Unspeakable

by Abbie Rushton

  I spent weeks agonising over my sixth-form application. I could’ve opted to stay at safe, familiar Barcham Green. They don’t do Photography, though, so I chose a scary new place, about twenty miles away, where no one knows about my problem. Mum said I shouldn’t worry about it. I think she was hoping I’d be speaking by now.

  Just the thought of September – of the new routine, the new people, the bus ride without Jasmine or Luke – makes me feel sick. I wonder if I’m going to regret this. I wonder how many other decisions in my life are going to be more complicated because I don’t speak. I wonder if there will ever be an end to it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When Jasmine and I arrive at the school bus stop the next morning, there’s an atmosphere. I glance around to see what everyone’s looking at. Josh and Ben are having a go at Callum. Even Jasmine stops talking to listen to them.

  ‘Which one would you do? Come on. Choose.’

  They’re waving a dirty magazine in front of him and he’s backing away, blushing. ‘Ha! He can’t do it!’ Ben slaps the magazine with glee. ‘I told you, mate. He’s gay! You wanna be careful when you’re getting changed. Don’t want him checking out your nob.’

  Josh puffs out his chest and yells, ‘You’d better not be looking at me, queer-boy.’

  Ben whoops and starts to dance around the pair, taunting them. ‘He fancies you, man. That’s what it is! Look how embarrassed he is!’

  Callum’s face is flaming. Tears are gathering in his eyes and his mouth puckers as he tries to hold them back.

  I shift my weight from foot to foot. Poor Callum. This is horrible. But a tiny part of me – a cowardly, shameful part – is just relieved that it’s not me.

  In the afternoon, I see Mr Harwell. I’m expecting another half an hour of just sitting and breathing. Easy enough.

  ‘How have you been this week, Megan?’

  Mr Harwell smells of cherry yoghurt today. I wonder if his wife prepares a packed lunch for him.

  ‘Anything you’d like to share?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Well, let’s run through our exercises first, then I’d like to try a couple of new things with you, if that’s OK?’

  I frown. I’m not good with ‘new things’. He talks me through this activity where I tense every part of my body, one at a time, then release them. I’m dubious at first, but by the end I do feel better. My limbs are more relaxed, my head almost too heavy for my neck.

  ‘So how are things at home, Megan?’

  My head snaps up and my muscles tighten again.

  ‘I don’t want you to say anything. I thought maybe I could ask you “yes” and “no” questions and you could just give me a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down. Would that work?’

  I’m guessing I don’t have much choice. I nod.

  ‘You live with your mum. Is that right?’

  Thumb up.

  ‘And do you have any contact with your dad?’

  Thumb down. I never wanted to, either, after what he did.

  Mr Harwell’s pen scratches across his notepad. ‘So your grandpa occasionally came to parents’ evenings instead of your mum?’

  Thumb up. With a flush of shame, I remember Mum breezing in late one year, all done up like she was going out. As her heels clipped across the gym floor, all the other parents turned to stare.

  ‘Were you close to your grandpa?’

  Thumb up.

  ‘And how is your relationship with your mum?’

  I don’t respond.

  Mr Harwell shifts in his seat. It releases a gentle creak, like a sigh. ‘Sorry. We need “yes” and “no” questions, don’t we? Let’s move on.’ He turns to a new sheet in his notepad. ‘One of the teachers told me that you’ve made friends with Jasmine Pearce. Are you getting on well?’

  Thumb up. To my surprise, I even make a small murmur of agreement.

  Careful.

  I take a deep, shuddery breath.

  ‘Good. That’s really great, Megan.’ A pause. ‘It must be nice to have someone again.’

  My heart stops. I know where this is going.

  ‘I understand it’s painful.’

  You understand nothing!

  I get up.

  ‘It’s OK, Megan.’

  No, it’s not. It’s really not. And we’re not discussing this. Ever.

  My fingers scrunch up, the nails biting into my palms. But I barely feel it.

  ‘Megan, please sit down. I’m just trying to help you.’

  I didn’t ask for your help!

  My breaths are coming out in great, ragged gusts. My skin is burning, my fists clenching and unclenching.

