When we’re done, Eleni hesitates. ‘I’ll just check that rope is tight enough. Are you sure the beds are blown up properly? They look like they need more air. Shall we have a cup of tea before I head off? You can check the stove works.’
Even when Jasmine manages to persuade her that everything’s fine, Eleni can’t seem to stop fussing. ‘Have you got enough toilet roll? I can always fetch you some more. It’s the last thing you want to run out of. Oh, and Jasmine, did you check your mobile was fully charged? And did you bring that spare battery I bought for you?’
‘Yes, Mum, the phone was charged for a full twelve hours last night, and I could hardly forget the spare battery, when you insisted on putting it in my bag.’
‘OK.’ Eleni’s eyes flit to the ground. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get off.’ She sweeps Jasmine into a hug.
‘We’ll be fine, Mum,’ Jasmine mumbles. ‘It’s just one night.’
Eleni gives us both a weak smile, then heads back to her car.
Jasmine watches her leave. ‘I don’t know how to tell her I want to backpack around Asia in my gap year,’ she says. ‘Anyway, what shall we do first, birthday girl? Do you fancy going for a walk, or do you just want to chill out here?’
I use my fingers to mime walking and she laughs. ‘Don’t know why I even asked! Just give me a sec, I’ll put my walking boots on.’
We spend a few hours on the trails that wind through the forest. The heat is so intense we stop at a small stream, peel off our sweaty socks and paddle in the sun-sparkled water. Jasmine splashes me, her face lighting up with a cheeky grin, but she screams and runs away when I scoop up a great handful of water and chuck it at her.
There’s a place I want to show Jasmine. We walk for about twenty minutes, our clothes drying rapidly in the late afternoon sun, shoes chafing against our damp feet. When we reach a small clearing, Jasmine stops and gasps, her eyes soaking up the carpet of buttercups, the way the sunshine bounces off their yellow petals. As we walk, dandelion heads rise up like a cloud of butterflies, tickling our faces and settling in our hair. Jasmine reaches out to try to catch them, laughing.
We sit down. The air is humming with insects and rich with the scent of grass, dry leaves and something delicate and floral that makes my nose itch.
Jasmine tells me about the time she tried to soften some butter in the microwave and the foil wrapper caught fire. I laugh drunkenly. The sun is making me woozy and I can’t seem to stop. Jasmine joins in, threatening to give me a slap if I get hysterical. It only makes me laugh more.
‘I love hearing you laugh,’ she says. ‘It’s the only time I can imagine what your voice might sound like.’
We stay for a couple of hours, watching the sun arc across the sky in a dazzling haze. I am happy. So happy I feel like it should be radiating from me, as if my body can’t contain it all. I’d be content to lie here for ever, just enjoying the sound of Jasmine’s slow breaths, her closeness.
Eventually, we amble back to the campsite. Jasmine declares that she’s starving, so we eat early, cooking up a pan of beans with rubbery cocktail sausages that bob up and down like buoys in a sea of tomato sauce.
We watch the sun set in a cloud-streaked sky that’s tinted with shades of pale blue and light pink. Jasmine chats into the evening. Her words never seem to dry up. As soon as one sentence finishes, another springs up, bursting out with more energy than the last.
Sometimes I’ll write her a question, ask about her life in Cyprus, whether she thinks Mr Finnigan looks a bit like Homer Simpson, or what she makes of this new boy band everyone’s going crazy for.
Later, when the sky is doused with darkness, the moon appears, as pale and plump as a peeled Babybel. It sits low, almost stroking the treetops, its shadowy craters clearly visible. We spend a few silent moments just staring at it.
‘Did you have a nice birthday?’ Jasmine asks, her voice slurred with sleepiness.
I nod. It was the best.
Jasmine yawns. ‘I can’t stay up any longer. Shall we go to bed?’
I nod again and we crawl into the tent. I switch on the camping light. It chases away the shadows and fills the inside with a soft glow. There’s a brief moment of awkwardness as we change into our pyjamas, each facing away from the other.
When Hana and I had sleepovers, we’d flick through girly magazines, get hyper on cherryade and Haribo, and giggle into the night, until one of our mums told us to ‘settle down’. We’d make an effort to go to sleep, until one of us burst into laughter again and set the other one off.
