Unspeakable (11 page)

‘I mean, seriously, what the hell, Megan? You hit your psychologist?’

Apparently
.

‘What will people think? That I didn’t bring you up properly? I’m so embarrassed.’

I scrawl:
That’s all you ever worry about – what people think. What about what I think? What about why I did it?

‘Well, go on then. Explain it to me. Why did you do it?’

I just stare at her.

‘I thought so. God, I wish Gramps was here. He was the only one who could get through to you. I just don’t understand you, Megan!’

I leave her desperately puffing on an e-cigarette and disappear to my room. I wonder whether to text Jasmine. I didn’t see her at lunch – I hid in the library – and she wasn’t on the bus home. I spent several panicky minutes convinced
she was avoiding me, that I’d ruined everything, until I remembered she’d planned to stay and work on some Art coursework.

I write:

I’m sorry xxx

She makes me wait twenty minutes before replying.

It’s OK. What happened? X

Two weeks of detention. Mum hit the roof :( Am hiding in my room xxx

A reply comes back a few minutes later:

Poor you. *Hugs* Want to come round for tea? Xxx

Meet her family? I don’t know.

Mum’s making mezze. They want to meet you xxx

I grin.

Will check with Mum xxx

Bring some of your pics if she says yes. I really want to see them! Xxx

Downstairs, Mum reads the note I’ve written, then looks long and hard at me. ‘I should ground you,’ she says.

You’ve never grounded me in your life!

‘But I won’t, because I want to watch
Pimp Your Pooch
while I eat, and I can’t be dealing with you sighing all over it. Make sure you come home in a better mood.’ She gives me a wry smile. ‘Off you go! Before I change my mind!’

‘Muuuum!’ Jasmine yells as she bundles me through her front door.

I almost trip over a box of shoes. The hallway is long, narrow and dark, the carpet ripped a little at the edges. But it’s brightened by a series of exotic paintings: elephants silhouetted against a savannah sunset, a landscape of paddy fields, scattered with figures wearing triangular hats.

A plug-in freshener is lacing the air with a floral smell. When I take a further step inside, another freshener bursts into life, spraying droplets of citrusy perfume on my arm.

Jasmine rolls her eyes. ‘I told you she’s into smells. She had those out before we’d even unpacked the kitchen.’

‘Muuuum!’ Jasmine hollers again. ‘Megan’s here.’

A woman emerges at the end of the corridor, holding her hands out as if they’re covered in something sticky. ‘Megan!’ she half shrieks, half laughs, in a slightly accented voice. ‘You’re here! We finally get to meet you! Come in. Welcome. There’s plenty of food.’

‘There’s
always
plenty of food,’ Jasmine says, before whispering to me, ‘I should’ve warned you: she’s a feeder.
Hope you’re hungry because she won’t stop until you puke!’

Jasmine’s mum rushes down the corridor. Her skin has the same rich tone as Jasmine’s and her clothes are vibrant blues and oranges, like a kingfisher. A mass of grey-streaked curls are swept back into a ponytail, and her slightly crooked teeth peep out behind a smile so wide it stretches across most of her face.

‘I’m Eleni, Megan. It’s wonderful to meet you.’ She sweeps me into a hug and I’m surrounded by the scent of green tea, lavender and musky incense. ‘Arthur and I are thrilled that Jas has made a friend so soon.
Apanagía mou
, I’m sorry, I’ve just got oil on your back. I’m making
dolmádes
and I’m covered in the stuff. Take your coat off and I’ll try to rinse it. Your mother’s not going to be pleased with me. What an awful first impression!
Signómi. Éla
, come through.’

Eleni continues to talk as she herds me into a small kitchen. Her English is fluent, though she peppers it with Greek, tossed in like chunks of feta in a salad.

The kitchen smells incredible. Its counters are strewn with mess: a Greek yoghurt pot; sprigs of mint; onion and garlic skins; deflated lemon halves.

‘I’m making a feast!’ Eleni announces, throwing her hands in the air.

A small head pokes round the door. Jasmine looks up and a smile breaks across her face. ‘Lily
mou
! This is my friend, Megan.’

Lily nods shyly, casting a furtive glance in my direction. ‘Hello,’ she whispers.

I nod and try to smile back.

Don’t.

I blush and instantly look down.

‘I’m Lily.’ She holds out a hand that’s covered with dried glue and pieces of glitter. ‘I’ve been making a birthday card.’

