The Truth and Lies of Ella Black

by Emily Barr

  I long to be the hugging type. I want to let my parents look after me, to have them stroke me and tell me that everything is going to be all right, that I’m not terminally ill, that this holiday is a weird treat because they love me so much.

  THAT’S NOT WHAT IT IS.

  I know.

  THEY’RE LYING.

  I know.

  DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.

  Mum hardly ever tries to hug me any more. She will never know that my good self has often kept away from her so Bella can’t hurt her, because Bella absolutely hates my mother.

  I don’t even want to be nice. Blotches dance across my vision.

  ‘I’m nearly eighteen,’ I whisper. They both have to lean back to hear me.

  SAY THE THINGS THAT WILL HURT THEM MOST.

  ‘I’m not your baby. I’m an adult now – I could get up and walk away from here and never speak to either of you ever again.’ I am holding the hammer, hitting the bird. ‘And I will. You don’t have the right to keep this secret from me. If you don’t tell me what’s going on, you don’t get to be my parents any more. You don’t trust me enough to tell me anything – I don’t trust you enough to live with you. That’s how it is.’

  A part of me gasps. I have never let Bella speak to them before. Not since I was tiny and I had what everyone called ‘tantrums’, before I learned that I had to hide them.

  ‘Ellie,’ says Dad. He puts a hand on my arm. I shake it off. I cannot let him come close to Bella.

  ‘You … should … tell … me,’ I say. I bite my lip until it bleeds. I clench my hands into fists and push my nails into my palms. I inhale deeply. I cannot shout and rage on a train that is juddering up a Brazilian mountain, that is otherwise filled with content tourists idly staring out of windows. I can’t attack them in public even though Bella is begging me to let her. I walk quickly away to stop myself exploding, and when I get to the back of the train I sit on an empty seat, slide over to the window and press my forehead against the glass.

  There must be some medication that would stop this happening.

  I think it’s Bella that’s made me ill. She might be a symptom or she might somehow be a cause.

  Go away

  go away

  go away.

  I close my eyes and recite the words. I need it to go away.

  The universe the universe the universe.

  I picture outer space. I am not even a fraction of a dot. I am tiny and insignificant.

  As we judder on it recedes, just far enough for me to take control of myself. It would have been better to cry. Then they would have come close and hugged me. They are my parents and I know I love them. Of course I love them. Everything I do is about trying not to disappoint them, about being the daughter they deserve and hiding the bad things. And I have just said terrible things. I am crying now, staring out at the wild greenery. I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and sniff. My eyeliner must be everywhere. I cannot fall to pieces. I try to breathe.

  Stay

  away

  Bella.

  S

  t

  a

  y

  a

  w

  a

  y

  B

  e

  l

  l

  a

  Someone taps me on the shoulder. I look round without bothering to tidy my face up, and see that a man in a baseball cap with VENEZUELA on it is holding out a pack of tissues. I shake my head, but then reach out a trembling hand and take them anyway. I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. I can’t look round at him again but I am grateful.

  I wrestle myself under control. I know my parents are looking at me, and I want to open up to them but I can’t, because I cannot tell them that I am possessed by my own demon, and also because they haven’t told me what I’m doing here. Dad’s right: I’ve never been one for hugs and kisses, though he and I have always shared an understanding. I built that barrier up myself by trying to protect them; but they’ve strengthened it by bringing me here with a huge secret.

  I started it and they’ve made it worse. I hate myself, and it’s probably easiest if I hate them too.

  There are two men with tattoos in front of me; they are smiling at each other and pointing things out and laughing at their own private jokes and I want to ask if I can walk around with them when we get to the top of this mountain. They probably don’t want a strange foreign girl tagging along; least of all a strange foreign girl with purple hair and white legs and a tear-stained face, who didn’t even know until a few hours ago that Portuguese is the language of Brazil.

