But sorry isn’t good enough. Not when I know Bonnie has no intention of backing up her apology with a change in behaviour. Coming out of Bonnie’s mouth, ‘sorry’ is a nothing word – flimsy and meaningless. She may as well be saying ‘teapot’ or ‘dragonfly’ or ‘vanilla custard’.
Bonnie starts the engine and reverses out of the space, almost clipping the car parked next to us. It’s started to rain again, the miserable grey sky suiting my mood perfectly. I rest my head against the window and watch the raindrops roll down the glass, tracing their watery tracks as I try my hardest not to cry.
By the time I’ve changed my bedding, been to the launderette and cleaned as much of the house as logistically possible, it’s way past my usual bedtime. Noah messages to ask how my day’s been, but I’m too ashamed to even reply.
I put my phone away and perch on the edge of the overflowing bathtub and read the permethrin instruction leaflet. As directed, I remove all of my clothes and smother every centimetre of my body with the thick sticky cream, my body trembling with cold and resentment.
This is all Bonnie’s fault, and she didn’t even have the decency to help me clean up the place. After I refused her apology, she spent the rest of the car journey in a sulk and the moment we got home from the pharmacy she retreated to the living room, shutting the door and turning on both the TV and radio at full blast like a moody teenager.
I hate you, I think as I apply the cream between my toes.
‘I hate you,’ I say out loud as I rub it under my armpits and in the creases of my elbows.
I begin to cry – my scalding hot tears making my entire body shake.
‘I hate you,’ I sob as I use a cotton bud to apply the cream under my finger and toenails.
My sobs become louder, wetter, angrier. It feels good to let some of the fury and frustration and pain out. It isn’t enough though. I need more. More of a release.
‘I hate you,’ I yell as I pull on my pyjamas, the cotton clinging to my slightly sticky body. I hold my breath, before realizing there’s no way my voice can be heard over the blizzard of noise coming from the living room below.
‘I hate you!’ I yell again, louder this time. ‘I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!’
By the time I collapse into bed, I’m weak with exhaustion. The anger is still raw, but I feel a little calmer, my breathing slow and even.
I’m about to turn out my light when I catch sight of the creased National Youth Choir of Great Britain leaflet on my desk. I’ve been meaning to get rid of it all week, but for some reason I haven’t got round to it. I slip out of bed and retrieve it, climbing back under the duvet and staring at the otherworldly faces of the smiling singers.
What would Bonnie do in this situation? I don’t have to ponder. I know what she’d do. Because in Bonnie’s world, Bonnie always puts herself first. My entire life revolves around protecting her and this stupid house. Why shouldn’t I do something for myself for once?
I check the time: 11.52. I pull out my laptop from under my bed, open it up, and before I can talk myself out of it, type the choir’s website address into the search bar.
19
The week starts quietly, mainly because Tanvi is on a geography field trip on Monday and Tuesday.
‘Did you miss me?’ she asks when we’re reunited in registration on Wednesday morning.
‘Terribly,’ I deadpan.
‘Knew you would,’ she replies, grinning.
‘What happened to you on Friday by the way?’ she asks.
‘Friday?’
‘Yeah. In PE.’
‘Oh, period pain,’ I say quickly. ‘Came on really suddenly.’
‘Oh, poor you.’
Even though the spots have faded a bit, my skin continues to itch like mad.
I brace myself for Tanvi to comment on not seeing me on Saturday (unable to cope with an ambush, I’d missed out Hopewood Gardens on my round) and feel relieved when she doesn’t mention it, bombarding me with gossip from the field trip instead.
*
It’s Friday morning and I’m drying my hair before school when there’s a knock at my bedroom door. I switch off my hairdryer and set it down on the bed.
‘Come in,’ I say.
The door eases open and Bonnie steps inside. In her leopard-print silk dressing gown and pink fluffy slippers, she looks totally out of place in my sparse white room.
