The door swings open. Crap. Lindsay and Grace are with her. They’ve all changed out of their school uniforms, sorted their hair, and reapplied lipstick.
Grace delicately sidesteps me. When I catch her eyes, they seem to say: ‘What are you doing here? Are you mad?’
Lindsay thuds her shoulder into mine. ‘Where’s your lesbo friend? Don’t you need her to talk for you?’
Sadie’s mouth puckers. She doesn’t break her stride. ‘I told you, you’re not having it back. You can’t now, anyway. I burnt it.’
What? No. You can’t have. Surely even you wouldn’t …
This is what happens to people like you. You brought this on yourself.
Sadie walks straight past, leaving me standing in the middle of her lawn, blinking tears away and trying to gather the strength to leave.
How could she? I can’t believe it. My last link to Hana.
I’ve lost her all over again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
My sessions with Mr Harwell are irregular at the moment, because of the exam timetable, but I think he’s trying to fit more in before I finish at Barcham Green. He seems to be on some kind of personal mission to get me talking before sixth form. Like that’s going to happen. I’m touched that he’s still trying, though.
‘How are you, Megan?’ he asks.
Fed up of exam stress.
He leans forward. ‘Listen. As much as I’d like to, I won’t be working with you when you start college, so I think this will be our last session.’
Oh, really? OK.
‘I’m going to push you a little today, Megan, but I think you can handle it.’
You mean you hope I won’t hit you again?
‘Now, I know there are some things you don’t want to revisit.’
No. We’re not going there.
‘You’ve spent a long time building up a dam in your mind to hold all these memories, these emotions back. And I’m not suggesting that we try to access them all at once. That would be too much. But perhaps we can remove a tiny piece of the dam today. And you could work on taking a few more down over the summer?’
No.
But he’s not giving in. ‘Can you write down something you remember about Hana’s death? Just a little detail.’
I can’t.
‘I want you to try, Megan. In fact, we’re not leaving this room until you do.’
Mr Harwell sits back, folds his arms and watches me.
There’s a wave of grief and guilt behind the dam. He really doesn’t want me to unleash it.
We sit in silence for about ten minutes before I sigh, grab a pen and scribble: I was really mad with Hana.
The barricade groans, threatens to break, but I hold everything back. If I don’t, I’ll go mad.
We had a fight, I write. I thought she was acting like a bitch. And I hate that she died knowing that.
I swallow back my tears and look up at him. Mr Harwell doesn’t speak for a long time, while he considers what to say. ‘There are always things you could’ve said or done differently, Megan. Everyone has regrets after we lose someone. It’s a common feeling, along with guilt, so I don’t want you to feel alone in that. You and Hana had known each other for a long time, and I’m guessing you’d had other arguments?’
I nod.
‘But your friendship always survived them. Your feelings of anger towards Hana were temporary. What lay beneath those feelings – the solid base of your friendship – didn’t and hasn’t changed. Would you say that’s fair?’
I think about it. I suppose so. Kind of. Maybe.
Mr Harwell smiles, says, ‘Thank you for sharing that, Megan. I’m so pleased with your progress. I know it’s been brief, but it’s been a pleasure to work with you these last few months.’
He stands and indicates that I can go. I move towards the door. This is it. The last time I’ll see him. I want to show Mr Harwell how grateful I am. I pause, hand resting on the handle. Do it, Megan. Do it! I can feel him staring at me. If he speaks, asks me if there’s anything else, I’ll lose my nerve. But there’s nothing. Just an expectant pause.
I turn, force myself to look up and meet Mr Harwell’s gaze. I part my lips, slide my tongue between my teeth, and mouth the words ‘Thank you’ at him.
For a moment, Mr Harwell’s expression is frozen. Then his eyes widen, two spots of colour darken his cheeks, and he smiles. ‘You’re doing so well, Megan. One day you’re going to talk again.’
You won’t. Because you know what will happen if you do.
I catch my breath, almost choke on it. Then, with a massive effort, I push the voice aside, look at Mr Harwell, and grin.