  The Venezuela man taps me on the shoulder again, and I hand back the tissue packet, but he gestures for me to keep it. He says something that I don’t understand, and then when he sees I don’t understand he says: ‘I’m sorry you sad.’

  I manage a little smile and a nod. That feels like the kindest thing anyone has ever said.

  The forest parts, and then I am looking at the most breathtaking view in the world. The sun is glinting off the sea. There are the little mountains out in the water, and I can see the beaches, the sprawl of buildings, the tiny cars. I gaze and gaze and gaze. I breathe. I stare and breathe and I don’t want the train to stop, but it does.

  Outside, my parents come and stand beside me and I want to say the right thing. I want to say sorry, but the word sticks in my throat and I can barely breathe around it. I move instead, along with the crowd, and they walk on either side of me.

  ‘Ella,’ says Dad. I’m glad it’s him speaking rather than her. ‘Look. I know this is frustrating. There are a few things we just can’t tell you right now. It’s nothing terrible. Please just trust us for a while. You’re not ill.’

  I don’t answer because I don’t believe him, and I don’t know what to say. I give each parent an awkward little hug – the best I can manage – and walk away.

  The huge statue of Jesus towers above us. A crowd of people gathers at a distance from him, standing with their arms outstretched like his, while each one has a friend lying on their back on the ground in front of them, taking a photograph. I suppose the angle makes it look funny. In a way I want to try it out, just to be normal. But I can’t, of course, because I am the only person on this mountain without a phone. A little kid of about three is sitting on the ground playing with one. I am literally the only one who doesn’t have the piece of technology that connects you to the world, and your friends, and the things you love, and your life. And I don’t even know why I haven’t got it. Because I don’t know anything.

  Bella said horrible things to Mum and Dad. That has happened now. It is there: they have met her even though they don’t know it. I want to say sorry, to make it up to them, to thank them for bringing me to the best place in the world and for giving me an amazing holiday. But I can’t: I don’t know how.

  There are souvenir shops and stalls selling everything Christ-the-Redeemer branded, and I want to get a fridge magnet for our kitchen to remind us of this holiday, which is going to be amazing because I’m never going to be horrible ever again, except that I don’t know how many days are going to pass before we’ll be back in our kitchen, or if anything will ever be normal again anyway. A stressed-looking man wearing a Jesus apron and baseball cap strides past me into the café, and Mum appears, taking my arm and guiding me out of his way. I shake her off when I actually want to sob in her arms.

  I want a cap. I want an apron. I want things with this place on them, to anchor me. I look at Jesus. I wish he actually would redeem me. I stare up at him. His arms are open. His skirt has lovely pleats in it. I like the drapes of his clothes.

  I need to be able to make myself be nice. I do it at school every day. I can compliment Jesus on his drapery but I can’t say anything kind to my own mother.

  I will try.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. My voice comes out very quiet indeed. ‘Mum. I’m sorry I was horrible on the train. Really sorry.’

  She puts her arm round my shoulders an
d tries to pull me into a proper hug. I let her do it because she is my mum.

  5

  33 Days

  I walk into the breakfast room, carefully dressed in my new outfit with my hair blow-dried and what I hope is just the right amount of make-up to make me look ‘natural’. I scan the room, my heart fluttering, every atom of me longing to see him and also scared that if I do see him the magic might be over. Imagine looking at him and just seeing someone ordinary. Imagine his eyes looking me over and then, bored, focusing on something else. It felt so magical yesterday that it might not have been real at all.

  I look around the room and I know that none of these people is him.

  ‘Are you sure, darling?’ Mum said when she saw me ready to go downstairs. ‘I mean, that outfit is a little more “beach” than “hotel breakfast”.’

  I took a deep breath and reminded myself to be nice.

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘It’s Rio, and I’m dressing for the day.’ I wanted to snap at her, but I didn’t. I walked over to give her a hug, but I didn’t quite dare because I knew there was someone inside me who was very annoyed that she had questioned my outfit. At the last minute I dodged sideways, and she looked confused.

