NATÁLIA GOMES has an MLitt in Scottish Literature & Creative Writing and an MEd in Education. Inspired by her experiences as a special education coordinator in a public school district in the US, Natália started writing fiction with a focus on mental health among young adults. Her debut novel Dear Charlie is endorsed by Amnesty International and was longlisted for the 2018 International Dublin Literary Award.

Natália currently lives in Scotland with her chocolate labrador Charlie, and is completing a PhD in English Studies.

If you want to get in touch, follow Natália on Twitter @nd_gomes and on Instagram @ndgomes

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Natália Gomes 2019

Natália Gomes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008291853

This book is dedicated to the numerous campaigns

and charities that challenge us on how we think

and speak about sexual violence and bullying.

#WeAreNotOkay Songlist

DAUGHTER–Youth

CIVIL WARS & TAYLOR SWIFT–Safe & Sound

JOY WILLIAMS–Don’t Let Me Down

GABRIELLE APLIN–Please Don’t Say You Love Me

PHOEBE BRIDGERS–Georgia

FOXES–Devil Side

CHVRCHES–The Mother We Share

STAVES–Make it Holy

BROODS–Worth the Fight

LANA DEL REY–Love

PHOEBE BRIDGERS–Smoke Signals

JAPANESE HOUSE–Face Like Thunder

LORDE–Yellow Flicker Beat

DAUGHTER–Home

BIRDY–Wild Horses

PHOEBE BRIDGERS–Motion Sickness

BROODS–Heartlines

THE WIND AND THE WAVE–It’s a Longer Road to California Than I Thought

SMITH & THELL–Statues

BIRDY–Wings

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

SOPHIA

His fingers graze my lips. Inside I explode.

His hand reaches behind my neck and scoops a handful of my hair. Tipping my head back slightly, he kisses my neck.

I grip the edge of the bed, clutching a handful of the floral quilt cover. My other hand slides up his torso, over his navy T-shirt, and up to his head. I pull him in closer and feel a churning in my belly. When his lips find mine again, the butterflies disappear.

Everything about him is familiar but new at the same time.

He brushes a stray strand off my face and loops it between his fingers.

I don’t know where his other hand is until I feel it on the belt loop of my jeans, then it’s on my stomach.

My body lurches. I don’t like his hand there. He must feel that loose saggy skin around my middle, the curve of my belly after a big meal, the fat.

I scoot my body to the side, away from his hand.

‘Are you OK?’ he whispers.

If I draw attention to it then he’ll be thinking about it, like me. I’ll be unattractive to him. Disgusting. So I just nod and then pull him in again so he forgets what just happened.

He presses harder against my lips, then slides his hand back over my stomach but this time he moves it before I have a chance to. He’s moving it upwards though and now it’s at the edge of the cardigan around my shoulders. He shimmies it off my shoulder and I shift my weight slightly to let him bring it down around my elbows. My green vest with the lace scalloped trim is exposed. It’s really a PJ top – well, one half of a shorts set from Next that I got for my birthday one year. It’s not supposed to be a top. He’s not supposed to see it. But he is. And I’m letting him.

Outside, rain beats hard on the window pane, pushing its way into our space, our moment. The wind cries and howls. It wants in. And for a moment – a brief fleeting moment – I think I want out. But then that thought passes or is forced out of my mind because I don’t want out. I want to be here with Steve. With my boyfriend. I’m just scared. It’s moving too fast. I’m not ready. But he is.

I stretch out my hand awkwardly, my arm still caught in the fabric of my cardigan, to tap on the music on my phone. I’ve created a playlist for us with all of our favourite songs but also some new ones. I hope he likes it. I spent time working on it last night, probably when I should have been finishing my physics homework but this seemed more important to me.

It is important.

What we have is important.

I love Steve.

But I can’t reach my phone without moving my body out from under him and I don’t want to do that. Not just yet. But then his hand is suddenly under my vest, under my bra, and I have to.

Because that’s it. Right there. That’s my ceiling. He just hit it.

My hand cups his and I push it off my body back down to his side. He tries again. So I move the hand away, again.

And again.

And then again.

‘Steve,’ I finally say, sitting upright. I slide my body out from under him and press my spine against the headboard.

He sits up too and kneels on one leg. He sighs deeply and I wish I could give him exactly what he wants, be exactly what he needs. But I can’t. At least not now. Not tonight. My parents are going to be back any minute, I’m wearing jeans, I can’t remember the colour of my underwear let alone whether it matches my bra. Although I’m ninety per cent sure it doesn’t. Maybe even ninety-eight per cent.

I’ve thought about it. Of course I’ve thought about it. I’m seventeen years old. What seventeen-year-old with a boyfriend hasn’t thought about their first time? But I haven’t prepared. I need time to prepare. I need my playlist. I need candles, the curtains closed, the dirty laundry basket out of that corner, the coffee mug from breakfast off my dresser, that bronzer stain by my mirror gone, half a stone vanished from my midriff, this spot on my chin completely obliterated, and preferably knickers that aren’t from Primark and that my mum didn’t buy me for Christmas last year.

But I can’t tell him that.

So instead I scrunch up my face and hope my cheeks aren’t burning as red as I think they are. Which they probably are.

He sighs even deeper, even louder. ‘Not tonight then?’ he finally asks, looking up at me.

I lightly touch his left cheek feeling the stubble sharp against my fingertips. ‘Not tonight.’

He takes another deep breath and again I wonder what he’s thinking inside. Is he getting sick of waiting? Is he getting bored with me? Does he still fancy me?

I lean in and wrap my arms around him, pulling him in again. When our lips part, his face has relaxed a little and the lines around his eyes are now almost completely faded from his skin. He looks less tense. He brushes another strand off my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. His fingers linger over the silver and pearl studs in my earlobe, before dropping heavily to the bed. ‘OK.’ He swings his legs off the bed and puts his face in his hands, leaning over. Away from me.

I’ve disappointed him.

I hate doing that, but I keep doing it. Why?

I swing a leg around him and lay my head gently on his back. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper in his ear.

‘It’s fine, Soph, really. We’ve got plenty of time. And it’ll happen, right?’

Lifting my head, I wrap my arms around him and interlace my fingers at his stomach. I pull him in closer. ‘Of course it’ll happen.’ I playfully press against his belly until he squirms.

He laughs and wriggles away. He runs a hand through his hair and then turns to face me. He places a hand on my cheek. ‘Soon, yeah?’

I push my cheek further into his palm and press a smile onto my face even though I don’t feel it inside. ‘Yes, soon. I promise.’

He kisses me again, quickly and briefly this time. Then leans back over the bed.

‘You’re leaving?’ I ask, watching him shove his feet into his trainers.

‘Yeah, your mum and dad will be home soon anyway. And I promised Lee I’d catch up with him tonight.’