Finally, at the end of June, the exams are over, and a gloriously long summer stretches out before us. On one of the hottest days of the year, Jasmine announces that her family are having a barbecue at the weekend. ‘Mum’s gone completely over the top. She’s invited the whole village. Literally. She put an advert up at the Post Office. I can’t wait, though, Megan. It’s going to be so much fun!’
I’m excited, too. Almost as excited as Mum, though she’s having a crisis about what to wear. ‘I want to look nice, Megan, but not tarty. Do you know what I mean? Don’t want it to look like I’ve made a huge effort, but I want to give a good impression. Is gold too tacky? Should I go for heels or wedges? What do you think? Too much?’ She puts this low-cut pink thing on the bed.
I nod. Definitely too much. Too much of everything, especially the cleavage. I pick out a navy dress with a print of swooping swallows and lay it over the pink monstrosity.
Mum screws up her face. ‘I wore that to Aunt Mary’s funeral.’
I try not to laugh. Mum catches my eye. She’s trying not to laugh too. ‘It’s not funny!’ she giggles. ‘It’s so not funny!’
On Saturday, Mum spends ages putting her face on. I write her a note to say she looks nice. She hasn’t overdone it and gone all orange, which is a relief. She smiles and returns the compliment, souring it slightly by asking if I want to do something different with my hair.
Clutching a bottle of cheap red wine and a bowl of mixed salad (emptied straight from a bag), we set off to Jasmine’s just after noon.
When we arrive, Eleni hurries over. ‘Hi!’ she says, pulling me into a hug. ‘Welcome. Kalos orísate.’ She smells of vanilla today, like the buttercream frosting Grandpa used to whip up for his cakes.
Eleni introduces herself to Mum, then drags her away to meet people. She calls over her shoulder that Jasmine’s ‘around somewhere’.
I’m on my own. I put my hands in my pockets and try to look relaxed. There are loads of people here. Most of them I recognise, including – oh, God – Sadie’s parents. Does that mean she’s here as well? I scan the garden. There she is, with Lindsay, both looking like they’re standing barefoot in a vat of frog spawn.
Sadie says loudly to her mum, ‘This is the lamest party ever. Can I go now?’
I try to walk past so I can hide inside, but Sadie’s mum, Annemarie, spots me. ‘Megan! I haven’t seen you in ages!’ She’s a pretty blonde with small, intelligent eyes and a pear-shaped birthmark on her right cheek.
Most of the adults stop talking and look at me. There’s a spotlight shining in my face. Please stop looking at me.
Annemarie starts to ask how I am, then trails off when she realises she won’t get an answer. There’s a painful silence. It stretches on for ever, until she clears her throat and says, ‘It was lovely to see you. I hope you’re doing OK.’ She touches my shoulder lightly, then allows me to leave.
I instruct my legs to unlock and hurry inside to look for Jasmine. Seriously, where is she?
‘All right, freak?’ Sadie follows me, sauntering into Jasmine’s kitchen like she owns the place.
Jasmine, where are you?
Sadie looks down her nose at the chaos on the work surfaces. ‘What a dump.’
Shut up!
She pokes a kofte on a plate. ‘Sick. They look like turds.’
Just shu
t up!
I try to yank the plate away from her, but it slips through my fingers and shatters on the floor.
‘What the hell?’ Sadie shouts, flicking pieces of minced lamb and crockery off her bare legs.
Lily comes in. ‘What’s going on?’ she says, taking in the mess. When neither of us answer, she asks Sadie, ‘Who are you?’
Sadie gives her a cold look. ‘Nobody you need to worry about. I won’t be coming here again.’ She struts out of the kitchen.
Lily makes a face. ‘What’s the matter with her?’
I shrug.
Lily shows me where the dustpan is, then helps me clear up. I wish I could apologise, but sweet little Lily smiles in a way that suggests I don’t need to.
Afterwards, she picks up a plate of halloumi, grins and says, ‘Yummy! Dad’s going to start cooking now!’ I manage to raise a smile, then head upstairs to the bathroom.
