I walk home with feet full of lead. There’s so much pinging around my brain, I can’t keep track of it all. A dull ache gathers around my temples, then spreads across the base of my skull, where it lingers for the rest of the day.
That night, Mum announces that she’s going to call Eleni.
I pause, my fork halfway between the plate and my mouth. Why?
‘I’m fed up of you slouching around the house, feeling sorry for yourself. This has gone on long enough. Whatever it is, you and Jasmine need to sort it out.’
I grab an old newspaper and write: I’ve tried. I wrote her a letter and went round to see her. She doesn’t want anything to do with me.
‘Well, that’s not good enough! You can’t give up. I lost a lot of mates when …’
When you had me, I think. Go on, say it!
‘Well, I … I just wish I’d made more of an effort to keep them.’
I scrawl: How is it that all your problems are my fault?
‘What are you on about? I didn’t say that. I just don’t want you to repeat my mistakes.’
What, I think, like getting pregnant? Because that’s the one mistake you’ll never stop regretting.
I push back my chair, glad to see Mum wince as it scrapes across the tiles.
‘Megan!’ she shouts as I storm away. ‘She’s the best friend you’ve had since … Look, I’m just saying, there aren’t many people who would … this is all coming out wrong. Megan! Are you listening to me? She’s worth fighting for.’
I know that.
But I don’t know how else to fight. It’s killing me that I can’t fix this. I’m sick of trying to guess what’s going through Jasmine’s mind; tired of worrying that I’ve lost her for ever.
That’s another friend you’ve driven away. You’re poison.
I write Mum a note to apologise, but ask her not to interfere. She grudgingly agrees not to call Eleni. I know she just wants to help. She wants me to be happy. I get that. But, right now, the only person who can make me happy doesn’t want anything to do with me.
Things are a bit off between Mum and me for a couple of days. I know I’ve been acting like the stroppy teenager from hell. I decide to make her a cake. Baking’s not really my thing, so I choose the simplest recipe I can find: a sponge. When it’s all blended up, the mixture seems too runny. I check the cookbook and realise I’ve used one egg too many, so I add more sugar and flour.
It still seems too wet, so I shove it in the oven and increase the cooking time to dry it out. When Mum gets in, an hour later, I’m mixing up some icing to try to cover the burnt bits. She takes one look at me, with icing sugar peppered across my face and down my jeans; and the kitchen, which is a mess of broken eggshells and spilled flour, and bursts into laughter. It’s not long before I join in, and we eat spoons of icing straight from the bowl until we feel sick.
Mum and I are languishing on the sofa in sugar-induced comas when the doorbell rings.
‘You go, Megan. I can’t be arsed,’ Mum groans.
I shake my head. She knows I never answer the door to strangers.
‘Go on,’ she urges, nudging my leg with her toe.
I giggle and gently kick her away.
Mum huffs but gets up, grumbling as she shuffles to the door.
I mute the TV so I can listen. I hear the surprise in Mum’s voice. My heart stops. Then beats again, really fast.
Jasmine.
I leap up and rush into the corridor, practically barging Mum out of the way.
Jasmine looks pale and stricken. Despite everything, all I want to do is wrap my arms around her.
‘Can I come in?’ she asks.
I nod, heat creeping up my neck, over my face. As we walk up the stairs, I glance back at Mum, who’s watching us both with a soft smile.
In my room, Jasmine is stiff and formal. Worry draws her face into tight lines that weren’t there before.
There’s a weighty silence.
‘How are you? I mean, apart from everything …’ Jasmine’s words fall clumsily from her mouth.
Another silence.
‘Bet you never thought you’d see me lost for words!’
Jasmine smiles, but she’s on the brink of tears. Her mouth twists as she tries to hold them back.
After a few seconds, she gives in and starts to cry. I can’t do anything but watch helplessly. I want to touch her, but what if she shrugs me off?
I can’t bear it any more. I throw my arms around her. For a second, Jasmine tenses. I’m about to let her go, until she sinks into me, her body overrun with sobs.
