‘That can’t be your real name, surely?’ says Dad. He’s obsessed with names and words and getting things right.
The girl just gives this irritating little laugh and says, ‘Yeah. It is.’
‘Rubbish,’ says Dad. ‘Nobody in their right mind would call a child that.’
The girl laughs again.
‘My parents were insane,’ she says. ‘What can I say?’
Then she and Jay go upstairs to his bedroom, even though Mum has put on her Disapproving Look (tight lips, scowling eyebrows, folded arms) and Dad half-starts to follow them upstairs and then decides against it.
‘Spud!’ he says, re-filling the kettle and gazing out over the wintry back garden. ‘I mean – what kind of name is that for a young girl?’
I’m not really listening. All I can think about is Jay and this girl upstairs in his bedroom and him playing her his Manic Street Preachers music and letting her strum on his guitar and this big engulfing whoosh of pain hits me like a surfer’s wave.
‘I am going upstairs,’ I say. ‘And I do not want any dinner.’
Mum and Dad laugh at the same time when I say this.
‘You always want dinner,’ says Mum. ‘OK, I’ll leave you a tray for later.’
‘If you want,’ I say. ‘I’m not bothered.’
I’m already hungry.
I go upstairs, lie on my bed and put music on to drown out the sound of Jay and Spud muttering and playing guitar.
It’s ages until Mum brings the tray.
When I come down the next day Mum’s already up.
‘Spud stayed over,’ she says, in answer to the question I’m about to ask.
‘Where?’ I say.
‘In the spare room, of course,’ says Mum. ‘You don’t think I’m going to allow her to move into Jay’s room, do you?’
I don’t tell her that I heard Spud sneaking down the hallway at three in the morning and going into Jay’s room. Something about Mum’s face this morning warns me that it would not be a good idea to relay this latest bit of unwelcome information.
‘How long’s she staying?’ I say.
Mum turns around from the fridge where she’s doing some stress-busting cleaning.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Jay never really speaks to me. So it’s a bit hard to find out, really. Maybe you could have a go?’
I get up ready to beat a fast retreat.
‘No chance,’ I say. ‘He’s not talking to me either, remember? And I don’t want to go anywhere near that girl.’
Mum sighs and slams the fridge shut.
‘Well, somebody better find out who she is and why she’s here,’ she says. ‘Looks like we might have another guest for Christmas day at this rate. I don’t know how many sprouts to get.’
Jay and Spud spend the entire day up in Jay’s bedroom, but they come down for dinner.
It’s kind of a breakthrough because it’s the first time Jay has actually come down for a meal without being dragged to the table, but nobody dares say anything. Mum and Dad are so keen to pretend that everything is just like it used to be, but the stupid thing is that they are acting all false and bright and nervy, so nobody is very relaxed.
‘Fancy a beer, son?’ Dad says as Mum dishes up curry. I mean – Dad never used to offer beer at supper! ‘Then I thought maybe we could watch the match? And maybe Lilah and Spud could get to know each other?’
Jay raises his eyebrows at that and just for a moment he catches my eye and there’s a little spark of understanding between us, and although he doesn’t smile at me I give him a small grin. He waves away Dad’s bottle of beer and goes back to pushing chicken lumps around his plate and Spud carries on stuffing potatoes into her mouth with great big smacking noises that are making me feel sick.
‘Don’t be silly, Mark,’ chirps Mum. ‘You shouldn’t offer Jay a drink when he’s . . . well, you know. And he’s never been into football. How about a nice game of Scrabble instead? Then we could all do something together!’
I groan and sink down in my chair.
‘Where are my parents and why has their place been taken by aliens?’ I say.
This time Jay does give a tiny smile down at his lap, fiddling with the black leather bands on his wrist.
Spud sees the smile and stops with her fork half-way to her mouth. She stares at me with her pale blue eyes.
Yeah. I’m right. She hates me as much as I hate her. Some sort of battle has started. A battle for Jay.
