by Sara Barnard
I’m sorry.
‘Would you rather I was properly mute so we’d be “even”?’
No, that’s not what I meant.
‘I make you feel bad when I talk to people.’
He tries to take my hand. No. Bronze. No.
‘Thanks a lot.’ I’m too upset to stay here. I grab my bag and coat, hoping I don’t start crying in front of him. ‘I need to go.’
‘Steffi,’ he says. He looks devastated now. Don’t go. I’m sorry.
‘And for the record,’ I add, pulling my bag up over my shoulder, ‘Daniel was Clark’s friend. I talked to him because he knew my stepbrother.’ At the mention of Clark’s name, my voice cracks and the tears spill. Damn. ‘He knew Clark,’ I repeat, and I’m not even sure why.
Rhys is standing and I can tell he’s going to reach for me, so I do the worst thing I can do. I turn my back on him and walk out of the pub.
I go straight home and shut myself in my room, curling on the floor with Rita and crying into her patient furry face. I ignore my phone, which beeps every few minutes, and I ignore my dad, who puts his head around the door to ask me if I’m ‘feeling all right, blossom?’. At some point Lucy comes into the room and tells me some long, rambling story I don’t really listen to properly about how she broke up with her first boyfriend when she was sixteen.
I want to tell her that Rhys and I haven’t broken up so this story is irrelevant, but my voice has deserted me (or maybe I just don’t feel like talking – who knows what the difference is? Certainly not me) so I just lie there until she leaves.
At some point I move from the floor and on to the bed, pulling up my knees to my chin and resting my head on them, tracing circles on my duvet cover and thinking about Clark. I wonder what he’d think about Rhys. He’d like him, right? Except when he makes me cry.
You know how people say life goes on? Well, it does. It goes on and suddenly four years have passed and you’re seventeen instead of thirteen. Clark would be twenty-three. But he’s not twenty-three, and he never will be. That’s how death works. I swallow, bite down on my lip and push my chin harder against my knees.
Clark wasn’t perfect – I should say that. He wasn’t the best looking or the smartest or the funniest. He wasn’t going to cure cancer or play for England. He probably wouldn’t have changed the world. But he was good, and he was kind. He acted like a brother, as if the word ‘step’ didn’t matter at all.
I skip dinner, choosing instead to burrow my face into my pillow and ignore Dad’s attempts to cajole me out of my room. I distract myself from thoughts of Clark by running over and over the argument I had with Rhys until I’m not even sure what parts are really true. I keep thinking of the way Rhys signed ‘uneven’. How he looked at me when Daniel said he didn’t need to pay.
There’s another knock at my door and I groan against the pillow, not even bothering to lift my head. I hear the sliding rustle of it opening and then closing, followed by the soft thump of Rita’s tail on the carpet.
‘Go away, Dad,’ I say. ‘I just want to be on my own.’
No response. I sigh loudly, waiting for the presence in the room to leave. After a pause, I feel the end of the bed sag a little. Rita’s collar gives a jingly shake as she gets up.
I wait a little longer, then give up. I sit up with a huff, spinning round to face Dad, then let out an unglamorous shriek. It’s not Dad. It’s Rhys.
Christ. I bolt upright and huddle against my headboard, trying to smooth down the creases in my – Christ – old One Direction T-shirt. My hair is all over the place. There’s make-up smudged all over my face. I look a state and a half.
Rhys is watching me, an anxious half-smile on his face. Rita’s head is resting on his knees, the traitor. He lifts the hand he’s been using to stroke her neck. Hi.
‘What are you doing here?’ I demand. I feel too wrong-footed, still too raw, to use BSL.
You wouldn’t answer my messages.
‘Because I don’t want to talk to you.’
He signs one word. Please. There’s such patient sincerity in his face. Damn him. Damn him and his constant perfection. Why can’t he get flustered, just once?
It occurs to me that maybe I’m flustered enough for both of us. ‘Does Dad know you’re here?’ I ask.
He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smile. Of course. I didn’t break in.