I haven’t seen her much all week. I’ve been avoiding her, carefully timing my visits to the kitchen and bathroom, and I get the feeling she’s been doing the same, hiding out in the living room with the door firmly shut.
Her eyes roam around the room, taking in the empty surfaces, the bare walls, the light streaming in through the unobscured windows.
‘What’s up, Bonnie?’ I ask, my voice flat.
‘Oh. This came for you,’ Bonnie says, looking uncharacteristically awkward. ‘It looked important so I thought I’d better bring it up.’
She hands over a white envelope. I take it from her and place it face down on the duvet next to me. As Bonnie continues to hover, it dawns on me that this might be her idea of a peace offering.
Too little, far too late.
I pick up the hairdryer and continue drying my hair. The roar in my ears triggers a memory. On cold nights when I was little, Bonnie used to peel back my duvet and blast the sheets with a hairdryer to warm them up. The rattling wheeze of the hairdryer – an ancient old thing with a frayed cord – used to scare me, so Bonnie came up with a special dance for us to do as a distraction – the ‘hairdryer boogie’.
I glance up at Bonnie and just like that the memory dissolves. The woman in front of me may look like the woman who used to make me giggle until my stomach hurt, but right now I refuse to connect the two.
Bonnie seems to get the message, taking one last look around before backing out of the room, gently closing the door behind her.
I wait until she’s returned downstairs before turning over the envelope, blinking in surprise at the sight of the National Youth Choir of Great Britain logo stamped next to the postmark.
My heartbeat quickening, I open the envelope and skim-read the letter inside.
I have an audition a week on Saturday.
After PE, I head to choir with Tanvi with no arguments. When Mr Milford asks for a volunteer to sing solo on the new song we’re working on, she mimes zipping her lips before sitting on her hands.
After the rehearsal is over, I tell her to go ahead without me. I expect her to press me on it but she doesn’t, agreeing to see me in registration.
I hover at the back of the classroom while the classroom empties.
‘Good to have you back, Ro,’ Mr Milford says, catching sight of me. ‘I was worried I’d scared you off when I didn’t see you last week.’
‘Oh, I was ill,’ I say, instinctively pulling the sleeves of my jumper down over my fingers.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. All better now?’
‘Yeah, I think so.’
‘So, what can I do for you?’
I hand him the audition notification letter. As he reads it, a broad smile spreads across on his face.
‘You applied,’ he says.
‘Yeah …’
‘I’m so pleased.’
‘I’m not sure I’m going to go,’ I blurt.
Mr Milford frowns. ‘Why’s that?’
‘I just don’t think it’s for me.’
‘Then why did you apply?’
Because I was angry.
Because I was upset.
Because I wanted to do something for myself for once.
Only now a week has passed and the anger I felt has been replaced with guilt and doubt and fear.
‘I don’t know,’ I say.
‘I wouldn’t have encouraged you to apply if I didn’t think you had a chance, you do know that, don’t you?’
I shrug.
‘What makes you think it’s not for you?’
‘Well, it’s for posh kids, isn�
�t it?’
‘Am I posh?’
‘I don’t know,’ I stammer.
Mr Milford laughs. ‘Ro, I grew up on one of the toughest estates in Sunderland. Believe me when I say there was nothing remotely posh about my upbringing. Didn’t stop me joining the choir, though.’
‘You were a member?’ I ask.
‘Yep. For seven years. Had the time of my life.’
‘Really?’
‘Too right. It’s where I met some of my very best mates.’
‘But weren’t all the other kids posh?’
‘A few were. Loads weren’t though. And none of that matters anyway. There’s something about it being totally separate from home and school that puts everyone on level pegging. There’s no hierarchy – you’re all just in it together.’
I hadn’t thought of it like that. If I were in the choir, there’d be no risk of anyone finding out about Bonnie the way there is at school. I could start all over again, be anyone I wanted to be. The thought gives me a jolt of excitement.
‘But isn’t it really expensive?’ I ask.
