by Holly Bourne
“She’s just jealous,” Reese said that night, as he tried to make me have sex in the dressing room.
“That’s exactly what I thought! …No, Reese, come on. Anyone could walk in!”
But because I was so in love, and so convinced we were two pieces of a single soul that were meant to find each other, I leaned into his kisses.
“Ignore her,” he whispered. “She’s always been a spiteful bitch. I tried to warn you about her, but you wouldn’t listen. You’re better off without her, little one. Your friends should be happy you’re so happy.”
He wedged the door closed, and tried again.
“Let’s make love. We can call it that, after tonight.”
I found myself sinking into his touch and letting it happen, because he loved me.
You loved me.
You loved me, you loved me, you loved me.
The words I’d hang on to like an oxygen mask during everything that happened next.
Whoop-de-doo for me. Mum and Dad want to have yet another conversation about how worried they are.
“College called.” Mum’s fingers clench the handle of her coffee cup. “They say your attendance has dipped below eighty per cent.”
I just look at them, because I don’t know what else to say.
But Dad’s happy to fill the silence. “This isn’t like you, Amelie. You’ve been going off for college every day. Except, you haven’t. Where the hell have you been going?”
I shrug. “Around.”
They share a look, and I reckon maybe I’m a little bit too old to be pulling the sullen adolescent act, but I’m not sure how to handle this. I’ve never been in trouble before. We’ve always sort of got on. I’ve not even really let them know how much it hurt to move down here.
Anyway, I don’t have time for this because it’s Sunday and I have plans. Plans to go stand outside your house and hang about like a stalker. You’re away in London this weekend for a gig. I know this because Rob was chatting to Darla in music – one of the days I bothered coming into college this week – and I shamelessly eavesdropped. The gig’s in Camden. You’re all staying at your friend Harry’s student house. She’s coming too, of course.
But my plan looks like it’s about to be delayed.
“They want us to come in for a meeting with the deputy head.” Mum shakes her head. “Amelie, what exactly is going on?”
I look up at them over the steam from my coffee. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I say, honestly. “I’m just…finding things hard at the moment.”
“It’s that boy, isn’t it? It’s that stupid boy.”
“Don’t call him stupid!”
“I didn’t raise you like this, Amelie. I didn’t raise you to screw up your life over some idiot who wears a stupid hat,” Mum says.
“STOP CALLING HIM STUPID!”
I stand up, I spill the coffee, I almost knock the chair over.
I’m crying again already. I turn and flee to my room, slamming the door so hard that the framed photo of us falls over on my chest of drawers. More sobbing. More wailing. More words that describe crying, which I ran out of a really long time ago. But, for the first time in a while, it’s not the sort of crying where I want to be left alone. I’m kind of doing that deliberate over-the-top wailing where you hope someone asks you if you’re okay. I’m starting to want to talk about it. Because I’ve been trying to figure it out alone and it’s getting me nowhere. There’s a gentle knock on my door and a northern accent.
“Amelie? Can I come in?”
I wait for a second before I say yes, even though I’m glad he’s there.
I turn over to face Dad, smiling wearily – my face no doubt red and blotchy and all the things it’s been for ages now.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I don’t want you guys to worry.”
He closes the door behind him and perches on the end of my bed. “I know you don’t, poppet.”
I twist upwards, bringing the duvet with me, so I’m wrapped up like a glow-worm. Dad pats the space next to him and I shuffle down and lean my head on his shoulder. He sighs.
“I’ll try and go to college more. I’m just finding it really hard, that’s all.”
Dad awkwardly rubs my back. “I know it’s been difficult for you, coming down here,” he starts.
I go to reassure him, but he doesn’t let me.
“Let me finish. You’ve been great, Amelie. So mature, so selfless. It must’ve been so painful to leave your whole life behind. I hate that I wasn’t able to get a job nearer home. I’ve let you all down.”
“You hav—”
“Again, let me finish. What I’m trying to say is, that was already probably enough on your plate. Making a new life down here, making new friends, starting a new college. You were doing so well, I was so relieved. But, a broken heart. Having to deal with that on top of everything else…”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about Alfie, or you, or both.
“I don’t think heartbreak is given enough gravitas at your age,” he continues. “Your mum and I are probably partly to blame. We just thought this Reese was a flash in the pan thing, that you’d be over it within a week or two. But then I remembered breaking up with my first girlfriend.” He turns and smiles at me. “Jane. God, I was obsessed with that girl. I saved up all my money working at the chippy to afford this Elizabeth Duke ring she wanted from Argos.”
I wrinkle my nose. “No wonder you guys broke up.”
We manage to laugh. It’s weird to think of my parents having relationships before each other, though I guess of course they did.
“Anyway, when she left me for Jamie Sanders, it really did feel like my world had ended.”
He scratches his neck, smiling as he remembers the pain – which is reassuring, I guess. That maybe, with enough time passed, pain can be something you remember fondly because you’re so certain that particular pain has healed.