‘Oh.’ I turn and look at the chrome-rimmed clock on my wall, where the hands extend out from the Eiffel Tower and slowly circle around an outline of Paris by day. ‘Now? It’s kinda late?’

He fixes his laces then turns to me. ‘I’ll text you.’

He tries to move but I grab his torso and pull him into me. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him again. When I pull away, his eyes are already open. ‘Don’t forget to text me.’

He smiles, playfully nuzzles against my nose then walks out of the bedroom, leaving the door open. A cold draught seeps in from the hallway and snakes up to my bed, to my bare shoulders and exposed arms. I fling my body back onto the quilt and listen to his footsteps. His feet get quieter as he moves through to the back of the house and out the rear door.

And then he’s gone.

The cold air lingers in the room, encasing me, squeezing me. My fingers scroll through my iPhone until our last conversation.

Can’t wait to see you tonight x

He’d sent that to me only an hour before he’d arrived. It was enough to send warmth to my cheeks and whole body. I’d waited for him.

Steve and I have been together for a year now, although I can’t believe it’s been a whole year. I guess time really does fly by when you’re this happy. I still remember when I first noticed him. It feels like it was last night. I didn’t even like him at first. He was overconfident, brash, even a little rude at times. We didn’t fall into the same social circle, not that I run in a particular ‘social circle’. I’ve always struggled in social situations. I get nervous when people talk to me, wondering what they’re expecting me to say back and what happens if my response doesn’t meet their expectations. What if I’m not funny enough? Or not interesting enough? What if they’re not even talking to me and instead they’re actually talking to the person behind me?

All these scenarios play out in my head to the point where going out is no longer an option. All I want to do is go to school, finish my homework, and spend all my free time with Steve. I have friends of course. Well, maybe just one. I hang out with Ulana a lot. Her boyfriend plays football with Steve on Thursday nights and Saturday mornings. She can’t ever watch him play though. She’s not supposed to have a boyfriend. Her parents are crazy strict.

But I don’t freeze up so much when I’m around her, and never with Steve. I can be myself completely with him. I never have to worry if I’m funny enough or interesting enough. I never have to look over my shoulder when he talks because he’s always talking to me. Steve doesn’t care about my social skills or my ability – or inability – to work a room full of people. He does all that for me. He speaks for me when we go out so I never have to think too much about what to say. Honestly, it’s not the social expectations of dating that terrify me. It’s not even the anxiety-producing process of getting prepared to sleep with your boyfriend for the first time. It’s the simple truth – that was revealed to me only recently – that for him, this isn’t his first time. He’s done this before. Probably many times before based on what Ulana told me last week. Steve is experienced in this sort of stuff.

And me?

Well, I am clearly not.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m so lost when it comes to relationships. I’m not like the other girls at school, and definitely nothing like the girls he’s dated. I’m not social and fun like Trina Davis. She’s the life of the party. Yes, she’s usually throwing up in someone’s garden by the end of the night, but she still tops me. And Lucy McNeil?

No one is like Lucy McNeil.

I’ll never be as confident, or as pretty, and certainly never as popular, as Lucy McNeil.

LUCY

‘I had an amazing summer,’ I start. Immediately all three girls lean in to give me their complete attention. I would be a little mad if they didn’t. It’s a good story. Mine usually are. ‘I went to Italy with my mum and dad in July for three weeks then Mallorca in August.’

(The Mallorca part is true).

‘You look so tanned. I’m so jealous!’ cried Mollie, raising her sandwich to her pink-stained lips.

‘I know. I’m so scared it’s already fading though,’ I say, puckering my mouth into a sulk. I hold out my arm, still golden brown as if I only came back yesterday. No one needs to know I spent most of last week on the sunbed. It has to look like I spent most of July in Italy. It has to look like I’m telling the truth. Otherwise, they’ll know.

‘You should use Boots’ Extender Tan. I slathered that on after I went to Florida last summer and it really worked,’ Cara said, stretching out her arm to meet mine.

‘Have you seen Rhys since you got back?’ Lily suddenly asks.

Cara nudges her in the side of her stomach.

‘I didn’t mean to bring him up. I was just wondering if you were getting back together?’

I take a deep breath and look back over my shoulder to make sure he’s not nearby. ‘Well, we did see each other a bit over the summer—’

‘Really? Because I heard he saw Trina Davis quite a bit over the summer too?’

I give Mollie a stare so hard that her eyes water slightly. She swallows hard and I can tell by her expression that a piece of bread went down a little too rough. But she can’t reach for her SmartWater yet. Not until I’m finished with my staredown.

OK, now I’m done.

‘I don’t even want to hear her name,’ I say. ‘Whatever happened over the summer was clearly because Rhys was heartbroken over me. That girl is walking around like they were dating or something.’

‘But they are, aren’t they? That’s what Rhys told Steve.’

My insides start to burn. ‘Steve’s a liar. Besides, if they were they’re not now. And he was probably not the only boy she was seeing—’

‘Wait, so they were dating? Like, dating dating?’ Mollie edges in closer. Her lip gloss is a shade too light for her skin tone. And she has an ugly pimple on her forehead. But I don’t tell her that.

‘No, Mollie. But she clearly thinks they were. What she doesn’t know is that Rhys has been texting me.’

‘I knew it! Tell us more,’ urges Lily.

‘Well, it’s not official yet but we’re talking again and that’s a good sign.’ I push the cucumber around in my salad bowl, wondering whether I should tell them about the other guy in July. But when I look up I see their little eager faces desperate for more information, more gossip, so I bite my lip. They wouldn’t understand. They might judge me. They might not even believe me. ‘I was the one who broke up with him, remember?’ That’s another lie. ‘But he’s enjoying playing a little hard to get, which is fine for now.’

‘Boys,’ Cara shrugs. Apparently her only contribution to the conversation.

‘Boys,’ Lily seconds.

Mollie is too busy fishing for the piece of arugula in her molar.

I glance around the lunchroom at Birchwood High School. It seems different this year. We all seem different this year. Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s only me that’s changed.

This is going to be a good year.

This is going to be a good year.

If I keep saying it, it will make it true. Isn’t that how it works? Positive thinking, blah, blah.

Then I see her.

Throwing her head back, laughing, mouth wide. She’s walking with another girl in our year, whose name I either always forget or never knew to begin with.

‘Did you see who just walked in?’ Mollie asks.

‘She’s walking our way, Luce,’ Cara adds.

She edges closer to our table.

‘Do something,’ Lily urges me.

‘Slut,’ I cough out, throwing my hand up to my mouth. The word feels funny on my tongue, tastes bitter. But the girls giggle and I smile with them.

Trina stops and turns around, her limp mousy blonde hair sliding greasily over a shoulder. ‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing. I just had a tickle in my throat,’ I say.

