And before I know it, I am gently stepping towards a sleeping Dove. I hear the faint muffled warbles of a cartoon. The dogs snoring next to her, just happy to be on the wood floor (Dad had to rip up the carpet in the living room for Dove’s chair to move easier). Dove sits up when I enter.
“Sorry, did I wake you up?” I whisper.
“No. I was just dozing.” She looks happy to see me.
“Resting your eyes, as Dad would say.”
“Oh yeah, that would always annoy me. He used to let us draw on his feet with biro….Is that Tiger’s Milk?” she asks.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“I could smell it. I haven’t had one in ages.”
“Well, it’s time to fix that.”
I balance the mug to hand it to her, trying to twist the handle round so she can grab it.
“I’ve got it,” she assures me. “It’s OK.”
She takes a sip and sighs with joy.
“Have you heard from the boys since they came over?”
“Hmm. I don’t know if we have that much in common now that I’m like this for the rest of the summer….I’m not gonna lie…I actually thought it was a bit hard talking to them. I spent so much time with them before but, like, we didn’t really talk. You know, because we were always doing dumb stuff and, well, now…we kind of have nothing to say. It was a bit awkward. They’re a bit…boring.” She scrunches up her nose like the idea of the boys puts a bad taste in her mouth.
I nod. “Yes, I know what you mean.” I want to stroke her hair but I can’t look her in the eyes. I joke, “You might have to start fancying girls to fit in.” And Dove does that smile—that hasn’t changed a bit; it’s always been there.
“The last thing I need is another girl to hang out with. You and Mum are total head cases.” She laughs, one eye on the cartoon. “Have you seen Mum at the moment? She’s lost the plot. So over-the-top! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know my bottom half looks like two giant rolls of toilet paper, but I’m not dying.” She fingers her head.
“Don’t pick, it won’t heal.”
“Can’t help it.”
“It’s Dad that’s making me laugh.” I lie down next to Dove on the floor by the dogs. They immediately start stretching, thinking it’s time to play. “Why’s he acting like he and Mum are going to reignite their passionate love for each other by bonding over re-dressing your war wounds?”
“Proper begging it, isn’t he?” Dove sniggers. “What a goat! S’pose it’s quite amusing watching them cos it IS well dry being indoors all the time.”
“Yeah, I should…We should hang out…sometime,” I say.
“Well…I’m pretty free,” she jokes. And her chin wobbles. She looks like she did when she was little. Harmless. Curious. Small. When it was my job to make sure she got home from the park safely and could reach the slide properly and I would leap up to catch her balloon if it floated away….
“I love you, Dove,” I say, and hold her so tight. I can’t get close enough. I wish we could swap bones for a bit. She could have my big old lazy things and turn me into something wonderful for the summer. Somebody that would DO stuff with herself. She lets me hold her, which isn’t very Dove-like.
“ ’K, drink your milk down. It will make you strong like a tiger.”
Dove shuffles her hand under the quilt and brings out her phone. She doesn’t say anything.
“What’s this?”
“Just watch.”
* * *
—
It’s the summer-night silver sky. The lights of the city glimmering like a mirror ball. The sound of laughing. Trainers scuffing. Panting and the whipping air. Then I see her, her blond hair a slash of gold, sparking under the flash of a camera. The boys say the words “cat leap.” One of them tells her not to. Another says “don’t,” tells her she won’t be able to make it. I hear Dove on the footage say, “I can!”
She leaps. Like a superhero. She makes it. The jump. Her grip, tight. She hangs. It’s an old, derelict house. The frame of the window, old wood, crumbles away in her hands, into puffs, like Shredded Wheat. Loose shards of paint splinter away. The boys shout her name. Try to guide her with panicked voices. Dove’s fingers try to find the grip in the surrounding brickwork. I can almost feel her nails breaking. Her body is small. A spider. She staggers. Wriggles. Struggles. I can’t watch. But I can’t not. And then…nothing. I assume the camera is dropped.
