by Sara Barnard
This was how Tarin talked. Full of darlings and loves and gorgeouses. But the look on Suzanne’s face; it was like no one had ever said that to her before. Such a simple statement with a casual endearment, the kind I barely registered when it was aimed at me.
“I hope so,” Suzanne said, and there was a warmth in her voice now, the wariness gone.
* * *
Christmas was fairly quiet that year. Both my parents seemed to be on high alert to any changes to Tarin’s moods after the breakup, but she was fine, pointedly taking her medication while she had an audience of at least one of us. On Christmas Eve she slept in my bed, curling herself around me, telling me silly stories as if I were still four years old. I didn’t mind.
I saw Rosie every day of the Christmas holidays, even meeting up on Christmas Day to exchange presents, as we had done for the last few years after her baby sister had died and she’d spent that Christmas with my family. I spoke to Suzanne over the phone every day except Christmas Day, when she enacted a communications blackout for twenty-four hours before resuming normalcy as if nothing had happened.
She came around to my house almost immediately after she returned to Brighton, armed with my Christmas presents and a tin of homemade mince pies for my parents. Sarah was with her, and she sat downstairs with my mother drinking coffee while Suzanne followed me upstairs. Rosie was already in my room, stretched across my bed, playing Mario Kart.
“Hey,” Suzanne said, sitting down next to her and tapping her head.
“Hey,” Rosie said, not even looking away from the screen. “Good Christmas?”
“Mmmm.” Suzanne pulled her feet up under her and rested her chin on her knees. There was something heavy in her shoulders, I noticed then. A sadness in her eyes.
“You okay?” I asked, pausing in the act of unwrapping one of my presents.
Suzanne nodded quickly, a reassuring grin sweeping across her face. “Sure. Tired. Happy to be home.”
“How was Reading?” Rosie asked, still focusing most of her attention on her pixelated alter ego. She was looking away from Suzanne, clearly unaware just how unwelcome her question was.
“I don’t really want to talk about it,” Suzanne said, her voice still light, just casual enough. She flapped a hand at me. “Open it!”
I ripped aside the last remnants of wrapping paper to reveal a photo frame decorated with silver leaves and vines. The photo was the same one I had in my montage, of the three of us posing on a bench on Brighton pier.
“I gave the same picture to Rosie,” Suzanne said unnecessarily. I glanced at her, the smile I’d broken into still on my face, to see that her forehead had an anxious crease. “Because I think it’s so great. But you don’t have to display it if—”
“I love it,” I interrupted, and her expression relaxed. “It’s going on my shelf. Thank you!” I sat up onto my knees and leaned over to hug her.
When we broke apart, I noticed the delicate chain she had around her neck, a tiny white bird hanging at its end. “I love your necklace!” I said. “Christmas present?”
She smiled. “Thanks! Yes. From my mum.” She glanced down at the bird. “It’s a dove. Like a promise, see? It means, like, a fresh start.” She looked so pleased I suddenly felt choked. “It’s my favorite thing I’ve ever owned.”
Rosie tossed the Wii remote onto my pillow and adjusted herself so she was facing the two of us. “It must have been good, then,” she said cheerfully. “With your mum?”
Suzanne’s face closed off. She looked away from us both, her fingers finding each other in her lap and twisting together. “Really don’t want to talk about it.”
Rosie shrugged. “Well, it’s a nice necklace anyway. And a promise? That must be good, right?”
“How was your Christmas?” Suzanne asked in response. Her voice was hard though, and the question came out antagonistic.
“Better than yours, clearly,” Rosie replied, rolling her eyes. “Do you want me to be sorry about that?”
I just sat there holding the photo frame, watching them. Rosie was just being her usual self, all light snark and sniping, but Suzanne clearly wasn’t herself. She was looking at Rosie with nothing but ice.
“Did you get any other presents?” I asked, attempting to lift the tension, even slightly.