I’m crying too. I don’t know why Jasmine’s here but, for the moment, I don’t care. As long as I can hold her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jasmine gasps. ‘You must think I’m crazy, just turning up like this. I just … I’m still so confused, but I’ve been miserable without you.’
I pull her close. Jasmine’s scent makes me dizzy – that sweet, smoky incense. She strokes my hair, the back of my neck. Shivers shoot down my spine.
‘Megan,’ Jasmine mumbles. ‘I’ve really missed you.’
My voice rises, desperate to escape, to tell her how I feel. Four words slip through my teeth. ‘I missed you too,’ I say in a dry whisper. The words taste wonderful, like chocolate melting in my mouth.
Jasmine smiles and starts to cry again. ‘I love your voice,’ she murmurs. ‘I do have feelings for you, Megan, but I’m so messed up about the whole thing. The last person I ever want to hurt is you. And I don’t want to ruin our friendship. I don’t want to lose you.’
You won’t lose me. I won’t let that happen.
I pull away and gently hold Jasmine’s face. Her lips are swollen, her nose red, but I still want her so badly. I move closer. Jasmine shuts her eyes. I feel the first, wonderful brush of her breath against my lips.
A floorboard creaks outside my room. Jasmine’s head snaps round and she breaks away from me with a gasp. I turn to see what she’s looking at.
This isn’t happening.
My bedroom door is wide open.
Please, tell me this isn’t happening.
Mum is standing in the corridor.
Did she see?
I look at her face.
She saw.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Mum drops the pile of washing she’s carrying. I feel like it’s happening in slow motion, like we’re all plunging down with it, spinning through the air, until it hits the floor.
I drag my gaze from Mum and look at Jasmine, who is blushing furiously, a sheen of tears across her eyes.
No one speaks. No one breathes. No one moves.
Until Mum hauls her gaping mouth shut. ‘Were you about to kiss her?’ she asks me.
I want to shake my head, deny everything, but I just stare at her.
‘Angela, Miss Thomas,’ Jasmine says. ‘I was just upset. Megan was comforting me.’
‘No. She was going to kiss you. What’s going on here? Are you two together? Is that why you haven’t been round for ages? Because you broke up?’
‘No!’ Jasmine replies quickly. ‘We kissed once. That was all, I swear. I don’t really know … what this is. I don’t think either of us do.’
I nod.
Mum kneels down and starts to pick the washing up, one piece at a time. She folds everything into little squares, even the socks, running her fingers along the edges to make sure they’re folded properly. I throw Jasmine a horrified look. That’s so not my mum!
Mum stands abruptly, says, ‘Well, I’d better get this wash load on,’ and hurries downstairs.
‘Isn’t it already clean?’ Jasmine mouths.
I nod.
She gives me a sad smile. ‘I’m going to go. Leave you two to talk.’
I nod again. I want to ask her to stay, to promise she’ll come back, but she’s right. I need to sort things out with Mum first.
After Jasmine has left, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the floor, trying to figure out what Mum’s thinki
ng. OK, she did just see me almost kiss a girl, which is bound to mess with her head a bit, but would she have a problem if I preferred girls to boys? Do I prefer girls to boys? Or is it just Jasmine? God, even I don’t know!
I venture downstairs to make Mum a cup of tea. She’s staring out of the kitchen window, playing with one of her hoop earrings. As I fill the kettle and find her favourite mug – the blue one with the bumblebees – she just watches me, saying nothing.
When the tea is ready, I press the mug into her hand and she takes it automatically, smiling and thanking me. She murmurs something about the wash, picks up her neatly folded pile, and heads for the utility room.
We eat microwaved roast dinners in front of the TV. The gravy is watery and over-salted. I let some of it drip through the prongs in my fork before taking a mouthful. Mum is picking at the meat and ignoring all the veg. She occasionally looks up at the TV, but she’s not really watching it.
We both go to bed early, though it’s obvious that neither of us will sleep. A few hours later, my mobile rings. No one ever rings me. But it’s Jasmine, so I pick up.