  As it’s our second morning I feel like someone who totally knows the way things are done round here. I go straight to the buffet for a glass of orange juice. I stand by the table of food on my own, wondering whether I could really attract the attention of the most gorgeous boy in the world over breakfast at a hotel in Rio de Janeiro.

  If he turns up.

  What if he went home yesterday? What if he isn’t here at all? What if I never see that boy again? Yesterday morning’s glance might be the only experience of love I’m ever going to have in my entire life.

  The idea gives me a pain in the chest. It makes my brain hurt, my heart hurt. It would be unbearable – to stare into a stranger’s eye and feel everything and then never see him again.

  I put the juice on the table. Both parents are sitting there waiting for the coffee lady to arrive, and I know I should have offered to get them some juice too. I don’t know why I didn’t.

  ‘D’you want some juice?’ I mutter. They both look delighted to be asked, but they say no. I go and get two glasses anyway, and put them on the table, just in case they change their minds.

  I go back to pile up a plate of fruit, which I eat with a knife and fork while Mum goes to get the same thing for herself and Dad helps himself to bacon and, oddly for breakfast time, ham-and-cheese toasted sandwiches. I still don’t want to eat meat. In fact right now I am eating a raw vegan diet, consisting only of fruit, which would make my skin glow and my eyes sparkle if I kept it up, so I keep it up for several minutes, until I drink some coffee and then remember the cheese balls and go and pile a plate with them.

  I have a cheese ball in my mouth when he looks at me. Not only do I have a cheese ball in my mouth, but I’m talking to my parents about whether or not there is too much cloud for us to take the cable car up the Sugar Loaf Mountain. I am saying: ‘We probably don’t need to go up a mountain every single day.’ When I say the word ‘day’, however, I put so much emphasis on it that a big piece of cheese ball flies on to the table and stays connected to my mouth by a string of melted cheese, and that is when I look up and see that the boy is standing nearby, looking at me.

  It is the worst thing that has ever happened.

  He is standing beside the very next table with his two friends, and he is smiling at me, though his smile is now frozen. This is the worst moment of my life.

  He was watching as I spat food out on the table. He was waiting for me to look at him, and then I spat out my food and it stayed connected to my mouth by a string, a helpful marker of exactly what had happened. He saw that, and he can see it now, and there is absolutely no way around that.

  I want to die right now. I want the hotel to catch fire so we can all run out into the street and down to the beach and into the sea and swim forever. I want a long-dormant volcano to rise up from beneath this dining room and push us all away on a tide of lava. I have turned so red that my lipstick must be camouflaged against my face. My hair is probably dark red too. I move my hand to break the cheese string, but I can’t pick up the piece of cheese ball because that would mean admitting that I spat it out. Dad raises his eyebrows in an annoying way, and I only see him do it because I am looking anywhere but at the boy. Mum tuts, picks up the pieces of food with her napkin, folds them away and puts it at the end of the table in the imaginary fourth person’s place. She shakes out the fourth person’s napkin and puts it on her lap, all in one smooth move.

  I will never be able to speak to him. Any romance we might have had is over before it could start because of me. The whole room should be pointing and laughing.

  I keep my eyes on the table and tune out my parents while they continue droning on about the cable car. I eat the rest of the cheese balls silently. I drain my juice. I have no idea whether the boy is looking at me because I can’t allow my gaze anywhere near him.

  After a while I go back up to the buffet to get more juice because the embarrassment has dried my throat right out. There are six different jugs there, but I go straight for the orange because it’s delicious. I am pouring it when, behind me, a voice – and I know whose voice it is before I even look round – says: ‘I love your hair.’

  He has an American accent. His voice is warm and honeyish and it goes right through me. It makes my knees weak. I close my eyes. I don’t think it matters now that he saw me spit out a cheese ball.

  I turn just a little bit and look at him, and then my face is smiling its biggest smile. This is the smile I have been holding in reserve all my life, just for this moment.

