How To Save A Life (10 page)

I hit the open latch, stow the groceries in the boot, then walk back around the front of my car to hop in, head home, and hopefully sleep. My eyes hurt from too many tears, my body hurts from too many falls, and my heart hurts from too many breaks.

I go to turn on the car, then catch sight of something underneath my wiper again. I'm tired and weary, and I just want to go home.

Still, I get out of the car, the engine still running, even though I know I could safely drive home and let the mystery slide.

This time, it's not just a note.

Trapped under my wiper is a small packet of walnuts.

Wrapped in a piece of paper that says:

I LIKE NUTTY

***

School comes, and it brings a sense of dread that seems to present itself in every cell of my body, every tiny part of my being.

Since the first day I started at Emerald Cove High, I've been lucky—paired to study with Kat, the queen of popularity, who became my insta best friend. Then I fell in love with Duke, captain of the rugby team, and all-round liked guy.

Now, I'm alone. And it has only just hit me that during the twelve months I've been enrolled in this school, I haven't really made any other firm friends.

I walk through the courtyard, bag over my shoulder, and straight away, the looks hit me. They're a mixed bag in terms of emotion—sorrow, hate, scepticism—but mostly I see pity. And that's a look I loathe.

The bell rings, and it's not by chance. I sat in my car until the minute before, knowing that I'd hate what was to come. I place one foot in front of the other. Just one foot in front of the other. It's all I have to do. One foot. The other foot.
One hundred and forty-two days.

"Did you hear ...?"

"Oh my God! The poor thing. How embarrassing!"

"So they're together now?"

"I heard her mum—"

I spin around and before I really know what I'm doing, I shove the kid in the chest. A short guy with glasses looks up at me, eyes wide with fear. "Don't talk about my mum," I say, but my voice is shaking, and not nearly as strong as my actions. "Please."

"Okay." The guy nods, and I release the grip I'd surreptitiously held on his blue school shirt.

Then I realise.

I have an audience.

An entire stairwell of people are watching me assault some poor guy on the landing, and in an instant, I've gone from poor little Lia to Lia the loathsome. Loser Lia. Lia the Lost.

"Sorry," I whisper, and the poor guy genuinely seems to have regret in his eyes.

"Hey." He touches my shoulder, but I keep my gaze firmly fixed to the ground. I'd come into this school wanting to make friends. Now, with only 142 days to go? There doesn't seem a heap of point. It would just be one more person to say goodbye to.

I take my usual seat in music, slinging my bag down behind my chair. For once, I'm the first to arrive, and Mrs Evermore takes notice.

"Where's your partner in lip crime, Ms Stanton?" She raises her brow.

I give a half smile, the best I can do. "Sucking face somewhere else."

"Language, Ms Stanton." Her voice is droll, and I wonder if she even heard what I said. I'm a straight-A student. I'm top of the class. And here I am, confessing my heartache woes to my music teacher, and she's all but ignoring me.

The rest of the class files in, all except for two notable absentees. I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe they're afraid of me—nervous about how I'll react. Perhaps they're so enamoured with each other that they're off somewhere making out and—

Flashes of them having sex play through my mind, her blonde hair over his face, his hands—

Actually, maybe let's not think about that.

"Let's begin," Mrs Evermore says, turning to the chalkboard and starting to write a series of notes when—

"Sorry we're late."

I bury my head in my hands.
Fabulous
.

"Take a seat," Mrs Evermore barks, and they slot themselves into the two empty seats next to me.

Chairs shuffle and screech along the linoleum floor, and a stray elbow juts into my arm, but I don't look. I refuse to. Instead, I keep my gaze firmly on the yellow of the desk below me, my mind locked inside the composition that Mrs Evermore has begun to play from the shitty cassette recorder that somehow is of education quality.

The music continues, a three-sonata piece, and I scribble down notes on the pad in front of me, marking notes like
time
and
structure
and
climax.
They're just words, to me. I'm in a different world.

The strings pick up into a fairy waltz type pace, the sort of tune it's hard not to bob your head to. On my notepad, I write
sugar-plum fairy
, but in my head, I think of Kat bobbing up and down on a bed.

No.

Stop it.

The movement changes to a dramatic intensity, strings whirring, drums clanging, all to a horror-movie like climax. On my notepad I write
Psycho
. In my head, I think of Duke's words to his mother at the supermarket last night.

When the music changes to a slow and sombre, yet resolved tune of dignity, I know. I don't bother to write anything in my pad, as this is all me, how I feel, one hundred per cent. I can call up this hurt any time. There's no point in cataloguing it now.

When the song ends, Mrs Evermore asks for everyone's thoughts. I keep my hand firmly in my lap, but to my surprise, Kat, never the one to come forward in Music, a class where she self-admittedly does not excel, puts her hand up.

"Yes, Katherine?" Mrs Evermore's brows are up.

"This reminded me of life," she says, and I don't turn to look, but I can feel her gaze upon me from two tiny seats away. "You can be happy, but unless you show your drama, admit to what you're keeping a secret, you'll be sad."

I wonder if it's directed at me, and then I shake my head. It has to have something to do with her, me, Duke—us. The question is, what's the message? Is she telling me to move on or to own up? Or is she saying that she kept her feelings hidden, and it made her sad?

"Hmm." Mrs Evermore pauses, and I have no doubt that she's just as confused about Kat's subtext as I am. She gazes at me, and I can feel her appraising the situation. Without even looking, I know that Kat and Duke are holding hands, fingers linked on top of the wooden school desks. "I guess that can be the case."

I wonder if she's passing judgment.

The
dream is the same, but different …

She's walking up the stairs again, this time with a look of determination on her face. A look that says
I'm coming for you
and
I'm petrified out of my wits
all at once.

