I escape into the corridor. Esther is waiting outside. She’s reading a book and doesn’t see me at first. When she does, she looks surprised. ‘Luke? What are you doing here?’
‘What are you?’
‘I’m getting a lift from my dad. I had art club; he had detention.’
‘Me too.’ I fiddle with the strap of my bag.
‘You?’ She looks at me like I’m some kind of loser. Which is exactly why I didn’t tell her. ‘What for?’
‘Mitched that test the other day.’
‘But you –’
‘Esther. We’re going to hit the traffic if we don’t leave now.’ Wilson locks the classroom door. ‘Hurry up, Bressan,’ he says. ‘Time you were away.’
Esther
It doesn’t take long for Dad to start. Steering out of the school driveway and into the traffic he says, ‘Look, Esther, I know you’re fond of that boy.’
‘Dad, it’s none of your business who I’m friends with.’
We have to stop at the lights. Dad drums his fingers on the steering wheel. ‘I know girls your age have boyfriends. That’s fine. But preferably not – not that particular boy.’
‘You can’t stop me seeing him.’ I sound like a petulant child.
The traffic starts to move again and Dad puts the car into gear. ‘Maybe not. But I can encourage you to – to set your sights higher than a boy in care from one of the roughest schools in Belfast. A boy with such an – unfortunate background.’
The unfairness of this stings me.
‘Dad. You’re talking as if being in care makes him some kind of different species. Imagine if something happened you and Mum. I could end up in care suddenly. I mean – it’s not long since his mum died.’
‘Is that what he told you?’
‘What do you mean?’ A tiny cold worm of doubt wriggles inside me. ‘It’s true. January.’
‘And he told you that’s why he’s in care?’
‘Well – of course. Why else?’
‘Ah …’
The worm grows bigger and colder. ‘Dad – what does Ah mean?’
He indicates right into Palgrave Crescent, and doesn’t say any more until we’re pulling into our own drive. Then he stops the car, puts the handbrake on, and unclicks his seatbelt. As he lets it slide into the holder he turns to me and, pulling on the end of his nose, says, not unkindly, ‘Look Esther, as head of pastoral care I am privy to certain – information. Confidential information.’
The worm is growing into a huge icy snake. But I swallow hard and try to make my voice come out normally. ‘So?’
‘So – I don’t think Luke has been – entirely – honest with you.’
‘What do you mean? Dad – I trust Luke.’
Dad reaches into the back seat and lifts up his briefcase. ‘I can’t divulge confidential information. You know that. Anyway,’ he adds cleverly, ‘you say you trust him. So there’s no need for you to worry, is there?’
There is no answer to that.
_____________
I lie on my bed hearing the thrum of conversation from the living room, but not the actual words.
Does Dad really have so-called confidential information about Luke? Or is he just bluffing to put me off him because he doesn’t like him? And what sort of information?
I try to remember what he said. Very little. My mum’s dead. I live with this couple called Sandra and Bill. OK, it’s – basic – compared to everything I’ve told him, but I know boys don’t share the way girls do. That’s fine.
But I can’t get Dad’s voice out of my head. I don’t think Luke has been entirely honest with you.
I peel myself off the bed and go to the window. The street-lights are just coming on. Palgrave Crescent looks its usual smug self. But even here, I’m sure, behind all the expensive blinds and tasteful paint, people must suffer and have secrets. The girl in the corner house, the one with the really pretty hair, came home from her first term at Oxford like a skeleton and didn’t go back, and now she never leaves the house.
I wish I had someone to talk to. I even get as far as digging my phone out from the bottom of my bag to call Toby, but in the end I throw it on the bed without using it. Toby knows Luke. He’s always saying how much he likes him. It isn’t fair to voice my doubts to him. Make him speculate and wonder about Luke. Especially as Toby isn’t exactly over-endowed with friends. If only I had the normal quota of supportive girlfriends who would come round and listen to the whole story and reassure me I’m not being daft – or even better, tell me I am.
