The Pause (2 page)

I sit at the breakfast bar hunched over my second coffee. Mum has made scrambled eggs with smoked salmon but if I have so much as a mouthful I'll hurl across the room. I've never felt anything like this before. It's unbearable. It's as if all my nerve endings are being twisted and contorted. There's no relief. There's nothing I can do. There's nothing I want to do. I just want the pain to stop. I want my nerve endings to stop crying out as if they're about to rupture. But that's not about to happen. Ever. I'll be stuck with this agony for the rest of my pathetic existence.

My sister, Kate, comes bounding into the kitchen like a puppy that's just slurped up an entire
jar of Nutella. She's in year eight at Grosvenor Girls'. Her enthusiasm alone makes me want to puke. We usually get on quite well, but these are not normal times.

She looks at me then over at Mum. ‘What's up with douche?'

I don't look up. I don't even acknowledge her existence.

Mum's silence tells me that she has just signalled Kate a reminder that my girlfriend has been carted off to Hong Kong.

‘Forget Lisa,' says Kate, whose closest relationship is with her Build-A-Bear. ‘You should go out with Ashleigh Singh. She likes you.'

I can feel the wind from Mum's arms twirling in circles, basically telling Kate to shove a sock in it.

But Kate's on a roll. ‘You should think about it. Ashleigh Singh's cute. She has a really attractive left eye. Well, it must be, because her right eye keeps looking at it.'

Even if Kate didn't mean it to be funny, Mum can't control herself and lets out a snort which she tries to turn into a sort of cough.

Kate just doesn't get social cues. She's a walking encyclopedia, particularly when it comes to science. But send her up to the shops for some milk and she'll totally forget the milk and return home with a dozen doughnuts and
a form to sponsor a child in Sierra Leone. Seriously, she's like Jack from that beanstalk story. Luckily we don't own a cow or we'd wake up one morning with a gargantuan weed in the middle of the lounge room and an enormous goose crapping golden eggs all over our heads.

Thankfully, though, having Kate burst in like a honey badger into a candy store has taken my mind off Lisa for the moment. Or at least it did until I started thinking about how she'd taken my mind off Lisa and so now my nerves are screaming at me again.

But that's what I need to do. Think about other stuff. Not about how Lisa is probably locked in a dungeon in Hong Kong somewhere. And of course, the minute you start to stop thinking about it, you start thinking about how you've stopped thinking about it and that starts you thinking about it and then the agony washes over you again. There's just no escape. No way out.

‘Do you want a game of Uno?' says Kate, which is kind of nice of her. Even she can see that I'm in a mess, and we always challenge each other at Uno when we're not doing too well. It certainly beats talking about stuff.

But Kate's kindness makes me feel even worse. ‘No thanks,' I reply. ‘Not right now.'

As if things aren't bad enough, Dad decides
to come in from whatever the hell it is he thinks he's doing out there in the garden. What began as a retaining wall is now starting to resemble a sort of half-arsed pyramid of Giza. Widely regarded as the worst handyman on the face of the planet, he once blew up a toilet – a
toilet
– in the process of changing a washer. Seriously, how do you blow up a toilet? And because it's October, he's started growing his annual mo ready for Movember, which is death by embarrassment, because he couldn't be like a normal human and grow a regular moustache. Oh no. He's has to go for one of those British Brigadier numbers, the type that only an elderly male walrus could carry off. And even then, only just.

Dad's a total sports nut and he's been miffed at me since I quit both soccer and cricket. He used to coach us in the under eights. I know I let him down and I kind of hate myself for it but the passion had gone. My passion for most things went south the day Great-Aunt Mary … well, the day Dad's aunt did what she did. I don't blame him for what happened. I don't.
I don't.
And I'm not trying to punish him. Or at least I don't think I am. I love my dad. I really do. But he kind of hurt me when he didn't believe me when I told him that Aunt Mary was nuts. And since then I've been kind of guarded with him, even though I don't mean to be. We're
trying to find some sort of common ground but unless I take up accountancy, begin losing my hair, start wearing battery-operated Hawaiian shirts, or electrocute myself while hammering a hook into the wall, it's hard to imagine just where that common ground might be. Dad thinks I've turned into the clichéd embodiment of a sullen teenager and he winds me up about it. He just doesn't get what I'm going through right now. How could he? How could anyone?

Dad takes a swig from a bottle of mineral water and, showing scant regard for those of us whose lives are falling apart, hits his first joke of the day. ‘What do you get if you cross a French dog with a rooster?' I can sense Mum's eyes roll back in her head. I stare at my coffee. KMN.