“I was a mess, a complete mess. And I remember your grandma and pa kept telling me it was puppy love and I’d get over it, and I remember how frustrating it was, because it really was awful.” He pats me again and won’t make eye contact, like he can only be this open if he isn’t looking directly at me, as if I’m the sun or something. “So, I don’t want to be like them. I understand that you’re very upset about this Reese boy, and I know the pain is very real. But you can’t let it ruin your whole life, Amelie. College is important. Education lasts a lifetime. Whereas I promise you, promise you, that this pain isn’t permanent.”
I swallow and turn his words over in my mind. “The thing is, Dad,” I say, needing to get it out, “I was really sad when things finished with Alfie. I know I got together with Reese, so it may have seemed like I wasn’t bothered, but I did feel like my heart was broken. I know what it feels like. Even if I couldn’t show it.” I pause and lean down to wipe a bit of snot onto my duvet. “But with Reese…I don’t know.” I’m unsure of my thoughts. So I close my eyes and let my gut speak to me. “I’m starting to think something wasn’t normal, isn’t normal about us. How I feel…I don’t know…it feels like more than heartbreak, Dad. I feel like all of me is broken.”
His hand clenches on my back. I feel his protective anger swell up like a bursting pipe.
After he’s contained whatever emotions he needed to, Dad speaks again. “The college said your music teacher, Mrs Clarke, has spoken to you?”
I nod, surprised she blabbed. Though maybe she didn’t have a choice.
“She thinks I should go to a counsellor.”
I expect Dad to snort and say something like “Why would you need to go to a counsellor? You’re not crazy, are you?” I mean, he’s a YORKSHIREMAN. There isn’t any problem that can’t be solved by pretending it doesn’t exist and having a cup of tea.
He doesn’t though. There’s just a long silence, and a sigh, and then, softly, him saying, “Maybe you should think about it. If you don’t want to go to the one in school, we can look into booking you an appointment at o
ne in town. We just about have the money.”
“Really?”
“If that’s what you need, we’ll find a way.”
A knock at the door, and Mum’s standing on the threshold, looking nervous.
“All okay in here?”
Dad pats the other side of him. “Come on in. Amelie was just saying she might give the counsellor thing a whirl.”
Mum puts her tongue behind her bottom lip, and I can tell she’s not so keen on the idea. Although, I guess, if you want to have a repression-off, posh southerners are even more stiff-upper-lip than ruggedy northerners. She doesn’t say she doesn’t approve though. “The deputy head thinks it’s a good idea. Maybe you can bring it up in the meeting?” she suggests. “At the very least, it may get college to see you’re willing to take your A levels seriously from now on.” She perches on the end of the bed. “Because you are going to take them seriously from now on, aren’t you, Amelie? Don’t you still want to go to Manchester?”
I think about Manchester after they’ve left to do the big weekend food shop. I’ve not given it any thought since you. I’d been so desperate to go, but that whole plan was so entwined with Alfie and making it work with him. Do I really want to go still? Do I even want to go to university at all?
I’m left alone, to go as I please without them asking, and where I want to go is your house. To carry on this journey, to get over the finish line of it. But I don’t rush there, like I thought I would the moment they close the door. Instead I find myself putting the kettle on, making a strong cup of tea, and sipping it while I stare at the kitchen tiles.
I feel a tiny bit lighter since I spoke to Dad, and I ponder on why. Is it because I listened to my gut? It told me to talk and I did. Do I need to ask my gut more questions? And actually follow through on the answers it gives me?
I put my tea down and hold my hand to my stomach.
“Is how I feel about Reese normal?” I ask out loud, like my tummy is a Magic 8 Ball.
I pause and see how it feels to let that question dissolve in.
No, my Magic 8 Ball tummy replies.
Tears jab at my eyes. I sniff and wipe them before they fall.
“Do I need to see a counsellor?” I ask out loud, cradling my stomach like I’m pregnant.
All there is is the tick of the kitchen clock, the steady hum of the fridge, and my gut – my gut that twists under my hands, sighs in relief, and says:
Yes, Amelie. Yes, you really do.
I’m standing outside your house, Reese, and I’m thinking about guts.
Not, like, the literal kind – not the ones that pour out of bodies in horror films. But the metaphorical kind. The feeling you get in your stomach that something is wrong or right. I guess another word for it is instinct. They always say we have more than five senses. We’re not just smelling, seeing, tasting, hearing and touching things. Our bodies pick up on intricacies in other people’s bodies, changes in the weather, tiny subtle hints from the universe, hardwired over thousands of years of evolution. Instinct is knowing someone’s looking at you when your back is turned, or that icky blodge you get that something is wrong, even when everyone else is trying to convince you it’s okay.
I’m standing a few metres down from your house, as I don’t want your mum to see me. Lurking is the word for what I’m doing, and it’s not attractive.
It was here that I started to be less attractive to you. It was here that it began. The unravelling – of how you saw me, and then of how I saw myself. I stood here, outside your house, on that night not so long ago, and I got that first tickle in my gut. The something’s-not-right tickle. The lurch of an intestine taking a break from shoving food along to put up its hand and say, Something’s wiggy.
Though, of course, you told me that my gut was wrong.
