Unspeakable (16 page)

I start to run beside her, my body tensing when she teeters and looks like she might go over. But Jasmine rights herself, laughing under her breath. ‘This isn’t so bad.’

She executes a shaky turn and we head back to my house to pick up my bike.

‘You won’t go too fast?’ Jasmine asks, her eyes wide. ‘You won’t race off without me?’

I shake my head.

Jasmine draws in a deep breath. When she releases it, I can smell her crisp mint mouthwash. ‘OK. I think I’m ready to go now.’ She lifts her feet, sways, then pumps the pedals, whooping as she picks up speed.

I smile and follow her. I catch up at the end of the road, where Jasmine is wrestling with the gate. ‘I’ve never lived anywhere with so many flipping gates and grids!’ she huffs.

I get off my bike to help her. A few months ago, someone forgot to close the gate and a couple of donkeys got in. I was woken by Mrs Newman screaming because they’d pooed on her lawn and nibbled chunks out of her hedge.

In the village centre, we ride past the tat shops, their windows festooned with creepy puppets whose painted eyes peer out at us.

‘They seriously scare me, those things,’ Jasmine shouts. ‘They’re like something from a horror film! I bet they come to life at night and sneak into people’s houses.’

I smile and shake my head.

As soon as we leave the village and get out in the open, I feel like I’m filling with hundreds of tiny bubbles. I could almost laugh out loud. I stop to take a photo of the heath, which stretches towards the horizon in a collage of yellows, browns and greens. The sky is slowly clearing and a streak of light pokes through a gap in the clouds. There are hints of a blue sky hiding behind them.

I catch up with Jasmine. She seems to be more confident on the bike, until a car races past, too close, and she screams and almost falls off. My heart squeezes and stops for a moment, but she’s OK. Jasmine regains her balance, then yells, ‘Next time why don’t you try to knock me into the bloody ditch?’

Ahead, a brazen pony stands in the middle of the road, coolly eyeing the tourists who slow down to gawp at it. I swerve around and overtake Jasmine so I can lead her to one of my favourite spots. I hear her shout, ‘No zooming off! I don’t want to be left behind.’

We turn into a side road, barely wide enough to fit a car. The tarmac is old and crumbly, and a mohawk of grass has sprouted down the middle. As it becomes a hill, Jasmine starts to moan. ‘I’m hot … I’m tired … My legs ache.’

I reply in my head, over and over again:
Just wait until we get to the top
.

When we reach it, I hope Jasmine can see why it’s worth the effort. The view sweeps into the distance, sliced in two by a silver river whose banks are peppered with the shadows of grazing cows. A couple of swans barely disturb the mirrored surface as they drift through the water, necks bent in elegant arcs.

‘Oh, Megan,’ Jasmine breathes. ‘It’s beautiful. It makes you feel tiny, doesn’t it?’

I never feel tiny when I’m with you
.

Unusually for Jasmine, she allows a silence to settle between us. We listen to the wind ruffle through leaves, birds chirping and twittering, the hum of the road.

Jasmine stirs and stretches as if she’s just waking up. ‘There’s this place in Cyprus, up in the mountains, where you can see everything – literally everything – for miles: olive groves, lemon trees, villages with white houses and orange roofs. The whole works! If you ever visit, I’m taking you up there. We’ll go and see
Yiayiá
. I’ll get her to make ladies’ fingers. We could maybe stop at a taverna for moussaka, walk one of the waterfall trails. You’d love it, Megan. I swear.’

I smile, not quite meeting Jasmine’s eyes.
It sounds amazing. I’d love to go with you
.

Jasmine’s skin is glowing from the exercise. Her lips seem darker, more full. An errant curl has escaped from her ponytail and is resting on her cheek.

I want to tuck it behind her ear.

I want to do more than that. I want to kiss her. I want her to kiss me back. I don’t care what the consequences are. I just want to kiss her.

You’re going to mess it all up.

I can’t kiss her. There’s no way I can kiss her.

I take a step back, lock my hands at my sides. If I get carried away, I’ll scare Jasmine off, lose her as a friend. I’ll spoil everything.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Dear Luke,

I’m sorry for sticking this through your door. Sorry I didn’t have the guts to deliver it face to face. I guess you know what’s coming. I know this is a horrible way of telling you. Believe me, if I had the words, I’d use them. This is totally about me. I know it’s a cliché. ‘It’s not you, it’s me!’ But it really is.