She steps closer to the table and looks down at me. Eyes too big for her small face, her slim frame squeezed uncomfortably into a too-short skirt and a too-low top. If it weren’t for her clothes and that ugly silver stud through her bottom lip, she could be pretty. But all I see in front of me is the girl who’s dating my boyfriend, the ‘distraction’ who’s stopping him from getting back together with me.

I was lying to everyone when I said I didn’t care. Of course I care. Rhys was the only good thing in my life and now that’s gone. He didn’t care about the small petty things that I used to torture myself about – how much I had to eat that day, how dull my skin looked, that stain on my favourite pink skirt. He didn’t even care if I had make-up on. He said he liked me better without ‘that gunk’ on my face. He liked me for me, and that wasn’t something that I was used to.

We got together purely out of convenience at first. We shared the same friends, went to the same parties, we were even in the same house at school. We participated in the same sports, of course Keith House always won at the school games. We were a team. And it was a team that I grew to love, and to need.

I don’t even know when it started to go wrong, when he started to get bored. Because that’s what happens, right? All boys get bored eventually. Or maybe they just get bored of me.

I called him so many times after but all he said was, ‘You’ve changed, Luce.’ Of course I’ve changed. I’m supposed to change. We all are. It’s more that I’ve changed into someone he’s no longer interested in.

It’s funny really, because that’s what my dad said to my mum before he left: ‘You’ve changed, Julia.’ I don’t know if I ever told Rhys that.

Maybe we haven’t changed. Maybe they have.

Now, I hardly ever see Dad.

He has a new family – young pretty blonde wife who used to work at the doctor’s surgery, with a one-year-old on her hip. One year old. He left us fifteen months ago. The maths doesn’t fit. He knows that. So when that woman walked around with a swollen belly, my dad sat at the dining table with us eating his Sunday roasts and reading his newspapers.

Not anymore. Now Mum rarely cooks or leaves the house. I don’t know when she last showered. She completely crumbled the moment Dad walked out. And I have to deal with it every day. But back then I had Rhys to help me deal. Now, I don’t. Now, I’m all alone in this.

He understood. He knew both my parents. He’d seen them when they were together, when Dad was faking the love and pretending he was in his forever family. Rhys used to come over for Sunday lunch sometimes when his mum and dad went out to the golf club to meet their friends. He sat with us, laughed with us.

Sometimes when I’m alone in my bedroom, I think about just how much I’ve lost in the past year, how much I’m still losing. All that time, all that precious time I could be spending with my dad, with Rhys.

Amber.

That’s her name. My soon-to-be stepmum. Who leaves their family for a woman called Amber? That’s who’s standing in front me now. Amber. Trina. They’re both the same. Both want what isn’t theirs.

She’s standing here at my table in the cafeteria. Mollie, Lily and Cara are watching me, anticipating what I’m going to do next. Honestly, I don’t know. I never know. I just keep pushing the boundaries until someone says something, until someone finally loves me enough to notice. I can feel the anger, the frustration, bubbling so close to the surface. I uncross my legs and lean into the table further and stare back at her, tempting her to push my buttons.

Go on, Trina. Start it.

She eventually rolls her eyes and walks away, wildly swinging her bag over her shoulder, her skirt slightly hitching up at the back.

See?

Amber.

They’re all Ambers.

ULANA

Those girls.

With their short skirts and heels. Crisp white shirts with the first two buttons undone. Flickers of lace bras during Gym. Edges of pink thongs peeking out from freshly ironed black school trousers.

Those girls.

I feel bad for those girls. They don’t know any different. They see images on TV and in magazines and aspire to be just that, not casting any doubt on the images they’re being sold. They want their hair longer – not creepy long though – shinier, straighter, curlier, blonder but not too blonde. They want to be taller but, of course, not taller than any boy, thinner but…actually, there’s never too thin. They open a magazine and all they see are skinny girls becoming skinnier, and getting praise for it. I see those girls at lunch, conflicted with the daunting choices of calories. Some don’t even eat. Some have just a piece of fruit then say they had a big breakfast. They sip on water. Too much sugar in juice. Too many calories in a smoothie. Too much fat in a hot chocolate. Black coffee works too.

Then they go to the girls’ toilets straight after. Some throw up, others readjust their short skirts and unbuttoned shirts. Most reapply their make-up for the afternoon. Glossy pink pouts. Thick dark eyebrows. Rosy cheeks. Matte noses. Black spider leg eyelashes. Contoured facial bones shimmering in highlighter. They dot concealer under their eyes, hiding the wrinkles they don’t have but always see when they look in the mirror.

I hope they do it for themselves, and not for others. That they’re not just parts of a game, being played, manipulated, moved onto tiny coloured squares for the next position. If not, I feel sorry for those girls. But they probably feel sorry for me. They think that I don’t belong here. That I’m different. That I’m not free, like them. They’re not free, not if they dress and look that way for others, for boys.

I feel a small tug on my hijab and it yanks a kirby grip from my hair. It slides down a little. When I turn I see those girls walking away. They look back at me and laugh. It’s not like this all the time. But when it happens, it’s always the same.

‘Terrorist.’

Some whisper it, while others say it loud enough so I can hear and so can all those around me. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me, of course it does. But that’s what they want. They want to see me angry, see me cry. But I won’t because I’m not ashamed or embarrassed. I know I won’t be any less Muslim if I take off the hijab, I’ll still be me. But I want to wear it because it’s a part of who I am, where I’m from, and what I believe in. So they should be the ones who are ashamed and embarrassed. My parents gave me a choice when we first moved here, and although I don’t wear a face veil like some girls and women back home, I’ve kept the hijab. I remain devoted to my faith, to my family, and to myself.

In all but one way.

Some might say, the worst way.

Sometimes I wish I wasn’t the only Muslim here at this school, that I had someone else my age to talk to. I have Sophia, I know. She’s a good friend to me. But sometimes I wish I had someone who understood more about my background. Someone who, maybe, was also going through what I’m going through – so I could speak to them about it. But I don’t have anyone like that. Surely my parents considered that I’d be the only Muslim high-school student in this small village. The nearest mosque is almost a forty-five minute bus ride away.

‘Hey!’ Aiden from my chemistry class starts to chase them down the hallway but I hold my arm out to block him, being careful not to touch him or for him to touch me.

‘Don’t bother,’ I say, bending down to pick up my folder.

‘I’ll get it.’ He gets down there first and scoops it up. ‘Here.’

‘Thanks.’ But when my fingers latch on, he doesn’t let go.

‘You shouldn’t let those girls get away with that.’

‘It’s fine. Really. Hardly ever happens.’

‘Liar.’ He smiles at me, and slowly I feel the muscles in my face soften.

