“Steph,” Vicki reprimanded softly.
“Hey.” Steph wrapped an arm around my shoulders, drawing my gaze to her face. “You are who you are, Com. Doesn’t mean we don’t love you.”
I gave her a tremulous smile instead of scowling at her like I was mentally. Satisfied with my response, she dropped her arm and turned to Vicki. For the rest of break, whether they realized it or not, my friends spoke to one another like I wasn’t there. My chest ached as I watched Vicki laugh with Steph, and I realized that somehow over the last few weeks my best friend and I had grown apart. A wall had slowly risen between us, and I didn’t know how to stop it from becoming too epic to climb.
* * *
I saw Tobias in maths but didn’t speak to him.
I never saw him for the rest of the day. He and Stevie and their annoying crew weren’t in the cafeteria at lunch. The reprieve might have made me happy, until I realized Steph and Vicki were also nowhere to be seen. When I texted them, Vicki replied: We both had free period b4 lunch. Munchin’ @Nana’s. C U l8er. xx.
More hurt and irritation ripped through me. Nana’s was this great little café off Porty High Street that we all loved. Nice of them to tell me they were eating out of school. I could have joined them. Huffing, I yanked out a battered copy of Angela Carter’s The Magic Toyshop. I’d discovered Carter over the weekend when I’d read a review of one of her short story collections, written by a blogger I followed. I’d hit the library, determined to make my way through all her weird and wonderful work.
As amazing as her writing was, however, I couldn’t concentrate.
I hated this distance between my friends and me, and I felt solely to blame. But what could I do? Change who I was to keep them?
Every great book, play or poem in the world told you to be yourself, and I wanted to. I did. But clearly the authors of those works didn’t know what it was like to be a teenage girl in the twenty-first century.
* * *
My mood hadn’t lifted any by the time dinner rolled around. It was a typical day in our household. Carrie was locked in her studio working on another commissioned piece, and Dad had ordered Chinese food because he was actually making some progress with his book and couldn’t spare the thirty minutes it would take to cook something, apparently. My offer to make something was rejected.
“You know pork chow mein is my brain food,” he’d said.
Weird, weird choice of brain food, in my opinion.
Despite his excuse for not making dinner, he didn’t seem all that keen to get back to his office as he sat down at the kitchen island with me to eat.
“So, I saw you’re reading Hamlet for English,” Dad said, as he finished off his meal.
“Yeah.”
“I know you’ve probably read it a few times already.” No, really? Was it the big painted quote above my bed that gave it away? “But I wanted you to know I did a paper on it at uni. Just...well, if you ever need help.”
It was such a small thing, but the offer, the act of taking some interest in my life, lifted me from my melancholy. I sat up straighter in my stool. “Really?” I said.
My dad frowned at whatever he heard in my tone. “Of course.”
“I know you’re busy but...I have a presentation to write. I worked on it with a classmate and we’re almost finished. Would you...” I suddenly felt vulnerable all over again. Not quite as vulnerable as I’d felt knowing Tobias had read my notebook, but still... I never let my dad read my work. Maybe I’d lowered my guard because I was feeling especially alone in that moment. “Would you read through it for me?”
Dad beamed at me, seeming thrilled that I’d asked. “Of course, Com. Let me just run upstairs with food for your mum and then I’ll be down to read it.”
Just a few weeks ago, I would have resented the idea of Dad sticking his nose into my writing. It was amazing what a bad day could do to a person’s attitude.
While he carried a tray of food upstairs for Carrie, I hurried to my bedroom to print out what I’d written so far based on my and Tobias’s notes. Back in the kitchen with the essay, I waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
After twenty minutes, I went into the hall and quietly climbed a few stairs, straining to hear.
Carrie’s giggles and the low rumble of my dad’s voice met my ears. I climbed a few steps more. The sounds of kissing and soft moans filtered down from above and just like that, melancholy crashed back over me.
Resentment filled my chest until it was so tight that it hurt.
I strode back down the stairs and threw the essay into my room, the papers flying up and floating down to land all over. I grabbed my jacket from the coat hook by the door and shoved my feet into wellies while I zipped it up.
After wrenching open the front door, I stormed outside then slammed it shut, hoping the sound interrupted my parents’ amorous pursuits.
Selfish arseholes.
All of them.
Every one of them.
Or maybe I was the problem.
After all...out of everyone who had hurt me today, I was the only one who was alone.
Blinking back tears, I strode out of my garden and was almost out the gate when I heard Mrs. Cruickshank’s voice. “You all right, Comet?”
I turned to find her sitting on the bench that abutted the wall of her house, wearing a thick cardigan and cupping a mug of something that steamed in the chilled air. I was pretty sure it was peppermint tea, her favorite. “Hi, Mrs. Cruickshank.” I almost winced at the croaky sound my voice made in the air between us. I hoped she didn’t see the sheen of tears in my eyes.
I knew from the way she leaned forward, frowning, that she did. “Do you want to join me for a cup of tea and tell me your woes, sweetheart?”
On any other night I would. But tonight I just needed solitude. “Thanks, but I’m just going to take a walk.”