‘Rhys,’ I say, then stop. My voice is all crackly. ‘Can’t you just let me be upset with you for a while?’
He frowns. I have. That’s why I waited until now. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me. But can you at least let me talk to you?
I shrug.
OK. He hesitates, then shifts along the bed so he’s sitting in the centre of it, facing me. Rita lets out an offended huff at losing his attention and sinks down on to the carpet. Listen. I’m sorry I was weird about you talking to that guy. And I’m sorry that I obviously didn’t explain why I was weird very well. Of course it’s great that you are getting better at talking. I want you to be happy. I just want to be part of that.
He pauses, clearly waiting for me to respond, but I keep my hands still in my lap, watching and waiting for more.
Maybe it’s my own thing that I’m worried I’m not part of it, or won’t be part of it. And I shouldn’t make you think it’s your fault. But I just wanted to be honest with you. He inclines his head slightly so our eyes meet. I’m sorry. His hand moves in a slow, deliberate circle around his heart. I’m sorry.
I look at his sweet, gentle face. His soft brown eyes trained on me, full of hope and promises. I try to think of how to reply.
I don’t ever want to let you down, he adds. I don’t want to disappoint you.
I shake my head. I don’t understand why you’d say that. Why would you disappoint me?
If I’m not enough. If I’m a burden.
‘A burden?’ I’m so shocked the words fall out. ‘What does that even mean, Rhys?’
I see him swallow. If you have to translate for me all the time. Or push me out of the way of postal vans.
‘For God’s sake,’ I snap, surprised at my own sudden rush of annoyance. ‘That was just an accident. It could have happened to anyone. Why does it bother you so much?’
Because I don’t want to lose you.
You’re not going to lose me. I don’t know how to handle this kind of conversation. I’ve always been the irrational one, the one with the neuroses. Is this how Tem feels when I go off on one of my why-don’t-you-get-a-better-friend-than-me ramblings? Look. I hesitate, trying to work out my own thoughts. Maybe we’re both still figuring things out. I don’t want to lose you either. What if you get tired of me? You have to translate for me if I’m in your world. This isn’t . . . I pause, trying to find the right signs. ‘This isn’t just a one-sided thing.’
Rhys shifts a little closer to me, our hands almost touching across the space between us. I’m sorry, he signs again. I’m sorry that I upset you earlier and I’m making things hard now. It’s because I like you so much. It’s new. I’ve never . . . I see him hesitate, then take a breath. I’ve never loved a girl before.
My heart gives an almighty, chest-breaking thump. I think I actually make a little squeaking noise. We both stare at each other.
After a long, excruciating pause, he tries again. Did you . . . did you get that?
I shake my head, a small, reluctant smile tugging at my lips. I don’t think I did. Can you say it again?
He points to himself. He puts two hands to his heart. He points to me. I love you.
I bridge the gap between us and kiss him, lifting myself on to his lap and winding my arms round his neck. He loves me. He loves me! We kiss until my breath runs out, and then he leans back a little and asks, Do you feel the same?
And of course I say, Yes! Yes, yes, yes. Because I do. I really, really do.
At some point during our major post-I-love-you kissing session, I realize something: my bedroom door is closed. And also: Rhys and I
are kissing on my bed.
There are things you can do on a bed when the door is closed that you can’t when it’s left open. And once this thought has whispered through my mind, it’s all I can think about. Rhys’s hand is up under my T-shirt, his fingers stroking under the wire of my bra. The way he is kissing is intensifying, and it’s making every single tiny nerve in my body come alive.
My T-shirt winds up on the floor and that’s when his hand makes a slow, hesitant slide in the opposite direction. My skin heats up a thousand degrees. My heart starts to race. His hand reaches my hips and then stops. He breaks away, leans up on his elbow and looks at me. I love you, he signs with one hand. You’re beautiful. He hesitates, and I watch him lick his lips nervously. Can I touch you? he asks.
And I – shy, anxious Steffi Brons – nod. And not a tentative nod either, but a definitive one. A yes please! one.