I tug at the folder again. This time he releases it, but his fingers brush against mine. It startles me and I look back to see if anyone saw it. Around us, people move in all directions, some darting into classrooms, others hanging out in the hallway. No one is looking at us.

No one sees us.

No one sees me.

I take a deep breath and walk away.

When I look back, he’s still standing there.

My shoulder skims the corner of the wall, then I’m in a new hallway and I don’t see him anymore.

I’m not used to being at a mixed-gender school. Boys sitting beside girls in classes. The girls’ changing room next door to the boys’ changing room. Girls standing in front of or behind boys in the lunch queue. Boys eating with girls they barely know. Nobody else here thinks this is strange but me.

Room 17 is dark, having not been used for classes all day. It’s stuffy so one of the students cracks open a window. Cool clean air seeps in from the gap and I take a deep breath. The room is full. Classmates sit on desks, in chairs, lean against bookshelves. No one will notice me here.

I stand by the door in the back. The door handle jabs into my spine a little but I stay. This is the perfect spot. This is my spot. I stand here every week.

Some people take notes, while others hide their phones under the desks and text their friends. I don’t know why they come. Most won’t be applying to university and some won’t get in even if they do. I know why I come. Not because we’re obligated to sign up to one of the many UCAS sessions held throughout the school week. And not because I don’t know how to navigate the online system, or don’t know what universities are looking for in applicants. My grades are impeccable and I will certainly obtain unconditional offers for all the universities that I apply to. I could probably teach this class. In the second week, the instructor spent an hour walking us through how to complete the first page of the application form – ‘Personal Information’. I’m pretty confident we can all recall our full name, address, date of birth and a contact telephone number.

That’s not why I come here.

I wait until the lights dim, then watch as the instructor struggles to bring up the first slide of his PowerPoint presentation. Perfect time to slip out. No one turns. Anyone who does see me leave will probably just assume I’m going to the toilet and not question it.

The hallway is already quiet, even though it’s only been fifteen minutes since the last bell. Those girls are long gone now. They’re probably shopping for a new eyeliner in Boots on the way home, or picking up the new Glamour or InStyle from WHSmith. Sometimes I dislike them. Other times, I envy them. I don’t have that luxury of ‘free time’. Between waking up and going to sleep, my day is mapped out for me. What I wouldn’t give for one afternoon after school where I could stay out as late as I want, skip dinner with the family, skip my evening readings, skip everything. Maybe I could leave school early, fake a sore belly, and have hours to myself – hours to lose to nothing, to lose to everything. But time slips by me, never glancing back. Time bumps into me in the hallway, and sits too close to me in the cafeteria. Time sits behind me in class, and ticks against my wrist, reminding me that seconds are passing, but that they don’t belong to me. They belong to everyone else. They belong to those girls.

Time.

When I reach the top of the hill, I look down at the watch on my wrist and adjust the alarm. I have thirty-five minutes. A deep breath escapes my lips. A flutter in my belly. Heat in my cheeks.

Boys sitting beside girls.

Girls meeting boys.

I bite my lip, feel the pressure between the teeth build.

And then I see him, waiting for me on the hill. He turns. He sees me. Finally someone sees me.

Then there comes that smile.

TRINA

Journal Entry 1: 05.09.2018

I saw him again this afternoon outside the biology department. I’d been rushing back from having a quick smoke outside the chemistry labs and was on my way to the girls’ toilets to brush my teeth before class, when I turned the corner and saw him. I always seem to see him there in that hallway, so much so that I find myself hanging around and waiting there sometimes in case he passes by. I never used to go down that hallway. It branches off to the Literature & Languages classrooms and since I’m not taking English or French this year there’s no need for me to venture down that way. But I know he has German after lunch period so instead of using the toilets by the chemistry wing, I now intentionally walk an extra four minutes out of my way for a chance of bumping into him. Is that stalking? No…surely not? I’ll Google that later.

Anyway, today he was leaning against the wall, slapping his right palm against the stone to a particular rhythm like he was hearing a song that no one else could hear but him, while he waited for Mr Fischer to open the classroom door. And when the door did finally open, right before he turned his back on me – again – I could have sworn he looked up at me. Just briefly. Just long enough for me to notice and take a snapshot in my mind of his eyes, his body language, his expression.

He was kind of happy to see me, but also not wanting to show that he was. Why the games?

I like him.

He likes me.

This is a pretty easy problem to solve, isn’t it?? He’s the smart one, not me, so why isn’t he figuring this out? If he likes me as much as I like him then there’s no need for these mind games. We shouldn’t be avoiding each other or pretending that we’re not happy to see each other at school, in the hallway, outside at lunch, in the car park, when in fact we’re thrilled. He doesn’t have to not let on. He doesn’t have to pretend. Not with me.

We had an amazing summer together. We spent practically all of our free time hanging out. He acted like we were in a proper relationship, but now this? It’s as if the summer never happened. But it did. I know it did, and so does he. How much longer am I supposed to wait for him?

We don’t have all the time in the world to take this slowly if this is what is happening. We only have one more year together. He graduates in June and will go off to somewhere else new and exciting no doubt, Edinburgh or London or somewhere, and go to a fancy university that I can’t pronounce the name of let alone ever stand a chance of getting into myself. And even if I did stand a chance – in some crazy universe where I actually got good enough grades and had made Head Girl – I couldn’t afford to go.

Tuition rates are insane. I know there’s funding, but I likely wouldn’t be eligible for it because it’s probably ‘merit-based’, right? People with bad grades and even worse attendance don’t get funded to go to uni to get more bad grades and skip more classes. No, the government would prefer to spend its money on students who will actually pass the course and graduate to get a job to contribute to society. Me – I’m a risk. No contribution to society so far. Except to the food and drink industry. I do frequent the newsagent down the street quite a bit to get cheap vodka for the weekend. Does that count? No probably not.

And then there’s the books. A friend of mine in the year above went to Kelvin College this year to do her Access to Nursing and she’s already spent so much on the textbooks. And that’s just for her first semester! One book was apparently forty-five quid! She probably won’t even read it. You know anything that costs forty-five pounds will have tiny writing, graphs no doubt, and not the kinds of glossy colourful photos I like to see in a book!

And the housing options suck – I could stay at home with Mum and commute by bus to the nearest uni, which Rhys probably wouldn’t choose. Or I could get student accommodation and be subjected to one toilet between twenty people. I could live with my friend but she lives in a council flat and probably couldn’t fit me in anyway. She’s also got a ten-month-old that her mum looks after during the day sometimes…me and a crying baby under one roof?

No.

University is not for me. Besides, I wouldn’t even be able to work out how to complete the first page of the UCAS application.