I shake her hand.
I’m Megan. I wish I could tell you my name
.

Don’t say anything.

I jump a little, then whip my hand away from Lily’s before she notices how much it’s trembling. Lily comes further into the kitchen and swipes a golden ball off a dish on the counter. Compared with her sister, her skin is paler, her hair not as dark and glossy, more of a light brown. She shares those big, beautiful eyes though, and they rove greedily across all the food.

Jasmine points at the round thing Lily is nibbling. ‘That’s a falafel. Have you had one before?’

I shake my head.

‘They’re ace. Technically not Greek, but we still love ’em! Try one.’

She picks one up and raises it to my mouth, which drops open in surprise. The brush of Jasmine’s fingers against my lips sends tingles through me. I try to look normal and chew, even though there’s no saliva left. Jasmine turns away and I manage to swallow. It’s delicious – warm, crispy and herby.

‘These,’ Jasmine tugs my arm, gesturing at some knobbly,
sausage-like patties, ‘are
kofte
. Lamb. Good job you’re not a veggie. Lily is, but she doesn’t know what she’s missing out on.’

Lily sticks her tongue out. It’s covered with mushed-up brown stuff.

‘It’s ready!’ Eleni announces. ‘Lily, go and fetch Dad, will you?’

Lily nods, then turns and scampers up the stairs.

Jasmine and I grab a couple of dishes and carry them to the dining table, which is set in the corner of a large living room. Two sofas are buried under mounds of precariously stacked boxes and bulging bin bags. There’s a rolled rug propped against the window, a bag of coat hangers on the table and the TV has been plonked in the middle of the floor with a purple toilet air freshener perched on top of it.

Eleni apologises again. ‘
Signómi
, sorry, sorry,’ she breathes. ‘What a tip. We really need to start moving this stuff. What must you think of us?’

It’s OK. You should see our place
.

As Jasmine and Eleni return to the kitchen for more food, I settle at the table and my attention flits from dish to tantalising dish.

Heavy footsteps plod down the stairs. Seconds later, Jasmine’s dad appears. He’s so tall his grey, tousled hair almost touches the top of the doorframe. Bags hang like rainclouds beneath his eyes, which are a sharp, light blue.

‘Hello, I’m Arthur. You must be Megan. Nice to meet you.’

He holds out a hand, which I shake, surprised by his firm grip. ‘Where do you live, Megan?’

Silence descends, as thick as clotted cream.
Jasmine, where are you?
Her dad is frowning at me, I can feel it.

He doesn’t know what Jasmine sees in you.

‘Da-ad,’ Jasmine groans as she steps into the room. ‘I told you about Megan. Don’t you ever listen to me?’

‘Oh. I … er. Of course you did. I remember now. Sorry, Megan.’

‘So embarrassing,’ Jasmine mumbles.

True to Jasmine’s warning, Eleni is a ‘feeder’, and by the time the mezze is over, I’m so full, I can’t imagine being hungry ever again. My ribs ache and my head is woozy from too much laughter.

The meal was hilarious, raucous, exciting. The conversation, driven by Jasmine and Eleni, darted from subject to subject so fast I could barely keep up. Every now and then, little Lily piped up with something, her sweet voice cutting through her mother and sister’s chatter. Arthur was content to lean back in his chair and just watch.

‘Urgh. I feel disgusting,’ Jasmine complains, clutching her stomach. ‘I’m too full to move.’

Eleni smiles. ‘You’ll have to move some time. You can’t sleep here.’

‘I could,’ counters Jasmine. ‘If you leave this all out, I might wake up in the night and fancy a midnight snack.’

‘Yes, there’s too much left. Are you sure you can’t manage any more, Megan?’

I shake my head. I wish I could. I’m so glad I tried it. I’ve never tasted anything like it before. It was gorgeous. Every
mouthful. From the delicately spiced
kofte
to the garlicky hummus and the refreshing, crisp Greek salad.

‘Would you like to take some home for your mum, Megan?’ Eleni asks.

Mum probably had a rubbery ready meal for dinner. I nod and Eleni promises to package a few things up.

‘Is it OK if Megan stays for a bit?’ Jasmine asks.

Arthur agrees.

I try to smile at Eleni as we leave, to thank her for the meal, but I’m not sure she sees me. I should write her a note or something.