Suzanne’s head snapped toward me. “For God’s sake, Caddy, what part of I don’t want to talk about it don’t you get?”
“Hey,” Rosie’s voice, suddenly sharp, cut through the room. “Be a bitch to me if you want, but don’t talk to Caddy like that.” She’d sat up a little on her calves, all traces of humor gone from her face. Protective-best-friend mode.
The tension burned, peaked, and dissipated almost as soon as it had arrived. Suzanne’s face relaxed and she looked at me. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I said immediately.
“No, it’s not. Christmas was just a bit shit, but it’s over now, and it’s not your fault. I just want to be with my friends.” She glanced at Rosie, reached out a hand and poked her shoulder. “That means you, bitch.”
Rosie grinned. To her credit, she let the conciliatory moment pass without comment. “Damn right it does.” She poked back. “Takes one to know one.”
I felt the snake in my stomach uncoil and I let out a breath, relaxing. Suzanne flashed another tentative smile at me and I smiled back, trying to put all the friendly reassurance I had into it.
Rosie picked up one of the Wii remotes and waved it at us. “Multiplayer?”
We arranged ourselves over the bed so we could all face my TV as the simplest Mario Kart track loaded on screen. Suzanne shifted herself so she was partly leaning against both of us, her head almost in my lap, her feet resting on the backs of Rosie’s legs. We had the whole of my bedroom open to us but still that’s how we stayed for the rest of the afternoon, the three of us tumbled and wedged together, until Sarah came upstairs to take Suzanne home.
* * *
That year started slowly, the first few weeks unraveling with new coursework deadlines and the results of the mock exams from before Christmas. I had a comfortable mix of As and Bs, results which would have been considered good in any normal school but were signs of inadequacy in the eyes of both my school and my parents.
“Maybe you should cut back on the time you’re spending with your friends,” Mum said to me the evening I got my results.
“Why?” I asked, defensive immediately on their behalf. “What’s it got to do with them?”
“Well, this is an important year,” Mum said, as if I didn’t already know. “You can’t afford to be distracted this year, Caddy. You’re capable of A grades. So we expect A grades. Whatever Suzanne has told you, your results do matter.”
It took me a second. “Wait—what? Suzanne told me what?”
“I just hope she isn’t passing her clear disregard for education on to you,” Mum said, either ignoring my question or choosing to interpret it to suit her own thought process. “After all these years at Esther’s, it would be tragic if you threw it all away in your final few months.”
Her words wound me up for two reasons. One, that she could be so preachily judgmental about a friend of mine that she basically knew nothing about, aside from whatever Sarah had chosen to tell her. Second, that she could think I was so impressionable that my just being friends with someone for whom school wasn’t the highest priority would be enough to ruin the private-school investment they’d made.
“I guess it makes sense,” Suzanne said diplomatically, when I complained to her and Rosie about my parents’ impossible standards, leaving out the fact that they partially blamed the two of them. “It must cost a lot for you to go to Esther’s, right?”
“It’s thousands,” Rosie said. “Like, literally thousands. Per term.”
I felt my face flush. “I never asked for it.”
“So? You still got it,” Rosie said bluntly. She’d never had much time for my private-school complex.
“They must be expe
cting great things,” Suzanne said. “Uni, right?”
“Oh yeah.” There had never even been a question. “Law or something.”
She made a face and looked at Rosie, as if expecting backup. “Really? Law?”
“Should I be offended that you look so surprised?”
“You know that’s basically arguing for a living?”
I had to laugh. “Yeah, okay, it doesn’t scream Caddy Oliver.”
“What do you want to do?”
It was such a simple question. “I don’t know. Law, I guess.”
“You guess?” she repeated, grinning. “It’s your life, Cads. What do you actually want?”
“Most people our age don’t know what they want to do,” I said defensively. “Do you know?”
“No, but I’m a mess,” Suzanne said matter-of-factly. “I need to sort myself out first. I’ll be lucky to make it to eighteen.”