Jasmine wriggles into her sleeping bag. I lie beside her, our faces inches apart, our breaths mingling. She coaxes the band from my ponytail, allowing my hair to spill across my shoulders, then she arranges it gently, stroking and smoothing it down. I close my eyes and try to control the quiver in my body.
‘Your hair is lovely,’ she whispers. ‘Don’t listen to your mum. Don’t change it. I think it’s gorgeous.’
I open my eyes and meet hers.
She doesn’t look away. Breathes in. Out.
The air is trapped in my chest.
Jasmine takes another breath in, then out.
I can’t move.
She inhales. Exhales. Calm and steady. Focused on me.
I’m hot. So hot my skin is crawling with it. Is she going to kiss me?
Her eyes are softening, her lips parting. I can’t look away. I don’t want to look away. I want her to kiss me, but if I move my head towards hers, if I’m wrong, I lose everything.
Jasmine moves her face a fraction closer.
She’s going to do it! She’s really going to kiss me!
Jasmine sighs and the air trembles from her lips. She blinks, says, ‘Kaliníhta, Megan mou, good night,’ tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and closes her eyes.
Cold disappointment floods through me. Tears shimmer in the corners of my eyes. I blink them away. I shouldn’t let myself believe. Not even for a second.
I drag in some deep breaths, but it takes an age for my breathing to settle back to normal, for my heart to stop juddering. I watch Jasmine sink into sleep. I hadn’t noticed before, but there are freckles on her nose, like a dusting of cocoa on frothy coffee. They’re beautiful. Perfect.
Two words float up inside me. And tonight, there’s no barrier. Nothing to stop them. ‘Goodnight, Jasmine,’ I whisper.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I’m woken early in the morning by light pressing through our tent’s thin canvas. It flickers over Jasmine’s face, but she doesn’t stir. I watch her for a few moments, fascinated by the way it highlights the shine on her dark eyelashes and reveals every crease of her lips.
After a few minutes, I wrench myself away and roll over. God knows what she’d think if she woke and caught me staring at her like that!
I settle for listening to her quiet snores, feeling the ebb and flow of her breaths on my neck, as regular as waves on a beach, surging back and forth, back and forth. The rhythm starts to lull me to sleep, until Jasmine groans, ‘Megan? Are you awake?’
I turn, mouth clamped shut in case of morning breath.
Jasmine’s eyes are still half closed. ‘What time is it?’
I point to my watch.
‘Six!’ she croaks. ‘Ergh. Remind me to bring an eye mask next time.’
I smile. Jasmine doesn’t ‘do’ mornings.
The air in the tent is still and hot. I unzip the door. Jasmine complains, but her cheeks brighten when a rush of fresh air sweeps in. I rummage in my rucksack, knowing exactly what will wake her up.
‘Marshmallows? For breakfast? Mum would kill me.’ She grins. ‘Let’s do it!’
We scramble out and set up the stove. Jasmine lights it while I wander off, barefoot, in my pyjamas, to find a couple of twigs to use as skewers.
Jasmine is an expert at toasting marshmallows, leaving them in the flame until the skin starts to bubble and brown, then eating them quickly, before they cool. My attempts are less impressive and I end
up with marshmallows that are either incinerated or barely warm. The sweet, slightly acrid scent of burnt sugar lingers around us, and it’s not long before the ground is littered with globules of melted marshmallow.
The sugar rush goes straight to Jasmine’s head and she gets the giggles. She points at me and laughs.
What? What is it? Have I got something on my face?
‘You’ve got marshmallow goop on you.’
Jasmine tilts my chin up and lifts it off. It trails through the air like a spider’s web, then she opens her mouth and pops it in.
Heat floods my skin. I look away, grabbing another marshmallow, even though I’m already queasy.
Inside the tent, Jasmine’s phone starts to ring. Eleni. This will be her third call since we arrived. Jasmine disappears to root around for it.
‘Hello? Yes, Mum, we’re fine. Made it through the night without being murdered … OK, calm down, I was only joking! Yes, we’ve got plenty of water … No, you don’t need to come now. We’re staying for the rest of the day … Why can’t you just be relaxed about this, like Megan’s mum? You’re making a fuss … Bye then.’