I try to distract myself with homework but I find myself on Facebook. It makes a change from the epilepsy websites I’ve become obsessed with. Luke’s about the only person I know who isn’t on Facebook. For the first time in ages I go to the page for our Youth Fellowship. Lots of photos come up of their summer camp. The first one I ever missed.
I click on a photo of Ruth bending over her guitar, her red curls gleaming in campfire light. A dark-haired boy sits beside her, holding up a song book for her.
Good clean fun, mocks a voice – Jasmine’s? Cassie’s?
Who cares? It was fun.
I glance at the panel down the side. Ruth’s online.
My fingers itch to message her. She’ll probably ignore me. I’ve ignored her enough times.
But she messages back right away.
Gr8 to hr frm u bn ages wot
hv u bn up 2? Lotsa goss! LOL
I look at her message for ages; it seems to belong to a simpler life. Good clean fun. Ruth is kind and straightforward. She will give me her honest opinion without being judgemental. And she doesn’t know Luke so I’m not breaking any confidences by talking to her about him. I type:
Wd love to see you F2F.
And back comes Ruth:
Cum rnd rite now!!!!!
Mum is delighted when I tell her I’m going to Ruth’s, even though it’s a school night.
‘I was hoping you two hadn’t fallen out,’ she says. ‘Ruth’s a lovely girl. Such a good … friend.’
She was about to say influence. I almost see her catch the word halfway out of her mouth. She wants to give me a lift but I say I’ll walk; it’s less than a mile. I wish Mum didn’t want to be so involved with my life. I think of what Luke said about Sandra and Bill, that it was like being a lodger; that must be kind of peaceful.
Ruth’s bedroom hasn’t changed: it’s still lavender with fairy lights strung round the bed frame and the curtain pole, the same fairy lights I have, and a few inspirational posters above the bed: Be still and know that I am Lord. I don’t know if it’s reassuring or disturbing that Ruth, at nearly eighteen, still favours kittens and rainbows and bible verses. It’s exactly like my room used to be, I suppose. We had a lot of the same posters. Now I’ve given mine a makeover, but it’s a bit bare. I don’t know how I want it to be.
Ruth shrieks and hugs me. ‘I missed you,’ she says simply. She clasps my hands and leans back to look at me properly. ‘You look the same.’ She sounds surprised.
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
She puts her head on one side like a bird listening. ‘We-ell. It’s been ages.’ She smiles, then frowns. ‘Look, Essie, did I do something?’
‘No! Of course not.’
‘We were meant to go out and celebrate our results and you just didn’t turn up.’
‘I … I went with people from school.’ That stupid results party. Toby had dragged me along – it was the first time there’d been anything social that was open to everyone, and I’d ended up abandoning him to play nursemaid to Jasmine.
‘I know you don’t want to come to church,’ Ruth goes on. ‘But I didn’t think that meant you’d just walk away from your best friend.’
‘You’ve always said it was hard being friends with non-Christians.’
Ruth wrinkles her small nose. ‘I said that when I was, like, thirteen. Anyway, are you actually saying you’re not a Christian now?’ Her eyes widen.
‘I … I don’t know,
Ruthie. Honestly. I told you I stopped being able to just accept it all –’
‘So it’s not just that you want to get away from your parents? Them being so involved in the church and all?’
The crisp comment reminds me how well Ruth knows me.
‘I don’t know.’
It’s true I started wanting to assert myself more. Working at the summer scheme made me feel so much older. And – well, I suppose I was fed up being the sad Christian girl at school. It’s OK for Ruth: it’s not social suicide to be religious at her school the way it is at Mansfield.
Maybe coming here was a stupid idea. I look round the room for some inspiration. There, beside Ruth’s (neat) desk is her photoboard – years’ worth of Sunday-school trips; coffee bar nights; weekends away. There are quite a few old favourites – me and Ruth at the annual barbecue, aged about eleven, hair in matching bunches, holding out sausages on sticks in a way that now seems faintly obscene; outside Castlewellan Castle on ponies – but there are new ones too and more than one seems to be of a stocky, dark-haired boy with a wide grin. In one he has his arm round Ruth and they are beaming into the camera with matching smiles. It’s the boy from the Facebook photo.