  ‘Megan, it’s natural to feel guilty after we lose someone.’

  Clenching. Unclenching.

  ‘Perhaps also anger?’

  Anger? You have no idea!

  ‘Were you angry that you’d been left alone?’

  I slap him across the cheek. Waves of hot pain throb through my fingers. I leave and run down the corridor.

  You pushed me too far. Put that in your bloody notes. Too far.

  The bell for break rings as I charge into the toilets, almost colliding with someone by the sinks. I swerve past her and dash into the nearest stall, slamming the lock into place and leaning against the door. My hand is sore and shaky. Did I really just do that? Did I really just slap Mr Harwell?

  When I look up, I realise I’m not in my usual cubicle. There’s unfamiliar graffiti and the toilet roll dispenser is broken. No! It’s wrong. It’s all wrong. I always use the same toilet. Always!

  ‘Megan?’ a quiet voice says. It’s Grace. ‘Are you all right?’

  No. Clearly not.

  ‘Has Sadie upset you?’

  Sadie? This isn’t about Sadie. Just because your life revolves around her!

  Grace seems hesitant, but she says, ‘I know she can go a bit far sometimes.’

  I snort. If you know that, why don’t you have the guts to stand up to her?

  ‘I sometimes wish … I don’t know. We used to have fun, didn’t we?’ She giggles nervously.

  I close my eyes. Fun. Yes. Of course I remember. But you’re Sadie’s friend now. You can’t have it both ways.

  I do miss Grace. I always liked her. She was so mild-natured – the only one in our group who could smooth out our petty arguments.

  ‘Listen, Megan. We all feel bad about what happened. I just want you to know that you’re not—’

  Outside, the door opens and Sadie says, ‘Who are you talking to?’

  ‘N-no one.’

  ‘Someone’s in there.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Whatever. Come on, I need you in the form room.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘New girl just got a higher mark than Lindsay for some Drama thing. Lindsay’s on the warpath.’

  Jasmine’s just trying to keep her head down. Why can’t they leave her alone?

  After they’ve gone, I wait a couple of seconds, then creep into the third cubicle from the left. My cubicle. The one that used to say SADIE IS A SLAG before someone scribbled it out with thick, black marker pen.

  I pull down the seat and plonk myself on it, glaring at a hole that someone’s tried to gouge in the door. The scent of bleach irritates my nose. My eyes stay fixed on that hole. It blurs and shimmers. I let one tear fall. And that’s enough. The rest quickly follow.

  A few minutes later, Jasmine comes in to look for me, knocking on each door as she calls out, ‘Megan?’

  Go away!

  But she won’t. ‘I know it’s you in there. I’ve looked everywhere else. You might as well let me in. If you don’t, I’ll climb over. Come on, Megan, let me in.’

  I unlock the door with one hand, clutching the other to my chest, fingers curled inwards. Jasmine shuffles through the narrow gap. She takes a long look at my face, my reddened hand, the way I’m holding it, and her eyes widen. ‘Oh my God, have you been in a fight? Who was it? Wait, let me guess. Sadie. That bitch! This isn�
�t on, Megan. We need to stop this. I’m going to whatshisname, Finnigan. I’m going—’

  I wave my good hand to stop her from talking. I mime slapping her. Jasmine frowns. ‘OK. You slapped someone?’

  I nod.

  ‘Sadie?’

  I shake my head. Why does this have to be so hard? Why can’t I just open my mouth like a normal person, instead of playing this stupid game of charades? How long before Jasmine gets tired of trying to read my mind? How long before she gives up? Finds someone else to hang around with.

  She won’t stick around for long.

  Jasmine grasps my shoulders. ‘Megan,’ she says seriously. ‘Who did you hit?’

  I turn around for my rucksack. It’s not there! I must’ve left it in the stationery cupboard. For God’s sake! I yank a piece of toilet paper off the roll. Jasmine looks through her bag and produces a pen. I write: Mr Harwell.

  Her mouth flops open. ‘Noooo! You hit a teacher? I mean, not like a proper teacher, but … Why?’

  It’s too complicated to explain with gestures, too difficult to write down.

