Torn (23 page)

I don’t back down. Instead, I step forward so Cass and I are practically nose to nose. ‘Don’t you dare bring Jack into this. You don’t know anything about him.’

‘I know that he wouldn’t want to go out with the girl who killed his sister.’ There’s a twisted smirk on Cass’s face and a sing-song voice in my head saying, ‘She’s right, you know she’s right!’

‘I thought you said it was an accident.’ I push past her and leave the room without looking back.

I need to be somewhere else.

Somewhere I can think.

The library is my safe place. I secrete myself in a dark corner, far away from the librarian.

Cass knows I won’t go to the police.

I
know I won’t go to the police.

I hate Cass and Polly for being right about this.

I hate myself for being the worst kind of coward.

I hate Rae and Tara for being dead.

I stay at the library till closing time, switching off my phone after the first three missed calls from Dad.

He’s really, really angry when I get home, and I’m too tired to argue with him. And I know he’s only cross because he’s been worried. I know how much
I
start to panic when I can’t get hold of him – always sure something terrible has happened. The scenario in my head usually involves him losing control at the wheel and ending up in a lake, struggling and failing to open a window or a door as the car rapidly fills with icy water. Not that north London has a lot of lakes.

Daley called to tell him that I hadn’t been seen in school since this morning. She told him about Rae. I hate the thought of Daley and Dad talking about me.

Dad’s anger is extinguished by an accidental onslaught of tears from me. He wraps me up in one of his hugs and tells me everything’s going to be OK. Then he makes me some cheese on toast and sits me down in front of the TV, but not before making it clear that if I want to talk about things, he’s there to listen. Maybe I should tell him. Maybe he can sort everything out. He’ll give me another hug and say, ‘Oh, you daft thing. You’ve been worried about
that
. Let me see what I can do.’ I
wish
.

Ghost Tara is not in the least bit upset about Rae. ‘Maybe you should do the same thing,’ is all she has to say for herself.

I hardly sleep. All I can think about is Rae and how desperate she must have felt. And I can’t help wondering why
I
haven’t thought about suicide. Was her guilt so much worse than mine? Does that make her the better person?

No matter how bad things get, I can’t imagine choosing to die. I couldn’t do it to Dad.

And I
want
to live. There are things I want to do. I want to learn to snowboard. I want to go to university. I want to be fluent in Spanish. I want to have a job I’m really, really good at. I want to live in a cottage in
the countryside and maybe keep chickens. I want to fall in love.

I wonder what Rae wanted to do with her life? Maybe she wanted to be a doctor or a scientist. And maybe if she had been a doctor or a scientist, she’d have done something really important – like discover a cure for cancer. Rae could have been destined to change the world, to stop people like Mum from suffering. And now that won’t happen. Because of us.

We killed two people in the woods that night.

As the dreaded Tara Chambers Memorial Dance looms, all anyone can talk about is Rae. Despite the family’s wishes, everyone knows it was suicide. The rumours are vicious.
Rae was in a cult. Rae was pregnant (with twins) after having sex with Mr Miles while his wife watched. Rae was secretly a lesbian and had been in love with Tara and was so distraught about her death she couldn’t go on living.
I have no evidence, but I suspect a good half of the rumours were started by Cass.

I’m so relieved I don’t have to sit through another funeral – Rae’s is family only. A sensible decision, I think. Otherwise everyone would just end up comparing it to Tara’s, and there’s no way Rae could beat that turnout.

Polly, in another display of truly terrible judgement, decides to change the name of the dance.
The Tara Chambers and Rae Morgan Memorial Dance
is
quite a mouthful. Some people try to protest that Rae doesn’t deserve equal billing, since killing yourself is not as worthy of pity as accidentally drowning. But Polly isn’t having any of it. Apparently there was a committee meeting and the vote was unanimous. No one seems to have any idea who else is on the committee.

The flyers now bear the new, supposedly committee-sanctioned name of the dance – although I’ve heard some people whispering about the
Dead Girls Dance
. It just goes to show that while one dead classmate is a tragedy, two is fair game for all manner of sick jokes.

The psychologist is back, and the parents are summoned to yet another meeting. The worry now is copycat suicides. Dad came home with a leaflet entitled
Is your teen suicidal? Ten signs to look for
. I bin it and tell Dad he has nothing to worry about. He seems to believe me.

I have a couple of uneventful after-school sessions with Daley. She tries to get me to talk about my feelings; I refuse to talk about anything unrelated to the syllabus. It’s probably a relief for her. She can still reassure herself that she’s at least making an effort. Needless to say, neither of us mentions Dad.