Rhys moves his hand back down to my hip, pauses to look at me again for confirmation and then reaches between my legs. My jeans are still on, and he doesn’t make a move for the zip, just rests his hand there. And even that, alone, is like fire. We look at each other, both of us breathing hard, and he puts his lips to mine to kiss me again.
At first he is tentative, applying only the slightest amount of pressure (oh my God), and I can feel his nervousness in his kisses. I think about moving my own hand down and showing him, but I want this first time to be a moment of discovery that we share. So instead, I put my hand on him, just as tentative, just as nervous. He is hard, I can feel it, and oh my God oh my God this is a penis, this is a hard penis and I am about a millimetre of denim away from touching it for real.
And when I do – inching down his zipper, sliding my hand inside his boxers – it’s nothing like I expected. Despite its ‘hardness’, it feels oddly soft, the skin warm against my hand. I have no idea what I’m meant to do so I take it on instinct, cupping my hand round what I assume is the shaft and sort of . . . pumping it. I hear Rhys’s breath catch in his throat, his hand stills between my legs. About thirty seconds later, he pushes his head into my neck to stifle the noise he makes and suddenly my hand is covered in something hot and wet. It’s quite gross, to be honest. But good. That’s good, right? That means he . . . well. He got there. But, oh God, my hand is still just hanging around in his boxers. Am I meant to do something else? Is that the end?
I decide the best thing to do is just to pull out my hand smooth and fast, like that magic trick where the magician removes the tablecloth without knocking over all the crockery. And of course he doesn’t even notice, because now he’s lying on his back with his eyes closed, breathing hard, a broad grin on his face. I grab a tissue from my bedside cabinet and surreptitiously wipe at my hand. No one ever said this kind of thing would be so messy.
Rhys’s eyes open and he smiles at me, his face softer than I’ve ever seen it. I drop the tissue on the floor – needs must – and scooch closer to him. He cuddles me against his chest and I snuggle in, a wave of total happiness washing over me. I am in love with this boy, with his warm smile and kind eyes and his expressive hands that will one day do to me what I just did to him. And he is in love with me.
Jokes Tem made when I told her about my very first hand job
‘You’re a handy girlfriend to have.’
‘It sounds like you handled it well.’
‘It must have been hard for you . . .
. . . but well done for getting a good grip on it.’
‘Sounds like it was a bit touch and go.’
‘Would you call it a seminal experience?’
‘I can’t think of any more. PENIS!’
On Tuesday, Tem surprises me by turning up on my doorstep after 8 p.m., carrying a bottle of wine and a bag of mini doughnuts. The sarcastic bounce from the weekend has completely gone, and now she’s doleful. It doesn’t suit her, and I’m instantly worried.
‘I have woe,’ she says. She lets out a loud sigh. ‘Serious woe.’
I’ve already walked Rita, and I don’t fancy the long trek to the park, so Tem and I go into my garden and sit under the crab-apple tree. She opens the bottle, sips directly from the rim and passes it to me.
‘Where did you get this from?’ I ask, shaking my head and passing it back.
‘Oh fuck, I forgot you don’t like to drink,’ she says. ‘Are you sure you don’t just want a few sips? With me?’
‘Wine is disgusting,’ I reply. ‘No thanks.’ I watch as she lifts the bottle again, then reach out to take it from her. ‘OK, that’ll do for now. What’s up, then? Why the woe?’
‘Have a doughnut.’ She ignores my question and waves the bag under my nose. ‘I got custard ones, like you like.’
Obediently, I reach in and take one. I can feel the sugar, rough under my fingers in the dark. ‘Why do you always bring me food?’
‘Because I like you,’ she says.
I smile. ‘You know I’d want to hear about your woe even if you didn’t bring custard treats, right?’
I watch her face break into a smile, slightly crooked this time, as if it’s being weighted on one side. It’s not the full Tem smile I’m so used to, and it worries me.
‘Hey,’ I say softly. I reach out and put my sugary fingers on her knee. ‘What’s up?’
She’s quiet for another few moments, but I let the silence stretch out between us, letting her take her time.