  Jasmine thinks for a moment. ‘We need to sort this out. You could be expelled or something. I think you should apologise to him.’ She starts to unlock the door, but I drag her away, shaking my head. I can’t. I’m sorry I hit him, but I can’t face him again.

  ‘You need to apologise. Before he reports you to Finnigan.’

  She opens the door and tries to tug me out.

  No! I don’t want to. Leave me alone! Stop treating me like a child.

  I grit my teeth and pull away from her. Argh! A voice would really come in handy now!

  ‘Megan, don’t look at me like that! What’s the matter with you?’

  What’s the matter with me? What’s the matter with you? Since when do you tell me what to do? Do you think that, just because I can’t speak, you can boss me around?

  Jasmine is standing in the doorway, half in and half out. I see the hurt in her eyes. I know I’m going to feel guilty for this later, but I can’t stop myself. I push past her.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Jasmine demands.

  When I don’t stop to explain, she yells, ‘Fine. Run away. But don’t expect me to save you a seat in French.’

  I rush towards the fire escape. I don’t care if I set the alarm off. I have to get out! But my hand hovers over the lever. I rest my forehead against the cool door, pause, and think. Jasmine’s right. I can’t run away from this. I need to find Mr Harwell.

  I walk as quickly as I can to the stationery cupboard, but he’s not there. I grab my bag, hurrying towards Reception. What if he’s telling Mr Finnigan right now? What’s going to happen to me? I can’t be expelled before I’ve taken my GCSEs!

  Mr Harwell isn’t at Reception. I rush out to the car park, scanning the rows of cars, but there’s no one around. Where is he? I stand in the middle of the tarmac, paralysed. I literally have no idea what to do.

  A breeze floats past and lifts the hair from my neck. It’s scented with something sweet. Cherry blossom. There’s a big tree in the corner of the car park, laden with delicate petals. I close my eyes and breathe it in. Deeply, like Mr Harwell taught me. I imagine everything is drifting away, like dandelion heads in the wind.

  I open my eyes. I feel better. I can fix this. I’ve got his email address. I’m supposed to be in French now, but maybe I can sneak off to the library and send him a quick email to apologise.

  The bell rings as soon as I step back inside. I march towards the library. I’m almost there when a crisp voice stops me: ‘I don’t think you’ll find my French class in there, Megan Thomas.’

  I stop dead. Turn to face Madame Girard.

  ‘Shall I show you the way, as you seem to have forgotten?’

  I nod sheepishly, then fall into step behind her. Madame Girard is stout, with ruddy cheeks and hair that looks constantly windswept. She wears a green gilet instead of a coat. As she strides down the corridors, I almost expect to see a couple of hunting dogs bounding after her.

  In the classroom, Jasmine’s sitting near the front, tapping her pen against a textbook in a rapid, nervous rhythm, her foot jiggling beneath the desk. She shoots a quick glance at the door, turning her head in a jerky movement. As soon as she sees me, her eyes flick away.

  I slide into the seat next to Jasmine, searching her face, but she won’t look at me. I try touching her arm, but she flinches like there’s poison dripping from my fingers. OK! No need to make me feel like a leper. Slight overreaction.

  Irritatingly, I’ve forgotten my French textbook, so I have to scoot closer to share Jasmine’s. She doesn’t acknowledge me. Great. Thanks a lot. I love being ignored. It’s not like I already feel invisible most of the time.

  Without preamble, Madame Girard launches into revision of French verbs. I do my best to focus, but my gaze is drawn to Jasmine. I try to catch her eye. It works, but she instantly looks away.

  Wait! I looked right at her! This is huge! I can usually only manage eye contact with Mum, and even then I feel awkward. Does this mean I might be getting better? Is it possible—?

  You’ll never change.

  I jolt so much my chair scrapes across the floor.

  Madame Girard glowers at me. ‘Êtes-vous bien, Megan?’

  I nod and blush, leaning forward so I can pretend to study the textbook.

  ‘Megan?’ The school receptionist sticks her head around the door. ‘Mr Finnigan would like to see you.’

  The blood freezes in my veins. I get up and follow her to the head’s office.

  Mr Harwell is waiting inside. I peek up at his face. One of his cheeks is slightly flushed. I can’t believe I did that. I shouldn’t have lost it.