‘Not as much as you’d think. And there are bursaries for families struggling to cover all the costs. That’s how I managed to do it. We can cross that bridge though, if and when we come to it. Our priority right now is the audition and picking you a killer audition song. Any ideas?’
‘God, I don’t know,’ I say.
‘We’ve only got a week so it’s probably best to go for something you’re already comfortable with. Anything spring to mind?’
I shake my head, my mind completely blank.
‘It doesn’t have to be complicated. At this stage, they just want to get an idea of pitch and tone and so on. What sort of music do you like?’
‘All sorts,’ I say.
Mr Milford nods encouragingly.
‘Er, The Carpenters, Tori Amos, Kate Bush, Fleetwood Mac …’ I say, listing the artists I grew up listening to via Bonnie – the soundtrack to my childhood.
‘Nice! I approve! Do you have a favourite song?’
‘I don’t know … Um, I guess I quite like “Rainy Days and Mondays” by The Carpenters.’
For a while, Bonnie performed as a Karen Carpenter tribute act. She’d spend hours singing along to The Carpenters’ most famous songs, trying to make her voice blend with Karen’s. ‘Rainy Days and Mondays’ was the track I’d always listen out for. I’m not sure why that one stuck out so much, only that there was something about the mournful saxophone solo and the sadness in Karen’s voice that made my heart twist and yearn for something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Mr Milford sits down at the piano and begins to play the introduction from memory. ‘Do you know the lyrics by heart?’ he asks.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Let’s give it a go. I can prompt you if you get stuck. I’m a BIG Carpenters fan so I’ve got you covered.’
I’m surprised when I get the first lyric correct. And the next one, and the next, the words flowing without hesitation. They must have been tucked at the very back of my brain this entire time.
When I finish singing, I notice Mr Milford is frowning slightly.
‘Did I do something wrong?’ I ask, fiddling with my shirt cuffs.
‘No, no. I mean, technically it’s great. I just feel like you’re not quite connecting to the lyrics yet.’ He pauses to recite the first verse. ‘Pretty powerful stuff, right?’ he says.
‘I suppose.’
‘So how do these words make you feel?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say, shifting from one foot to the other.
‘You sure about that?’ Mr Milford asks, cocking his head to one side.
I bite my lip. I understand the lyrics perfectly well. Maybe too well. Perhaps it was a mistake to pick this song. Perhaps it’s too reminiscent of Bonnie, too close to home. I should have suggested something pretty and light and superficial. Something I can smile my way through.
‘Look, I get what they’re saying,’ I say hurriedly. ‘But I can’t force feelings.’
‘I’m not asking you to force anything, Ro. But here’s the thing, the panel will be looking for good voices and musicianship, of course, but they’re going to want to see that you can put across the meaning of a song too. It’s all about connecting with your audience. No matter how powerful, the lyrics can only take you so far. It’s up to the performer to communicate the emotional heart of the song.’
‘Even as part of a choir?’ I ask.
‘Especially as part of a choir. That’s part of their magic.’
I know he’s right. I’ve watched enough YouTube videos of the National Youth Choir of Great Britain now to realize their success is about so much more than just hitting the right notes.
‘How about we take it from the top,’ Mr Milford suggests. ‘And I want you to really think about the lyrics this time.’
‘OK.’
‘Forget I’m even here,’ Mr Milford says as he plays the introduction. ‘Turn your back on me if you need to, go stand in the corner, look out the window, close your eyes. Whatever works.’
I take this advice, angling my body in the opposite direction and shutting my eyes. As the introduction plays, the same bittersweet cocktail of emotions I used to experience when Bonnie sang along with The Carpenters begins to stir. Instead of trying to ignore them and squash them down, I let them swirl and build. And for maybe the first time ever, I really listen to the lyrics. I’ve always found them sad, but I’ve never thought to apply to them to my own life before. It startles me to discover just how apt some of the references are.
And how sad they make me feel.