University – or ‘Further Education’ as the guidance counsellor calls it – is for people who:

1. Read William Shakespeare (and understand what the hell he’s saying – is it even in English?)

2. Drink tea in the afternoons, especially if it comes with a scone and a porcelain jar of clotted cream, whatever that is. Is it just regular cream? What makes it clotted?

3. Write with a pen that has a fluffy thing on the top that sits on a spring and bounces side to side when you write with it

4. Post photos of themselves with their parents, usually on some expensive holiday abroad – and they actually look normal, and HAPPY!

5. Detail volunteer work experience at homes for the elderly and children’s hospitals on their profile and define this experience as ‘life changing’

6. Use the term ‘extra-curricular activities’ on their CVs. Actually, bigger point here – it’s for people who have CVs!

7. Have a five-year-plan that includes getting married and buying a fancy breed dog

8. Make daily ‘To Do’ lists and probably tick off each item as it’s accomplished with that annoying fluffy top bobbing to the side pen!

9. Colour-coordinate their school folders

10. Season-coordinate their wardrobe – although this one sounds tempting as I hate digging into the back of my drawers in the dead of winter and only finding summer shorts and sleeveless vests

I’ll tell you who it’s not for – and keep in mind, this list is where I fall in. It’s not for people who:

1. Don’t read Shakespeare, but who have just one book on their bookshelf that has the inside pages ripped out and a stash of cigarettes inside (Mum goes through random bouts of ‘Ciggies are so bad for you’ moments and searches my bags and drawers to ‘help me’)

2. Drink vodka and red bull – occasionally vodka and lemonade if I want to sleep that night for more than three minutes

3. Write with a black sharpie pen – and only on the bathroom doors of the boys’ toilets at school

4. List ‘partying’ and ‘sleeping’ on their activity list

5. Post photos of their mates falling down the stairs of O’Neill’s on a Saturday night

6. Have a mum that works at a home for the elderly for minimum wage, bathing creepy old men, while snobby girls with gel manicures breeze in for their daily thirty minutes of ‘Read to an Old Person and Feel Good About Myself After’

7. Actually know what CV stands for…

So, as I said, this is where I fall in. And I mean, clearly fall in. Like there’s no mistake about that.

And as you’ve probably guessed – the first section is where Rhys is. Although hopefully not the part about the pen with the fluffy top…or the afternoon tea with scones…but probably everything else, mind you.

BUT that didn’t seem to bother him over the summer, did it?

No actually, it was the total opposite. He seemed really into me over the summer. We even met up a couple of times the week before school started back. And now he’s acting distant, and I heard he’s even been talking to his ex Lucy again. I hate that girl. STUCK UP SNOB!!!!!!!!!!!

She thinks she’s better than everyone else, and she’s not. She got dumped by Rhys before school ended for the summer and then got upset when he and I got together. She threw a drink in my face at Euan’s party and called me a slut. Nice. Yesterday, she called me the same thing in the middle of the cafeteria then pretended that she was just coughing. She’s so immature. What did Rhys ever see in her? And her friends are just as bad. I think I’m dumb – but Mollie Bridges? She takes the…whatever that saying is. And Cara and Lily are basically mini Lucys. UGGGHHHHHHHH! I can’t wait for Friday. This week is going to SUCK!!!!!!

SOPHIA

‘Are you not eating today?’ Ulana asks me.

I look down at my empty tray that perches lightly on the cold metal racks of the cafeteria island. Round white plates line the silver shelves in the middle. There are no healthy choices at Birchwood High School, except if you count the salads, which most people do. I don’t. Most swim in a sea of oily dressings. ‘No, I don’t really see anything that looks good today. I guess I’m not really hungry.’

She’s looking at me in a weird way.

‘I had a big breakfast,’ I quickly add.

She eventually nods and gets back to choosing between tomato pasta or a ham and cheese roll for lunch. She’s the only girl at school that I know who doesn’t talk about her weight, or know the number of calories in a KitKat, or even read those magazines that claim to have ‘the secret for losing a dress size in a week’. Which they don’t because no magazine can tell the public that if they actually want to lose a dress size in one week then they’d basically have to starve themselves for that whole week.

I would give anything to have Ulana’s confidence, her self-assurance.

But maybe not her parents. Gone would be my quiet evenings with Steve alone in the house if I had her parents. No, I’d be sneaking out back to meet my boyfriend too.

She struggles to lift up her full tray, while mine rests lightly on my forearms. ‘Where do you want to sit?’

My eyes skim the crowd, quickly locking onto Lucy McNeil and her friends in the centre of the cafeteria. ‘Maybe not there.’

We shuffle to a table at the side, in the back, and plop our trays down. Streaks of ketchup and mustard left behind from the last occupants make my tummy flip.

‘You’re really not hungry?’

I shake my head and poke at the bruised apple on my tray. ‘Told you. Big breakfast.’ I glance over to Lucy’s table, her tanned brown skin, shiny dark hair falling around her shoulders. Girls like that are just born that way, while we have to claw our way up or risk being mediocre and forgettable our whole lives. ‘Looks like someone’s enjoyed a holiday abroad.’

‘Who?’ asks Ulana as she digs into her plate with a fork a little too small for her fingers.

‘Lucy McNeil. Look how tanned she is. So jealous.’

‘Burned you mean,’ she says. ‘Anyone who intentionally sits out in the sun is just burning their skin.’

I take a bite of my apple. The waxy skin tastes like shards of plastic in my mouth. I gaze down at Ulana’s pasta. ‘How is it?’

She shrugs and takes another mouthful, some flakes of Parmesan falling from her fork. ‘It’s not Italia Nostra, but it’ll do.’

‘I love that place.’ Freshly ground garlic and rosemary seep out from under the kitchen door and float through the restaurant, occasionally out onto the street. Beautiful circles of brick-oven pizzas loaded with fresh basil and mozzarella that stretches for yards. Tubes of red pasta dotted with black pepper served in bowls that have yellow and blue swirls looping around the edges. I clutch my belly as a low gurgle moves through my body. ‘Have you ever thought about sex?’ I suddenly blurt out.

Ulana coughs on a piece of pasta and sets her fork down.

I slap her on the back. ‘Sorry.’

She rubs her eyes, a few drops trickling down, and coughs up again. She clears her throat and turns her chair towards me a little. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘I was just wondering, you know, you…Aiden…?’

‘Sophia, have you met my parents?’ she laughs. The smile suddenly fades from her face as she edges in closer to the table and leans on her tray with an elbow. ‘It’s hard enough for me to get my head around the fact I’m dating a boy outside of my religion, but that…’ She shakes her head.

‘That’s a no, then?’

‘No. Definitely not.’ She slides her tray away from her body and drops her fork down onto the plastic bowl.

‘But you’ve thought about it?’

She shrugs and turns away, looking out beyond our little circular table.