  ‘Megan, Mr Harwell has reported that you assaulted him in your session today.’

  Assaulted. Such a cruel word. A criminal word.

  ‘This is absolutely unacceptable, Megan. Do you understand?’

  I nod.

  ‘We’ve spoken to your mother,’ my stomach spasms, ‘and have agreed two weeks of lunchtime detentions, starting tomorrow. Mr Harwell is prepared to continue working with you, provided you apologise and assure him that it won’t happen again.’

  I nod and point at a fancy fountain pen on Mr Finnigan’s desk. He pushes it towards me and watches as I write my apology.

  ‘I’m disappointed, Megan. Mr Harwell is an excellent, newly qualified psychologist who is more than capable of helping you. I suggest you start allowing him to do so.’

  I nod. But I can’t let him help me. I can’t risk revealing the truth.

  You need to keep this a secret, understand?

  If I don’t keep my mouth shut, people will find out what really happened to Hana at the ridge. They’ll find out what a monster I am.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘I mean, seriously, what the hell, Megan? You hit your psychologist?’

  Apparently.

  ‘What will people think? That I didn’t bring you up properly? I’m so embarrassed.’

  I scrawl: That’s all you ever worry about – what people think. What about what I think? What about why I did it?

  ‘Well, go on then. Explain it to me. Why did you do it?’

  I just stare at her.

  ‘I thought so. God, I wish Gramps was here. He was the only one who could get through to you. I just don’t understand you, Megan!’

  I leave her desperately puffing on an e-cigarette and disappear to my room. I wonder whether to text Jasmine. I didn’t see her at lunch – I hid in the library – and she wasn’t on the bus home. I spent several panicky minutes convinced she was avoiding me, that I’d ruined everything, until I remembered she’d planned to stay and work on some Art coursework.

  I write:

  I’m sorry xxx

  She makes me wait twenty minutes before replying.

  It’s OK. What happened? X

  Two weeks of detention. Mum hit the roof :( Am hiding in my room xxx

  A reply comes back a few mi
nutes later:

  Poor you. *Hugs* Want to come round for tea? Xxx

  Meet her family? I don’t know.

  Mum’s making mezze. They want to meet you xxx

  I grin.

  Will check with Mum xxx

  Bring some of your pics if she says yes. I really want to see them! Xxx

  Downstairs, Mum reads the note I’ve written, then looks long and hard at me. ‘I should ground you,’ she says.

  You’ve never grounded me in your life!

  ‘But I won’t, because I want to watch Pimp Your Pooch while I eat, and I can’t be dealing with you sighing all over it. Make sure you come home in a better mood.’ She gives me a wry smile. ‘Off you go! Before I change my mind!’

  ‘Muuuum!’ Jasmine yells as she bundles me through her front door.

  I almost trip over a box of shoes. The hallway is long, narrow and dark, the carpet ripped a little at the edges. But it’s brightened by a series of exotic paintings: elephants silhouetted against a savannah sunset, a landscape of paddy fields, scattered with figures wearing triangular hats.

  A plug-in freshener is lacing the air with a floral smell. When I take a further step inside, another freshener bursts into life, spraying droplets of citrusy perfume on my arm.

  Jasmine rolls her eyes. ‘I told you she’s into smells. She had those out before we’d even unpacked the kitchen.’

  ‘Muuuum!’ Jasmine hollers again. ‘Megan’s here.’

  A woman emerges at the end of the corridor, holding her hands out as if they’re covered in something sticky. ‘Megan!’ she half shrieks, half laughs, in a slightly accented voice. ‘You’re here! We finally get to meet you! Come in. Welcome. There’s plenty of food.’

  ‘There’s always plenty of food,’ Jasmine says, before whispering to me, ‘I should’ve warned you: she’s a feeder. Hope you’re hungry because she won’t stop until you puke!’

  Jasmine’s mum rushes down the corridor. Her skin has the same rich tone as Jasmine’s and her clothes are vibrant blues and oranges, like a kingfisher. A mass of grey-streaked curls are swept back into a ponytail, and her slightly crooked teeth peep out behind a smile so wide it stretches across most of her face.