The trouble is, I’m not sure I’m going to win it. Every time Jay looks at Spud he seems in awe of her, as though she rules him or something.
Mum sits down and runs her hands through her spiky blonde hair.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m just so happy to have you home, Jay. You do know that, don’t you?’
Jay continues to scowl down at his lap but he gives a very small nod.
‘So,’ says Dad. ‘How do you and Spud know each other, son?’
I don’t know why he’s asking Jay. Jay never really answers questions any more.
But I haven’t reckoned on Spud and her devastating honesty.
‘We met on the street,’ she says, stabbing at peas with her knife. ‘I was sleeping under the Embankment. Jay kind of needed help. So we started hanging out together. I’ve got a really good dealer. And Jay needs drugs.’
She resumes her pea-eating, as though she’s just told us a fairy story rather than a grim tale of heartbreak, drug-taking and poverty, involving my very own brother.
‘Dealer?’ says Mum. ‘What do you mean? Dealing what? Cars?’
Rachel!’ hisses Dad. ‘You know what. We’ll talk about this later, OK?’
But it’s not OK.
Mum’s eyes fill up with horrified tears.
‘You said he “needs” drugs,’ she says. ‘Present tense. I thought you’d given up all that stuff, Jay! After two years . . . I just thought. . .’
Jay pushes his chair back and leaves the room.
‘You thought wrong,’ says Spud. ‘Like it’s that easy!’
Then she pushes her own chair back but she doesn’t follow Jay upstairs. She slams out of the front door instead, leaving Mum in floods of tears and Dad pacing up and down the kitchen like one of his own angry, stressed-out lions. He gets himself a beer and tries to look as if he’s enjoying it by making loads of gross lip-smacking noises and sighs of satisfaction but I can tell he’s really hacked off.
Mum pours herself a glass of wine and they sit there making a big thing of their drinks so I leave them wallowing in tears, stress and alcohol-induced lunacy and I go upstairs to see what Jay is doing.
His bedroom door is shut as usual but I don’t know what’s come over me. I feel kind of reckless and a bit wild after my talk with Bindi, and in a way I don’t ‘even much care if he tells me to get lost, so I stick my head around the door.
‘Can I come in?’ I say. ‘I need refuge from the Olds.’
Jay’s lying on his back on the bed, staring at the ceiling with his headphones in but he doesn’t seem to mind me coming in and sitting on the edge of the bed.
After about two minutes he passes me one of the earphones.
I stick it in my ear and the rich, jangly sound of the Manic Street Preachers fills my head.
‘It’s good,’ I say. Jay always loved the Manics.
The thing is – he was listening to them before he disappeared, and he’s still listening to them now. Does that mean that nothing’s changed?
Is he still planning to leave again?
Why is he still doing drugs?
Does he love Spud more than our family? More than me?
Am I going to lose Jay again, before I’ve even properly got him back?
All these questions jostle about in my head while the guitar rises and falls and the vocals soar above it, but I know I can’t ask Jay any of these things yet.
No.
I can’t push it.
I’m sitting on his bed, which is a major breakthr
ough.
So I lean back against the cold white Artex wall and rest my head against the tiny hard bumps and we listen to the rest of the album in silence and then I take the earpiece out and leave the bedroom because I reckon that Jay wants to be alone again now and I don’t really want to be here when Spud gets back.
I can’t sleep that night.
Too many things are whirling about in my weary brain.
Jay.
Spud.
Adam.
Bindi.
Mum and Dad.
Drugs.
School.
Anger.
LIFE.
By the time the morning’s come I’ve had about one hour’s sleep and I feel like death but I’ve come to a decision.
The new Lilah is going to stop being angry and start trying to sort things out.
I’m going to be brave and make a visit.
I dress up in my black biker jacket and jeans and wrap a thick stripy scarf around my neck. I tell Mum I’m going out to do some last-minute Christmas shopping and then I walk the fifteen-minute journey that I used to do all the time at home.
