Tea sloshes everywhere as I slam down my cup then dash into the study. Jack’s desk stands against a teal wall dotted with silver frames—his certificate from drama school and a poster from Hamlet and a review from his episode of Lewis that doesn’t even mention him by name. They’re bunched up on the left, nothing but empty wall to the right.
“Please tell me you’re not looking for the blog post,” Mr. Goldfish groans when I turn on the laptop.
“It’s not on the Internet. I’ll have to find the file on here.” The shower comes on upstairs. “He’ll be busy for a while.”
“It’s going to hurt you.”
“That’s the point.” It would give me a savage sort of pleasure to be confronted once more with the extent of Jack’s betrayal in undeniable black-and-white.
“How long does it take to have a shower, though? Ten minutes?” Mr. Goldfish flits nervously about the desk, circling Yorick and the framed poem by Robert Frost. Two roads diverged in a yellow wood it starts, and that sounds about right to me. I’m at a crossroads, aren’t I, with Jack on one side and Mr. Richardson on the other. There’s no doubt in my mind which path I should take. “Five minutes? No, one minute, apparently,” Mr. Goldfish squeaks because Jack’s footsteps are thundering down the stairs.
“Look at the tea on this table! Who are you? Gran? Would it have killed you to wipe it up?” I can hear Jack rummaging in the bag of shopping. He charges into the study in a striped bathrobe, holding a new bottle of shower gel. “What are you doing in here, Tess?”
I’ve got as far as opening up Microsoft Word and typing the first three letters of the file name into the search bar.
DCN—
I try to delete them, going for the button but missing it completely because my eyes are on Jack watching me fumble with hands definitely up to no good.
“Why can’t you use your own laptop?” He sounds irritated because this study is more his domain than even the dishwasher. Everything has its place—every book on the shelf with its spine not at all broken, and every pen in the holder with its cap not at all chewed. Jack gives me this look like I don’t belong, a pen that has run out of ink or a book with tattered pages and a story not worth reading.
“What are you trying to do? Homework, is it?”
The search bar on the screen winks at Jack. DCN, it says, over and over again, DCN. It’s flirting with him, daring him to fill in the other letters. The screen flickers. I wait for the penny to drop. I can almost see it floating high above Jack’s head, a coin that contains my face instead of the Queen’s, the date of my conception engraved clearly on the metal. It doesn’t drop, and it’s a shock how much I wish it would.
He sighs. “Is it the printer you’re after? It’s not hooked up.” He messes about with a couple of wires. “There you go.”
He’s going to stay and watch me do it, so I go to Google and randomly type in Othello, copying and pasting a couple of paragraphs into a new Word document.
There’s a whir and a wheeze and then the printer begins with a mechanical jjj—jjj—jjj.
As the paper emerges, I grab Mr. Goldfish and shine his light on the ceiling, writing the letters I was too afraid to type.
DCNETWORK BLOG
DCNETWORK BLOG
The words gleam above Jack, even if he can’t see them.
I don’t stop there. In my room, I shine Mr. Goldfish out the open window, using the stars like a giant connect-the-dots puzzle. They glow as the beam makes contact, the words I can’t say out loud twinkling over Manchester, brighter than the car headlights and the cats’ eyes and the Christmas trees and the streetlights and a million TVs flickering in a million homes with a million ordinary mums and dads with absolutely no secrets.
I love you, Gran, I scrawl across space. It reflects in her eyes as she looks out of her living room window, pouring herself another cup of tea from the pot covered in a lion’s face. It purrs to the one on the mantelpiece, who purrs right back.
If I have to, I will buy every bottle of polish in the supermarket to keep Mum and Jack off your back.
“That’s sweet,” Mr. Goldfish says, opening his mouth even wider to project the words into the sky. “Nothing says I love you like a bit of dusting.”
When Mum comes home, she asks Jack if I’m okay.
NO I write, again and again, the word getting bigger, my arm swooping more madly until the only thing in the universe is my cry of protest.
I AM NOT OKAY.
I AM NOT.
I AM NOT.
BECAUSE I KNOW THE TRUTH.
The words are jagged, tearing apart the sky with their ferocious lines and sharp angles and spiky edges.
