‘Yeah. I want a go on that, when I come home.’
‘When are you coming home?’
‘When terms ends. Duh.’
‘But are you going back there again next year?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. That was the big unknown. I changed my mind about it every day, but right now I was leaning towards no freaking way.
‘If you do,’ Lenny said, ‘I reckon I might get an iPad.’
Chapter Sixty
After I had hung up, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Mum had said about seeing Ellie. And about Ellie saying that she’d love to hear from me.
It probably wasn’t true at all. It was just Mum doing her usual over-optimistic thing. She had probably said, ‘You two should get in touch’ and Ellie had just agreed to be polite, or something. If only Lenny had been there – he could tell me.
I tried to think of the last contact I had with Ellie – was it a text, Snapchat or what? If only I still had my old phone I could have pinged her a quick message. I did remember her mobile number though.
I shivered. Could I actually do that? Just phone her? It seemed so weird.
But what did I have to lose? The worst she could do was hang up on me. Or we would have a horribly awkward conversation and that would be that.
I sat on the edge of my bed and found myself dialling her number … This is a crazy idea, I thought, and I half-hoped that she wouldn’t answer.
‘Hello?’
‘Ellie,’ I had to clear my throat. ‘It’s me. It’s … Delilah.’
There was a pause that felt as if it lasted forever. Then she said, ‘Delilah! Where are you? Are you OK?
Her voice sounded so familiar, as if we’d chatted the night before. I smiled. ‘I’m in Paris.’
‘In Paris? How did you end up there?’
‘Well, it’s kind of a long story. Have you got time?’
And before long we were chatting away – as if nothing had changed, even though everything had. She caught me up on all the gossip at home, and I tried to describe my life in Paris to her. I didn’t mention Tariq, though. The old me would have blurted it out right away, but I knew it wasn’t the right time.
‘A race?’ she said, when I mentioned my training. ‘You’re running? God, Delilah – you have changed.’
‘Is that a good thing?’ I asked uncomfortably. ‘I mean – I did wonder what happened with us. Why we stopped speaking.’
‘We didn’t stop speaking. You stopped replying to our messages.’
‘No, I didn’t!’
‘Well, that’s what it felt like. Though – maybe we could have tried harder. But the thing is, Del, you were just so—’
Now we were getting somewhere. ‘So … what?’
‘You were a bit full of yourself,’ Ellie said. ‘It felt like you were looking down on us because you were a prefect, and you were tweeting about politics and we were just wasting our lives doing stupid duck-face selfies.’
‘I never said that!’ But I realised, with a guilty feeling, that I had been thinking that. I didn’t know it had come across so clearly.
‘I’m so sorry ,’ I said.
‘I know,’ she said immediately. ‘I’m sorry too. We didn’t think enough about what it was like for you. Honestly, we just didn’t know how to handle it all. But I think it will be different, when we see you.’
‘When you see me?’
‘Well, yeah. We’ll be here for at least a few weeks after A-Levels … You’ll be coming back for the holidays, won’t you?’ She seemed to hesitate. ‘Or maybe I could visit you in Paris?’
‘That would be really cool,’ I said, my voice shaking with happiness.
We talked for a while longer before we put down the phone. After all the months of worry and sadness, I couldn’t believe how easy that had been. It was as if we’d never been apart. True friends. As I tidied away my trainers and took out my laptop, I smiled at Ellie’s amazement at my running.
Then I had another thought. If things had resolved so easily with Ellie – maybe there was also some hope for me and Tariq?
Chapter Sixty-One
On Friday evening, I took my courage in both hands. I could see, from the light on the other side of the courtyard, that Tariq was in his room. So I walked round to the boys’ corridor and knocked on his door.
I had never really spent much time in his room, but I knew what it looked like – very tidy, with tons of books and extra room for his extensive wardrobe. No piles of socks or half-eaten pizzas. A few film posters on the wall, actually framed and hung with picture hooks, instead of Blu-Tak, completed the grown-up effect. The only thing that looked different was his expression. He looked as uncomfortable as I felt.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Tariq,’ I said miserably. ‘I am really sorry that I lied to everyone. But I truly didn’t mean – what I said. I was hoping …’ I swallowed. ‘I was hoping we could be friends again.’