‘I don't know,' says Kate, always eager to please. What happened that day with Aunt Mary united me and Mum, and Kate was left to be Dad's favourite by default.

‘A cockadoodlepoodle,' says Dad.

Kate dissolves into paroxysms of laughter, though she probably doesn't even get the joke. She's pretending she does just so Dad's ultimate dad-joke doesn't fall flat.

Dad went to Trinity College in Dublin and became, if you can believe it, an accountant. It doesn't seem right, does it? You just don't hear of Irish
accountants. Writers: yes. Comedians, musicians, political activists, actors: certainly. But accountants? It's wrong somehow. Kind of like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt being insurance claims assessors or Stephen Hawking working as a cinema usher.

‘What's up, Dec?' he says. ‘Girl trouble?'

I can sense Mum slip into semaphore mode again, her arms waving about like a baton twirler.

‘Not to worry, pal,' he says, ruffling my hair. ‘Plenty of other fish in the sea.'

I push his hand away. ‘Well then, why don't you go and fuck a tuna?'

Mum gives me a look as if I've gone too far, but cuts me some slack and doesn't say anything.

‘Looks like someone needs a happy pill,' says Dad.

‘Give him a little space, Shaun,' says Mum in diplomat mode. ‘He'll be all right.'

‘He shouldn't speak to Daddy like that,' interjects Kate as if her opinion actually counts. I hate it when she calls Dad ‘Daddy'. She just does it for effect. To be all cutesy and cuddly, to the point where I want to beat her over the head with her My Little Pony. I hate myself for behaving this way to Dad and Kate, but I can't help it. My nerves are screaming and they just don't get it.

‘Could you go and check the pool temperature, darling?' says Mum, to Kate. ‘Summer's well on
the way and I fancy having a dip when I get home from work.'

Kate races out the back like a demented chicken and Dad follows when Mum gives him a nod. Mum comes over and gently puts her arm around me. It's a half-hug. She knows the rules. But unfortunately I can't hug her back, not even half. Life doesn't work like that. I haven't been able to hug her since I turned thirteen. And yet I really need to. I need her to draw me into her and let me cry like a baby. But that's not about to happen.

‘Hang in there, Dec,' she says. ‘The sun will smile on you again soon. I promise.'

As she makes the promise, I feel it building in my chest, welling in my eyes, but I choke it down and blink it away. And apart from my screaming nerves, I'm okay. For now. At least Mum, Dad and Kate didn't see me cry, and that's the main thing.

‘I'm here if you want to talk about it.'

I wish she hadn't used that pronoun at the end. That tells us all that there's a specific ‘it' that's bothering me, and we all know what ‘it' is.

I don't even manage a grunt.

True story: a little nuggety guy walks up to an extremely tall woman in a nightclub and says, ‘Hey, baby, what's the weather like up there?' The woman looks down at the guy in disgust, hoicks up a throatful of phlegm, spits on him and says, ‘It's raining.'

That would have to be, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst pickup line in history. Though I think mine runs it a pretty close second.

It's the last train we can catch to school without getting a late notice. Chris and Maaaate tell me to give up. She's not coming this morning. She's either sick or her parents have driven her. Besides, Smith Street Girls' High is only two stops up the
line: she can afford to catch a later train. With five stops to Redcliffe Boys',
we
can't.

We scramble onboard, climb the stairs and grab a three-seater. Chris and Maaaate talk about an upcoming English exam. I zone out and stare out the window as the rain streaks down it. Each day I don't see her is a day lost.

‘Mate,' says Chris, elbowing me in the ribs. Maaaate looks over at us but then realises that Chris has omitted the extra ‘a's.

‘What!' I snap. They know to leave me alone to let me wallow in my pathetic, poetic misery on the days I don't see her.

Chris nods over to the far stairs, which Lisa has just wafted up. She sits down in a vacant two-seater but because we're in the last seat we will be going backwards, so I can discreetly – or not so discreetly – gaze at her for the entire length of the journey, which is probably about one kilometre. Oh, lucky, lucky me.

She takes a book out of her bag and finds her page.

‘Snap,' says Chris.

‘What?' I say, listening to but not looking at him.

‘
To Kill a Mockingbird
?' says Chris. ‘Man, if that's not destiny sending you a message, then my nephew is a simian.'

‘What the hell are you talking about?' says Maaaate.

