Torn (16 page)

I can’t do this. I can’t.

I squeeze his hand and then release it and jump to my feet. ‘Um … we should go. Are you cold? I’m getting cold.’ I rub my arms as if that proves something. Jack looks like a puppy. A puppy I’ve just kicked.

I grab his hands and pull him to his feet. He looks dazed and confused. He’s not the only one. My head is spinning, but I can’t think about it.

‘So … where do you want to go now? London is our oyster!’ I link arms with him, trying to show that I DO want to touch him.

He recovers quickly – I’m impressed (and relieved). ‘The choice is yours! As long as it involves pizza. Lots of pizza.’

The rest of the day passes without incident. We gorge on pizza and we talk about nothing. Nothing important anyway. Jack’s doing a really good job at pretending nothing happened earlier. Probably because nothing
did
happen.

After a while I start to wonder if I was imagining
things. Maybe he was just going to hug me, or flick a bug out of my hair or something. That would make a lot more sense.

But I know. Deep down, I
know
I was right. And it makes me feel nauseous and guilty and excited all at the same time.

I try my very best to listen to everything he says, but every so often I find my eyes straying down to look at his mouth. It really is perfect, even when there’s a little bit of pizza sauce nestled in the corner.

We sit next to each other on the tube later. There’s no one sitting opposite us, so I can look at our reflection in the window. I like the way the reflection looks. Something about it seems right and normal. I try to be subtle, but he catches me looking and waves at me and laughs. All I can do is wave back and laugh too.

There’s a girl sitting a little way down the carriage from us. I think she’s giving me evils, but it’s hard to say for sure. Maybe her face is just made that way. Nope –
definite
evils. She probably fancies Jack and thinks I’m not good enough for him. Or maybe she just hates the fact that we’re having fun and she’s not. I feel sort of sorry for her. Until I remember my rather unfortunate situation: I’m starting to really, really like a boy I should really, really be staying away
from. And even worse, I think he’s starting to like me back.

We come out of the tube station and it’s time to say our goodbyes. There’s a silence between us as Jack scuffs his trainers on the pavement and I check the time on my phone. I want him to speak first and eventually he obliges.

‘So … this has been fun.’ He looks at me questioningly, as if he’s not altogether sure.

‘Yeah, it has. Thanks for the pizza. Are you sure I can’t give you some money towards it?’

He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Alice, how many times do I have to tell you? This was
my
treat …’ He lowers his head then looks up with a cheeky smile. ‘Besides, you can pay next time, can’t you?’

‘Next time?’

He shrugs, trying his best to be casual. Or maybe he just
is
being casual. It’s hard to tell. ‘I’d like there to be a next time. If
you’d
like there to be a next time, that is …’

Our eyes meet and we’re really
looking
at each other. I feel a weird hotness spread through my body. I’ve never felt anything like it before.

And then I say the words I hope I won’t regret. ‘I’d like there to be a next time.’

Cass is going to kill me.

It is five days since I saw Jack. Most of my awake-time during those five days has been spent thinking about him. Most of my asleep-time has been spent dreaming about him. Ghost Tara has left me alone. It’s a relief to be able to think my thoughts in peace for a change.

The Almost Kiss. I can’t stop thinking about the Almost Kiss. What would it have been like, kissing him? I play it several different ways in my head, and each time is better than the last.

I should have done it. I might not get another chance. He was feeling sad and vulnerable and confused. He didn’t really want to kiss me. Not really and truly. And even if he did want to kiss me, the way I reacted will have put him off for good. I might as well have slapped him in the face. But then again, he
did
say he wanted to see me again, didn’t he?

My brain is battling itself. The things I
know
to be
true (e.g. no boy has ever shown the slightest bit of interest in me, he is super-hot so why would he like me?) versus the things I think/hope might be true (e.g. he
was
going to kiss me, he
does
seem to like me). My mind flits between the two extremes so fast it makes me dizzy.

I wish I could talk it through with someone. But the only someone I’d want to talk to is Cass, and that would definitely not be a good idea. She doesn’t know I saw Jack on Saturday, and I intend to keep it that way. Besides, boy talk has never been a major feature of our friendship. Whenever I talk about a boy I like, her default reaction is to mock me mercilessly. And something tells me that if I was to talk about this particular boy, being mocked would be the least of my worries.

Cass is right though. Of course she’s right. Spending time with Jack is the baddest of bad ideas. But not for the reasons she thinks. She’s convinced I’ll let something slip about Tara. The fact that she even thinks that’s a possibility is insulting. The truth of that night is so tightly wrapped up inside me there’s no way it could ever escape.

No. Spending time with Jack is a bad idea because every time I look at him, every time I think about him, I think about Tara.

I think about what we did to her.

I think about the well.

I think about the rocks.