I spend a lot of time with Jack over half-term.
He invites me to watch Blackdog Sundays rehearse. There are four of them in the band. Spike is the lead singer (his real name is George). Jenks is on bass. I don’t think that’s his real name either. The drummer is Dave. I’m pretty sure Dave
is
Dave’s real name. I find Dave vaguely reassuring.

They all dress a bit like Jack (but not quite as well, in my humble opinion). They’re perfectly friendly if a little monosyllabic – except for Spike, who keeps on saying my name like he’s some super-smooth talk-show host.

I haven’t exactly been looking forward to this moment, dreading having to lie to Jack.
Yeah, you’re amazing. You could TOTALLY get a record deal.
But much to my surprise they’re really, really good. And Jack is brilliant. He doesn’t even have to concentrate – he keeps on looking over at me and smiling.

When they take a break I can’t help myself. ‘You’re
amazing
. You could
totally
get a record deal.’ Jack’s modest and tells me I’m deluded, but you can tell he’s pleased.

The last song they play is the one Jack wrote for Tara. He takes over lead vocals from Spike and the atmosphere in the room changes immediately. The laughing and joking and messing around are gone. Jack sings with his eyes closed, and every word is
infused with sadness. Every note is haunting. Jack’s voice cracks a little during the last verse and my heart cracks a little bit more.

We’re supposed to be going to the cinema afterwards, but I can tell Jack’s not in the mood. Instead, we go to a quiet cafe and Jack talks about Tara. The words come pouring out of him. He cries once or twice, and he’s not in the least bit self-conscious about it. A lot of what he says is hard for me to listen to, but I make no effort to stop him or change the subject. It’s obvious that this is exactly what Jack needs to be doing. The least I can do is listen.

The night of the dance arrives. A tiny part of me is excited – the shameful, girly part of me that’s stupidly pleased with herself for going out with the lead guitarist in the band that’s playing. The rest of me is filled with foreboding.

I should stay at home and watch TV with Dad. That would be the sensible thing to do. I’d hear all about it on Monday morning, but the horror would be diluted by hearing the details second hand. But Jack wants me there. And
everyone
is going. If I don’t go, people might talk. And the last thing I need is people wondering why I’m shunning the Dead Girls
Dance. I have to do whatever it takes to avoid drawing attention to myself. Even Cass is going. I only know because Saira told me, since Cass and I still aren’t talking. I try to picture us getting ready at her house, doing each other’s hair, dancing around and singing into our hairbrushes or whatever girls are supposed to do. The image disintegrates before it has a chance to make me feel wistful.

When I come downstairs, Dad’s lounging in front of the telly, his feet tucked under Bruno’s furry bulk for warmth. I have to cough loudly to get his attention, but when he turns to look at me a huge grin spreads itself across his face. He actually says the words ‘My little girl … all grown-up’. I roll my eyes and he laughs. ‘What?! Isn’t a father allowed to be proud of his daughter any more? What
is
the world coming to?’

‘Dad!’

‘OK, OK, I’m sorry. Embarrassing Dad will not say another word.’ He pretends to zip his mouth shut. ‘ExcepttosayyoulookreallyreallybeautifulandI’mveryproudofyou.’ He claps his hands over his mouth as if the words escaped by accident.

His playfulness transforms into melancholy; I’d suspected it might. ‘I wish your mother was—’

‘Don’t say it. Please don’t say it.’ I can’t bear to
hear the words one more time. The words that mar pretty much every happy occasion. There are different variations, but the sentiment is always the same. I used to nod vaguely whenever he said them, even though they made me flinch. I will not allow him to say them tonight.
I wish your mother was here to see you. Your mother would have loved this. If only your mother were here …

Dad looks hurt, which obviously makes me feel terrible. But he recovers quickly and grabs his camera from the cupboard behind the TV. ‘You wouldn’t deny an old man a picture, would ya?’ For some reason he says this in a terrible Cockney accent and I have to laugh. He deserves to get a laugh at least.

I make him delete the first four photos. They are hideous, even though Dad says they’re perfectly fine. The fifth picture is barely acceptable but it will have to do if we’re not going to be late. Dad insists on driving me there (chauffeuring me, he calls it) and he bows when he opens the car door for me. ‘Your carriage awaits, milady.’ I’m too busy trying to stop my dress from digging into my armpits to roll my eyes this time. The dress is so bloody uncomfortable. It’s too tight, too short, too … everything. I bought it in a moment of madness, thinking only of Jack. He’d better appreciate the effort because I won’t be doing this again in a hurry.