‘It’s not that I don’t believe you,’ he said.
My heart thumped. He believed me!
‘But the thing is, I have to be really careful about things like this.’
‘What?’
‘I mean with the election coming,’ he said.
I stared at him. I could have understood him feeling angry about what I said, feeling betrayed, or taking it personally. But to hang me out to dry because of the election … I just couldn’t believe it.
‘It’s not that we can’t hang out ever again, or anything,’ he was saying. ‘I just need to be careful – for the next week or so. I’m sure you understand …’
‘I understand,’ I said. I turned round and walked straight back to my room. Amazingly, I didn’t cry. I was too angry and bewildered. How could I have been so wrong about him – about everything? At least that way, his real self had been exposed too.
Chapter Sixty-Two
It turned out that I had finally discovered the secret to avoiding exam stress.
Just make sure you get publicly disgraced, lose all your friends and the potential love of your life. You’ll be so busy contemplating the ruins of your life, everything else will seem fine.
I had never paid so little attention to exams. I did some study when I had the brain space, but that was it. To say I was phoning it in would be generous. I was Whatsapping it in with emojis; I was typing a tweet with one finger. I was far more concerned with Race Day, which was on the Saturday before the last week of term. It also happened to be the day of the student election, which was a happy coincidence. It meant I could escape the whole circus and not have to watch Tariq avoid me either.
Fletcher and I weren’t meeting until seven, but I had slept really badly, so at six a.m., I decided to stop staring at the ceiling and get out of bed. My kit was all laid out for me: anti-blister socks, my favourite sports bra and leggings, plus the top we’d been sent in the post. Fletcher had insisted on getting transfer letters to iron our names on – so that people in the crowd could yell our names. Mine said Lola on it, of course.
‘I don’t know if I can wear this,’ I’d said to Fletcher, when she produced it.
She shrugged. ‘Well, it’s too late now. I don’t have enough letters to do Delilah.’
I couldn’t really argue with that.
Anyway, it seemed sort of appropriate. It wasn’t Delilah who put in all those training miles and got up every morning to run before school. It was Lola. Just like it was Lola who’d coped with a new school, and learned her way around the metro, and fallen for Paris and Tariq. And even learned to like sushi. Maybe I was Lola now. I certainly wasn’t completely Delilah any more.
With my kit on, I took a minute to look at myself and marvel at what had happened. A few months ago, I couldn’t run more than a mile, and now … I had a favourite sports bra. And a runner’s form. I turned side-ways to the mirror, realising that I did look different now. I hadn’t been fat before, but I didn’t have much tone or muscle. Now I was leaner, fitter. Stronger. It was a good feeling.<
br />
We met in reception at seven, and slipped out of school just as people were gathering for breakfast.
‘Don’t forget to cast your ballots today!’ an officious-looking IB Two was saying, waving envelopes around.
I hesitated, torn. Fletcher was already taking her form and envelope. I could abstain, obviously. Or if I wanted to be really evil, I could vote for Hunter.
But I didn’t want to do either of those things. I was going to try and be grown-up about all this, even though my world was falling apart. I hated Tariq now, but I agreed with his policies. I ticked the box beside his name, and stuffed the envelope back into the ballot box, under the beady eye of the IB Two girl. You would have thought she was monitoring us on behalf of the UN or something.
‘Did you vote for Tariq?’ Fletcher asked me, as we walked up rue Vaugirard to the metro.
I nodded. ‘Did you?’
‘Of course. I hope he gets in. I know he’s a dead cert, but on the other hand, if everyone thinks that, then the turnout might be low, and he might not get elected.’
‘Mm.’ That was the exact same thing Tariq told me. I had thought he was confiding in me, but it was part of his election tactics. I knew he was a politician, but still; it was depressing. Oh, well. It was another bitter lesson to learn. I just hoped there would come a day – in the not so far future – when I didn’t have to keep learning lessons.
