Somehow there’s still fifteen minutes to kill before homeroom. Time drags without Isabel, no doubt about it. First period today seems a week away. Sixth period tomorrow may as well be next year. It’s thirty long hours until I see him again.
Mr. Richardson.
Mr. Richardson.
Mr.—
“Goldfish?” comes a voice from my bag. “There’s more than one mister around here, you know.”
“Not according to the dream I had last night, there isn’t.”
I was searching for my dad in Chorlton, looking in the park and on the tram and down Nell Lane, staring into every car that passed. There were just women at first, so many women, but then I spotted Mr. Richardson across the road where the Jehovah’s Witness had been. He was shouting I am your father into a megaphone the size of a satellite dish and the words were booming out into space. My heart exploded. I tried to run, run, run, but a hand was holding me back. I spun around to see another Mr. Richardson, clutching my wrist. I am your father, he said, and then a third Mr. Richardson shouted out of a van, I am your father, and then hundreds of Mr. Richardsons appeared all over the place, in the shops and buses and walking down the street, yelling the same thing. I am your father. I am your father. I am your father. I didn’t know who to believe so I stood in the middle of a thousand potential dads, screaming at the top of my voice.
“I am your father,” Mr. Goldfish whispers in the voice of Darth Vader.
“That’s not funny.”
“Sorry.”
I check my e-mails on my phone, but there’s nothing from the HFEA. I’ve got a good mind to march down to London and storm into Finsbury Tower on Bunhill Row, demanding better service. They’d hand me a file that I’d tear open, my eyes widening to discover my real dad is a math teacher in Manchester, currently working at Chorlton Grammar School.
“Well, hello there.”
I spin around, hoping to see Isabel, but it’s Anna and Tara and five of their friends, put together in a Barbie factory by the looks of it. Only Anna is different, pale and dark.
“Tess,” she says in a slow, quiet drawl like she’s got all the time in the world to say my name. There’s a sense of ownership in her gaze as well, lingering on my legs, taking in the fact that I’ve abandoned my skirt.
I steel myself for the next attack.
“How are you, Tess?”
This is so surprising I’d be speechless even if words weren’t banned. Anna’s smiling and so are the rest of the girls, but they look dangerous, elegant as swans but with something ugly paddling just beneath the surface.
“Oh sorry. I forgot. You’re not talking, are you? Your poor voice.” Tara stifles a giggle. “Mr. Holdsworth told us about it yesterday in detention. Said you might need a bit of support over the next few weeks.” She taps her nose. “Don’t worry. We’ll look out for you.”
The swans bob their sleek heads in unison and then they’re gone.
I’m unnerved though nothing really happened. They were nice. Sort of nice. The sky is still blank and the school is still brown and the fence is still a straight line of black, but the world suddenly feels less simple. The courtyard is full of people now, Isabel on the periphery, sitting at a new bench as she scribbles in her notepad. I want to call out that I’m here, just up here, because the anger in my chest is tiny compared to the size of the Sad in my heart. I’d wave and she’d wave, maybe both of us flags of surrender. But I don’t do anything. I can’t do anything, and for the first time I feel frustrated by my silence. Patrick appears out of nowhere and sits next to my friend. Isabel shows him something on her phone that makes them laugh, and then they talk, and I watch, my heart hurting and beating, hurting and beating, counting down the endless seconds until the start of school.
I’m first to arrive at my homeroom in the art wing. Miss Gilbert is washing out an old jar of black paint that she fills with water before chucking in some pink flowers.
“Orchids,” she tells me, taking them to her desk. “Saw them on the way to work. I’m going to get my Year Seven students to paint them.” She perches on a three-legged stool in front of the computer, looking sublime as always in green Doc Martens, dark blue tights, and a black dress with flared sleeves that dance around her skinny wrists. Chunky silver rings glitter on her fingers and her dyed red hair shines with a funky halo because she is an awesome angel of darkness in the body of a schoolteacher. For some reason I think of Mum, marching through the market with a flower stud in her nose.
Miss Gilbert bashes a button on the dusty keyboard as people start to arrive.