I’m used to anger and irritation and annoyance and resentment, but it’s rare I let sadness float to the surface. I had no idea I had so much of it inside me – I’m full up with it.
Then Mr Milford is applauding. And I’m blinking hard. I’ve finished the end of the song without even realizing it. I lift my fingers to my cheeks. They’re wet. Quickly, I wipe them dry with the sleeve of my jumper before turning back to face Mr Milford.
‘Now that’s what I’m talking about!’ he says, his eyes shining.
And I can’t help it – my lips curl up into a massive grin.
‘Oh my God, Ro, you sounded amazing just then!’ Tanvi squeaks, scrambling to her feet as I close the door to Mr Milford’s classroom behind me.
‘What are you still doing here?’ I ask.
‘Duh! Waiting for you,’ Tanvi says happily.
‘But I told you to go ahead without me.’
‘I know. What was that song you were singing just then?’
‘Nothing special. Just something Mr Milford’s helping me with.’
‘What for? Ooh, is it to do with that fancy choir?’
My hesitation gives me away.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ Tanvi cries, skipping sideways along the corridor. ‘So you did apply! That’s so great! When’s the audition?’
‘Next weekend,’ I admit.
‘Is that the song you’re singing for it?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Oh my God, you’re so going to get in!’ Tanvi says, gripping onto my arm with that watertight grip of hers. ‘I can feel it in my skinny little bones!’
‘I’m really not,’ I say.
‘We’ll see, Ro Snow,’ Tanvi calls over her shoulder as she pirouettes down the corridor. ‘We shall see.’
20
As usual, Melanie looks momentarily surprised to discover me on the doorstep after school.
‘Has it really been a month since your last visit?’ she asks, wiping her hands on her frilly pink apron and stepping aside to let me in.
‘So it would seem,’ I say, squeezing past her into the immaculate hallway, automatically taking off my shoes.
‘Izzy! Ro’s here!’ Melanie trills up the stairs.
No answer.
Dad and Melanie love to keep up the charade that Izzy ‘worships’ me when the truth is that Izzy appeared
entirely indifferent to my visits right from the beginning, regarding me with weary eyes even as a four-year-old.
‘I’ll just go dump my things and make a start on my homework,’ I say.
‘Good idea,’ Melanie replies, absent-mindedly patting me on the shoulder before drifting back into the kitchen.
I trudge up the stairs, past the numerous photographs of Dad, Melanie and Izzy. They go to a professional photographer every summer, posing against a white background wearing coordinating primary colours, hugging and giggling and looking every inch the textbook happy family.
On my way to the spare room, I glance in on Izzy. Her room is headache-inducing pink. The star attraction is her bed, with its heart-shaped headboard and ruffled canopy, dozens of tiny fairy lights sewn into the gauzy material. Izzy is currently lying on it, her head propped up on a pile of fluffy cushions as she taps away on her iPad. If she senses my presence, she doesn’t feel the need to register it.
Dinner is beef tacos. As we eat, Dad grills Izzy about her day at school in forensic detail, expressing delight and fascination at every single mundane revelation.
‘How about you, Ro?’ he asks once he’s accounted for what feels like every second of Izzy’s day. ‘Good few weeks?’
‘Not really,’ I say.
Ordinarily, I give Dad the bland answers he wants but today I’m not in the mood to play along.
‘Why’s that, Rosebud?’ he says, reaching for a handful of cheese to sprinkle on top of his fourth taco.
‘Oh, where shall I start?’ I say. ‘The scabies? The fact I just had to extend our overdraft again? The twenty-four bottles of soy sauce under the kitchen table?’
He and Melanie exchange panicked looks. Izzy sits up straight, for once actually interested in something I have to say.
‘What are scabies?’ she asks.
‘Mites that bury under your skin,’ I reply.
‘Ew!’ she squeals.
‘Rosie, that’s enough,’ Dad says.
‘Oh, don’t worry, they’re only contagious if we hug for like twenty minutes or something and I’m pretty sure there’s no chance of that.’
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