She nodded, seeming to understand. “Well, you know I’m always here. A cup of tea goes a long way to fixing a problem.”
I gave her a small smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Cruickshank.”
“Happy walking, Comet.” She sat back against the bench and raised her mug to me.
Giving her a small wave, I darted out of my garden and began to walk along the esplanade. The tide was high in the evenings this time of year, so I couldn’t walk along the beach. Instead I watched the water rush the sand, like fingertips stretching toward something that was just out of reach. It persevered, slowly but surely growing closer and closer to the wall of the esplanade.
“Comet?”
The familiar voice jerked me out of my isolated thoughts.
Somehow—and I didn’t know how—Tobias King was standing on the quiet, sand-speckled esplanade, staring at me. He wore only a thin sweater over a T-shirt, the fabric fluttering in the coastal wind. His hands were jammed into his jean pockets, and he was staring at me almost as if he were willing me not to run away.
“I was hoping I’d see you,” he said, taking a few steps toward me.
I hugged myself, wondering why this boy kept seeing me at my most vulnerable. “Why?”
Instead of answering me he asked, “May I walk with you a little?”
I didn’t know if it was his correct use of grammar or the gentlemanly way he asked...or if my reason for nodding yes was bigger than an appreciation of good manners. He’d caught me in a moment of absolute loneliness, and I was so desperate for company that I let myself believe he was sincere. Tobias’s interest in me was too tempting to ignore.
Falling into step beside him was surreal. Here was the most popular boy in our year walking beside me, casting me surreptitious looks as I tried to find something to say to him. Strangely, my struggle to find words wasn’t borne from shyness like it usually was. I was beyond that with Tobias now that he knew so much of me. In a weird way, knowing
that he seemed drawn to me even after he’d read my poetry obliterated my insecurities with him.
My inability to make conversation was borne of having too much to ask. I was no longer afraid of being nosy. He knew so much about me; it felt only fair that he reciprocate.
I didn’t know what to question him about first: his life before Scotland; his parents; why he was friends with Stevie and Co. Was it familial obligation? Still, I’d seen them interact at school and at home. The two cousins might seem like night and day, but they were clearly close.
Above all, I wanted to ask what was it about my poetry that drew Tobias to talk to me.
“Are you sure you’re not scared of me? Or shy, or whatever? Because you’re not talking.” Tobias gave me a small smile, but he looked uncertain.
The idea that this too cool, too popular, too good-looking boy was worried I was afraid of him or unnerved by him made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I grinned at him, and his eyes widened ever so slightly.
“I just don’t know what to ask first.”
“Meaning?”
“Well, you know so much about me already, I think you should allow me to ask some questions so we’re more even.”
Tobias considered this and then smirked at me. “Okay. Hit me with it.”
“Okay. Where in America are you from?”
It could have been my imagination, but he seemed to relax at the question as if he’d been expecting me to ask something that would make him uncomfortable. “I’m from North Carolina.”
“I thought people spoke with a Southern twang in North Carolina?”
“Some do. I’m from Raleigh, though.” He threw me a rueful look. “Plus, you know my mom is Scottish.”
“I take it that’s why you moved to Scotland? Your mum wanted to come home?”
Tobias’s shoulders hunched around his ears and he shuddered. “It’s cold. I should have brought a jacket.”
When no answer to my question was forthcoming, I frowned and stared out at the darkening sky and water. Hurt bloomed in my chest, and I tried to tell myself it was ridiculous to be hurt that Tobias wouldn’t share his story with me, but it didn’t work.
“My dad died.”
The words brought my head whipping around so fast that I felt a burn lash up my neck. Ignoring it, I stared up into Tobias’s pained expression, and the ache in my chest transformed. The pain was for him now.
He looked down at me and winced at whatever he saw in my face. “I don’t want pity, Comet.”
“It’s not pity. I’m just sorry, Tobias.”
His lips parted on an exhalation as he scrutinized me—my face, my words, everything. After a moment he nodded. “I believe you.”
“How did he...”
“Car crash.”
The words were bitten out, stolen not given, and I realized that I didn’t want Tobias to tell me all the meaningful things about his life if he was only doing it because he felt obligated to balance us out. It felt cruel, somehow. So I changed the subject. “Was school different in Raleigh?”
Tobias’s shoulders dropped from his ears and his features smoothed out. A light reentered his eyes, and I knew I’d made the right decision not to push him. He gave me a small, boyish smile that made my belly flutter. “A little different. I was different.”
“How so?”
“I was a straight-A student, youngest starting quarterback in my school in a decade, dating the head of the dance team, on the school paper, sophomore class president. You name it, I was it.”
Stunned, I tried to process what all that meant. It sounded to me like Tobias King had been a king at high school back in the States. I tried not to think about the kind of girl who would have been head of a dance team. Beautiful and athletic, no doubt.
My opposite.