* * *
—
“Do you think I’m an idiot?” she whispers.
“Yes, of course I do.” I snort.
“No, really. I lied to Mum. And Dad. And the doctors. And you. I didn’t lose my balance. I knew the jump was too high, BB. I knew I couldn’t make it. Even as I jumped I knew I wouldn’t land properly. I just wanted to do something big and brave like you said….”
I feel the worst.
“It wasn’t your fault. You still made the jump. It was the windowsill that caved in. It was old, the wood crumbled, you lost your grip—you still did it.”
Dove cries. I put my arms tight around her as she cranes her neck into my stomach.
“I fell all the way down. It gives me nightmares. Why did I do it, Bluebelle?” she asks me.
“Sometimes we do things even though they are self-sabotage,” I say gently, but I know, deep down, this isn’t about Dove….“Or maybe it’s the opposite. Maybe the realistic, sensible side of your head told you that you couldn’t make the jump but maybe…maybe a tincy, teeny-weeny bit of you believed in the magic of it….Maybe that little voice told you to do it. Because you’re brave. Because you’re a little bird, you thought you might fly.”
I try and sit as best I can beneath her head and stroke her hair. Her eyes close. She balls her fists and rubs her eyes.
“Grrrr. I’m nervous to go back to school, BB. I don’t know what they’ll say.”
“What are you nervous about?”
“All of it.” She gulps. “Mainly arriving for the first time, people staring at me with these two stupid things on my legs,” she adds bitterly.
“Most of your classmates probably know what’s happened by now. And are over it. Plus, they’ll scribble all over your cast! You can just enjoy being the centre of attention for a bit.”
“I don’t want the sucking-up fakeness. It’s so trapping being in this chair. And I don’t like the idea of them all talking about how I did it. I don’t want rumours to spread about me. I don’t like being talked about.”
“Well, there’s a rumour going around at school that I’m pregnant, so…”
“Is there?”
“Yeah.”
“God. You’ve never even done that, have you?” she asks, tipping the end of the Tiger’s Milk into her mouth.
“Dove! That’s NOT the point!” I shout. She passes the empty mug to me with a mischievous smirk painted across her face. “And anyway, I’m not talking about that with you.” I laugh, yanking the mug out of her hand. “You have nothing to worry about. I promise. The people that laugh and stare at others are the ones that aren’t happy with themselves, and the ones who are sucking up are the ones who don’t get enough attention.”
“And I’ll be thrown out of gymnastics and football.”
“Not necessarily.”
“And netball.”
“No, I reckon you’ll be all good.”
“I’m not much use now.”
“How do you know that? You might be the best.”
“No, I think I’ll just be thrown out.”
“You won’t be. And if, if, if you are, which you won’t be, at least you were accepted in the first place to get thrown out. I was never accepted into any squad or club.”
“I thought you were in cooking club.”
I raise an eyebrow at Dove.
“I might ju
st pretend to be pregnant anyway to get out of life.” I sigh.
“I don’t think being pregnant gets you out of life, BB. I think it gets you into a right mess. I mean, look at Mum!”
“True.” I stroke the dogs’ heads with my feet. “Ooh, I know what game we still can play, though….”
“What?”
“A sport that you’ll definitely be better at these days!”
“Go on….”
“Bum Tills!” And Dove bursts out laughing so hard. She tips her neck back and cracks up, tears sprinkling out of her crinkled-up eyes and relief just rushes through me and it tastes better than anything I’ve ever tasted.
A PATRONISING PASTRY
Alicia has me in the “sofa area” for a “heart-to-heart.”
“I got you this, doll face.” She slides over a soggy pecan plait. (She didn’t get it for me; she literally just pulled the silver tongs out and shoved it onto a white plate.) It looks like an infected toe. Gammy and sore. Complicated to eat without little hardened nibs of burnt pecan toenails plopping off. “It’s on me.” She winks.