Jasmine emerges, grumbling.
I rub the top of her arm and she smiles and seems to relax. ‘Shall we go for another walk today? I thought we could head off in the other direction?’
I nod and we start to get ready. Jasmine refuses to put her walking boots back on, claiming they’re rubbing, and opts for canvas shoes instead. We smother ourselves in sun cream, load up our rucksacks and leave.
Even though it’s only eleven o’clock, the heat is too much. We stop in the cool shade of the woods to eat lunch – a couple of squashed bread rolls and some blackened bananas.
‘My heel is killing me,’ Jasmine says. She prises off her shoe and reveals a massive blister. After examining it, she starts to hunt through her bag. ‘I can’t keep walking. I thought Mum put some plasters in here, but maybe I left them in the tent. Have you got any?’
I shake my head.
‘Well, I’ll have to go back. It’s really painful. Why don’t you carry on? We’ll meet back at the campsite later.’
I shake my head again.
‘OK. Sorry, Megan. I feel bad.’
By the time we arrive back at the site, we’re both tired and sweaty, and Jasmine is walking with a slight limp. She lies on the grass outside the tent, hauling in gasps of hot air.
‘Ice cream,’ Jasmine mutters. ‘I really want an ice cream. Or just some ice would be good. I’d pour a bucket of it over myself.’
I smile.
Jasmine doesn’t say anything for so long, I wonder if she’s fallen asleep, but when I glance over, her eyes are wide open.
I shuffle closer and point at her shoe. I want to have a look at the blister.
Jasmine squirms away. ‘Really? You want to see? I’m warning you, Megan, it won’t be pretty. I bet my foot reeks.’
But I insist and she takes it off. The blister has popped, the skin beneath it raw and red.
‘Megan, you don’t have to help. It’s minging.’
But I want to. I find the plasters and use a wet wipe to try to clean around the wound. Eleni even thought to pack some antiseptic cream and I dab it on, grimacing when Jasmine draws in a sharp breath.
I find the biggest, most padded plaster I can and carefully lay it over the top. I start to clean up, picking the plaster tabs out of the grass, but Jasmine reaches for my hand. ‘Thanks,’ she says.
Once again, she doesn’t look away, but holds my gaze just a little too long. Maybe I didn’t imagine it last night? Jasmine’s hand is still on mine – it feels so good there – and she has the strangest expression on her face, which even I can’t read.
Jasmine starts to speak, but her words trail off when we catch the sound of footsteps tromping through the grass.
I tense. Jasmine gasps and squints at the figure swaggering across the field towards us. ‘It … it’s Owen! I forgot I told him where we’d be.’
You did what? This was supposed to be just us. I can’t believe you did that!
Jasmine is too busy scrabbling around for a hairbrush to notice how annoyed I am. I slip into the tent. It’s almost unbearably hot. But I’m not going back out again. No way.
‘Hi,’ Jasmine says a few moments later.
Owen grunts a reply. ‘All right?’
There’s a metallic clicking sound. I’m not sure what it is, until I smell cigarette smoke. Owen must be flipping the lid of a lighter up and down. Does he really think that’s impressive?
‘Where’s your mate?’ he asks.
Click, click.
‘In the tent. I think … Well, she’s lying down. Not feeling too great.’
Liar. Why don’t you just tell him that I don’t like him?
‘Want a fag?’
Click, click.
‘No, thanks.’
‘Wanna come for a walk?’
She can’t go with him. She wouldn’t.
‘Er … I dunno. Can Megan come?’
‘I came to see you.’
It sounds as if he starts to walk away, then Jasmine cries, ‘No, wait!’
Please don’t go off with him. I don’t trust him.
You’re just jealous.
‘Well? You coming or what?’
‘Yeah. All right.’ Jasmine raises her voice, though she must know I can hear everything. ‘Be back in a bit, Megan.’
Don’t bother! You’d obviously rather spend time with your idiot boyfriend than me!
How could I think she had feelings for me? How could I be so stupid? I imagine Jasmine telling Owen, ‘I think Megan’s got a girl-crush on me. It’s starting to get a bit weird.’ I can see them laughing. My face burns.