Her hair is pulled back, a neat bun, as she wore it for work, and her face youthful and alive. No dark shadows ghost her eyes, and she has a healthiness about her, a body weight that's far more Drew Barrymore than prima ballerina, and she looks
good
. Really good.

And happy.

There's that smile again ...

This time, I'm not even there. I'm a shadow in the hall, dancing, a ghoulish spectre, a loose shawl in an autumn breeze. That breeze ... it's one of the many small details I remember about that day, the facts that stick in my mind.

I'm the soft scent of violets, so feminine and sweet, hanging in the air. A smell that takes me straight back to that day, no matter the consequence.

Mum turns to face me, and it's as if she mouths
I'm sorry
before her hand captures the knob, twists the handle, and pushes the door open. It's as if she perhaps deep down knows of the horror she's about to unleash.

And then she screams.

And damn, if that scream doesn't tear apart my soul every time.

***

I'm woken from my sleep again, but this time it's not by Whitney. It's by a much more incessant beat, something that sounds like a cross between dubstep and dance, only it's happening in my house, and
why the hell is dubstep in my house?

I rub my eyes and throw a baggy tee over my cami and short-shorts, then cautiously open my door and peer down the hall.

Nothing.

And yet the noise echoes through the building. I can't decide if I should be pissed Mum's killing my Monday night's sleep, or grateful that she waited till I finished studying to start the ruckus.

The hall reveals nothing but the warm yellow glow of the downstairs living room light. I sigh, and rest my head against the wall. Resigned, because I know I won't be able to sleep until I've investigated, till I know she's okay. Resigned, because I already know that whatever I find, I won't like.

I walk toward the stairs, and the beat of the music hammers home a reminder of the truth. Of my truth.

No job.

No money.

No safety.

No love.

And all of a sudden, my hand grips for the railing, my knees become just that little bit weaker. A little flicker of life inside me has blown out.

Three steps down the stairs, and I see Mum and Smith. Her arms are linked around his neck, and she's staring into his eyes. I can't hear him over the deep thud of the music, but whatever he's saying, he's barely moving his mouth, and yet I know his words are melting her deep inside from the way her body sags and sways against him, as if he's everything she needs to be held up, and damn, does she need someone to hold her up.

On the coffee table, three empty wine bottles haunt, a fourth with a third of its remnants still slinking in the bottom. Despite there only being two of them present, five glasses are out, and I wonder if I missed the Elmo and Julietta show, or if Mum and Smith just wanted to mix up their drinking-ware tonight.

It's at that point that panic floods through my system. My mouth goes dry, and I swallow, trying to get some moisture flowing through my system. Because, crap. Monday. Our government handout isn't due for another two days.

It's not Wednesday
.

How the hell did she afford new booze?

I tell my stupid racing pulse to calm down, that maybe Smith bought it, that everything is fine.

Then I think of every other time he's been here, and what he's brought with him.

I scan the room for blondes with bad roots and creepy-as-sin vibes.

Nope. No blondes here.

Needless to say, the creepy-as-sin part is well and truly present.

I turn, ready to head back to bed. I can't be a part of this. It won't do any good.

I'm almost at my door when the song changes to a slow, romantic number. I hear him singing to her, and his words are so tender, so heartfelt, so true.

So much so that I'm able to temporarily ignore the fact that it's my mum and dad's wedding song, and the fact that she might be pretending he's
him
.

***

I wake again, this time at seven, and I enjoy thudding my head back against the pillow as I remind myself that tomorrow is Mother Goes to the Doctor Day. All I have to do is get through today.

With Kat. And Duke.

Ugh.

I traipse downstairs and start piling the glasses next to the sink, then plonking the empty wine bottles in the recycling bin. They're all the same brand, the same type, and I don't know a heap about wine, but I know enough to recognise what's usually on special at the bottle-o, enough to recognise that this isn't it.

Squirting the bottle of detergent, I let the tap loose, and soon suds fill the sink and I start to wash.

There's something oddly therapeutic about cleaning. About placing a glass in a sink of thick misery, wiping it with a scourer and bringing it out clean again.

I wish I could do it to my life.

No.

I wish I could do it to my mum's.

When I finish up, I know I have no choice but to face the inevitable. I can't leave without making sure she's okay. Not when she's so frail, and Smith is kinda rating high on my creep-o-meter.

First, I try the easy way out. I grab my phone and I call her mobile, but of course, the voice blares in my ear that
the mobile you are calling is switched off, or not available
.

Next, I do the unthinkable. The task that makes me shiver, right to my core.

I take the stairs back up to the first floor, two at a time, and walk down the hall, only stopping when I reach her room.

Her room, where the door is slightly ajar.

Her room, where I don't want to see inside.

"Mum?" I call cautiously.

Nothing
.

"Mu-um," I yodel, and the sound of springs shifting ticks in my brain.

Followed closely by
Oh God, please don't be the shifting springs of early-morning sex beneath my mother and Smith.

I stumble back, my hands shooting out for support from either side of the hallway, desperately needing something to keep me upright. At the same time, my brain runs at a million miles per hour. I can't believe other kids are grossed out about their parents having sex. Imagine walking in on your mother screwing a
Smith
. Ugh.

Then I think of the last
actual
sex I stumbled in on.

The only sex I've stumbled in on.

Ow
. It stabs me again, like a thousand tiny knives aiming for my heart.

I'm back downstairs, loading the six bottles of Ship's Cellar into the recycling bin, when I see it. It's several boxes of green wine bottles, the edges covered in plastic, sitting in the corner of our garage, a giant ships logo branded on it.

And I know exactly where it's come from.

Shit.