothing.
Nat had lied to me. It was so fucking obvious. I was surprised I hadn’t realized sooner – it’s not like me to be so trusting. Clearly he was still pissed off about the other night. That’s why he was avoiding me. The knock-back must have hurt him more than I’d thought. God, b
oys are so fragile. One night they’re punching someone’s lights out, and the next they’re all put out cos their girlfriend won’t put out (for once).
I sat on my toadstool in the woods and thought about how best to handle this. What to do what to do what to do? Nat had lied. This was not good. But he had lied for a reason – he was upset. And we’d arranged to see each other on Sunday. So was it really so bad if he wanted some time out?
Yes. Yes, it was. He shouldn’t have lied. If he’d just told me he wanted to lay low for a couple of days, I’d have understood. Now who’s lying?
I wanted to call him and confront him about the lie, just to see what he’d say. But it would be much better to do it in person. That way I’d be able to see the truth in his eyes (I was sure of it).
Sunday. I’d wait till Sunday. That’d be the best way to play it. I could be patient … if I tried really, really, really hard (and hid my phone somewhere to avoid temptation). Sunday. It would all be sorted then. I felt better as soon as the decision had been made.
It was harder than I’d thought – not calling him. I skived off the last couple of lessons of the afternoon and wandered around town, trying my best to think about anything but him.
Mum made me sit down for a ‘proper dinner’. It was pure torture. She tried to talk about Mick, but I refused to talk back, which took the wind out of her sails somewhat. I shovelled food into my mouth at record speed, desperate to escape to my room.
The rest of the evening was spent battling indigestion, which at least gave me something else to focus on other than Nat. When I turned on my phone there were eleven missed calls from Devon and five messages, all of which I deleted immediately. I didn’t want to hear it. I wouldn’t couldn’t shouldn’t let myself hear it.
I went to bed early so I didn’t have to think. But I dreamed about him.
Got up late on Saturday and went for a long run. This was the first step to getting back to being me. A wheezing, sweaty, beetroot-red me. I was so out of shape it wasn’t even funny. I wouldn’t let this weakness happen again.
Mum was out shopping, so I had the house to myself – the silence was a relief. More missed calls from Devon. Got my laptop out and read the last thing I’d written: a couple of chapters about a girl spookily similar to me. Lame. I’d even given her my middle name. Lame squared.
I deleted it and started writing a story about a psychotic gnome who hung around in the woods, waiting for unsuspecting schoolgirls to kill and eat. Also lame. But fun.
I forgot about Nat for a whole afternoon. It felt good to be lost in fiction, where everything was so much more straightforward. The characters (mostly) did exactly what I wanted them to. I pulled the strings and they jumped. I felt powerful and good and happy.
At about nine o’clock my phone buzzed with a message. Devon was really starting to fuck me off now. Why wouldn’t he leave things alone?
But it wasn’t Devon this time. It was Nat:
‘Can you come over now? I need to see you.’
That was unexpected, but a huge relief. I replied to say I’d be there in half an hour and then changed my clothes. I looked in the mirror and took a deep breath: better to get things sorted out tonight. First, he’d have to beg my forgiveness for lying, then he’d have to beg me to sleep with him. And I wouldn’t turn him down this time.
Devon was waiting at the front door like some kind of geeky gatekeeper. He started to speak, but I held up my hand to silence him.
‘No. I’ve got nothing to say to you. I’m here to see your brother.’
Devon shook his head and spoke quietly. ‘I was just going to say that he’s upstairs.’
‘Right. Well, thanks for the info.’ I shuffled past him. He smelled good.
As I trudged up the stairs I could feel him still watching me, but I turned around just to be sure. He was leaning against the door, staring up at me. His expression was pained.
I paused outside Nat’s room. Music was blaring. A song we both loved. I smiled to myself.
My hand was on the door handle. I wondered if I should knock. Not that he’ll be able to hear me. And he IS expecting me …
I opened the door.
I saw lots of things.
The crack on the ceiling, longer and wider than ever before.
A textbook splayed on the floor, spine broken.
A glass of water on the desk, half empty.
Nat on the bed.
With Sal. Not me.
My eyes were broken and my brain was too.
He was sitting with his back against the wall. She was lying down. Her head was on his lap. My head was not. He was wearing jeans and nothing else. She was wearing jeans and a bra. Bare feet. I wore trainers.