‘Don’t worry,’ she whispers. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I was just thinking that you might not be able to sleep.’
I smile into the phone. Just the sound of Jasmine’s voice is like a sedative, creeping through me and soothing every angry, confused and frustrated thought.
‘So I was wondering,’ she says softly, ‘if I could just talk to you for a bit? And maybe it’ll help. If you don’t want me to, just hang up. I won’t be offended, I promise.’
I snuggle into my pillow and prop the phone against my ear as Jasmine starts to tell me about the pine forests in Cyprus and the mountain trails that meander through them. There’s a riverside walk which ends in a waterfall, and it’s so isolated you can strip off to your underwear and stand beneath it.
When I wake the next morning, I can’t remember anything else Jasmine said. I must’ve fallen asleep after a few minutes.
Mum’s already in the kitchen when I come down. She chats a bit about work, but she’s still quite subdued. I chuck some cereal in a bowl and shovel it down so I can escape upstairs. Ten minutes later, Mum leaves for work, early for once.
She couldn’t stand to be around you any longer.
I’m not sure if Jasmine will come today, but when I glance out of the window, I see her hovering in the street outside. She seems to be a bit apprehensive about ringing the doorbell. But as soon as I go out, her face relaxes. ‘Was it OK, what I did last night?’ she asks.
I grin. It was more than OK. It was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. God, I wish I had the words.
I squeeze her hand – I love feeling her skin against mine – and hope she understands.
Jasmine catches me up on everything that’s happened since the fire. I’m listening, but my mind is full of other stuff, like how to figure out what’s going on between us, or what I’m going to do about Mum. But when Jasmine starts talking about the fire, I snap to attention.
‘They still haven’t found who started it. It’s really creeping me out, Megan. Someone has it in for me.’
I frown and write: What do you mean? I thought it was Owen. He was mucking around with that lighter.
Jasmine gasps, then grabs my arm. ‘I didn’t tell you! I saw someone running away. It wasn’t Owen. He was with me when the fire started.’
What?
‘And someone trashed our campsite. Didn’t Mum mention it when she dropped your stuff off? They ripped my sleeping bag. Left another note inside.’
What’s she saying? It was me who wrecked the campsite, tore the sleeping bag. But I didn’t leave a note … did I? Am I actually losing my mind? No. It’s not me. It can’t be. I would know. I would remember. As if I could kill a cat, start a forest fire. That’s ridiculous.
Is it?
‘The police are taking the notes seriously now. They’re checking them for fingerprints, or whatever it is they do.’
What the hell are they going to find? It can’t be me. It can’t be.
Are you sure?
‘Anyway, as soon as the fire started, Owen did a runner. Said he’d almost been done for arson a couple of years ago, and that the police would pin it on him. So he just left me. What a bastard! We’re definitely over.’
Definitely over. Thank God for that. At least something good has come out of all this. But still … someone deliberately started that fire and I know it wasn’t me. I glance at Jasmine. Nobody’s going to hurt her. Nobody.
*
Jasmine and I pop over to hers to watch a DVD in the afternoon. When I get home, Mum is waiting for me. ‘Hello,’ she says, standing in the doorframe and wringing her hands. ‘Can we talk? I mean … you know what I mean.’
I follow her to the kitchen and lower myself into a chair, heart thudding. I pick up a pen and watch as it twirls through my fingers like a baton. I feel like they’re someone else’s fingers.
Mum pulls out a chair opposite me. She pauses for a long moment, then asks quietly, ‘How long has this thing with Jasmine been going on?’
I write: It isn’t really a thing. I don’t know. We kissed after the fire. But I’ve been having feelings for her for a while.
‘How could you not tell me?’
Mum’s eyes are all red and she’s covering her mouth with her hand.
I didn’t know how to, I start to scribble.
Mum interrupts. ‘Do you talk to her?’
I give her a questioning look.
‘I bet you do, don’t you? I bet you talk to her all the time. I’m your mum, Megan, but you trust her more than you trust me.’ Her voice breaks. ‘You’ve been going through … all this … and I didn’t even know. I don’t know you, Megan. I feel like I don’t know you!’