I stomp up the familiar path and I push my finger into the bell.
As a figure comes towards me through the frosted glass I take a deep breath and get myself ready.
It’s time to start facing things head-on.
It’s been ages since I knocked on Bindi’s front door.
There was a time, back when Jay was missing and we were still friends, when I was coming round to this house nearly every day. We’d do our homework together and sit up in her bedroom trying on all her saris and experimenting with her heavy eye make-up and listening to the Asian Network on her sound system.
It was Bindi who got me through the two years after Jay went missing. She was the only one who understood about my anger and how not to push all my wrong buttons.
I’ve not even been able to talk to her about Jay coming home because we fell out before that actually happened.
So it feels a bit weird and wrong to be standing outside her neat front door and sniffing the savoury smells of meat and onions that always seem to be soaked into the furniture and walls of her house.
I swallow – I haven’t had breakfast yet.
This visit seemed more important but now my stomach is trying to eat itself and the smells are only making it worse.
Bindi’s mum Reeta is a fabulous cook. She’s always got something on the go and I used to get to taste it all too.
Now she’s coming towards the front door and I can hear her yelling at Bindi’s little brother to turn his music down and there’s the usual chaos of noise and smells and clutter as she opens the door and peers round it.
‘Yes?’ she says in the split second before she realises it’s me. Then she hauls open the door as wide as possible and stares at me.
‘Lilah!’ she says. ‘We’ve been wondering how you are. Such great news about your brother coming home. Come in, come in!’
I wonder for a moment if Bindi has somehow forgotten to tell her mother about our spectacular falling-out but then I realise that Reeta is just being how she’s always been – kind, and non-judgemental and keen on people, family, friendships and life.
‘It’s a bit difficult,’ I start. ‘I haven’t really seen Bindi properly for four months. But I just thought that I should – you know.’
Reeta gestures towards a white sofa with pink furry cushions scattered over it. She pours me a glass of juice and puts a bowl of something that looks like crispy worms in front of me, but they’re far more delicious.
‘I think you’re quite right, Lilah,’ she says. ‘You two girls were the best of friends. I’m sure whatever has happened between you can be sorted out, yes?’
I sigh.
‘You sound like Mum,’ I say. My mother has been harping on about my ruined friendship with Bindi ever since it all went wrong.
Reeta smiles and pushes the dish towards me.
‘Eat,’ she says. ‘You look too pale, as usual. I’ll go and find Bindi.’
She swishes out of the room, leaving a strong smell of perfume behind her and I try not to eat the bowl of snacks but they’re too nice so I end up scoffing loads before she’s got a chance to come back again and I’m just gulping down guava juice and wiping my mouth when Bindi slides into the room in her usual way.
‘Do you realise you walk sideways?’ I say, before I can stop myself. ‘Like a crab?’
Bindi smiles. I can’t read the smile. It’s not in recognition of my feeble joke. It’s more like she’s decided to be polite because her mother has told her to. Which is probably the case, as Reeta is very big on manners and all the children in her large family have been taught how to look after visitors.
It’s a bit different from my own family with their bad tempers, moods and slamming of doors. That’s why I used to like coming round here. It stopped me being angry.
Bindi is perching right up on the other end of the sofa. She’s almost draped across the arm in an effort not to be too close to me.
‘So,’ I start, aware that Reeta is bustling about in the kitchen behind us and can hear every word. ‘As you said on the phone, you’re not pregnant.’
Bindi flinches a bit when I say this.
It does all seem a bit unreal, the thought of Bindi with a baby in her arms.
‘No,’ she says. ‘I had a really bad stomach upset and it stopped me eating. Doctor reckoned that I was too stressed out about exams and everything kind of stopped. It’s a bit of a relief, I suppose. Mum went mental when I told her I thought I was pregnant. I’m not ready to have a family of my own yet.’
There’s a loud snort from Reeta and the clatter of cutlery and dishes into the sink.