“Right. Here we go. Actually, no,” she says. “I am not going to do roll call today, dudes. Want to get through the attendance quickly. What can I say? I am very busy and important. In fact, don’t tell Mrs. Austin I told you this, but she’s just the front man. I rule this school.”
Miss Gilbert’s eyes find it hard to be sensible. There is a flash of green as she winks at me then turns back to the computer, checking off our names without reading them out loud, no doubt to save me the embarrassment of not knowing what to do when mine is called.
Like I say, she’s awesome.
Isabel isn’t in my homeroom and neither is Anna or any of her friends, so I can relax. I shut my eyes to see Mr. Richardson’s face. His brown eyes are burning with curiosity because he’s waiting for sixth period on Thursday too. Twenty-nine hours and forty-five minutes, he whispers in my ear, making my skin prickle with goose bumps.
“That’s the bell, dudes. The day is upon us. Off you go, everyone. Apart from you, Tess.”
Miss Gilbert beckons me forward and I stand awkwardly in front of her desk. It’s messy, piles of students’ work mixed in with her own pencil sketches and half-finished paintings. In the middle of the chaos are the pink flowers.
“Gorgeous, aren’t they?” she says, but that’s not what I’m thinking. I feel sorry for them, trying to flourish with no real roots. “I just wanted to check in with you, Tess. I know it isn’t easy, being at school. Period. Ha, no. We all love it, don’t we? But yeah. I suppose I just wanted to reassure you. Mrs. Austin spoke to everyone this morning in staff briefing. No one’s going to ask you to contribute in class, so don’t worry about that. We’re here when you’re ready to talk, but there’s not going to be any pressure from your teachers. And if it all gets too much for you then come and find me in here. We can hang out.” She squeezes my shoulder. Her rings feel nice against my bones. “You’ll be okay, Tess. I promise. Isabel can help you out in the classes you share, right?”
“Er, no,” Mr. Goldfish says. “Not exactly.”
It’s terrifying, how much things have changed in the space of a few days. A week ago I was an ordinary girl with parents who I loved, a home where I belonged, and a friend who I adored. But I was blooming away under false pretenses, and it was only a matter of time before everything fell apart.
Now I’m alone.
Mr. Goldfish clears his throat.
Almost alone. I slip my hand into my bag and hold him tightly.
18
At lunch, I dash to the cafeteria, deciding once and for all to make amends with Isabel. I take my place by the menu and wait.
And wait some more.
If she turns up, I’ll make an exception to the no-speaking rule, tell her I’m sorry till I’m blue in the face.
“Accept it,” Mr. Goldfish says, after a while. “She’s not going to come.”
I study the desserts for two more minutes, just in case. Chocolate pudding. Ginger cake. Ice cream. And then I give it another thirty seconds because, who knows, the pickle-loving lunch lady might have made another mess of Isabel’s sandwich. The double doors burst apart and I expect to see my friend, purple with outrage at the incompetence of the kitchen staff, but it’s a group of girls in Year Ten I don’t really know.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Goldfish asks. “They seem to know you.” They’re sneaking glances at me, talking in low voices as they huddle in a circle. Mr. Goldfish leap
s out of my pocket, taking me by surprise. “Hey! What are you gawking at?” The girls disappear, but three boys are staring now, nudging one another as they pass. “What is everybody’s problem?”
I hurry outside, the air cool on my hot cheeks.
“I’m the weird girl who’s stopped speaking, aren’t I?” I catch sight of my lonely reflection in the drama studio window. “I’m not exactly doing myself any favors with this silence.”
It’s getting harder to maintain, but I don’t have a choice. I can’t start speaking without saying why I stopped. Mum and Jack will ask questions. My teachers, too. The speech therapist, who no doubt I’ll have to go and see even if I do miraculously regain the ability to talk. Let’s face it, becoming mute for three and a half days isn’t exactly normal behavior. Everyone will want to know why I’ve been acting so crazy and I will have to tell them the truth.
All six hundred and seventeen words of it.
No.
