Unspeakable (22 page)

I nod again. I want to ask her to stay, to promise she’ll come back, but she’s right. I need to sort things out with Mum first.

After Jasmine has left, I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the floor, trying to figure out what Mum’s thinking. OK, she did just see me almost kiss a girl, which is bound to mess with her head a bit, but would she have a problem if I preferred girls to boys?
Do
I prefer girls to boys? Or is it just Jasmine? God, even I don’t know!

I venture downstairs to make Mum a cup of tea. She’s staring out of the kitchen window, playing with one of her hoop earrings. As I fill the kettle and find her favourite mug – the blue one with the bumblebees – she just watches me, saying nothing.

When the tea is ready, I press the mug into her hand and she takes it automatically, smiling and thanking me. She murmurs something about the wash, picks up her neatly folded pile, and heads for the utility room.

We eat microwaved roast dinners in front of the TV. The gravy is watery and over-salted. I let some of it drip through the prongs in my fork before taking a mouthful. Mum is picking at the meat and ignoring all the veg. She occasionally looks up at the TV, but she’s not really watching it.

We both go to bed early, though it’s obvious that neither of us will sleep. A few hours later, my mobile rings. No one ever rings me. But it’s Jasmine, so I pick up.

‘Don’t worry,’ she whispers. ‘You don’t have to say anything. I was just thinking that you might not be able to sleep.’

I smile into the phone. Just the sound of Jasmine’s voice is like a sedative, creeping through me and soothing every angry, confused and frustrated thought.

‘So I was wondering,’ she says softly, ‘if I could just talk to you for a bit? And maybe it’ll help. If you don’t want me to, just hang up. I won’t be offended, I promise.’

I snuggle into my pillow and prop the phone against my ear as Jasmine starts to tell me about the pine forests in Cyprus and the mountain trails that meander through them. There’s a riverside walk which ends in a waterfall, and it’s so isolated you can strip off to your underwear and stand beneath it.

When I wake the next morning, I can’t remember anything else Jasmine said. I must’ve fallen asleep after a few minutes.

Mum’s already in the kitchen when I come down. She chats
a bit about work, but she’s still quite subdued. I chuck some cereal in a bowl and shovel it down so I can escape upstairs. Ten minutes later, Mum leaves for work, early for once.

She couldn’t stand to be around you any longer.

I’m not sure if Jasmine will come today, but when I glance out of the window, I see her hovering in the street outside. She seems to be a bit apprehensive about ringing the doorbell. But as soon as I go out, her face relaxes. ‘Was it OK, what I did last night?’ she asks.

I grin.
It was more than OK. It was the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. God, I wish I had the words
.

I squeeze her hand – I love feeling her skin against mine – and hope she understands.

Jasmine catches me up on everything that’s happened since the fire. I’m listening, but my mind is full of other stuff, like how to figure out what’s going on between us, or what I’m going to do about Mum. But when Jasmine starts talking about the fire, I snap to attention.

‘They still haven’t found who started it. It’s really creeping me out, Megan. Someone has it in for me.’

I frown and write:
What do you mean? I thought it was Owen. He was mucking around with that lighter
.

Jasmine gasps, then grabs my arm. ‘I didn’t tell you! I saw someone running away. It wasn’t Owen. He was with me when the fire started.’

What?

‘And someone trashed our campsite. Didn’t Mum mention it when she dropped your stuff off? They ripped my sleeping bag. Left another note inside.’

What’s she saying? It was me who wrecked the campsite, tore the sleeping bag. But I didn’t leave a note … did I? Am I actually losing my mind? No. It’s not me. It can’t be. I would know. I would remember. As if I could kill a cat, start a forest fire. That’s ridiculous.

Is it?

‘The police are taking the notes seriously now. They’re checking them for fingerprints, or whatever it is they do.’

What the hell are they going to find? It can’t be me. It can’t be.

Are you sure?

‘Anyway, as soon as the fire started, Owen did a runner. Said he’d almost been done for arson a couple of years ago, and that the police would pin it on him. So he just left me. What a bastard! We’re definitely over.’

Definitely over. Thank God for that. At least something good has come out of all this. But still … someone deliberately started that fire and I know it wasn’t me. I glance at Jasmine. Nobody’s going to hurt her. Nobody.