‘Who’s this?’ I ask.
Ruth flumps onto her bed. She picks up her white cat nightdress case and hugs it.
‘That’s Adam,’ she says. ‘I told you I had lots of gossip! And, oh my gosh, Esther, I have had so much hassle about him!’ Her voice is suddenly serious.
I sit down on the bed opposite her. Where have I heard the name Adam recently?
‘The new youth leader?’
‘How did you know? Esther, he is lovely. He just gets me, you know?’ She hugs the cat again, clearly wishing it was Adam.
‘So what’s the big deal? I mean – who’s the hassle from? Are the others jealous? There’s always far more girls than boys, aren’t there?’
‘Not them. Mum and Dad.’ She lowers her voice as if her parents are on the landing.
‘But …’ I look again at the clean-cut, open face in the photo. The jolly jumper. The clear affection for Ruth that shows in the way he looks at her. My parents would wet themselves in delight at the very thought of me being with a boy like Adam. ‘What’s not to like? He looks – perfect. And Mum said he’s at bible college. Surely your parents would love that?’
Ruth sighs. ‘He’s twenty, Esther. They say that’s too old.’
I consider. ‘It’s not that old.’
‘But they think – oh, you know, because he’s older he’ll want to take things, well, more seriously.’ She blushes.
‘You mean sex?’
‘Well – yes. I mean – we wouldn’t. Obviously.’
‘Why obviously?’
‘Esther! You know why not.’
We’d had lots of talks about this since we started noticing boys. Respect. True love waits, etc. But it had all been completely theoretical as neither of us had even been kissed.
‘But if you’re so close, doesn’t that make it very – well, hard?’ As soon as the words are out of my mouth I wish I could take them back.
But I catch Ruth’s eye and she giggles, biting it back self-consciously at first and then giving herself up to it. We clutch each other’s arms. It’s suddenly easy to say, ‘I have a boyfriend too. And my parents aren’t exactly his biggest fans.’
She immediately looks interested. ‘Esther! Tell all! Have you got a picture?’
I take out my phone and scroll through the gallery. ‘Here.’
Luke doesn’t like having his picture taken, even with a phone, so it’s a pretty rubbishy, rushed photo. Ruth looks at it carefully, her red curls falling over her face, then hands it back.
‘Hmm,’ she says. ‘Cute. Not the type I would have imagined you going for.’
If Jasmine or Cassie had said something like that, the subtext would have been, He’s too good-looking for you, but Ruth doesn’t do nasty subtexts.
I don’t tell her everything. But quite a bit. More than I would have told her if she’d been at school with us, or if I’d had any notion of her meeting him in the future. Is that a bad sign – that I don’t have fantasies of Ruth and Adam, Luke and me all cosying up for double dates?
You mustn’t keep him all to yourself, Jasmine had said.
‘So you see, I don’t want to pry,’ I say when I tell her about Dad’s hints. ‘Because it might just be Dad being – well, overprotective. You know what he’s like.’
Ruth frowns, which doesn’t suit her button nose and freckles. ‘I don’t see why you can’t just ask Luke to tell you more,’ she says. ‘Relationships are about trust.’
I fiddle with a fairy light on the bedhead behind me.
‘Adam’s always honest with me.’ Ruth curls her legs under her. ‘We’ve talked about sex.’ She smoothes her school skirt down over her grey tights. ‘But there’s other ways to feel close to someone.’
‘But do you not – you know, want to?’
I think about how I feel when I’m kissing Luke. Feelings I’ve never had before. Delicious, scary feelings.
‘We talk, Esther. That’s the whole point. And pray of course. Praying together is very special. And we both believe sex is only for marriage, so that helps. Do you and Luke –’
‘No.’ Hardly any kissing even. I can’t possibly admit this. But does Luke want to? Surely it’s supposed to be the boy wanting it all the time? Even this Adam – it must at least be a temptation if he has to pray about it. Have I come across as so inexperienced that Luke’s scared of coming on too strong? Or does he just not fancy me?
‘I think,’ Ruth says, ‘that if he respects you, he should be more honest with you. There’s nothing Adam wouldn’t share with me.’ Her face shines.