You’re a lovely, funny, sweet guy and I had the best time with you, but it’s just not right. I’m sorry.

Is there any chance we can still be friends? I’m hoping that, maybe, after the summer, you’ll have forgotten all about me and found someone who really deserves you.

Thanks for the cinema trip and the meal. And the action figure, too. I like it more than I let on.

See you around,

Megan

CHAPTER TWENTY

I’m such a coward. I actually run from Luke’s house after I’ve posted the letter. What if his mum reads it? What if Luke stays with his dad this week and doesn’t see it until the weekend? What if I bump into him before then and he tries to kiss me again?

I head straight for Jasmine’s to confess what I’ve done.

She starts tidying her bedroom, swiping up dirty clothes and hurling them at her wash basket. ‘I just don’t get it, Megan. The guy’s crazy about you. Plus, he’s like the perfect man.’

She doesn’t say it, but I know she’s wondering what’s wrong with me.

I write on the back of a magazine:
But I don’t feel the same about him. It’s cruel to lead him on. I don’t get why you like Owen so much, but I don’t go on about it
.

‘Well, that’s different!’

No, it isn’t
, I reply.
I don’t try to tell you how to feel
.

Jasmine flops down next to me on the bed. ‘I’m not trying to tell you how to feel … am I? Oh, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I’m doing that bossy thing again. I just want you to be happy.’

I scribble in quick, angry strokes:
Does Owen make
you
happy?

‘What’s your problem with Owen?’

Nothing
, I write.
I just don’t want you to get hurt
.

‘Look, I know I can’t exactly bring him home to meet my parents, but there’s just something about him, you know?’

No, I really don’t
. But I’m not writing that down.

We sit in silence for a few moments, then Jasmine pokes me in the ribs. When I look up, she sticks her tongue out. I grin, pick up a pillow and whack her in the face. She squeals and lunges at me, tickling me around the waist. I try to get away, but Jasmine leaps on top of me, pinning me to the bed. I twist beneath her, but I can’t stop laughing. She’s laughing too, breathless and beautiful.

Jasmine stops and looks at me for a long moment. The atmosphere changes, grows serious again. Neither of us looks away. Then Jasmine hoists herself off and puts the radio on, loud.

‘Let’s dance!’ she says. ‘C’mon. I want to dance!’

I laugh. There’s no music – the DJ is just talking – but Jasmine starts to bounce around the room to an imaginary beat. I get up and grab her hands, leaping up and down with her, shaking my head from side to side. We don’t care how stupid we look. When we’re out of breath, we collapse on the bed, giggling helplessly.

Jasmine goes to fetch some drinks and I grab my pen, eager to share an idea I’ve had. When she gets back, I thrust a note at her:
Fancy going camping for my birthday? Grandpa used to be mates with this farmer who said we could pitch our tent in his field for free. We could use Grandpa’s old tent. It’s a bit musty but I reckon it’ll be fine. There’s loads of camping gear, too
.

‘I think it’s a great idea!’ Jasmine declares. ‘I used to go hiking and camping all the time in Cyprus. It’s going to be so much fun! I can get one of those blow-up mattresses so we don’t have to sleep on the ground. We should have proper camping food, like sausages and beans. Oh! And marshmallows. There
has
to be marshmallows. I burnt my lip on one once. It blistered and looked ugly for days. Still love them, though. When they get a bit black and crispy on the outside, but they’re all gooey and warm on the inside – lush!’

We spend the rest of the afternoon making plans and lists of what we’ll take.

As I’m walking home, I wonder whether Luke has got my letter yet. It’s awful not knowing. How does he feel about me now? Does he hate me, or does he still really like me? If I were a normal person, I’d just make up a reason to call him. If I could just talk to him, I’d know how he was feeling.

I should’ve asked Jasmine to call him. But things seem a little off between them. I wonder why he didn’t even say hi to her at the barbecue. Hang on a minute … what if he did? What if he made a move on her, and she rejected him, and that’s why he came and found me? No. Jasmine would’ve told me. She wouldn’t have kept that a secret. God! Talk about paranoid!