Sometimes I manage to
not
think about her for a couple of minutes here and there. And those minutes are so precious. But they’re fleeting. How can those minutes go faster than the Tara-minutes? Time should not be allowed to play tricks like that.

I’m pretty sure I’d be thinking about her all the time anyway, even if it wasn’t for this thing with Jack (what even
is
this thing?). Cass tries to think about anything
but
Tara, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she actually manages it too. Her brain is like a filing cabinet – everything neatly stored in categories. My brain is more like soup – everything all blended and mushed together.

Tonight is my worst nightmare. Well, it’s what
used
to constitute my worst nightmare. Before. My nightmares are much bigger and badder now. But it’s unpleasant nonetheless: parents’ evening.

I used to quite look forward to parents’ evening. Yes, I was (am) a big loser. Mum and Dad (and later, just Dad) would dress up in their semi-smart clothes and head off into the night. A couple of hours later
I’d pounce on them as soon as they came through the front door. They’d sit me down and I’d fire questions at them – essentially just fishing for compliments. None of my teachers ever said anything bad about me. Unless you count ‘Alice could perhaps benefit from contributing more in class discussions’. Which I don’t. Luckily Mum and Dad didn’t either. Mum was a shy sort of person. She never talked for the sake of talking. Never felt the need to fill those awkward silences with meaningless chatter. Dad’s a bit louder, but not much.

I felt sorry for Dad when he had to start going to my school things by himself. He never complained though. And he went to every event he was supposed to. He never missed one – even when he was megabusy at work.

These days we’re expected to go along with our parents. It’s excruciating.

You might think it would be fine, sitting there while teachers say nice things about you. But it’s not. It’s painfully embarrassing. The stupid jokes the teachers make. Dad being on his best behaviour. Me trying to react appropriately when Mrs Cronin says things like, ‘It’s a complete
pleasure
to teach your daughter, Mr King. You must be
so
proud.’ (Turns out my reaction is usually a grimace/wince followed by a semi-smile.)

Dad and I get the bus to school. Almost everyone else will drive. The bus is packed with weary commuters heading home from work, but we manage to get seats together on the top deck.

‘Here we go again. Anything I should know before we head into the lions’ den?’ He smiles and elbows me gently in the side.

‘Um …’

‘Got into any fights recently? Graffitied the premises with profanities? Headbutted any teachers?’

‘I’m saying nothing,’ I smile slyly, ‘but if Mrs Cronin has a broken nose and a black eye … try not to stare.’

‘I’ll do my best. She probably had it coming anyway.’

We both laugh and it feels nice.

Mrs Cronin doesn’t have a broken nose and a black eye. Instead, she has baby-pink eyeshadow (which makes her look like she’s got a weird eye infection) and an over-powdered face. The powder seems to collect in each and every one of her many wrinkles. She looks dusty.

Her praise is more effusive than ever. Her eyes go all misty as she says, ‘Well, what can I say about
my little star? She’s doing
so
well this year, especially considering the
terrible
tragedy.’ I somehow manage to refrain from rolling my eyes. Mrs Cronin has been in her element ever since it happened. Maybe it would be slightly unfair to say that she’s been revelling in it – but I can’t help thinking that’s true. She keeps mentioning it in class. At first she tried to set aside ten minutes at the end of each lesson to talk about how we were feeling. This lasted all of a week before it became abundantly clear – even to her – that we’d rather talk about the Great Depression and the Holocaust and cheery stuff like that than talk about our feelings in front of everyone else. Cronin was gutted – you could just tell. Still, when the bell rings at the end of each lesson, she usually says something along the lines of, ‘Remember, girls, I’m here if you want to talk. About
anything
.’ Not bloody likely.

The rest of the evening goes S-L-O-W-L-Y. Nothing particularly interesting is said. Dad smiles a lot. I cringe a lot. And before I know it, it’s time for our last appointment. The one I’ve been dreading. I’m not even sure why I’ve been dreading it; it’s not like I think she
knows
or anything. But she was there. And that’s enough.

Daley’s the only teacher Dad hasn’t met before. Most of the others have been knocking around for
years. Relics of a bygone era. My school is like an elephant graveyard or something. They could use that on the big advert they’ve put up by the school gates:
Bransford Academy – where good teachers come to see out their days
.

When we arrive at her classroom Daley is sitting at her desk taking tiny sips from a plastic cup. Dad walks in ahead of me, all easy and confident. He stretches out his hand across the desk. ‘Miss Daley? It’s great to finally meet you.’

She half stands and reaches to take his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr King.’ Her smile is huge and genuine.

We sit down opposite her, she says hello to me and I say hello back. She looks small and fragile, dwarfed by her huge desk.

‘So how’s Alice doing this term?’ Dad sits back in his chair, legs loosely crossed. He’s obviously expecting the same spiel he’s had from all the others.