Torn (28 page)

I wake up with a wet ear. My first thought: blood. My ears are bleeding. I’m dying.

My second thought: Bruno. He’s now slobbering all over my mouth. Gross. But it’s a relief. It’s normal. I get a saliva wake-up call at least twice a week.

Dad’s banging on my bedroom door and banging on about me being late. This is also normal. I lie in bed and breathe. Breathing means I’m alive. And being alive is a good thing.

Isn’t it?

I need to think about this. But I really, really don’t want to think about this. It’s too big to fit inside my head. It’s too big and serious and not the kind of thing a sixteen-year-old girl should have to deal with. This sixteen-year-old girl cannot deal with it.

I have to do something. Ghost Tara is right. This isn’t going to go away, no matter how much I want it to. But I need more time.

I get the bus to school. I go to lessons. At
lunchtime I throw my sandwiches in the bin. I talk to Danni. I tell her not to go to the police – not yet. For some reason, she listens to me. For some reason, she seems to respect me. God knows why. I see Cass. We talk. But not about
it
. We talk about the latest episode of that crappy MTV show she loves so much. We talk about the new biology teacher who started last week. Cass says his teeth are so white they must glow in the dark. We talk about her brothers. Jeremy lost a tooth and there was five pounds under his pillow when he woke up the next morning. ‘Five quid?! FIVE QUID?! Can you believe it? I got a pound if I was lucky. It just backs up my argument that Mum loves the boys more than she loves me.’ We laugh, or rather we both make a sort of laughing sound. Then we both stop because it doesn’t sound right.

So I get through Monday, somehow. Tuesday is a repeat of Monday, with the added bonus of a session with Miss Daley after school. I say as little as possible. She doesn’t seem to mind. She seems as distracted as I am. Her hair looks nice though. It’s shinier than normal and I think she’s changed the parting. Jack calls me in the evening. His voice soothes me. His laugh smooths the edges of my fragmented mind. He asks me to go over to his house on Saturday night. Something in his tone suggests that he wants Saturday
to be
the
night. I don’t know what to do about that. I say yes, because that’s what he wants to hear.

Wednesday is the day I start to lose it. Wednesday is the day I spend two hours in the toilets in the art block. I choose the end stall, put down the toilet lid and sit there with my knees drawn up to my chin. If anyone looks under the door they won’t be able to see any feet. They’ll assume the lock is jammed. They’ll leave.

I cry. As quietly as possible.

I don’t see her until Thursday. Not that I’ve been purposefully trying to avoid her. Well, maybe just a little bit.

She’s alone. Standing in front of the vending machine. I stop dead, not sure what to do. I watch. She’s just standing there and staring. At first, I think she’s having trouble choosing what to buy, but then she flicks her hair and turns her head to the side – still staring at the glass.

I take a step forward and then a step back. What should I do?
Fucking talk to her
. Tara’s voice in my head makes my decision for me. I’d feel a whole lot better about this if I’d planned what I was going to say. Stupid.

‘Polly, hi! How’s it going?’ My voice is loud and bright and as fake as it’s ever been.

She takes a second or two to fiddle with her hair
before turning towards me. ‘Hi, long time no see. I heard you were ill. Nothing serious, I hope?’ Her smile seems genuine enough.

‘No, nothing serious. So …’ I run out of words. My idiotic, frazzled, sleep-deprived brain has finally ceased to function.

Polly reaches into her bag (Mulberry) and pulls out her phone. ‘So, I’d better be going. Got to meet Stephanie for lunch.’ There is no good reason for her to tell me this. She takes a couple of steps away and the Tara-voice in my head is screaming at me to say something – ANYTHING!

‘Polly, wait. Um … could I talk to you about something?’

She turns and smiles uncertainly. ‘Of course. What do you want to talk about?’

‘I’d like to get involved with the memorial … thing.’

‘Really? I thought you found it
distasteful
in some way.’ There’s suspicion there, but that’s only to be expected.

‘I was wrong. I’m sorry. I’d like to help – really.’

‘Hmm. Well, I’m sure we can find
something
for you to do. There’s the yearbook thing to sort out for starters. It’s got to be sorted ASAP. Originally it was only going to be two pages, but I managed to get Mrs
Flanagan to agree to an eight-page spread, right in the middle. Isn’t that great?’

‘An eight-page spread of what, exactly?’

‘Photos of Tara, maybe some quotes from her friends, things like that.’ She snaps her fingers and points at me. ‘I’ve got it! I know
exactly
what you can do. Why don’t we get the lyrics of Jack’s song? The one he played at the dance? We could get him to write them out and then we can scan them. Oh, it’ll be perfect, don’t you think?’

‘Perfect,’ I say. Not tacky, tawdry, sick.

‘You’ll be able to get him to agree, no problem. I’m sure you can think of some way to persuade him if he’s not too keen …’ Polly laughs and I somehow manage to smile back at her.

‘Actually, I’m seeing Jack after school. Why don’t I get him to write out the song and then I can meet you later?’ Oh God, what am I doing?

Polly looks at the ceiling, her lips pursed. I wonder if she’ll be able to fit me into her newly jam-packed social life. ‘Yes, that could work. I think I’m free tonight.’

‘Why don’t I come round to your house around eight?’

I’m ridiculously relieved when she shakes her head. ‘No, not there. It’s … too far for you to
come. Tell you what, why don’t we meet here? Mrs Flanagan’s given me special permission to use the media lab after hours. I’ve got a key and everything. The security guard will let you in if you tell him you’re with me.’ The word ‘smug’ doesn’t go far enough to describe the look on Polly’s face.

‘Great. Um … perfect. I’ll see you there at eight.’

Polly’s phone suddenly blasts out a tinny rendition of a song I can’t quite place. ‘Oops, that’s Stephanie. I’m so late! Must dash!’