After dinner, I get a text from Luke. My finger hovers over the ‘open’ button. I have no idea how he’s going to react. Anger? Hurt? Spite? No, not spite. That’s not Luke’s style. I open it:

Got your note. OK.

That’s it? Clearly, it’s not OK. What am I supposed to do now? Go round? No. Too soon. Maybe in a couple of weeks. I get a second text. I open it quickly, heart thudding:

BTW, changing my number soon. Will text you the new one.

Why do I get the distinct impression he’ll never send me that number? I’ve lost him. Screwed things up, as usual. But he’ll still keep our secret safe, won’t he? He promised. We both did.

You’d better not break that promise.

The next morning, I ask Mum about the camping trip. She stares down at her fingers, picking at some chipped nail polish. ‘Well, I had booked your birthday off, Megan. I thought we’d do something together.’

Oh no. Really?
Now I feel bad.

‘It’s fine. I’ll give Carolyn a call. See if she wants to go for coffee.’

I write on the back of a bill:
You sure?

‘Yes. It’s all right. You and Jasmine don’t want me cramping
your style.’ Mum smiles unconvincingly. ‘You’re becoming inseparable. You can have dinner under the stars. How romantic!’

What does that mean? Does she know? How does she know? Am I that obvious? Does Jasmine know too?

The doorbell rings several times, then Jasmine lets herself in. She rushes into the kitchen, hair astray and cheeks glowing. She’s breathing heavily, as if she’s run all the way here. ‘Look what I found!’ she gasps, slamming something on the table.

Mum and I peer at a crinkled page torn from the local paper. It’s an article about a Polish artist who makes sculptures from old coat hangers.

‘Not that!’ Jasmine pokes a red finger at the bottom of the page. ‘That!’

It’s an advert for a competition: Hampshire Young Wildlife Photographer of the Year. My pulse quickens. I scan the rules. I’m eligible. I check out the prize: to have my photo on display in a local gallery. But I’m shaking my head. There’s no way. I’m not good enough. Hundreds of people will enter. I won’t stand a chance.

Mum and Jasmine are nodding and smiling.

‘You
have
to enter, Megan. You’re an amazing photographer!’

‘Grandpa would be so proud,’ Mum adds. ‘You could use his old camera. He would’ve liked that.’

She’s right. And he would’ve told me to go for it.

‘Doesn’t it have to be digital?’ Jasmine asks.

Mum skims the small print. ‘Doesn’t say, so I guess not.’

I point to the clock. Mum’s running eight minutes late. Her boss will be fuming.

‘Oh, sod him!’ she says. ‘Man’s so uptight you could press trousers in his arse crack!’

There’s a moment of shocked silence. Then we all burst into laughter.

After Mum has left, Jasmine’s mobile rings. She moves into the living room to answer it, but I can hear everything she’s saying. ‘I’m with Megan … What do you mean, “again”? She’s my best friend … Don’t be like that. I’ll see you tomorrow … No, you don’t need to come round … Yeah, I know it’s strange that I’m just next door … OK. Yep. Bye.’

She returns to the kitchen, sighing. ‘I think he’s going to dump me.’

Dump her? My heart does a little dance. Then I instantly feel guilty. What sort of friend wants her mate to be dumped?

Why?
I write.

‘I dunno. He’s just been all grumpy recently. I think he might’ve gone off me because I’ve put on weight.’

What?
I think.
What are you on about?

‘Look at his ex! Sadie’s a stick insect compared with me!’

I scribble:
Sadie’s a stick insect compared with anyone!

Jasmine laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

I start to write something, but end up scratching it out. This is so frustrating. I need words! How do I tell her?

You don’t. Ever.

Jasmine squeezes my shoulder. ‘Don’t feel bad. I know I should lose a few pounds.’

But you shouldn’t
, I think.
You’re beautiful. How do I show you?

I have an idea, and jot it down:
Will you let me take some pictures of you?

Portraits aren’t my thing, but if I’m going to photograph anyone, I want it to be Jasmine.

She shakes her head, curling her arms around her waist. I want to hold her so badly. ‘I really don’t like it, Megan. I don’t even like looking in the mirror.’

Please?
I write.
Trust me?

Jasmine considers for moment, then relents. ‘OK. But only my top half. My boobs are the one thing I am proud of!’