  ‘Thanks.’ I manage to stop pouring the juice before it overflows, so that’s good. ‘It just grew like this.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh – right! Are you on vacation with your family?’

  ‘Kind of. Are you on … vacation … too?’

  I’ve never said ‘vacation’ before. I feel that if I said ‘holiday’ I would sound silly. I would sound like Mary Poppins telling him that it was a jolly holiday with you, Bert.

  ‘Yeah. I’m with my friends.’

  ‘I don’t normally go away with my mum and dad,’ I say quickly. ‘It’s because of my dad’s work.’

  ‘Oh, that’s neat.’

  ‘Yes.’ I want to keep talking. I want to get us closer, in real life, to the places we have visited in my head. ‘I’m Ella.’

  ‘Hey, Ella. It’s great to meet you. I’m Christian.’

  I want to say something cool. I want him to think I’m funny.

  ‘You’re a Christian,’ I say, ‘or your name’s Christian?’

  I see at once that he doesn’t realize I was attempting a joke. I wish I hadn’t said it. The words hang in the air.

  ‘My name,’ he says with a grin. ‘I’m not really much of a religious person. So what are you guys up to today?’

  I stare into his eyes. ‘They’re talking about going up the Sugar Loaf Mountain,’ I say, though my words could be anything. ‘But they’re worrying about the clouds.’

  ‘Us too. The clouds, I mean. The sun’s apparently going to be shining on us tomorrow, and to me and my friends that means “beach”. So we’re going to get the sightseeing in today before it’s too hot. We’re doing the Christ statue.’

  Our eyes are having a conversation too; and it’s a completely different one.

  ‘We did that yesterday,’ I say. ‘It was cool.’

  ‘Well, we’ll maybe run into each other back here later.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  Christian’s eyes tell me amazing things, and the sun comes out and the walls and the ceiling melt away, and we are standing on a sandy beach in the golden sunshine with those cherubs cavorting around us, serenading us on little harps. I am smiling so hard I probably look deranged.

  He turns to pick up a glass,
and then turns back. ‘Oh, hey. Ella. We’re going downtown to Lapa this evening, to catch some music and do a bit of bar hopping. If you’d like to … You know. You could come along?’

  ‘Yes!’ I answer before he’s even finished speaking. ‘I’d love to!’

  ‘Cool. Catch up with you later then. Maybe in the lobby, around nine?’

  ‘Perfect.’

  As I sit back down I know that my parents are looking at me; they will not be enjoying the fact that I spoke to a boy. In fact they will hate it. It’s lucky they don’t know that I have just arranged to meet him at nine o’clock to ‘catch some music and do a bit of bar hopping’ in downtown Rio.

  I will find a way to do it.

  ‘All right?’ says Dad.

  ‘Ella.’ Mum is frowning.

  I don’t care. I have a date tonight. Our eyes met yesterday. He asked me out today. We’re going out tonight. I knew that Rio would be my place.

  I wish I could tell Jack. I wish Jack had been able to come to Rio with me, to meet people, to come out dancing. Jack’s family are strictly religious in the worst way. They think a woman’s place is in the home, that God is a white man who made woman out of Adam’s rib. They don’t like him being friends with Lily because she’s not white. They think homosexuality is deviant and an abomination. The last thing they’d want is a gay son. I hated visiting his house, being approved of by them, particularly when I still had my blonde hair, as the ideal mousy little girlfriend.

  I hope Jack feels this lightning bolt too one day. I hope he goes out with someone who makes him feel that he is on fire in a good way. I hope he meets his Christian.

  ‘Yes,’ I say to Dad. ‘Yes, it’s all right. They might be going to Christ the Redeemer today.’

  ‘Well,’ says Mum. ‘They should have gone yesterday when it was clear. Anyway, we’ll have a think about the Sugar Loaf Mountain. Perhaps ask for advice at reception. Maybe we’ll leave the trip for this afternoon to give it a chance to clear up.’