I write to @BlaiseOfGlory and everyone on Twitter, posting replies in my very own cyberspace, hanging half out the window now so I can stretch farther, shining Mr. Goldfish from one side of the black horizon to the other. I own this night. It is my World Wide Web, my forum, and I tell everyone what I think of them and Jack too, scribbling my response to his blog in stars that have never shone more fiercely.
“I don’t mean to be a killjoy or anything,” Mr. Goldfish pants, “but I could use a break. I’m exhausted.”
I place him on my desk next to my sudoku book, but I haven’t finished yet. No way. Picking up my phone, I open Twitter, my vision blurred from the dazzling display in the night sky. The screen’s hazy, moving in and out of focus as I invent an anonymous name.
@FishOfGlory
I feel as tough as my friend, as bright and bold, my heart thumping wildly in my chest as if powered by the world’s biggest battery.
“Now what?” Mr. Goldfish asks. I scan the endless words that have been written about me in the past few weeks.
I grin. “Revenge.”
@BlaiseOfGlory
Tess-tosterone got changed for PE in a toilet stall today. What’s she trying to hide? #SheIsAHe
@FishOfGlory
@BlaiseOfGlory Her disgust at your vanity and the way you pout in the mirror.
@BlaiseOfGlory
Anyone else notice that she’s got a mustache?
#SheIsAHe
@FishOfGlory
@BlaiseOfGlory Who? Your mum?
@BlaiseOfGlory
I saw a bulge today. That’s all I’m saying. #SheIsAHe
@FishOfGlory
@BlaiseOfGlory Could have been that spot on the end of your nose.
I don’t stop for fifteen minutes, replying to old tweets and new ones that keep pinging through. I have an answer for everyone, typing quickly with two thumbs that find the perfect words without effort.
“It’s beeped again!” Mr. Goldfish cries. “Look, look, look! It’s Blaise! What did she say?” He swims up to my phone, flattening his nose against the screen.
@BlaiseOfGlory
Who is @FishOfGlory anyway? Is it you, Tess-tosterone?
What, are you so pathetic you even have to hide on here?
“What a hypocrite! Anna’s hiding, isn’t she?”
“We don’t know it’s Anna,” I say. “Or even if it’s a girl for that matter.”
“Ask. Go on. What’ve you got to lose?” I type something all in a rush—Says @BlaiseOfGlory #potkettleblack—then press Send. “Brilliant,” Mr. Goldfish says. “That will have her shaking in her boots. Talk of kettles.”
I wait, the pulse in my neck beating so hard my head feels as if it’s throbbing.
@BlaiseOfGlory
I haven’t hidden my identity, Tess-tosterone. It’s here for all to see.
“Well, that makes no sense,” I mutter, before writing a quick reply.
@FishOfGlory
If you say so.
I get a response almost immediately.
@BlaiseOfGlory
You have to be clever enough to see it, unfortunately for you.
“See what?” Mr. Goldfish asks. I study the avatar of the mysterious account—a cartoon image that gives nothing away. “Blaise. Blaise. Blaise.”
“Stop saying Blaise!”
“Blaise. It’s weird though, isn’t it? Who calls themselves Blaise?”
27
“How do I look?” I ask the following day.
“Cheep.” I frown. Mr. Goldfish jumps onto the lid of the toilet in the girls’ bathroom. “Not cheap as in cheap.” He makes wings. “Cheep as in little chick. You know, cute little feathery thing.” We stare at each other as he clucks. “Never mind.”
“What about this?” I fiddle with the hem of a sweater I found in the back of my drawer. “It’s not too frumpy, is it?”
He holds up his fin to make an okay sign. “It’s ideal. Plain as plain and black as black can be. The perfect plumage because you’re a—”
“Bird underneath Mr. Richardson’s wing. Yeah, I get it. And these?” I pull up my trousers to reveal two colorful, mismatched socks.
“You look great, Tess.”
It feels pretty great, like I’m pledging allegiance to the only person who I can trust.