*

Jasmine and I pop over to hers to watch a DVD in the afternoon. When I get home, Mum is waiting for me. ‘Hello,’ she says, standing in the doorframe and wringing her hands. ‘Can we talk? I mean … you know what I mean.’

I follow her to the kitchen and lower myself into a chair, heart thudding. I pick up a pen and watch as it twirls through my fingers like a baton. I feel like they’re someone else’s fingers.

Mum pulls out a chair opposite me. She pauses for a long moment, then asks quietly, ‘How long has this thing with Jasmine been going on?’

I write:
It isn’t really a thing. I don’t know. We kissed after the fire. But I’ve been having feelings for her for a while
.

‘How could you not tell me?’

Mum’s eyes are all red and she’s covering her mouth with her hand.

I didn’t know how to
, I start to scribble.

Mum interrupts. ‘Do you talk to her?’

I give her a questioning look.

‘I bet you do, don’t you? I bet you talk to her all the time. I’m your mum, Megan, but you trust her more than you trust me.’ Her voice breaks. ‘You’ve been going through … all this … and I didn’t even know. I don’t know you, Megan. I feel like I don’t know you!’

I struggle with the apple-sized lump in my throat.
Is that why you’re upset?
I write.
Not because I was going to kiss a girl?

Mum swats it away as if it’s nothing. ‘I don’t care about that!’ she cries. ‘I mean, I’ll admit it was a bit of a shock. I’m still
getting my head around it, but I don’t care. Not really. I don’t know if this is just a phase, but it’s fine if you want to, you know, experiment, find yourself, or whatever. I just can’t believe I didn’t know how you were feeling! I should’ve known.’

I reach for her hand, but she pulls away.

‘So do you talk to Jasmine?’

I look her in the eyes, then I write:
I’ve said a couple of things to her
.

Mum nods. She tries to hide how hurt she is, but she lets out a massive sob. ‘I try my best, Megan. I know I’m a bit of a mess. I’m a lot of things, but I’m still your mum. And I don’t get why you can’t just open up to me. I was hoping things would be better between us after Grandpa died. I thought you might … I don’t know, turn to me instead.’

My heart crumples like a crushed can. I had no idea she felt like that. I kick back my chair to rush over and throw my arms around her, holding tight.

‘I love you, Mum,’ I murmur.

The colour leaves her face and, for a moment, it’s her who’s speechless. Mum swallows, then says in a croaky voice, ‘I love you too, so much.’

We spend a good ten minutes crying into each other’s arms, until my stomach rumbles loudly.

Mum swipes mascara streaks from her face. ‘Let’s have a takeaway for dinner. Treat ourselves!’

I nod and go off to find a menu, leaving her to repair her make-up.

*

A couple of days later, Jasmine has an announcement to make. ‘We’ve booked a last-minute holiday to Cyprus,’ she says, ‘and we want you to come!’

‘Me? Go to Cyprus? When?’

‘On the day the exam results come out.’

I leap forward, clutching her in a tight hug.

Jasmine gives me an impulsive kiss. Then her eyes soften and her movements become more slow and gentle, almost shy, as she kisses me again.

Afterwards, Jasmine starts to gush about what we’re going to do in Cyprus. I’ve noticed that, as I’ve started to speak more, Jasmine has got better at listening, and not talking so much herself. But I let her get away with it this time, because it’s just so adorable.

‘It’s going to be amazing, Megan. I’ve already planned where I’m going to take you. There’s this awesome taverna in the mountains where they do an incredible mezze. The best in Cyprus! Just when you think you can’t eat any more, they bring out a plate of chips. They’re gorgeous. All greasy and soft and freshly cooked.’

My mouth waters. A year ago, I wouldn’t have imagined I’d be brave enough to go to Cyprus, but one look at Jasmine and I know I’d follow her anywhere.

I ask Mum as soon as she gets home. She’s glancing over a pile of letters, but stops to look up at me. I catch a flicker of jealousy before she hides it and smiles. ‘Course you can, you lucky cow!’

Her eyes flit down to a bank statement and her mouth
pinches. ‘As long as you’re happy to use some of the money that Grandpa left you?’