I pause to look out of the window on the upstairs landing, wondering if there are any more people arriving. And then I see Jasmine. She’s on the pavement outside, talking to Owen. I can’t believe her! She’s abandoned me for him again. How could she?
I watch them for a few minutes, my angry breaths steaming up the glass. I hate the way she keeps laughing and touching his arm. Owen’s been hanging around like a bad smell for the last few weeks, whenever we walk to the bus stop. The only time I get Jasmine to myself is on the bus. Well, I hope she’s been having fun while I’ve been left alone to deal with Sadie.
I lock myself in the bathroom for a few minutes and try some of Mr Harwell’s relaxation techniques. I should probably go home. I’m not in the mood now.
I pad down the stairs. Someone’s singing in the kitchen. I stop. It’s Jasmine. She has the most amazing voice. I listen for a moment, then peek round the door.
Jasmine has her back to me. A knife clacks against a chopping board. She’s wearing a pair of denim cut-offs and a fuchsia top. Her hair is swept to one side, her shining curls flowing across her shoulder. I watch, just for a moment, resisting the urge to stroke the nape of her neck.
Jasmine whips round and shrieks. ‘Megan! You scared me!’ She clutches her chest theatrically, but she’s smiling. ‘Want a carrot stick?’ Not waiting for an answer, she pops one in my mouth. When her fingers graze my lips, my heart skips. I thought I was cross, but I don’t know what I feel now.
‘Thank God you’re here. Mum has been treating me like a slave for the whole morning. I swear if I have to peel another flipping carrot, I’m going to jab someone’s eye out. Who’s here? Has anyone from school turned up?’
I look around for something to write on. Jasmine gives me an old shopping list. She scowls when she sees what I’ve written.
‘You’re joking.’
I shake my head.
‘Who asked them? Well, Mum, obviously, but why did they come?’
I write: Maybe their parents made them?
Jasmine pauses for a moment, winding one of her curls around a finger, then flits to another topic. She’s like a butterfly that can’t settle on one flower.
‘Mum’s made about a thousand dips. The woman’s mad! We’re going to be eating leftovers for a week. You’ll take some home, won’t you? Don’t leave it all here with us. I’ll be the size of a house by next weekend!’
I nod.
‘I’m starving! Hope Dad cooks the sheftalia soon.’
I peer at a packet of meatballs with strings of fat wrapped round them, trying to look open-minded.
Jasmine laughs. ‘They’re nice, honest. Better than those nasty tinned things you like!’
Nothing wrong with frankfurters.
Jasmine strokes my shoulder and throws me a cute little smile. I grin back, feeling a trail of heat where she touched me. I definitely don’t want to go home now. I wish we could stay here for the rest of the barbecue.
‘Hey, I’ve got that jacket in my room – the one that will totally look better on you. It’s miles too small for me, but it’ll look great on you. Want to pop up and try it on?’
I nod and follow Jasmine up the stairs. She pushes the door to her room open and stops in her tracks. I walk into her. I hear her breath hitch. ‘What … what is this?’ she says shakily.
I move around Jasmine so I can see. Oh my God. Someone’s slashed all of her posters. It looks like they’ve used a knife and just cut them, right down the middle. Half of Audrey Hepburn’s face has been sliced off. My stomach rolls with acid.
Jasmine reaches for my hand and clutches it tight. Her skin is clammy. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ she says, squeezing even tighter. ‘She has the nerve to show up at my house, eat my parents’ food, then do this? She’s gone way too far.’
Jasmine lets go of my hand, flies out of the room and pounds down the stairs.
No! I want to call after her, stop her, but all I can do is follow.
Jasmine storms into the garden and makes a beeline for Sadie, who doesn’t even have a second to react before Jasmine’s shaking her shoulders and shouting in her face: ‘What are you playing at? Do you think that’s funny? Do you seriously think that’s funny?’
Conversations fall silent and all eyes turn to them. Sadie breathes heavily, her skin flushed. She looks at Jasmine as if she’s lost her mind.
Lindsay is on the other side of the garden and strides towards them, her arms pumping, but – thank God – Eleni swoops in first, breaking the girls apart. ‘What do you think you’re doing, Jasmine?’