“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Rosie put in, rolling her eyes. She’d stretched out on her back, her head hanging off her bed, dark curls touching the floor. “Any one of us could get hit by a bus tomorrow.”
“When did we start talking about death?” I asked. An image came to my mind of Sarah’s face before Christmas, what she’d said about Suzanne not coming home again. I’d honored Suzanne’s request to never talk about it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t in my head.
“I’m going to be a businesswoman,” Rosie said. “Caddy, you could be my PA. You’d be a great PA. Organized and anal.”
“God, thanks,” I said. “Organized and anal?”
“I think you should be a therapist or something,” Suzanne said, cutting in before Rosie could respond. “Or a counselor. Someone who listens.”
“That’s a good idea,” Rosie said, swinging herself up and flipping onto her stomach. “You’ve got that whole calm empathy thing going on.”
Calm empathy was surely just a nice spin on what I’d been hearing since I was eight—passive and a little too placid, though very sweet, an old report card had said—but still, I was touched. It had never occurred to me that my flaws could be strengths in a different context.
“Anyway,” Rosie said briskly, sitting up properly and reaching for a folder beside her, “we’re not meant to be talking about your further-education prospects. We’re meant to be making sure Suze has any.”
Suzanne smirked, rolling her eyes. “Any further education?”
“Any education at all,” Rosie corrected, mock sternly. The three of us were spending our Sunday afternoon at her house, taking refuge from the January sleet that was rattling against the window. She had taken it upon herself to improve Suzanne’s school performance, which had, apparently, been in steady decline for several months. I’d tagged along to help, but I’d mainly been sorting her DVDs into alphabetical order and eating Doritos, then distracting them both with complaints about my parents.
“Where do you live?” Rosie asked, flipping open the folder.
“Um . . .” Suzanne screwed up her face obediently in concentration. “J’habite à Brighton, qui est un ville le sud de l’Angleterre.”
“Dans,” I said.
“What?” they both said together.
“It’s ‘dans’ le sud,” I said. “Dans le sud de l’Angleterre.”
“How can you know that when you don’t even have the answers in front of you?” Rosie asked, looking annoyed.
“I take French too, you know,” I said.
“Private school,” Suzanne said to Rosie in an exaggerated whisper. “Dans private school.”
I rolled my eyes, but laughed despite myself.
“What’s private school in French?” Suzanne asked me.
“No!” Rosie said firmly, leaning over the bed to give Suzanne a reprimanding tap on the head. “No distractions.” She looked at me. “Don’t distract her.”
“Merde,” Suzanne said morosely, giving me a beseeching look.
“Of course that’s the word that sticks in your head,” Rosie said drily.
“It’s one word; it’s not difficult.”
“And this is just a few words strung together. Okay, the next one is to describe your school.”
“Why are you asking the questions in English?” I asked. “Won’t you need to know them in French?”
“Baby steps,” Rosie replied. “The answers are more important.”
“I don’t need baby steps,” Suzanne protested. “Don’t baby me.”
“I wouldn’t need to baby you if you’d learned all this when you were supposed to,” Rosie said starchily. She looked at me. “Did you know Suze can say good morning and good night in twelve different languages?”
“Really?”
“Yeah. But apparently that’s more important than learning actual exam material for French.”
“I learned them ages ago,” Suzanne objected. “And it is more important than ‘My school has a large playing field.’ I mean, really? When am I ever going to need to say that?”
“That’s not the point,” Rosie said. “The important bit is the exam, not how useful the information is.”
“Say good night in Italian,” I requested.
“Buona notte,” Suzanne said without hesitation. She grinned at me. “When I was—”
“Hey,” Rosie interrupted, sounding exasperated. “Can we at least get back to French? Come on. Try this one: describe your family.”
“Ugh, do I actually have to answer that?” Suzanne made a face. “Isn’t that discriminatory?”