It’s too big. Too scary. I’m safer here, behind my wall of silence and also my hair that falls in front of my face as I wander past the science classrooms. Our bench is empty. I can’t stand to sit on it alone so I keep walking. Somehow I find myself outside my math classroom, but Mr. Richardson is nowhere to be seen. His stuff’s here though, an old gray jacket draped over the back of the teacher’s chair. A black rucksack I don’t recognize is propped up against the desk and Mr. Holdsworth’s green marker pens have been replaced by a pot of red ones. There’s not a coffee mug in sight.
I sit on the steps, checking my e-mails once more with a casual flick of my thumb. It freezes midswipe because for once there’s something in my in-box.
I inhale sharply.
A reply from the HFEA.
“Open it then!” Mr. Goldfish says, darting out of my pocket to stare at the screen. “Come on! What are you waiting for?”
I expect it to be personal, written specifically to me by some woman with a lovely name like Summer or Joy because her job is to spread light and happiness to people in darkness. But this is a standard e-mail from a man called Dave Sykes. It’s a dull name for a dull man who’s pretty much copied and pasted a paragraph off the website to send to me, a girl who spilled her heart out on a contact form, crying as she begged for information about her real dad.
At age 16 a donor-conceived person can complete and submit the application form found here www.hfea.gov.uk/113.html to apply for non-identifying information on the donor(s), the number, sex and year of birth of any donor-conceived siblings and find out if the donor(s) have re-registered as identifiable (i.e. if they have chosen to remove their anonymity).
“Donor-conceived siblings?” Mr. Goldfish says. “Does that mean brothers and sisters? Well, that’s quite nice, I suppose.”
“I don’t think so. There could be millions of them out there. Total strangers I’m related to without even knowing it. I mean, there could even be some in this school,” I say in a sudden panic. “Oh my God!”
“Yes, my child?”
“That boy I kissed in Year Nine. The one at the party with the blond spiky hair. He might have been… do you think he was… Jesus!”
“Do I think a thirteen-year-old boy with overly gelled hair was Jesus?”
“That’s not funny.”
“Sorry. Look, I don’t think it’s very likely that you were related.”
“But we could have been,” I say, dropping my phone and burying my head in my hands. “We could have been related. There’s a chance. You have to admit that.”
“Well, yeah, I suppose there is a very, very small chance that he might have been your brother.”
“Holy crap!”
“Half brother! Half!”
“That doesn’t make it any better. I kissed him for ages. He put his hands—places. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
“Calm down,” Mr. Goldfish tells me, like it’s even possible, like everything’s going to be okay if only I can breathe deeply. Hatred stronger than I’ve ever known it burns in my veins for Mum and Jack, who are stripping me of everything—the family I used to have, the home where I grew up, and the memory of a boy whose spiky hair gradually flattened as we kissed outside in the rain. The lights of a disco ball shone in a puddle and the world was red and purple and green and beautiful, but now it’s fading to nothing.
“How much sperm does the average male produce, anyway?” Mr. Goldfish asks. “You might have been the only fertilized egg from that particular batch.”
I picture it in a science lab inside a test tube with an indecipherable label. “I’m never going to find him, am I?”
“Don’t say that.”
“Have you seen the e-mail? Re-registered as identifiable. It’s a choice, isn’t it? He could still be anonymous and I don’t even get to find that out until I’m sixteen. How is that fair? How am I supposed to live for the next few months, wondering if he’s left a name? And if the answer’s no, what then? I never get to find my real dad?” Angry tears prick my eyes like hot needles. “Is that how it works? That sons and daughters never get to meet their proper parents? How is that even legal?”
“I don’t know,” Mr Goldfish replies. “I really don’t. It sucks.”
“Yeah, it does,” I say shakily. “I tell you what, I should write my own blog for that stupid website, tell everyone how it feels to be a donor-conceived person. What does that even mean? I’m human, aren’t I? Not some science experiment. I’m somebody’s daughter. That means somebody’s my dad. You can’t just donate sperm and be done with it. It doesn’t work like that, does it? I belong to someone!”