‘You can say that again, lady,’ she snaps from behind a cloud of steam. ‘Sorry, Lilah. But as you can imagine, I was less than pleased that my fifteen-year-old daughter thought she was pregnant by a local schoolboy.’
I expect Bindi to be cross at this but she just gives another mild smile. I suppose she’s had all the lectures by now.
‘Anyway, now it turns out that she is not pregnant after all,’ sighs Reeta. ‘So we are grateful for that small mercy.’
Reeta sounds quite calm when she says this but I can see her face pulled into a tight scowl as she flings a dishcloth into the sink and just for a moment she looks a bit like Mum looked all the time Jay was missing – kind of grim around the mouth – and I’m guessing that Reeta and Bindi have had some raging arguments over the last couple of months.
She swishes out of the room and leaves us to it.
There’s another small silence. Bindi is smiling down at her lap. I just can’t read her expression.
‘So should we try and repair things?’ I say. This is all so difficult. I feel as if I’m throwing words out into the air and they’re just being swallowed up into a big hole, never to be seen again.
Bindi shrugs.
That gets me a bit hot. I know I’m trying not to be so angry now, but I hate it when people shrug. It’s rude and doesn’t mean anything and I used to do it myself until once I saw myself doing it in the mirror and realised that I looked stupid and ugly.
‘Or should we not bother, then?’ I continue, glancing down the hall at the front door. I should be at home wrapping up my Christmas presents and not sitting here doing all the hard work. I mean – anyone would think it was me who had run off with her favourite boy and not the other way round! And I kind of want to go home to Jay and see if we might be able to spend some more time together, anyway.
Bindi gives yet another annoying shrug.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Seems like after you’ve ignored me for two months at school it would be a bit difficult to pick up where we left off, as if nothing’s ever happened.’
I think about this for a moment. The thing is, she’s kind of right. I did ignore her at school because I was so hacked off at the thought of her and Adam together behind my back. And she did try a few time
s to talk to me and I brushed her away. But I can’t forget what she did to make me act like that in the first place.
‘Well, I came here to try and sort things out,’ I say, standing up and brushing sesame crumbs off my jeans. ‘But you don’t want to, so I’ll go home and try and mend things with my brother instead.’
Bindi nods. For a moment she has the grace to look sorry.
‘How is he?’ she whispers. We used to share everything – every feeling we had. In the old days I could have bitched about Spud and how she’s cast some awful spell over my Jay. Now I don’t even want to tell her stuff about Jay. It seems kind of private and belonging to my family and nothing to do with her any longer.
‘Getting there,’ I say. I head off towards the door but something is still bugging me and I’ve got to ask her.
‘By the way,’ I say, just as I reach the front door, with Bindi hovering behind me as if she can’t wait for me to go. ‘If you’re not having a baby with Adam, I guess you won’t be interested in going out with him now. Will you?’
Bindi laughs. It’s not her usual laugh. I turn around until I’m looking her straight in the eye.
‘You’d like that, Lilah May, wouldn’t you?’ she says, still in her soft voice but with something new and hard behind the eyes. ‘Because you like getting your own way, and if you don’t you throw a hissy fit and get into a temper.’
I’m so shocked at this that I back up against the open door and bang my back hard on the catch.
I turn round and am about to run down her path so she can’t see my tears but she hasn’t quite finished. A firm hand grips my arm and swivels me round again. This time her face is really close to mine.
‘Yes, I still like Adam,’ she says. ‘And he still likes me. And we’re going to carry on going out. So I’m afraid that your little plan hasn’t worked out. Goodbye.’
Then she pushes me out of her house and slams the front door.
I stand there staring at the green-painted wood for a moment and then I set off home with tears pouring down my cheeks.
So I’ve lost my best friend and I’ve lost Adam and I’ve kind of still lost Jay because he hasn’t really come back to us properly yet.
I walk home in a kind of trance in the slush and the snow and a fresh fall of flakes dusts my hair and makes my face cold but I don’t really notice.
Lilah May's Manic Days Page 6