‘She ruined my room!’ Jasmine yells, her face red as she flings her arms around. I swallow heavily. I’ve never seen her like this before. ‘I’m sick of her! Why did you even invite her?’
Eleni firmly grabs Jasmine’s arms, forces her to lower them, then looks her straight in the eyes. When she speaks, her voice is low and measured. A couple of people move closer so they can hear what she says. ‘I don’t know what’s happened, but we’ll talk about it later. You need to cool down in your room.’
Jasmine looks past her mum to Sadie, who glares back as she adjusts her crumpled clothes. ‘I haven’t been upstairs at all,’ she says. ‘You’ve lost it.’
Annemarie lays a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘I don’t quite know what Sadie’s being accused of, but she’s only been inside once since we got here, and that was just for a minute. She came straight out again.’
Just a minute? That must’ve been when she followed me in. But if it wasn’t Sadie, who was it? I glance at Lindsay, who’s staring daggers at Jasmine.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Eleni says, smiling. ‘There’s obviously been a misunderstanding.’
Jasmine heads inside. I hesitate for a moment, then follow. She’s crying before she even starts up the stairs. I wait until we’re in her room, then I put my arms around her.
‘It’s not the posters I’m bothered about,’ she says. ‘I can replace those. It’s the fact that she came into my room. My space.’
I nod. I understand.
‘I can’t tell Mum,’ Jasmine murmurs, almost to herself. ‘I know what she’ll do. We’ll be out of here.’
I put some music on – one of Jasmine’s favourite albums – and we lie on the bed, side by side, listening to it, our hands clasped.
‘Thank you,’ Jasmine whispers. ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
She’s so close her hair is tickling my ear. There’s a stray tear on her cheek. I reach up, about to stroke it away.
‘Jasmine!’ Eleni calls up the stairs. Jasmine jumps and sits up. ‘You can come down now.’ From the tone of Eleni’s voice, Jasmine doesn’t have much choice but to go.
‘You coming?’
I shake my head, pull my notepad out and write: I’ll stay here. Sort this mess out. I point at the mutilated posters.
Her eyes soften. ‘Would you? You’re amazing, Megan.’
I blush and try to hide my massive grin.
A few minutes later, as I’m peeling the last poster from the wall, there’s a quiet knock on the door. I open it. It
’s Luke. I stare at him for a moment, surprised, but manage to find a smile.
Luke runs his fingers through his tousled hair. He’s dressed casually, but I can tell he’s made an effort today. His T-shirt shows off the nice shape at the tops of his arms, and he’s wearing a pair of very white, new trainers.
‘Hi, thought you might be up here. OK for me to come in?’
I shrug, feeling a bit awkward about inviting him into someone else’s room.
Luke gestures towards the bed. ‘Shall we … sit down or something?’
I nod.
Luke sits. He doesn’t mention the pile of poster scraps on the floor.
‘So, how are you? Haven’t really spoken to you in ages.’
A bit freaked out, if I’m honest.
Luke stares at the floor. He looks like he’s struggling with something, so I wait.
‘There’s this thing I’ve wanted to do for ages. And I …’ He breaks off and laughs, then shuffles towards me, until he’s so close the soft hairs on his arms brush against mine. There’s a tiny scar next to his nose. Why haven’t I noticed it before? Luke gives me a nervous smile. ‘For some reason, I woke up and decided that today was the day.’
Ever so gently, slowly, he grasps my chin, tilting it towards him. His eyes meet mine. I’m trapped. I can’t look away.
What are you doing?
His voice is husky. ‘I really, really want to kiss you.’
Eh?
Before I can even begin to process what’s happening, he leans forward and presses his lips against mine.
First kiss! My first kiss. It’s … Wow! It’s nice. Luke tastes of lemon. His stubble prickles me. He’s tender, slow. Oh! There’s his tongue. I wasn’t expecting that! What do I do?
But he shows me. And it’s nice. Really nice.
Luke pulls away. He’s laughing! What did I do wrong? I’m actually going to die of embarrassment.
Unspeakable Page 11