Hiding Mr. Goldfish in my pocket, I make my way to the sink and study my reflection in the mirror. I do look like Mr. Richardson, if you ignore my dyed hair and the fact that I have no dimple. We are carbon copies, cut from the same cloth, black as the night at the very end of the solar system, swirling around Pluto, the planet of introversion. Black as silence. Black as—
“Tess?”
“Crap,” says me or Mr. Goldfish as Anna and Tara and Sarah crowd around me in a tight semicircle. I turn on the tap, glancing at the trio in the mirror, wondering how it feels to be them, these girls with glossy hair and confidence to match, who hang around with older boys in teachers’ kitchens.
“You off to Math?” Anna asks with a dazzling smile. She’s stunning, no doubt about it, the type of girl Jack would love me to befriend. I picture it, sitting with Anna at lunch, and walking with her out of the school gates, and following her maybe even into Mr. Richardson’s house. “We’re going that way. You can join us, if you like.”
I do like.
I think I like.
Actually I’m not at all sure that I should like.
Man Skull’s wearing a skirt. I didn’t know they made them in man sizes. How does she fit her fat legs inside it?
“Precisely,” Mr. Goldfish whispers. “You’re speaking sense at last. She can’t be trusted!”
Something else comes back to me—a white hand drifting through the icy air as it dismisses Connor Jackson. Man Skull was obviously a joke. You know that, Tess, don’t you? I’m still not sure of the answer to that one, so I carry on washing my hands.
Soap. Bubbles. Rinse.
“Math?” Anna turns off the tap.
She links arms with me. I want to enjoy it, like this is a really good thing I tell myself very clearly, but my arm stays completely rigid. Anna pulls me out of the bathroom into a hallway full of not that many people because class started two minutes ago. Mr. Richardson will be pacing around the classroom, yearning for his favorite student.
I’m here. I’m coming.
We start to walk, the four of us together, and I can’t quite believe it, how I appear to be sort of in their gang. Just as I’m relaxing into the arm-link, Anna ends it, shoving her hand into her bag and pulling out her phone when it beeps.
“The boys are going into Manchester. They’ve finished for the day,” Anna says casually as I swallow some gunpowder that explodes in my stomach. “Shall we go and meet them?”
“And what? Skip school?” Sarah replies. “We can’t do that. It would look too obvious if three of us were absent.”
“Four of us,” Anna corrects her, nodding at me. “Maybe meet them later then.” Texting as she walks, she starts up the steps. I follow, my head spinning in delirium of the most delicious kind. It is effortless, this climb. I am light. Airy. Full of helium as I bob after Anna, my head shiny as a foil balloon, somewhere near the ceiling.
Anna stops abruptly when we reach the top. “Damn. I’ve forgotten it.”
“What is it, Anna?” Tara asks. “What have you forgotten?” It sounds rehearsed, like a script.
“My homework, Tara. That work sheet we had to fill out.” She turns to face me, a couple of steps below. The sun burns its way through a cloud and sets her outline on fire. I have to squint to gaze up at her. “Did you do it, Tess?”
“Did she do it?” Mr. Goldfish scoffs. “She only spent two hours on it last night, triple-checking her answers to make sure they were absolutely right.”
“Shut up!” I tell him because I don’t want to hand it over.
“Do you mind if I copy it quickly? Sorry. Shouldn’t keep asking you questions when you can’t reply. Still, I know the answer to this one.” She holds out her white, white hand with all this Expect that I am just going to obey.
And I do.
Of course I do. It’s Anna, and she gets whatever she wants.
“Thanks so much,” she says when I pass her the work sheet. “That’s so good of you.”
The classroom door swings open. “What time do you call this, girls?”
“Hello again, Mr. Richardson,” Tara replies, bold as anything, bounding up the steps to greet him. Sarah crowds around him too, but I hang back with Anna, hoping that he’ll notice my black sweater. “Remember us?”
“You’re late.”
“How could he forget?” Sarah replies. “We’re his favorite students, aren’t we, Mr. Richardson?”
“Not right now, no.” He’s trying hard to remain cross but a hint of amusement has crept into his voice. “I prefer pupils who are a tad more punctual.”
“Boring, you mean,” Tara replies. “We’re full of surprises. Good ones, right, Mr. Richardson?”
“Oh, delightful.”