‘You have thought about it, haven’t you?’

She leans in, her mouth close to my ear. ‘Of course. I’m seventeen.’

I smile and sit back in the chair.

‘But thinking about it is much different to actually doing it,’ she adds.

I open my mouth to say something but an arm pulls me backwards. ‘Steve!’ He laughs and drops to his knees beside my chair. Leaning in, his lips meet mine.

‘Still here,’ Ulana loudly states, tapping my arm.

‘Sorry.’ I take his hand in mine and squeeze it gently. ‘Will you call me tonight?’

‘Yep, I will.’ He winks at me then rushes off to catch up with his friends who stand at the back, pointing at us, teasing us. He playfully nudges the tall one in the back, Rhys, as he passes him. I can’t help it; I turn to watch Rhys’ ex-girlfriend’s expression. Lucy McNeil watches him pass then flicks her hair in that Lucy way, before turning back to her friends, her posse. Those who I’ll never sit with, never talk to at a party, never text with. But that’s OK. Because I have Steve and that’s all that matters to me now.

Ulana takes a big gulp of her water bottle and watches him walk away, eyeing his every step. She quickly puts the bottle down, turning into me again. ‘Just make sure you’re not getting pressured into anything, OK? It’s your body. Your choice. Don’t let anyone make you feel like you can’t say no.’

I fiddle with the stem of my apple core, pushing it back and forth until it eventually snaps and breaks free from the fruit. ‘I know,’ I shrug, tossing it into the empty tray. I momentarily shake the idea from my mind, then commence a conversation on tonight’s biology assignment.

But by the time I get home from school, I’m still thinking about it.

IT.

And before I’ve even changed out of my uniform for the evening, I’m upstairs, on my bed, at my laptop. Fingers quickly tapping at the black keys, and suddenly perfectly thin models with big bouncy hair and pouty lips stare back at me, all swathed in lace, chiffon and silk. My temples start to throb as dilemmas between ‘Brazilians’ and ‘cheekies’ and ‘babydolls’ and ‘chemises’ fill and overload my brain. Padded or push-up? Plunge or demi? And what’s a ‘merrywidow’? It sounds like a character from a Marvel movie.

The bedroom swings open and my mum stands in the doorway, cleaning her hands with a mint-green tea towel. ‘I didn’t even hear you come in. Why didn’t you say hi?’

‘I thought you were at Aunt Bridget’s this afternoon?’ My swallow burns my throat.

‘I was but I wanted to get a start on dinner. Your dad’s finishing work early today. Quiet day at the office, I guess. I’m making a roast tonight. That OK?’

‘But it’s not Sunday?’ We like to stick to traditions in our family, although the images in front of me are far from traditional. Is that a thong-filled Christmas tree bauble?

‘Your father and I are going to the golf club this Sunday with his work friends.’

There was a time when Mum and Dad used to go there with Lucy’s parents. It’s funny that our parents were friends but we never were. Not even something like that brought us together. We were completely different people. Always will be. I bet she’d know what a ‘merrywidow’ is. She probably has one in black. Or maybe in red.

‘Not going with the McNeils?’

‘Oh no. We haven’t seen them in a while. I think it’s been about a year.’

‘Really?’

‘I did reach out a few times to invite them, but Julia never got back to me. I don’t even see her in town much anymore.’

‘Oh, weird.’ My fingers slowly reach for the laptop screen and I start to lower it half an inch at a time.

She stands at the door, still rubbing her hands. How can they not be dry by now?

‘What are you up to, honey?’

A crisp silence hangs heavy in the hair. My palms start to get clammy. I feel like I might throw up on my MacBook at any second. ‘Hmm?’

‘Honey?’ she asks again, her eyes burning through to the back of my skull.

I can’t lie. I never could. I tried once or twice, but it was like she knew, like she could smell the deceit and dishonesty on my skin like cheap perfume.

‘Um…a biology project,’ I croak out, my voice a little too high at the end.

‘What on?’

Oh. She wants details.

Think of something.

Think of something.

‘Human anatomy,’ I finally say, nodding my head.

‘Oh, well I’m afraid I can’t help you there. I never did know much about the human body.’ Then she turns and leaves, closing the bedroom door tight behind her.

LUCY

I remember the day my dad left.

Branches creaking, slight bounce in the back door that hadn’t been closed properly, it was a windy day. It howled and moaned, and dragged through our town like a rake in weeds, surfacing the weak roots in the soil. That was us that day. A weak root.

I hadn’t always thought that. I’d thought we were a strong unit. That the three of us were a family, unbreakable to the core. We’d been happy. We watched films in the evenings during the week when I wasn’t allowed to go out with my friends or Rhys. The weekends were mostly our own. Mum and Dad went to the golf club with the Greers, while I went to the cinema with Rhys or occasionally drank cheap white wine from a cardboard box and gossiped with Lily, Cara and Mollie about the hideous outfits people wore to high-school parties. Short skirts, tied-up tops, low-cut necklines, bright-coloured tights, sequins that sparkled a little too much, fake leather skirts that were more fake than leather. But during the week, where homework, early bedtimes and nutritionally dense dinners took precedence, my time was our time. Family time. We always ate at the dinner table – TV off, phones on silent. We talked about our day, our weekend plans, things that were bugging us. I talked and they listened. Now I talk and no one hears me. Mum’s in a place that I can’t reach, and never will, and Dad’s ‘busy’. He says that a lot now. ‘Sorry, Luce. I’ve just been busy at work…Sorry, Luce, I can’t this weekend. We’re just so busy with the baby…’ Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Everyone is just so sorry, but nothing changes. Not even my memory of that night changes. I replay it sometimes. It makes me stronger.

I think.

My parents had been up all night – talking, arguing, crying. I don’t know. I wasn’t there in their bedroom. But I heard them. They never made me a part of the discussion or even considered me when making a decision. My dad had been late from work the evening before and his dinner had sat cold on the kitchen table for almost two hours before he walked in, navy coat strewn over his arm. They’d bickered about why he was always late from work, and my mum walked out of the living room. The bedroom door slammed upstairs and my dad had plopped down on the sofa beside me. I’d been texting Rhys so my phone had been in my hand. I remember that because after my dad said what he did, I’d dropped the phone and it’d hit my foot.

He’d wrapped his arm around me, his fingers lightly resting on my upper arm. His voice was different, gravelly like he had a cold. He asked me how my day at school had been, and I told him about our social studies assignment and how I’d practised for the dance society’s next performance at the arts centre on the high street, which of course I’d got the lead for. But when I asked him how his day had been, his face turned pale and he looked like he was going to cry. He didn’t respond to my question, instead he coughed gently and turned his gaze to the yellow shaggy rug that I often lay my belly on while I finished my homework for the evening. I don’t do that anymore. I don’t do a lot of things that I used to.