And she’s gone. And I am freaking out. What have I done?

It’s not till later that I realize that Polly’s ringtone was ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’. The song from Tara’s memorial service.

Dad and I have an early dinner.

I manage to somehow give the impression of eating without actually ingesting much of anything. Normally Dad would be on my case, persuading me to have a second helping. He never did that before Mum died. Now he says things like, ‘There’s nothing of you,’ and, ‘You’ll disappear down the plughole if you’re not careful.’ But not today. He’s quietly eating his noodles and reading the recipe on the bottle of soy sauce. Five
minutes later and he’s still holding the bottle. I think it’s safe to assume he’s somewhat distracted.

‘Dad? Earth to Dad?’ I wave my hand in front of his face and he blinks and puts the bottle down.

‘Sorry, Al, I was miles away.’

‘Really? I’d never have guessed.’

‘Enough of that sarcasm, young lady.’ Dad can’t stand sarcasm. He gets really cross about it sometimes; I’m pretty sure he just doesn’t get it. I must have got all my sarcasm genes from Mum.

I look at Dad, and for the first time in weeks I really
see
him. I haven’t been paying him much attention recently. I’ve been so completely wrapped up in myself that we haven’t talked in ages – not properly anyway. Unless you count exchanges like,
Will you take Bruno for a walk? Aw, Dad, can you do it? I’ll do it tomorrow – I promise.
Dad’s looking kind of old. A few grey hairs are sprouting at his temples. I wonder when they appeared? Maybe they’ve always been there and I just haven’t noticed. And is it my imagination or does his face look sort of grey? Fear body-slams me and suddenly I’m sure he’s ill. Cancer. I bet it’s cancer.

‘You OK, Dad?’

‘Mmm.’ He shovels a huge forkful of noodles into his mouth.

‘Is that “Mmm, yes” or “Mmm, no”?’

‘It’s “Mmm, I’m in the middle of eating, but yes, I’m OK, thanks”.’

‘So you’re feeling OK? Promise?’

He gives me that sympathetic expression I’ve come to know so well. This is not the first time we’ve had this conversation. Dad got used to my paranoia a long time ago. ‘Yes, I promise. I’m fine. Tip-top, tickety-boo, fine and dandy.’ Exactly the same words he always uses.

‘And you’d tell me if you weren’t, wouldn’t you?’

‘You know I would,’ he says as he reaches out and gives my shoulder a squeeze. ‘I’m fine, kiddo. Strong as an ox, healthy as a … dolphin …’

‘Dolphins get trapped in tuna nets all the time, you know.’ I give him a sly look.

‘OK … how about healthy as a highland cow?’

‘That works for me.’ I quickly stack Dad’s empty plate on top of my full one, just in case he decides to go all Food Nazi on me after all.

‘Leave that, Al. I’ll stack the dishwasher in a minute. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’ Dad coughs and twists his paper napkin in his hands.

‘Can it wait? I’m in a bit of a hurry. Got to head back into school later to help with the yearbook.’

He doesn’t comment on the fact that I’ve never so much as mentioned the yearbook before, which adds to the evidence of him being massively distracted. ‘This won’t take long. It’s … um … a bit of a sensitive subject, really. I need to ask your opinion on something. And I want you to know now that I’ll listen to what you have to say, so don’t you worry about that …’

‘Dad, what are you on about?’

Dad winces, takes a deep breath and speaks really, really fast. ‘I was wondering how you’d feel about me going on a date. With a woman.’

Not what I was expecting. At all. Weirdly, the idea doesn’t horrify me as much as I would have thought. I’ve been dreading this day for years, and now it’s here I feel kind of OK about it. It doesn’t seem that big a deal.

‘I think you should go for it, Dad.’ And the look on his face is one of such relief that I can’t help but pat myself on the back for my generosity. ‘Are you thinking of trying Internet dating? I’ve heard that’s a good way for old people to meet each other.’ He doesn’t admonish me for calling him old, and that’s when a tiny needle of worry pierces my brain.

‘I’ve … er … already met someone.’ The needle
gets a little bit bigger. ‘It’s your … It’s Miss Daley. Daisy.’ He says the word ‘Daisy’ like it’s something nice to savour – a toffee bonbon, perhaps.

The needle morphs into a whacking great sword. All I can think to say is, ‘Daisy Daley is a ridiculous name for a person to have.’

‘Alice! Don’t be so rude! So … what do you think?’

‘No.’ The word pops out of my mouth before I know it. The wounded look on Dad’s face is horrible to see, but I won’t take it back. I can’t.

‘What do you mean?’

‘No, I’m not OK with it. Isn’t there some kind of law against going out with your kid’s teacher? I’m sure there is.’ I sound like the snottiest little brat imaginable. But how can I tell Dad that I was OK with the
idea
of some mythical future woman, but the thought of a real, live, present-day one that I actually
know
makes me want to cry.

‘Don’t be daft! There’s no law against it. But … it’s OK. I just wanted to see how you felt. I’m not going to do anything you’re not one hundred per cent happy with. It’s fine. It was a silly idea, really. I’m happy as I am.
We’re
happy, aren’t we? Us against the world, remember?’ His voice is extra-bright, like the fluorescent lighting in the hospital.

‘Yeah, us against the world,’ I say. Now I’m the one doling out a reassuring shoulder squeeze.

Dad gets up and starts busying himself around the kitchen. He puts the radio on loud. I sit at the table and try not to choke on guilt. The fact that he didn’t fight me on this, that he didn’t even try to change my mind, makes me feel terrible. At least if we’d had a blazing row I could have mustered up some righteous indignation. I think he was
expecting
me to say no. Which makes me feel even worse. I have lived down to his low expectations of me.