‘I’m failing,’ she says finally. ‘At college.’
‘Oh,’ I say out loud, vocalizing my surprise. This was not at all what I’d expected her to say. In fact, I’d been so certain I’d hear the word ‘Karam’ I don’t even know what to say.
‘Yeah.’
‘Failing . . . what exactly?’ I ask carefully.
She shrugs, not looking at me. In the fading light, I can see a frown on her face. ‘The NVQ. We get like a mini-report thing in January so we can track our progress, and . . . well, mine’s just not that great, really. A distinct lack of progress. Mum called Dad and everything.’ Tem’s dad is in the Royal Navy, so he’s away from home for months at a time. ‘Mum Called Dad’ is Tem shorthand for ‘This Is Bad’.
I still don’t know what to say. ‘So what does that mean?’
‘That I have to try harder, I guess? I don’t know. It’s not like I’m slacking off on purpose or anything. It’s all just . . . hard. I thought that once I was studying something I was actually interested in it would be easier to concentrate. But it’s not. I start looking at sciency stuff and I just zone out.’
‘Have you talked to Karam?’
‘Oh God no.’ Her nose wrinkles. ‘He’s, like, super genius. It’s bad enough that I’m doing sports science instead of a “real subject”. I don’t want him to know what a total dunce I am.’
‘You’re not a dunce, Tem.’
‘OK, fine. I don’t want him to know I have dunce-like tendencies.’
I can tell she’s starting to steer back into jokey-Tem territory, so I try to anchor her. ‘Can I help?’
She sighs. ‘I don’t know. Can you? You’d probably find it really easy. But it’s still me that’d have to know it, at the end of the day.’
‘OK, you’re going to have to give me something solid here,’ I say, reaching over and nudging her shoulder. ‘A plan. It’s not like you to mope.’
‘I know.’ A half-smile flickers on her face. ‘I just feel a bit lost.’ Her voice has quietened. ‘I thought going to college instead of sixth form would be best for me. Sports science sounded so perfect. I could run and actually study something cool. But the work is hard and I don’t have many friends and maybe I should just’ve stayed at Windham. With you.’
‘With me?’ I repeat, surprised into laughter. ‘What difference would I make?’
Tem looks at me, forehead still creased, eyes strained. ‘I’m not really sure who I am now, when I’m not one half of Steftember.’
‘You’re Tem,’ I say promptly. ‘Do you want to give me a list of all the reasons you’re the best?’
&n
bsp; Tem rests her head on my shoulder. ‘Yes, please.’
‘You have the best hair,’ I begin, reaching up and twirling one of her curls.
‘Racist,’ she murmurs. I can hear the smile in her voice.
‘You always tell me when I’m being racist,’ I say, ‘which is very helpful.’ I feel the breath of her laugh against my neck and I smile. ‘You run like the wind. You always bring me sweet treats. You brought me back that Minnie Mouse figurine from Disneyland even though it took your bag over the weight limit and you had to pay a fine at the airport.’
‘That’s true,’ Tem says. ‘I’m basically selfless.’
‘Totally selfless,’ I agree. ‘And we’re not even getting into the whole being-my-translator thing. Shall we talk about how I survived my childhood because of you?’
Tem curls her arm round mine and gives me a little squeeze. She doesn’t answer because she doesn’t need to. We sit together like that for a while, sharing the silence, until she feels ready to go home.
It’s unusual for Tem to be down, and the image of her furrowed forehead lingers over the next several days, worrying me. I tell Rhys, of course, and though he makes a sympathetic face and signs something vague and reassuring, I know that the intricacies and depth of girl friendship are too beyond him for him to be much help. Tem can convey her unhappiness to me in two sentences and an expression. Explaining the context and history that cause it to Rhys would take years. Fourteen years, in fact.
But he still manages to surprise me.
At school on Wednesday, Rhys comes in to Maths with a huge smile on his face. I have an idea! he says as his greeting, kissing me on the cheek.
Go on, I say, smiling in expectation. What is it?