I flinched, throwing the thought away. Tobias and I weren’t like that. Now that I knew he was hiding the pain of losing his father, his drastic shift in behavior here made total sense. Even his attitude toward Hamlet became clear—which, if you stripped away plot threads and themes, was at its core about a young man who loses his father. Maybe that was why Tobias liked my poems—because I admitted to loneliness in them. Maybe Tobias was lonely, too. It certainly seemed like there was disharmony between him and his mum. And although he had his cousin, Stevie didn’t cross me as someone Tobias could actually talk to.
Maybe he’d come to me because he wanted a friend. A real one. It wasn’t ideal considering the way butterflies raged to life in my belly anytime he smiled at me, but I liked the idea of being Tobias’s confidante. I liked the idea of him being mine.
A thought occurred to me as we strolled. Tobias’s life back in Raleigh sounded exhausting. “It sounds like a lot of pressure.”
He shot me a surprised look.
We stared at one another, slowly coming to a stop in silent mutual agreement.
“I guess,” he agreed.
“Is that why you’re friends with Stevie? I mean, I know he’s your cousin. But maybe it’s because he messes around and doesn’t put pressure on you to be responsible.”
Tobias’s eyebrows pinched together. “Stevie’s my friend because he’s my friend, not because he’s my cousin.”
“But you seem so different from one another.” I was trying to understand.
“Stevie is a good guy.”
I was concerned Stevie wasn’t a good guy and that he was more than likely going to lead Tobias down a dodgy path in life. Tobias was smart. Really smart. And I thought maybe buried beneath his rubbish attitude toward teachers and his mum was a good guy whose whole life had been upended. For all I knew Stevie was smart, too, but he wasn’t acting smart. He stood by while his friends bullied my classmates. He’d strolled into school with a black eye and a burst lip more than once from having fought with rival schoolkids from neighboring towns.
Worst still, rumor had it that he and his friends liked to shoplift in the city center. That was all crappy behavior that could lead to more dangerous behavior.
“Wait...” Tobias shook his head, as if he was confused about something. “I thought... Don’t you have a crush on Stevie?”
“A crush...on Stevie?”
He nodded, his gaze boring into me like he wanted to unearth all my secrets. “Stevie told me you have a crush on him.”
Bloody Heather!
My cheeks burned with embarrassment. “He still thinks that? That’s a rumor Heather McAlister made up years ago when she was intent on making my life miserable. Stevie? No!”
His expression cleared, and his shoulders seemed to relax. “No crush on Stevie?”
“You thought I liked Stevie this whole time?”
“Yeah.” He grinned suddenly. “Now I know you don’t.”
Unsure how to interpret his reaction, and wanting the conversation off me and any possibility of me having a crush on Stevie Macdonald, I opted for changing the subject. “Do you miss it? North Carolina? The high school, football, your girlfriend?” I almost winced at that last part.
“Not now.” He shrugged. “Maybe one day. But it’s kind of good to be free of all of it. My dad wanted a lot from me. I didn’t really have much time to be... I don’t know. I just didn’t have a lot of free time.”
“Your friends must miss you, though?”
He smirked but it was somewhat bitter. “My best friend, Jack, he’s a year older. A senior now. He’s starting quarterback on the team and he’s dating Ashley. My ex.” He threw me a dark look. “No one misses me, Comet. They moved on as soon as I left.”
“Have you?”
“Yeah. It’s high school. One day it’ll be a distant memory.”
I wasn’t sure that was an honest answer, but I thought Tobias believed it was, so I let it go. We walked along in companionable silence as I tried to find the courage to ask the question that had plagued me f
rom the moment he’d returned my notebook to me.
“Tobias?”
“Yeah?”
I liked the smile in his voice when he answered. It was a much nicer sound than the tight way he’d answered my questions about his old life. “Did you...” My stomach flipped so hard I had to suck in a breath against it.
“Comet?”
“Did you really like my poems?” The words rushed out of my mouth.
Quite abruptly Tobias stopped walking and turned to face me. The pull of his gaze was so strong I had no option but to stare up into his eyes. “Yes, Comet. I really liked your poems.”
Something warm and sweet flooded me but before it even had time to settle, he continued, “Reading them...well...it was the first time in a long time that I didn’t feel so alone.”
My breath stuttered at his confession and, standing there on the esplanade with this boy who had once been a stranger, I felt something within me shift. I suddenly felt this fierce protectiveness toward him. His kindness, his understanding and his connection to my poems created a bond that flared in the dusk between us.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel so alone either.
THE FRAGILE ORDINARYSAMANTHA YOUNG
10
Hope,
They say it dies last.
There’s a cruelty in its stubbornness.
Hope,
I hope it dies fast.
Or it could be the end of us.
—CC
I was filled with apprehension the next morning as I made my way to school. Last night had felt like a dream, like a scene from a book. Talking with Tobias had been surprisingly easy in a way conversation hadn’t been since I’d been about twelve.
When we were kids, Vicki, Steph and I had chatted with the same ease that we breathed in and out. Something had changed over the last few years, and talking with them had become more of a struggle. I was afraid of disappointing them the way I disappointed my parents.
For the first time in years, I’d talked without worrying about what the person listening might think. That the person I’d been talking to was Tobias King had been surreal. At first. Until he’d opened up to me and become just...Tobias.
The Fragile Ordinary Page 11