“I bet it was the best surprise,” Sarah says, quite seriously. “Us. In your house. I bet you couldn’t believe it.”
“I was—how can I put it? Overjoyed. Yes. There is nothing I like more than getting home from work after a particularly tough day to find pupils in my house, eating my food, watching my television.” His tone is exasperated but his eyes are shining as he takes in Tara and Sarah and also Anna, but not me or my black sweater. “Right, ladies. Time’s ticking. I’ll take your homework off you here and then we can go and get on with the lesson.”
Tara hands in her work sheet, and Sarah hands in her work sheet, and Anna hands in my work sheet, without so much as a glance at me. A cry of outrage echoes round the cavern of my mind where no one but Mr. Goldfish can hear it.
“Tess? No homework? Well, that’s disappointing.” He sighs, but the air from his lungs is warm on my face. I am visible at last, one of the girls, standing in front of him in disrepute. I love how he’s shaking his head, taking in all four of us now.
“You lot. You’ll turn me gray. I’ll have to keep you behind after school, I’m afraid, Tess. Fifteen minutes in here at the end of the day.” He sounds apologetic, but he needn’t be sorry because actually this is the best news I’ve had for ages.
A hush falls as we enter the classroom. It’s a spell we’re casting as we walk. Only Isabel is unaffected by our magic, rustling about in her pencil case, getting out a protractor so she can start work. Isabel. Isabel. Isabel.
“Stop saying Isabel!” Mr. Goldfish whispers.
“Isabel. Oh my God!”
“What is it?”
“What did those tweets say last night? I haven’t hidden my identity. You have to be clever enough to see it, unfortunately for you. That’s why it’s spelled in such a weird way. I mean, why not blaze as in b-l-a-z-e, right? The letters are important.” I scribble them down then rearrange them to form Isabel’s name.
“No!” Mr. Goldfish cries.
“Yes,” I reply, my stomach twisting into a knot. Blaise is Isabel. Isabel is Blaise. I watch her calculating the size of an angle, radiating anger that the lesson has been disrupted. Her jaw is set. She’s determined. Furious. Ruthless, when she wants to be.
Mr. Goldfish shakes his head. “I don’t believe it.”
The knot tightens.
“Well, I do.”
28
I don’t wait outside the cafeteria at lunch, and I avoid our bench by the science classrooms.
“It’s easy to lie online, Tess,” Mr. Goldfish says, again and again. “There’s no proof that it’s her.”
The nausea is proof, the churning in my gut. I kill time trying to find Anna, hoping that she might link my arm again and whisk me off on an adventure. I’d happily skip the rest of the day as long as I could be back for Mr. Richardson’s detention.
Fifteen minutes alone with my teacher. A delicious slice of time, good enough to eat.
Somehow, the hands of the clock drag themselves to half past three. Two minutes later, I’m bursting into Mr. Richardson’s classroom as Mr. Goldfish groans, holding his head between his fins.
“You dashed up those steps with no regard for me whatsoever.”
I drink in the sight of my teacher. My dad. Maybe my dad. Probably. The tension between us is tight as string, like I feel as if I could reach out and pluck it, make us both quiver more than we already are. He’s been waiting for this, too. It’s a big deal for him. It’s a big deal for both of us.
“No regard for my comfort,” Mr. Goldfish goes on. “My safety. My head was smashing against your thighbone.”
“Shh.”
“Repeatedly.”
“Please be quiet.”
“No exaggeration, about forty-five times.”
“I’m trying to concentrate.”
“And I’m concussed!” I slip my hand into my pocket and turn him off. I have to focus. This might be my only chance to have some one-on-one time with Mr. Richardson. Some father-daughter time. That’s the connection between us, I am almost definitely sure of it, and I have the funniest feeling that Mr. Richardson realizes it too.
It’s in his eyes. Or maybe his smile. Or maybe his hands, fiddling with the sleeve of his black sweater just like my black sweater. He throws a piece of chewing gum into his mouth, needing to freshen up his breath for what he’s about to say. The words are new, shiny, never uttered before this moment of confession that’s about to happen any second now, I just know it.
Silence Is Goldfish Page 14