I struggle with the apple-sized lump in my throat. Is that why you’re upset? I write. Not because I was going to kiss a girl?
Mum swats it away as if it’s nothing. ‘I don’t care about that!’ she cries. ‘I mean, I’ll admit it was a bit of a shock. I’m still getting my head around it, but I don’t care. Not really. I don’t know if this is just a phase, but it’s fine if you want to, you know, experiment, find yourself, or whatever. I just can’t believe I didn’t know how you were feeling! I should’ve known.’
I reach for her hand, but she pulls away.
‘So do you talk to Jasmine?’
I look her in the eyes, then I write: I’ve said a couple of things to her.
Mum nods. She tries to hide how hurt she is, but she lets out a massive sob. ‘I try my best, Megan. I know I’m a bit of a mess. I’m a lot of things, but I’m still your mum. And I don’t get why you can’t just open up to me. I was hoping things would be better between us after Grandpa died. I thought you might … I don’t know, turn to me instead.’
My heart crumples like a crushed can. I had no idea she felt like that. I kick back my chair to rush over and throw my arms around her, holding tight.
‘I love you, Mum,’ I murmur.
The colour leaves her face and, for a moment, it’s her who’s speechless. Mum swallows, then says in a croaky voice, ‘I love you too, so much.’
We spend a good ten minutes crying into each other’s arms, until my stomach rumbles loudly.
Mum swipes mascara streaks from her face. ‘Let’s have a takeaway for dinner. Treat ourselves!’
I nod and go off to find a menu, leaving her to repair her make-up.
*
A couple of days later, Jasmine has an announcement to make. ‘We’ve booked a last-minute holiday to Cyprus,’ she says, ‘and we want you to come!’
‘Me? Go to Cyprus? When?’
‘On the day the exam results come out.’
I leap forward, clutching her in a tight hug.
Jasmine gives me an impulsive kiss. Then her eyes soften and her movements become more slow and gentle, almost shy, as she kisses me again.
Afterwards, Jasmine starts to gush about what we’
re going to do in Cyprus. I’ve noticed that, as I’ve started to speak more, Jasmine has got better at listening, and not talking so much herself. But I let her get away with it this time, because it’s just so adorable.
‘It’s going to be amazing, Megan. I’ve already planned where I’m going to take you. There’s this awesome taverna in the mountains where they do an incredible mezze. The best in Cyprus! Just when you think you can’t eat any more, they bring out a plate of chips. They’re gorgeous. All greasy and soft and freshly cooked.’
My mouth waters. A year ago, I wouldn’t have imagined I’d be brave enough to go to Cyprus, but one look at Jasmine and I know I’d follow her anywhere.
I ask Mum as soon as she gets home. She’s glancing over a pile of letters, but stops to look up at me. I catch a flicker of jealousy before she hides it and smiles. ‘Course you can, you lucky cow!’
Her eyes flit down to a bank statement and her mouth pinches. ‘As long as you’re happy to use some of the money that Grandpa left you?’
I throw myself at her and she sort of gasps and laughs at the same time. ‘We’ll need to get you ready. You’ll definitely need a pedicure if you’re going to be sunbathing. Do you even own a bikini? You’ll need to get everything waxed.’
I snort. As if!
I start to go upstairs.
‘Hang on a minute,’ Mum says, thrusting something at me. ‘This one’s for you.’
I open it in my room. It’s from the photography competition organisers. My hands shake as I skim the letter. All I see are the words ‘regret to inform you’. Damn. I haven’t won.
I give it a second, more thorough read and realise I’ve been ‘highly commended’ for the picture of Jasmine I submitted to the ‘Humans and Nature’ category. It’s been posted on their website.
I charge into the spare room and switch on our archaic computer, drumming my fingers against the mouse as it boots up. When I finally get the website to load, I flick through the shots until I find my picture: a close-up of Jasmine, her hazel eyes reflecting silhouettes of the trees above.
Unspeakable Page 17