I wonder what it must be like to be that confident about someone, and if I’ll ever know.
Luke
‘So. Luke. You should totally come to my birthday party.’ Jasmine leans back in her chair and I can see the outline of her bra under her white school shirt. Esther’s at the dentist and Jasmine made a beeline to sit with me when Donovan said we had to work in pairs.
‘We’re meant to be comparing Gatsby’s parties – do you want to do Chapter 3 and I’ll do Chapter 6 – halve the workload?’ I wave my copy of the book.
‘Luke – it’s pair work; that means we talk to each other.’
‘About the book.’
‘Donovan’s down the back of the room. He won’t know what we’re talking about. And it’s going to be an excellent party. We’ve hired caterers and a band and –’
‘We should probably –’
Jasmine pouts. ‘I don’t invite just anyone. Only the people who count.’
‘Right.’
I suppose a few weeks ago this would have meant something. I’d wanted to count. Or at least to be accepted. But it doesn’t seem to mean much now I have Esther.
‘I’m sure Esther would love to come,’ she says, speaking very quietly and pretending to write at the same time so that Donovan, lumbering round the room, nods at us and says ‘Good show.’
‘Twat,’ Jasmine murmurs and gives Donovan a dazzling smile. ‘Esther doesn’t get invited to many parties,’ she goes on. ‘I mean, she deserves a bit of fun, doesn’t she?’
I underline a sentence in my book. Does Esther have fun with me? The gap between how I want to be with her and how I really am – does she feel it too?
‘OK. You’re right. We should totally talk about Gatsby. But I’ll make sure you’re on the guest list.’ And she gives me a wide, innocent, I’m-being-nice-to-you-even-though-you’re-so-rude smile which shows perfect teeth and makes me hope Esther gets back before history. I have this weird feeling that if Jasmine wants us at her party, we’ll be there.
_____________
‘You want to go?’
We’re under a tree in the park, trying to pretend it’s not freezing. Esther’s cheeks bloom over a woolly red scarf. She hugs her knees and opens her eyes wide.
‘Well – duh. Don’t you?’
I shake my head. I can’t keep up with girls, not even Esther, who’s more like a normal person. ‘I thought you didn’t like Jasmine.’
‘It’s – complicated.’ She looks down at the grass at her feet. ‘Sometimes with girls it’s not as simple as liking and not liking. But she has a birthday party every year. And I’ve never been even close to being invited until now.’
‘So?’
She sighs, and digs her brown suede boot into the grass. ‘When we were kids everybody always used to obsess about Jasmine’s parties – they were always the best parties, never just cinema and pizza, but pony-trekking or ice-skating or –’
‘I get the idea.’
‘And every year I used to wish I’d be invited. Because all the girls who did – it was only girls then of course, until she was fifteen, when she had a ball, with the guys in DJs and –’
‘Yuck.’
‘– and they always flaunted their invites all over the classroom and there was, like, this divide between the ones who were invited and the ones who weren’t. Jasmine was always top dog. She was much nicer before Cassie came. Cassie hates Jasmine being friendly with anyone else. That’s why she’s so mean to the twins, but they don’t seem to care.’
‘Hey. Where did Esther go? You look like her. You feel like her’ – I lean over and touch her cheek – ‘but you don’t sound like her.’
She laughs and pushes my hand away playfully, but keeps hold of it. ‘I’m sorry. I suppose it sounds stupid. Told you girls were complicated. And you’re right, I don’t exactly like her, but …’ She sighs and slots her fingers in with mine. ‘I used to compare her birthdays with mine. Because they were only a few weeks apart. And mine …’ She wrinkles her nose.
‘No ice-skating ponies?’
‘I had parties with my friends. But they were a bit lame. And then one year … I … I used to be kind of friends with Cassie. I know – hard to believe. She was new in fourth year and she kind of latched on to me. I didn’t really have a schoolfriend and I was so pleased. I invited her to my party.’ She stops and shrugs. ‘This is a really boring story. You don’t need to hear it.’
Still Falling Page 8