I wonder how many times in a given second girls are told that their guts are wrong? Told that our tummies are misfiring, like wayward fireworks. No, no, no, dear, it’s not like that at all. Where did you get that from? I promise you that’s not the case. You are overreacting. You are crazy. You are insecure. You are being a silly little thing. And, then, days or weeks or even years later, we look back on The Bad Thing that happened to us because we ignored all the signs, and we say to ourselves I wish I had listened to my gut.
It takes guts to listen to your gut, though.
It takes bravery to walk away from something because a part of your bowel tells you to. I mean, who does that? That is crazy.
Or is it? Or is it ignoring your gut that makes you crazy in the long run? Would I have so many dots on this map if I’d listened to my stomach? Would I have shed less tears?
Here is what I’m starting to think, Reese. I’m starting to think that some boys make girls cry, and then act like they’re crazy for crying. I’m starting to think girls that cry don’t cry for no reason. They’re crying because their guts, or their instinct, or their psychic sense, or whatever the hell you want to call it, but the thing that’s evolved to keep them safe is screaming ABORT, ABORT and yet they’re too scared to listen to it. They’re too scared that their gut is wrong and the boy is right. Because we trust boys. We trust them when they say they love us. We trust their instincts and their motives, and they’re never as silly as us, are they? They are logical and reasonable and don’t let feeble emotions get in the way of things. Who are you going to trust? The calm boy whose voice doesn’t wobble, who can explain reasonably, and using examples, why everything is fine – or the crying girl saying she can feel something is wrong?
My gut told me something was off, right here, on this street. My gut told me to cry, and I did. My gut told me maybe this wasn’t good news, but you told me it was okay and I believed you and then I cried some more. My gut told me at two a.m. the other week that I should get out of bed and go out in the cold and start retracing all the places you made me cry. I did as I was told.
My gut told me – in the kitchen, only an hour ago – that I should go and see a counsellor. I’m going to go. I feel better even at the thought of it.
I’m not going to ignore my gut any more, Reese.
But I did, back then. Here. Two weeks after your big declaration at the Cube.
Just two weeks is how long it took to unravel. I sat with you and the band every day at lunch, and I sat with you and the band in every spare moment in the music rooms, and I pretended I didn’t mind that Hannah wrinkled her nose whenever she looked over. And with no Hannah and no Jack and no that lot, I had no other friends to hang out with. But I didn’t mind, because I was with you, and any moment not with you was time wasted.
So, what happened here then?
Friday night always meant band practice in Reese’s “garage”, and Reese’s garage was his ultimate pride and joy. In fact, if he’d had to choose between his penis and his garage, I think he’d have really struggled. It’s nestled at the bottom of his garden, the inside covered in egg boxes and foam so you could make as much noise as you liked without annoying his posh neighbours. It was specially made for his music, like mine back home, but his was much bigger. This was all topped off with Reese’s mum letting anyone hang out there for as long as they wanted. Because she would have done anything to make her Reese happy. Since we’d got together, I’d spent every Friday night sitting in the corner while That Band rehearsed. He’d stop for breaks, drag me over and kiss me, while the others didn’t know where to look.
I arrived that night like I did any other…early, so we had time to do things before the others arrived.
“Hi, Ms Davies,” I said as she opened the front door. “Where’s Reese?”
She smiled her pinched smile that let me know for sure that she didn’t like me, no matter how polite I was. “He’s in the garage,” she replied, while gently, but unmistakably, closing the door in my face.
My gut kicked my stomach. I stood on the doorstep, puzzled and embarrassed. This wasn’t like usual. I mean, Ms Davies had never been an open fan of mine, but she’d never closed a door in my face
before, no matter how much she resented me for taking away her quality time with her son, or whatever it was that made her hate me. She and Reese were very close. She came to a lot of his gigs, and pretty much seemed to let him do whatever he wanted, buy him whatever he liked, and let his friends around as late as he liked. She was always friendly to the band, but always a bit cold with me, which was jarring after being such a huge part of Alfie’s family. This was a rudeness upscale though. And Reese wasn’t usually in the garage when I arrived, either. He was usually in his room because his room had a bed in it, and we were very fond of Reese’s bed.
Why had she shut the door in my face? I mean, it was easiest to walk around the house to get to the garage – better than coming through and taking off my shoes and all that. But surely a normal person would’ve said “It’s probably easier for you to go round” to soften the blow of the door-closing-in-face situation. I shrugged it away though. There was no need to think the worst back then, so I made my way around his house in the dark, passing the little ornamental pond with bubbling water feature and the stone bird feeder next to the marble statue. I knocked on the garage door, smiling because I still felt loved and confident back then. “Honey?” I called loudly. “I’m home.”
No reply.
Shrugging again, I pushed through to find Reese sat with his hat off, guitar in his lap, staring down at the floor.
“Reese?” I stepped over the empty beer cans and takeaway boxes cluttering the floor. “Did you not hear me knock?”
He looked up but he didn’t really smile. Not with his whole face, like I was used to. “Oh, hi, Amelie.” He said my name like he was bored of it. No beckoning at me to jump into his arms, no covering my face with kisses, no declarations of “I’ve missed you” even though it had only been hours since college.
Just: Oh. Hi. Amelie.