I throw myself at her and she sort of gasps and laughs at the same time. ‘We’ll need to get you ready. You’ll definitely need a pedicure if you’re going to be sunbathing. Do you even own a bikini? You’ll need to get everything waxed.’

I snort. As if!

I start to go upstairs.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Mum says, thrusting something at me. ‘This one’s for you.’

I open it in my room. It’s from the photography competition organisers. My hands shake as I skim the letter. All I see are the words ‘regret to inform you’. Damn. I haven’t won.

I give it a second, more thorough read and realise I’ve been ‘highly commended’ for the picture of Jasmine I submitted to the ‘Humans and Nature’ category. It’s been posted on their website.

I charge into the spare room and switch on our archaic computer, drumming my fingers against the mouse as it boots up. When I finally get the website to load, I flick through the shots until I find my picture: a close-up of Jasmine, her hazel eyes reflecting silhouettes of the trees above.

I copy the link and email it to her, with the subject line:
You’re stunning
. I imagine her reaction – the way she’ll blush, then do that lovely half-smile thing she does. I think Jasmine might be starting to believe me. I pay her compliments all the time, and stop her when she pulls faces at herself in the mirror.

I bound downstairs and lead Mum up to the computer. ‘Oh
my God!’ she shrieks, jumping up and down like a child on a trampoline. ‘It’s your photo!’

We have a few mad moments of dancing around, until Mum collapses on her bed, declaring that she’s ‘too old’ for all this.

I’ll be starting sixth form in three weeks. Three weeks! How am I going to deal with a new place? With all those people who don’t know that I can’t speak? Why do I have to make things harder on myself? I should’ve stuck with Barcham Green. Then at least I’d be moving up with Jasmine.

Things are good between us. We’ve been stealing kisses here and there. Something has awoken and expanded inside me, like the leaves of a fern uncoiling from a tight spiral. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. Neither of us is sure what ‘it’ is yet, but that’s OK.

I’ve been delaying telling Jasmine the truth about Hana. Tomorrow, I think. I’ll tell her tomorrow. But every day we spend together, we grow closer, and that just makes it more difficult. How’s she going to feel about me when she knows who I really am?

I can’t keep finding excuses, though. Jasmine deserves to know everything, before ‘it’ becomes something else, something more.

I need to do it for me, too. Mr Harwell is right. I have to break down that dam, even though I’m scared that I’ll lose myself if I let it all back in.

In the end, it’s the date that decides for me. The eighteenth of August. The day my life was fractured into pieces, and I lost parts of myself I never recovered.

Jasmine and I are lounging in my back garden, our hands linked.

‘We need to talk,’ I say.

Keep your mouth shut.

Jasmine sits up. ‘What about?’

Leave it alone.

Please, just let me get the words out.

NO! DON’T YOU DARE!

‘Megan, what is it? What’s the matter?’

DON’T TELL ANYONE.

‘It’s been exactly a year since Hana died.’

BITCH!

‘Oh, Megan. I’m so sorry. You poor thing. You should’ve said earlier.’

‘There’s more.’ Hot tears chase each other down my cheeks as I force each word out. ‘Hana’s death. It … it was my fault.’

MURDERER.

Jasmine drops my hand. ‘It was just an accident, Megan. I get why you blame yourself, but it honestly wasn’t your fault.’

‘No. I killed her. I damaged the rope on the swing.’

YOU’RE FINISHED.

Jasmine stands abruptly, almost tripping over her own feet. ‘What?’

‘I killed her,’ I repeat.

‘Megan, you’re not making any sense.’

‘I’ll tell you. Just sit down.’

‘Sit down? No. You can’t … you can’t just dump something like that on me! You’ve just told me that you killed … I can’t … you killed someone? Your best friend. I … don’t … I don’t know … Who the hell are you, Megan?’

I scramble up. ‘I can explain, I swear. Just stay. Please.’ I gently touch her hand, but she flinches as if I’ve burned her.

‘Don’t.’ Jasmine’s voice almost cracks; her eyes are blazing. ‘If … if you’re saying you’re capable of that … What else, Megan?’

I can barely stand to look at her, to see that beautiful face clouded by suspicion. I reach for her once more. ‘Just listen—’