I scrunch Jasmine’s sleeping bag in my fists. Her scent wafts up from it. I let out a strangled scream and claw at the material, pulling and twisting until a rip opens in the lining. I chuck it out of the tent, followed by her pyjamas, her bag, and anything else I can find. Then I’m outside, wailing, kicking over the camp stove, flinging water bottles, lobbing pans across the field until my arms ache. I collapse in a shuddering heap.
That’s when I realise what I’ve done. I let Jasmine go. I let her leave, knowing it was dangerous. I should’ve looked after her, just like I should’ve looked after Hana.
I tear off in the direction I think they went. I don’t get far before I hear footsteps running towards me, and Owen’s voice. I can’t hear Jasmine replying. He must be on the phone. I dart behind a cluster of trees and listen.
‘Yeah, it’s bad. Went up like a beast … Well, I left her, didn’t I? It’s her own fault if the silly cow thinks she can put out a fire on her own.’
Fire?
A forest fire?
OhmyGod. JASMINE!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I’m running.
Jasmine.
Feet pounding ground.
Please, Jasmine.
Left, then right.
Please don’t be hurt.
Arms pumping.
I’m sorry.
Legs flying.
I should’ve gone with you.
Breaths gasping.
Why haven’t you come back?
Blood rushing.
What if I’m too late?
*
Above the treeline, flames lick the sky. It’s been days, weeks, since it rained. The whole forest – parched trees, dry bracken, brittle pinecones – is one great pile of kindling.
I reach the top of a small hill and see it all. My legs fold beneath me, my knees crunching on hard mud as I fall. The fire devours everything with an insatiable hunger. It crackles and spits, roars and hisses. Smoke gusts across the field, snagging in my throat.
Where is she? I can’t see her!
Every sense is screaming at me to run away.
You’re afraid. You don’t have it in you.
SHUT UP!
I have to find Jasmine. I hurtle forward, clearing the field in seconds, then I
plunge into the smoke.
My airway clogs. I try to drag in some clean air, but the smoke is too thick. Ripples of heat blast my skin. My eyes sting. Throat burns. I can hardly see.
Jasmine could be anywhere. How can I find her? Unless … My voice. But I can’t. I can’t just switch it on like that. My windpipe is almost blocked, my breaths grating in and out. I’m coughing so much I don’t think I can stop. I can’t. I’m sorry, Jasmine. I can’t do it.
A memory shoots through me. The way Jasmine looked as she slept this morning, freckles dancing across her nose. Several more images crash into my mind: the look she gave me just half an hour ago, the way she touched my hair last night.
I can do this. For her. I try to shout, ‘Jasmine!’ but my voice is just a feeble croak. There’s no response. I cough, then shout once more.
Against the thunderous bellow of the fire, I don’t stand a chance.
My vision slides as I’m battered with waves of dizziness. I don’t know where the ground is any more. I can’t feel my feet on it. I’m floating. My legs give in. I sink down. Close my eyes.
‘Help!’
I open them.
‘Somebody help me!’ Jasmine’s voice is weak. In pain.
I sit up, start to crawl towards her. She’s not far.
Keep shouting, Jasmine. Keep shouting! I’m coming.
‘Somebody, please!’
I think I’m close, but her voice is quieter. Is she losing consciousness? I reach out, feeling blindly. But there’s nothing but air. Where is she? I can’t hear her any more! I can’t see a thing. I’ve got ash in my eyes. God, it kills!
Then my fingers collide with something – her arm or leg – and I almost weep with relief. Is she breathing? My stomach twists. Please, let her be breathing. I can’t lose her.
I rest my head against Jasmine’s chest. It doesn’t move. I cry out, clutch her face, let a few tears spill. More rise up, but I fight them down. I can’t lose it now. Come on, Jasmine. Her chest rises, but only a little.
I shake her shoulders. Nothing. I try again, more vigorously, until Jasmine’s head knocks against the ground. I slap her cheek, but I know I haven’t hit her hard enough to bring her round. What the hell do I do? How am I going to move her? I tell myself not to panic, but the word is like a trigger, and suddenly there’s a vice around my throat. I’m choking. I’m going to die here. We’re both going to die here!
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