‘A monkey's uncle,' I reply. Our gags often lose a little impact when we have to explain their meaning to Maaaate.

‘Get in there,' encourages Chris. ‘You'll never have a better chance.'

Although she's at the far end of the carriage, we can see Lisa's book cover and I know Chris is right. I don't believe in that whole destiny crap any more than I believe that God has a tailored plan just for me – I mean, who the hell am
I
? – but I'm prepared to suspend my principles when it suits me.

‘Go on,' says Chris. ‘Your fate awaits.'

‘Shut up,' I hiss at Chris but he's enjoying himself too much.

‘Don't be a pussy all your life,' chimes in Maaaate.

‘Pussy? Me?' That's it. I have no choice. Maaaate's at the bottom of our friendship pyramid and Chris is at the top. If I chicken out now, Maaaate and I will have to swap places and that would just suck.

My heart starts pounding in my chest like a set of bongos as I get up. By the time I'm halfway down the aisle the train lurches out of the station and I have to do that weird walk where it looks
like you're attempting to make your way forward in the face of a force ten gale. Very cool, Declan.

There's a Grosvenor Girls' year eighter or something sitting diagonally opposite Lisa but the seat in front of her is vacant. They are both clearly aware of my presence, and as I've left my backpack with Chris and Maaaate, whose muffled catcalls and whistles are still reaching me from their seat (remind me to kill them later), it's quite obvious why I'm here. I flop down opposite Lisa like it's the sort of thing I do all the time.

‘I hope that's not an instruction manual.' And there it is. The second worst pickup line in history. It's so bad I'm half-expecting Lisa to put down her book, rear up and spit in my face, and the Grosvenor year eighter to join in. The fact that neither starts spitting at me like a pair of puff adders is testament to the social graces taught at both Smith Street Girls' High and Grosvenor Girls'.

‘Excuse me?' says Lisa.

‘Your book.
To Kill a Mockingbird
.' And then rather than attempt to climb out of the hole I've just dug myself, I opt to dig even deeper. ‘It's not some sort of weird ornithological genocide kit, is it? I mean, you're not going to spend the afternoon wandering around the park poisoning the pigeons, are you?'

And there it is at the corner of her mouth. It's just a suggestion but there's no mistaking it. It's the beginning of a smile. The beginning of a relationship.

‘It's about racial prejudice in the Deep South of America.'

I want to play with this a bit more but with only two stops to Lisa's station, I have to make it count.

‘So what was it with Harper Lee and birds?'

Lisa gives me a quizzical look. ‘It's not about birds …'

‘To Kill a Mocking
bird
? Atticus
Finch
?'

She turns the book over and examines the back to see how I could possibly know this.

‘You've read it?'

‘It not only made me ashamed to be white, it made me ashamed to be human. Do you know there are some people who believe it was actually written by Truman Capote?'

‘Really?'

‘Well, he and Harper Lee grew up next door to each other. Can you imagine that? Two of the greatest figures in American literature playing together in the sandpit?'

We're pulling into Lisa's station and this is a good bailout point as we're sort of mid-conversation and this positively demands continuing tomorrow. But then Maaaate has to go and stick his big, fat, bulbous nose into it.

‘Tell her you won a prize for your essay!' he yells from the back.

Lisa looks at me. ‘You won a prize?'

‘A book voucher,' I say. ‘No big deal.'

‘I have to do an essay on it next week,' says Lisa. ‘Maybe you could …' And if it wasn't for the fact that Maaaate's aftershave smells like essence of dead cat, I could kiss him.

‘Sure,' I say. ‘We could meet up at Ciao Latte after school.'

‘I have to go straight home,' she says, deflating my balloon slightly. ‘My mother …' But she doesn't have to say any more.

‘Okay,' I say. ‘Give me your number, and I'll –'

‘I can't,' she says, and this time
she
looks deflated, which gives me hope. ‘It's kind of difficult. My mobile's only for emergencies.' She thinks for a moment as the train comes to a stop. ‘Give me yours,' she says. ‘Your home, not your mobile. My mother –' sounds like a pain in the arse ‘– goes over the bill.'

The doors are opening so Lisa quickly pulls a pen out of her bag while I rattle off my home number. She writes it on her hand. She writes my phone number on her
hand
.

I try playing it cool by not waving at her through the window but I can't help myself. At least, I try to wave to her but by the time we pass her on the
platform, Maaaate has me in a headlock and Chris is ruffling my hair. The Grosvenor year eighter calls us losers and plugs herself into her iPod.

And with that I'm officially in love.