I don’t want to break down, but I can’t help it. The sound of my grief echoes around school, around Manchester, around the whole goddamn universe. I’m Pluto, but I don’t want to be right now, and I cry out into the blackness of space, searching for meaning. Connection. Life.
It appears in the form of two brown eyes.
“Hey,” Mr. Richardson says in his soft, soft voice. “Hey, now.” He crouches down, putting a hand on my back. I look up at him as he smiles a lovely smile—lovelier, even, than Mr. Darling’s. “You’re Tess, aren’t you?”
My heart leaps out of my body then slam-dunks down my throat. He helps me to my feet, picking up my bag and phone. I can’t even begin to describe it, how much I love the sight of my belongings in his hand. He’s dressed all in black again, and I feel too colorful in my white shirt and green trousers.
“Come on. I’ll walk you to your homeroom. You’re one of Miss Gilbert’s, aren’t you?”
That’s how it feels, yes, when we find her painting in the art room and she gives me tissues and pats my arm.
“I’ll leave you two ladies to it,” Mr. Richardson says.
“It was good of you to bring her down here. You’re the new math teacher, right?”
He holds out his hand. “Mr. Richardson.”
“Miss Gilbert.” They shake and she laughs. “Very formal. I like it.”
He blushes as easily as I do. “Sorry.”
“No. No, no, no. Don’t be! It’ll be nice to have a gentleman around here for a change.”
“I’ve never been called that before.”
“Well, now you have.” Miss Gilbert winks then falls serious. “I wish you could tell me what’s wrong, Tess. I might be able to help.” She’s the one—she starts to mouth at Mr. Richardson, but I catch her in the act. She grins at me, unashamed. “You are the one, aren’t you, Tess? Silent and mysterious.” She shakes her head. “Giving up talking? I couldn’t do it. It must take an extraordinary amount of discipline. It’s impressive, in a way.”
I’ve never thought of it like that.
19
Mr. Goldfish pops his head out of my bag as I walk across the bus lot on Thursday morning.
“It’s happening again, Tess. People are staring.”
“Thanks so much for pointing that out.”
“And at their phones. What’s that about?”
I glance around uneasily. I have the funniest feeling
everyone’s looking at the same thing. Fixing my gaze on a telephone pole, I stride with more purpose. A crow settles on top of it, its wings fluttering to a stop as it coolly surveys the scene.
There are black phones. White phones. Orange ones. Blue. Three girls with pink phones giggle at me as I pass, pointing at something on their screens.
I stop short. “Tell me they haven’t found Jack’s blog.”
“They haven’t found Jack’s blog.” Pause. “I mean, I can’t possibly know that for sure but if it makes you feel better…”
The groan in my head is so loud I’m surprised the girls can’t hear it. “Do you really think that’s what they’re looking at?” The six hundred and seventeen words suddenly appear in the sky, darker than the clouds, blocking out the sun.
Revulsion… I didn’t love… Peculiar creature… I didn’t love… Resentment… I didn’t love… I didn’t love… I DID NOT LOVE.
I jump as a bus squeals to a stop. Mr. Goldfish tugs me out of the way.
“Did the blog mention you by name?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. But it might have. I don’t really remember.”
“You don’t even know if Jack posted it, do you? He might have gotten cold feet.”
There’s only one thing to do. I’ve avoided it so far, been far too scared to look, but I get out my phone and punch in the address of the Donor Conception Network. Thumb quivering, I click on Personal Stories, the words swimming on the screen. I blink and try to focus, but a boy is leaping from the bus to land on both feet directly in front of me.
Connor Jackson.
I don’t like him and I really don’t like the expression on his face. He shuffles to the right then hops to the left as I step from side to side, trying to get past.
“All right, Balls,” he says for some strange reason. “How’s it hanging? Go on. Give us a clue. Do you dress to the left or the right?”
“Hey, Balls,” Adam joins in, appearing next to Connor. “I’m hungry. You got any nuts I can have?”
“Nice one!” Connor shoots imaginary bullets over my shoulder making a brap brap noise that sets my teeth on edge.
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