He didn’t look at me once while he said nine simple words. ‘Everything is about to change. Please don’t be scared.’

Change.

I didn’t want anything to change. Why did it need to? We were doing just fine how we were. But it was no longer about us. There was suddenly someone new in this family. Another voice, one that hid from us in the shadows and slowly poisoned my dad’s thoughts. One day there were three of us. Then the next, there were four. And soon, just two remained. The two left behind. The unwanted two.

That’s why I hate Trina so much. Not because of what she wears, how she acts, what she says. But because all of a sudden she was just there. She became my Amber. And when Rhys ended it with me, saying we’d ‘grown apart’, all I thought about was how my mum must have felt being dumped, being tossed to the side for someone else. And I became angry. Really angry. And I started thinking about what people would say if they knew I’d been rejected by my dad and then by my boyfriend.

Before then I never had to think too much about what people thought of me. I didn’t care. I did well at school, I had best friends, I had a boyfriend who treated me well, I was invested in after-school activities like the dance society and Amnesty UK. I was doing a good job at being me. Then one day Dad left the family and in a way, Mum left too. And I suddenly became aware of other people, and more importantly what they might think of me, be saying about me behind my back. What if they pitied me like the other ‘children of divorces’? ‘Poor Lucy has no dad anymore’… ‘Aww, Lucy’s dad left them…’ Or worse, what if I became the topic of gossip? ‘Did you hear, Lucy’s dad walked out on her and her mum?…Did you know Lucy’s parents are getting a divorce?…Guess what I found out this weekend?…’

I became consumed with what other people thought about me, terrified that they’d find out that my perfect life was all a lie, that my dad chose his new family over us, over me. That despite all the happy meals we shared together at that big oak table, all the movies we curled up on the sofa to watch with frozen banana chunks dipped in dark chocolate, that despite the holidays we went on every year where we took family selfies and posted them on social media, that fundamentally my dad was unhappy. That hurts me more. That he took into consideration all the years, all the memories, all the love, and still came to the conclusion that he’d be much happier with another wife and another child. That. Kills. Me.

So I decided that I wouldn’t be the focus of hushed conversations, the words on scrunched up paper notes passed along in class under tables, the target of people’s pointed fingers. And the only way to ensure that was to always be putting other people in that position. If I pointed the spotlight at others, no one could turn it on me. I’m not proud of who I became after my dad left, after Rhys left. But for now, it works. For now, I’ll keep going and no one will find out my secrets. Never. But I’ll keep finding out theirs.

ULANA

My fingers are red raw from rubbing. My nails ache from the pressure of pushing down. I think I chipped the middle nail because something sharp just rubbed against my thumb.

But I don’t stop.

I get another paper towel from the girls’ room dispenser and dampen it under the warm tap. Then I return to the stall door and continue scrubbing.

I know it’s not my name or my reputation, but it could be. And if it was then I would hope that some girl would do me the same favour, show me the same respect.

Trina Davis is a SLUT

I can’t leave it here, not that.

Who would do this?

Girls that have no idea. They trash reputation and then move on to the next victim. What if that said my name?

Ulana Alami is a SLUT

I can’t imagine. What would my parents think? What would my dad say? How would I ever be able to face them again?

My fingers shake and the moist towel drops to the floor. My belly churns, a warm sensation moving upwards through my body, snaking its way up to my throat. I swallow it down, take a deep breath and tell myself: It’s not my name and it’s not happening to me. No one knows about us.

I check my watch. I’m late. He’ll be wondering where I am. I have another go at the door then flush the paper towel down the toilet.

Grabbing my book bag, I rush out and through the back door. Feet on dried brown leaves from the birch trees, hands on the trunks of pines, I reach the spot. It’s the perfect place, sheltered from the wind, and more importantly, from the school.

He stands by the bench – our bench – then starts pacing in front of it. He checks his watch and runs his hand through his hair.

‘Aiden!’

He spins round, a wide smile stretching across his face. That smile. My smile.

I still remember the day I noticed Aiden for the first time. He’d been sitting in chemistry, one row in front of me, on the right. A PowerPoint presentation outlined the major components of atomic bonding and all around me people took frantic notes, our hands not able to keep up with the rapidly changing slides. My right hand was cramping and I rubbed, massaging into the muscle. It was at this time that I came to two realisations. Firstly, that I didn’t need to be taking this many notes because I already knew all this. And secondly, that the boy sitting in the row in front of me, to my right, wouldn’t stop turning around to look at me.

At first, I thought he was just curious. I was in full dress, the fabrics bought with my parents in Morocco, but my Western-bought jeans and grey Converse trainers stuck out from the bottom. He was interested in me. That was it. So I entertained him. I turned my face to him to let him know that I knew that he was watching me. His cheeks reddened and he turned his head back to the projection screen quickly. I remember putting my hand up to my mouth to stifle the smile that suddenly and unexpectedly came. And when I regained my composure, I looked up and saw that he was staring again. But this time he was smiling too. Smiling at me. Tiny dimples in the corners of his smiles, eyes wide and even in the darkened room, they had a sparkle to them. I looked away. And when I looked back – and I told myself not to so many times – the smile had been replaced by a goofy face. Half the class turned to face me as a loud giggle escaped my throat. Sophia had observed the interaction and I couldn’t hide from the questions and playful elbows that followed in the days and weeks after. Every time he passed me in the hallway or smiled at me in class, she’d be there beaming from ear to ear, thrilled that for once in my life, I was doing something that wasn’t on my ‘Life Plan’. Instead I was doing something that should never be mixed with education and future life decisions – I was having fun.

It was innocent at first. Smiles, nods, innocent facial exchanges. Then it moved to verbal interactions where he’d ask me the time even though I saw the watch sticking out from his sleeve. He asked me about Morocco and I asked him about, well, everything – music, films, books. I was interested in every word that came out of his mouth. I was curious about what he liked, what he did with his time, and about those dimples. He made me laugh. He was funny, smart. He stood out from the others. He sought to be different. It wasn’t an embarrassment for him but a requirement. He had an active desire to be so. And for the first time since we’d arrived in this country, he made me feel at home, a part of something outside of my obligations at school and at home.

It had almost ended before it had even started. He’d asked me out at the end of class, just to see a film at the cinema. But for me, that moment made me see that by just talking to him, I was crossing a line that I wouldn’t be able to return to. That I was stepping away from my religion and my beliefs, and possibly abusing the trust of my parents. And that I was leading on a boy that I really, really liked. I knew we could never even be friends, not with how I was feeling towards him, let alone anything more. So I said no. I tried to explain to him why I was saying no, and he understood. And then we didn’t talk for weeks after that. Those were the longest weeks of my life. The worst weeks. Week after week of regret, envy, anger, frustration, and something else, something much bigger.