‘So you probably haven’t had breakfast either,’ Fletcher said. ‘Look what I brought!’
She produced a paper bag with two croissants, and I snarfed one down. It was against all the proper race-nutrition rules but, as Fletcher said, we were in France after all.
‘Also, this isn’t a marathon,’ she reminded me, as we got on the metro. ‘A half is long, but it’s nothing you can’t handle.’
I wasn’t so sure. It was still thirteen point something miles; four miles further than I’d ever run in my life. I had wanted to go those extra miles during training but Fletcher was adamant that there wasn’t time and we should ‘taper off’ instead – reduce our training to rest up in advance of the race.
‘Look!’ she said, nudging me.
Expecting a celebrity spot or at least a gorgeous guy, I glanced up. A bunch of other people were getting on the metro wearing their tell-tale blue T-shirts. Grinning at Fletcher, I began to feel the excitement of being part of something bigger than our little runs together, bigger than school even.
The race was in the Bois de Boulogne, a park on the western outskirts of Paris, full of woods and boating lakes. The crowd there was of all shapes, sizes and ability, wearing everything from serious runner’s gear to novelty costumes. Looking at a grey-haired woman taping up her ankle, I thought: if she can do this, I can. Mind you, a line of ambulances and a few big First Aid tents presented an alternative scenario.
It was an international race, with runners from the UK and America – luckily for us, because it meant that there were mile markers as well the main signage in kilometres. We had done all our training in miles, and if I’d had to pace myself and do metric conversions in my head, I would have imploded.
‘Ugh,’ said Fletcher, bouncing on one leg. ‘I need to pee – again – but check out that line.’ She nodded to where twenty female runners stood patiently outside three portaloos.
‘Use the men’s,’ I suggested. I didn’t think for a second that she would, but she did; nipping to the queue and back out, within five minutes. Laughing, we ran off to find our places. You had to give a rough prediction of your speed so that they could stagger the starts, so we were in the section that was between two hours and two hours fifteen. Personally, I thought that Fletcher had been pretty optimistic about our chances.
Now we were in our places. Everyone was laughing, chatting, exchanging smiles, full of nervous good-will. My stomach started to clench again with fear. What if I broke an ankle? What if my legs gave out at mile six?
‘Then you get first aid, and we meet at the finish,’ said Fletcher, when I voiced my fears to her. ‘But you won’t. You’ll be awesome.’
Easily said. But it was too late now. I hadn’t heard a starting gun, but like a flock of birds, the crowd began to move together, and we were off. My legs and arms found their familiar rhythm. After a painful five or ten minutes, my limbs felt loose and easy. Suddenly I thought: I can do this.
‘Easy, tiger,’ said Fletcher. ‘Miles one to six are our warm-up, remember?’
She was right. I could already feel the temptation to sprint ahead, to gobble up the miles while I could. But it was crucial that we pace ourselves. I tried to focus on all the sights around me; the sunlight coming through the trees, the lake in the distance with the boats, the hundreds of runners moving alongside me in harmony. I found myself thinking about all kinds of things; my friends at home; Tariq and how it all went wrong.
But then my mind switched off and I started to get into that magic flow state where my mind was easy and calm, and I felt as if I was floating along, independent of the effort my legs and arms were making. Way before I was expecting her to, Fletcher called out, ‘Mile six!’
‘Already?’ I said exuberantly. ‘That was nothing!’ And it had felt like nothing. Except that, of course, we had to do that all over again – and then some.
Mile seven. I was starting to feel conscious of lots of different unpleasant things: a nagging pain in my knee; a sore foot, probably with a blister. My sports bra was starting to chafe. We were coming up to mile eight and I shivered. Beyond this was unknown territory.
‘Sorry, Fletch. My stupid sock … I’ll catch you up.’
She nodded, too out of breath to talk. I stooped down to apply my blister bandage, blessing Fletcher for making me take it. After taping my foot, I started again.