“Just talk about Sarah,” Rosie said. “Like, ‘My aunt is called Sarah and she works in a café,’ or whatever.”
“Won’t that sound really weird if everyone else is talking about all their different family members?”
“I just talk about Mum,” Rosie said with a shrug. “Be glad—it means you’ve got less to remember.”
“Maybe if I did actually talk about my family I’d get sympathy points. Maybe they’ll just give me an A.”
Rosie frowned suddenly and reached forward. “There’s something on your face . . . Oh no, it’s just your victimhood showing.”
Suzanne, who’d lifted her hand to her face in concern when Rosie started talking, broke into laughter. “You’re such a bitch,” she said with affection.
Rosie settled herself back against the wall, a barely restrained grin on her face. “A bitch that’s going to help you get some actual GCSEs. Now, can we please get back to French?”
15
DURING THAT TIME, SUZANNE DIDN’T talk much about her relationship with Sarah, though I knew things were still strained since Christmas and what had happened before. I had assumed that Suzanne had stopped sneaking out of the flat because she’d stopped talking about doing so, but it turned out that this was just my naivety at play. She wasn’t sneaking out to my house—presumably she’d considered the previous trip a mistake—but she was still sneaking out.
It was a Wednesday evening in February when I heard a knock at my front door. It was almost ten p.m., late for an unexpected visitor. I listened with one ear to see if I could tell who it was, most of my attention on the physics textbook in front of me. The realization that the voice was Sarah’s hit me almost a whole minute later and I jerked my head up, the textbook falling closed in my lap.
I slid off my bed and crept along the hall, closer to the stairs, straining to hear actual words. Sarah’s voice drifted up toward me.
“Not answering her phone . . . thought she was in her room . . . does this all the time now . . .”
I turned and hurried back to my room, scrabbling to find my phone from where I’d dropped it carelessly on the bed earlier. Finding it under my pillow, I tapped the screen and called Suzanne. It rang once, twice, three times.
“Hello?” Suzanne’s voice was weirdly breathless. “Cads?”
“Hey,” I said quickly, not bothering to ask why she sounded funny or where she was. “Listen, Sarah’s here. She knows you’ve snuck out again. Better get back home quick, before she does.�
�
“Shit. Thank you!” She hung up immediately, as I’d expected she would.
“You’re welcome,” I said to the silent phone. I tossed it back onto my bed, turned around, and let out a shriek. Mum was standing in the doorway I’d left open, arms crossed, watching me.
Still keeping her eyes on me and barely moving her head, Mum called, “She’s not here, Sarah. But she’s had a tip-off so she’s probably on her way home already.”
Sarah appeared behind Mum, a frown on her face. “A tip-off?”
“Why don’t you repeat to Sarah what I just heard you say to Suzanne, Cadnam?” Mum asked. Her voice was deceptively calm.
I tried to remember what I’d said and in what timeframe, the barest amount I could get away with admitting.
“That she should get home, because Sarah’s looking for her?” I said finally, more out of hope than expectation.
“Nice try,” Mum said flatly. She turned to Sarah. “I’m sorry my daughter is turning out to be something of an enabler.”
I had no idea what this meant.
“I’m sorry my niece is turning out to be such a bad influence,” Sarah responded. She looked at me, her expression disappointed. “I know you must think you’re being a good friend by doing something like that, and I know she must have said things that make you think you need to do something like that, but I’m really not an enemy here.”
I shifted uncomfortably on the spot, hoping she’d leave so Mum could shout at me and get it over with. But when Sarah did leave, there was no shouting.
“Should I be concerned about you and Suzanne?” she asked me, coming right into my room and sitting on my bed as if I’d invited her in.
I paused before answering, surprised at this line of questioning. “Um . . . no?”
“I know things are a little tense between her and Sarah,” she said, “and I know that she has something of a habit of coming and going at all hours, but I didn’t know any of that involved you.”
“It hardly involves me,” I protested.