“Thanks,” I say, but inside I am laughing. It’s like I’m some voodoo witch doctor who’s only going to open up to her once I’ve been gifted with an “offering.” In this instance, a patronising pastry.
“You enjoy that, sweetie. You deserve it.”
No, I don’t. I’m not a dog. Good girl. Where’s my apprenticeship form?
“Babes,” she begins. “It’s been so busy we’ve not really had a chance to catch up. How are you coping? With your sister’s illness?”
She’s not ill.
“Dove’s doing really well; it’s just the getting used to it.”
“The pain?”
“No, it’s the boredom. Dove’s really active, so it’s difficult for her, being indoors and not being able to do the stuff she likes doing.” I watch as an impatient woman storms in and demands Marcel make the most overcomplicated coffee order the world’s ever heard. “A decaffeinated extra-hot Americano with skinny milk…in a separate cup.” She then tells Marcel that she’s “in a rush,” so can he “make it quick.” As if he’d be slow deliberately. And then she adds, “I’m late for a meeting.” I think there must be nothing more irritating than a person strolling into a meeting late, holding a piping-hot coffee from the coffee shop next door.
“Well, just know that we love having you here.” Alicia suddenly burps. She thumps her chest. “Excuse me.” It smells like paprika. “I mean, we all do. Poor Maxy is bloody crazy about ya! Hovers over you like a fly on poop!” She’s trying to be nice, but really….
I imagine myself being a dried-up slug of dog poo. And “Maxy.” I shudder.
“I don’t know about that.”
“All I wanted to say is, if you want me to back off, or if you need some more time at home or…”
“No, we’ve just been adjusting at home and everything. Dove won’t need help forever. It was a shock to begin with but I really do want to get this apprenticeship sorted.”
“Sure. Sure. I get it. I get it.” So…if you get it, have you done it, Alicia, OR…? I do a bit of creeping….
“I’m sorry if I’ve not been a hundred percent focused or whatever or let you and the…other aliens down.”
“Bluebelle, I swear to God do NOT say that. Stop that right now. You do NOT have to apologise. You couldn’t let us down. I was worried it was us that had let you down. I didn’t want your alien commitments to Planet Coffee distracting you from your…errr…mothership on Planet Earth.” NO, PLEASE MAKE IT STOP.
“No…not at all.”
“Phew. Great. I’ve been keeping myself up at night with worry about you, girlie.” She sips her mocha. “So…there is some news.”
Come on, please, make my day, you’ve signed the form and they’ve accepted and it’s all great. Please…
Alicia’s face lights up. “I know this will come as a complete surprise….” Trust me, it won’t. “But I’m pregnant!” She squeals. “Don’t worry, it’s decaf. Life is so dry these days.”
“Ah, Alicia, congratulations!” I shrill. Quite good acting, I think.
“Steady on! Keep your bloody voice down, I haven’t quite told everybody yet.” Alicia looks about for paparazzi. “They’ll be in complete shock.” They won’t. “I actually wasn’t gonna keep it but my bloody sister told my mum. Course, once that cat was out the bloody bag it was all tears and blah blah. Before you knew it I was out choosing breast pumps and buying maternity leggings.” She thumbs her left eye, which seems to be leaking. “It was a one-night thing—it meant nothing—but my mum, she’s a bit of a wolf. As far as she’s concerned, if you’ve got one of her little ’uns roasting in the oven…well…you’re having it. It’s wolf pack. That kind of thing. So, long and short of it, I’m going back to Oz. It’s a better place to bring up kids; it’s sunny and green and there’s the beaches, and the people are less…you know…”
“I’m really happy for you, Alicia. Australia will be an amazing place to bring a baby up.”
“You think? I think London’s pretty cool too. I mean, look at you, doll face. You’re a proper girl-about-town.”
“I’m sure your baby will be pretty cool too.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“When will you be leaving?”
“Well, this is the dilemma. You can’t fly when you’re pregs over a certain amount of time and obviously it’s such a long flight, I’d rather get it out the way than do it on my own with a screaming newborn!”