He was touching her arm. Not mine.
He was looking at her and she was looking at him and I was looking at them.
My heart was spilling out of my mouth onto the carpet.
I was looking at them and they were looking at me. We were all looking, and no one was speaking.
Music was blaring.
A door was slamming and feet were running. And running. And running. And running.
My eyes were broken and my brain was too.
My heart had been left for dead on the carpet.
My feet were running faster faster FASTER.
I ended up at the park. The den at the top of the climbing frame was waiting for me. I hugged my knees to my chest, desperately trying to hold myself together so I didn’t splinter into a thousand pieces. If I let go, no one would ever be able to put the pieces together again.
I was sweating and cold and nothing.
My phone rang. Sal. My phone rang. Nat. My phone rang. Sal. Sal. Sal. Sal. Sal. Sal. A text message. Mum: ‘Where are you? ‘I want you home by midnight.’
Me: ‘Staying at Sal’s. See you tomorrow.’
All I could see was the two of them. The wrong two.
1 + 1 = 2
1 + 1 + 1 = broken shards of me
A text from Sal:
‘Grace, PLEASE answer your phone. I need to talk to you. I’M SORRY. This wasn’t meant to happen. It’s all fucked up. PLEASE call me. Where are you? I’m sorry. Call me. x’
I threw the phone out of the window. I wouldn’t be needing it.
I kept thinking about the bra she had on. That bra she bought the other day. Brand-new underwear for a special occasion. The special occasion of fucking my boyfriend.
I kept thinking about him touching her arm. The easy intimacy that doesn’t just come from nowhere.
I kept thinking about them looking at each other. Gazing.
I kept thinking about
slicing flesh
welling blood
dizzy high
relief.
Later. A too-bright all-night cafe. Still thinking, drinking cup after cup after cup of coffee until I threw up on the table. Got chucked out. No tears, not yet.
The night went on and on and I dreaded the dawn. I didn’t want tomorrow to come. But it did.
Sunday morning and joggers and dogs and people with cappuccinos and newspapers. Up early, making the most of the day. Ignoring the ghost girl wandering among them.
Dazed. Gazed, gazing, touching, wanting.
Public toilets. Ghost girl staring back at me in the mirror.
Who are you?
Nobody.
My house. Waiting outside, keys in hand. Another door to open.
Mother waiting on the sofa.
‘Where have you been?’ Softly softly, but I could hear the steel.
‘I told you – I slept over at Sal’s.’
‘Hmm … did you have a nice time?’
‘Yeah. We went to a late showing at the cinema. I thought Mr Stewart would be able to drive me home, but he’s away at some conference or something, and I didn’t have enough money for a taxi. Sorry.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah.’ I headed for the stairs.
‘Sit down.’ All steel now.
‘I’m really
knackered. I just need to get some sleep.’
‘SIT down. Now.’
Nothing to do but obey.
‘When did you become such a good liar, Grace Carlyle?’ Lips pursed, anger barely contained.
I didn’t even try to argue. Past caring.
‘Sal called last night, asking where you were. She was worried. I’ve been up all night waiting for you, worrying. I nearly called the police.’
A derisive snort from me.
‘Would you like to explain exactly what it is you find so funny? Just look at yourself! YOU’RE A MESS!’ Shouting, spitting anger at me. She grabbed hold of me and hauled me in front of the mirror above the mantelpiece.
‘Look at the state of you. You look half dead.’
I looked. Greasy hair and pale face and dark circles and eyes. Green eyes that looked more like grey. Broken eyes.
Half dead?More than half, nearly all the way.
‘Are you on drugs?’
A giggle from me, high pitched and manic.
‘Well? Are you? Look at me, Grace.’ More manhandling, shaking me. My head clinging on to my shoulders for dear life. ‘Answer me, for Christ’s sake!’
‘No, Mother. I am not on drugs, but thanks for asking. It’s nice to know you care.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘What do you think it means?’ No anger. A voice detached from my body.
‘Of course I care, you stupid little girl. But you don’t make it easy sometimes.’
‘It’s not my job to make it easy. You’re supposed to be the parent, remember?’
She was furious now. Even more so because I wasn’t.
‘Grow up, Grace.’
‘Oh, I grew up a long time ago. Shame you weren’t around to notice. Shame you never thought to ask where I was all those other nights.’