Upstairs, I settle on Jasmine’s bed. My eyes wander around her room. There’s a cup of tea-dredges on the floor and a plate with breadcrumbs on. Her underwear drawer is open, with a pair of knickers and a bra spilling over the edge. The light blue walls are decorated with posters of Grace Kelly and Audrey Hepburn.

Jasmine sees me looking. ‘Horrible colour, isn’t it? I can’t wait to redecorate.’

I find a notepad in my bag and write:
I was looking at the posters
.

‘Oh, them! Aren’t they glamorous?’

I nod.

‘Did you bring the photos?’

I pull Grandpa’s camera and a pile of photos from my rucksack. I pass the Canon to Jasmine. Sensing its significance, she holds it carefully. I write:
It was my grandpa’s
.

Jasmine runs her fingers over the casing. Her nails are smooth and shiny, the tips white and clean, unlike my bitten, ragged stumps. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmurs. ‘Can I see the photos?’

I nod and grab a handful for her to flick through. I really should put them in an album, organise them somehow. I watch as a series of shots flash through Jasmine’s hands – birds, trees, leaves, rivers, the moor, the forest, Brookby.

‘Wow, Megan. These are good! I mean, really good! You’re so talented. I’d happily stick one of these up on my wall.’

Really? You think I’m good?

I write:
Take one
.

Jasmine shakes her head. ‘I wasn’t hinting. They’re yours. You should keep them.’

I point to my message, insisting.

‘OK, thanks.’

Jasmine flashes that glorious smile and starts to pick through them, inspecting each photo. She settles on a close-up of dew-drops glistening on spears of grass.

‘Jasmine, time for Megan to go,’ Eleni shouts up the stairs. ‘Don’t you have French homework?’

Jasmine scowls. ‘I was hoping she’d forgotten.’ She picks up her textbook and slams it on the desk. Something falls out of the pages. A note with her name on.

Jasmine stares at it in silence for a few moments, then says in a low voice: ‘You read it.’

I pick the note up and unfold it. It’s written in angular block capitals, with each word scratched deep into the paper, as if whoever wrote it was pouring all their anger into every stroke of the pen. My skin ices over.

YOU MAKE ME SICK. YOU’RE A STUPID BITCH IF YOU THINK ANYONE LIKES YOU.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

I glance up at Jasmine, my mouth stupidly frozen in a small ‘o’. She won’t meet my eyes. ‘I’ve had a couple since I arrived. I thought I was leaving stuff like this behind,’ her voice cracks, ‘but it just follows me!’

What did the others say?
I write on the back of some revision notes.

Jasmine still won’t look at me. ‘Horrible stuff.’

Like?

‘ “Why would Owen fancy a minger like you?” Stuff like that. It must be the same person who messed with Owen’s graffiti.’

Who?
I scribble.

‘Some of the girls from my old school know people here. They might have put them up to it. Or – I don’t know – Sadie, maybe?’

Maybe. Or it could be Lindsay. What was it Sadie said the other day? Lindsay was on the warpath. I should’ve warned Jasmine.

‘Owen told me that he and Sadie were an item over the summer. She’s probably pissed off that I’m friends with you, and that I’m seeing Owen.’

So are you ‘seeing’ Owen?

Jasmine blushes a little. ‘I dunno. I bumped into him at the weekend, after I left yours. I was feeling a bit … you know, wobbly, and he was nice to me. Took my mind off it.’

I grit my teeth. I bet he did.

‘Listen, about Friday night. He said he wasn’t thinking.’

That’s bull. He knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to get a reaction out of me
.

I don’t want to argue so I point to the vicious note and raise my eyebrows.

Jasmine sighs. ‘I don’t know what to do about them. Mum will go mental if I tell her.’

I read the message again. A shiver snakes across my skin. Shouldn’t we tell someone? I’m afraid for her. What if this person is dangerous?

We’re getting close to our first exams now. Every lesson at school is filled with revision or practice papers. We spend every spare minute studying. Despite this, I’m still managing to see Mr Harwell once or twice a week. After the slap, it was as awkward as I’d imagined. He seemed a bit embarrassed that he’d had to report me.

The first two weeks of exams pass in a blur of sleepless nights and information overload. We have a break for May half-term, but we’ll have to spend most of it cramming.

On Tuesday, I head to Jasmine’s for English revision.

‘This is so booooring!’ she says with a yawn, stretching back on her bed and kicking her copy of
Wuthering Heights
to the floor.