“I think you’ll be amazing at being a mum.”
“I dunno. Kinda scary bringing a kid up on my own.”
“You can do it.” And I mean it.
“I guess if I can manage this place I can do anything!”
“Hah. Yeah.” I smile. It’s polite, isn’t it? But I don’t have the energy to do another fake laugh.
“Which brings me to what I wanted to say…They want me to find replacement management before I leave…so I’m going to speak to the powers that be and do my very best to push this apprenticeship application forward for you and make sure that the next manager takes great care of your future as an alien, because, who knows, one day you might be running the ship!” She snorts. “I want to leave here knowing you’re in good hands and being looked after.”
“Wait, so does that mean you’ll do it?”
“Sure does.”
I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. What a relief.
“Thank you so much, Alicia.” I smile. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”
FISH FINGERS, CHIPS AND BEANS
I LOVE chips.
Any chips.
Fat, soggy chips from the chip shop that smush into each other like hot clay. Drenched in salt and vinegar. Onion vinegar. Ummmmm. I like skinny fries that come with burgers—crisp slants that crack under the teeth—and the softer ones too, floppier fast food fries that you can pinch up in claws, grabbing several at a time like peanuts, and squash them into your mouth. I like posh chips, proper chips, with sea salt and rosemary, chips where you can see the potato skin on the edges. I like the proud golden ones that stand militant like a Boy Scout wearing a sash dotted with badges.
But secretly, one of my favourite ways to have chips is when it’s just me and Dove and a whole bag of frozen chips. We whack the oven up really high, fill a baking tray with a WHOLE BAG OF HOME FRIES and leave them for over half an hour to sun-tan and crisp up in the oven. It says on the bag to leave them for twenty minutes but that isn’t long enough—they’re still too pasty; I like my oven chips to catch a little on the corners and the centres to get soggy when they absorb the vinegar. We like to put a box of fish fingers in too. We like our fish fingers really overcooked so that the middle is almost dehydrated and the cod is basically a puff of white dust that crumbles out like old toothpaste. The
outside is golden brown. We like peeling off the lid of the fish finger, like opening a treasure chest. There’s not much worse than a soggy fish finger. We like to pretend that we’re on a cooking show while we make it, pretending we’re making the most luxurious gourmet meal. We dump the chips in a huge tin bowl filled to the top and we take turns to rake our hands in like those arcade machines with the claws that reach for the teddy bears. We like it with beans, obviously, and a huge splodge of ketchup.
It seems a good time to make this. I’m hoping it stirs some crazy hunger up in me that makes me able to eat. Dove directs me with the oven, bossing me about from her throne like some queen.
I don’t tell Dove about Alicia agreeing to take me on as an apprentice because I don’t want it to seem like anything is going on in my life. I don’t want to feel like I am flourishing in anything. Even though I know Dove would be happy for me, I don’t want to rub salt in her wounds. Instead, I want salt on chips and to melt away like a pack of butter and do nothing except make Dove feel good.
But the chips sit in my throat like leather bootlaces.
Dove tumbles out a mountain of chips onto her plate.
“B,” she says all of a sudden. “Can you do me a favour?”
“Yeah, course.”
“Whatever happens, can you just be normal with me from now on?”
“I am, aren’t I?”
“You are now, yeah, but I think you maybe weren’t before and I hated it and I just don’t know what I’ll do if things don’t go back to how they were before all of this. I want you to still make fun of me and push me around and stuff.”
“I think I’ll be pushing you around for a while,” I joke. “I don’t think I have a choice in the matter.”
Dove looks upset. “That actually really hurt me, BB.”
“Dove, I’m so sorry. I was only joking. Honestly, I didn’t mean to…I thought you’d find it—”
“Don’t worry, I suppose I deserve it. I always called you fat.” She puffs her cheeks out.
My Ideal Boyfriend Is a Croissant Page 20