But the break had been fatal. The flow was gone, and I felt like the Tin Man. My knees were both complaining; my arms were made of cotton wool. My bra was still chafing, really sharply now, but there was nothing I could do about it. I gritted my teeth and kept plugging on, focusing on Fletcher’s ponytail in the distance. The patch of sweat on her back had tripled in size.
‘Ugh – finally,’ I panted, when I caught her up at long last. ‘Sorry.’
‘No probs,’ she said, breathlessly. ‘How’s your foot?’
‘Bit sore.’
We slogged on. My effortless floating feeling of earlier had totally gone. I was struggling to put one foot in front of another. My thoughts contracted to a tiny world of pain and fatigue. Sore foot. Sore bra. Tired feet. Tired everything. I saw someone sitting down to tie his shoe and fantasised about the act of sitting. Delicious sitting! Why had I never appreciated it before?
Mile eight. Time to stop. I knew now that this half marathon had been a crazy idea. I should never, ever have agreed to it. I hated myself for signing up, and I even began to hate Fletcher for putting me though it.
‘How you doing?’ said Fletcher. She was still plugging along effortlessly, making me feel even worse.
‘Not … great,’ I said. ‘I’m actually thinking I can’t go on much further.’
‘Yes. You can. You could go on for another six miles, if you had to. Imagine if there was a gun to your head.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m serious,’ she panted. ‘You’re so much … stronger … than you think you are.’
We limped on for another age, while Fletcher panted out more inspirational talk. I wasn’t listening any more. I would have loved a drink of water but the effort of trying to find one was beyond me. Plus, my knees really hurt.
‘One knee or both?’ Fletcher said sharply, when I told her. When I said both, she said that was fine. The twisted logic of runners.
‘One knee would be an injury, but two sounds more like pain. Don’t think of it as pain, though,’ Fletcher said. ‘Just think of it as … A sensation.’
Holy moley. She was like Superwoman. It did help, though. I started to tune out of the pain. It would stop eventually. It was just a sensation.
&
nbsp; ‘What mile … are we on now?’ I asked.
‘Nearly mile ten,’ panted Fletcher. ‘That’s our walking mile.’ She had promised earlier that we would walk for the whole of mile ten.
We were passing a small group huddled around a runner, who was being loaded onto a stretcher. It was a sobering reminder; this was serious stuff. We were putting big demands on ourselves – and I wasn’t sure I was up to it.
When our walking mile came, mile ten, came, I almost cried with relief. I was aching all over, as if I’d been beaten up. But all too soon, mile eleven came and we had to start running again.
‘Come on. We’ve done most of it,’ Fletcher said. ‘We’re so nearly there. Only three more miles!’
I nodded and put my head down and powered on, even more determined.
But my brief burst of will soon wore out. The thought of mile twelve and thirteen, taunting us in the distance, just felt too much. This isn’t fun, I thought. This is torture. Why did I ever, ever, sign up for this? Everything was awful. I hated everything and everyone. Even the cheering crowds calling us on made me upset, because nobody was cheering for us.
‘Lola!’ Fletcher said. She patted my arm without breaking her stride. ‘Come on. You’re hitting the wall – that’s all. But I know you can do it. I know you can.’
I shook my head. My pace had slowed to a limp. I kept slowing to a walk, then a painful half-jog. All I wanted was to sit down. And not get up again, ever.
‘If you can finish this race, you can do anything in life. I’m serious. Anything.’
Sure. If I could do this – then yes, that would be great. But what if I couldn’t?
A man in the crowd leaned forward. ‘Allez … Fletchair!’ he said, giving us a double thumbs-up. ‘Allez, Lola!’
The effect of hearing our names was electric. We were both too knackered even to wave to him, but we broke into big grins. I dug my heels in. I tried to breathe more deeply, and move my arms more, which Fletcher had advised me to do when my legs wore out. Before long, somehow, I was running again. This must be what they meant by the second wind.
Lola Offline Page 18