Desire.

I still feel that now when I see him standing here.

I rush the next couple of steps and stagger into his arms. I hug him like I haven’t seen him for weeks, even though we stood in this spot only two days ago.

‘You’re late. I thought you weren’t coming?’

‘Sorry, I got held up.’ We sit, hands and fingers locked together as we usually do, and face the school.

‘How was UCAS prep?’

‘Very funny. Even just fifteen minutes of that is torture,’ I laugh.

‘Learning anything in yours? In mine, I learned how to bullet-point my skill set.’ He smiles. ‘But I think that’s more for people who actually have a set of skills as opposed to me.’

I nudge him in the ribs with my elbow then lean my head on his shoulder.

Maybe no one will see us. Maybe we can keep on pretending as if this bubble that surrounds us now will stay just that and nothing can pop it. But I feel eyes on me all the time. I don’t know how much longer I can keep all this up. I search for my father every second of the day, for my mother, for my neighbours, for my teachers, for those who’d use this information against me. People like Lucy McNeil, maybe even Steve who seems to hate me. He thinks I put ‘rubbish’ in Sophia’s ear. I only tell her the truth. One day I hope she’ll listen to me. I hope she’ll trust what I tell her about him. But I also fear him too, and what he might say if I upset him too much. All those people wait for me to screw up, yet I’ve done my best to avoid them so far. But how much longer can I? When will I see them, or them me?

‘Are you OK?’ he finally asks, wrapping his arm around me.

I snuggle in closer, the wind breaking through my thin jacket.

‘I don’t know how much longer we can do this,’ I say quietly.

‘I know. It’s getting colder. We have to find somewhere a little warmer to meet.’

That wasn’t what I meant but I don’t bring it up again. Maybe I’m enjoying living in this bubble too much. I turn to him and find warmth in his lips, in his arms.

Then I lean my head on his chest. I can’t feel his heart through his navy jumper, but I know it’s beating under there. He wriggles underneath me.

‘Are you uncomfortable?’ I shift my weight to one hip, away from him to give him a little space.

‘No, it’s not that. I’m just getting…’ He pulls a small wrapped gift from inside his pocket. It’s box-shaped but the corners are squashed, caving in slightly. He tries to pop out the edges then gives up and drops the box into my hand. ‘Happy six-month anniversary.’

I quickly sit up. ‘Six months? It’s really been that long?’

‘You forgot?’

‘No, I didn’t forget…I just didn’t exactly remember.’ I smile, kissing him on the cheek.

He laughs and gestures towards my flat palm. ‘Open it.’

My fingers clumsily unfold the gold tissue paper away from the sellotape. Inside is a small black cardboard box. Tugging the top away, the lid pops open. I gently pull out a thin braided turquoise band with a small silver heart looped through. ‘Aiden…’ The heart dangles down, shimmering a little as the light trickles in through the birch trees and strikes the silver.

He takes the bracelet and loops it over my wrist, struggling to fasten it. ‘I think my fingers are too big for this,’ he laughs. ‘There, got it.’

My finger grazes my wrist, the braided ribbon soft under my touch, the heart pendant cold on my fingertip. ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you.’

It is beautiful. But that wasn’t my first thought. I won’t tell him that I worry what my parents will say when they find this bracelet in my room, in my bag, or on my wrist. It’s just one more secret to hide, one more lie to tell.

After we say goodbye, it’s the same routine as usual. I travel through the school, by the drama department, past the library. ‘Sophia?’

She turns towards my direction and then a huge smile stretches up to her cheeks. ‘Oh, hey.’ She balances a pink-rimmed water bottle on top of a small stack of books, each with faded barcode labels facing out.

‘Need a hand?’ I say, reaching up and sliding off her glass water bottle.

‘Thanks. That’s my third one this year. I always seem to lose one in Steve’s car and he never gives them back,’ she giggles.

‘What’s all this for?’ I nod towards the books. Anatomy of the Human Body sits at the top, a very graphic image of the female reproductive system staring at me intensely. ‘Some light reading for biology?’

She clears her throat and squints her eyes. ‘Oh, I just wanted to get a better understanding of…of, um…the human circulatory system.’ Her eyes skim the floor by the feet and I can’t help but smile. Her cheeks start to flush red and I put a hand to my mouth to stop myself laughing.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I grin. ‘Come on, do you want to get a coffee on the walk home?’

She takes a deep breath and wrinkles up her nose like she’s in pain. I’ve embarrassed her, I think. She nods and turns with me.

‘What else are you working on?’

‘I have a history paper due next week and then my French practice exam the week after.’

‘I can help you with your French exam if you want?’

‘You’re so lucky. I wish I spoke it fluently.’

‘You’re good, really. You’ll be fluent in no time.’

‘Steve wants to take me to Paris after graduation.’ She beams, pushing the door open with her hip. A coolness washes over us. The fabrics of my hijab billow out around me in the wind, while strands of Sophia’s hair dance in the air, like she’s floating in water.

‘Jo’s?’

‘Hmm?’ I say, my eyes still fixed on her shimmering long hair that’s bobbing up and down on her back now.

‘Jo’s for coffee?’

I nod and follow her down the path through the courtyard. At the end is Birchwood Road, the street that connects the high school to the primary school and to the main town centre. There’s not much to the centre itself: some shops, three hairdressers (why does a small town need more than one?), two florists, two bakeries, seven pubs (again, why does this town need that many?). But stationed in the middle of the town’s library car park is a large red double-decker bus. Inside, the seats have been lifted and replaced with wooden benches, with feet that curl up like the letter S. At the front, where the driver should be, is a large white counter with a chalkboard sign that lists every kind of coffee and dairy-free alternative that, I truly believe, has ever been created. Jo’s BusStop is our usual place, everyone’s really. It’s the only place to get ‘vegan coffee’ in town. I didn’t know that was a thing until this year. Apparently milk just isn’t ‘in’ anymore. Dairy-free, gluten-free, meat-free…basically any diet that’s free of one major food group is a trend over here.

Sophia bounds up the stairs of the bus. ‘Hi Jo! A medium sugar-free extra-hot vanilla latte with coconut milk, please. To go. Please.’ She struggles with her books and her wallet, and looks up at me. ‘Why are you smiling?’

‘I’m just picturing my mum and dad’s face if I ever ordered that in front of them.’

‘What? You don’t get lattes in Morocco?’

‘Not like that!’

Sophia hands over a fiver and wrestles with the change she gets in return.

‘You forgot your gluten-free raspberry and white chocolate loaf. Want me to order it with my coffee?’

She shakes her head quickly and leans against the counter as the woman who we call Jo, who’s hopefully actually called Jo. ‘No, not today.’

‘Why not?’

She shrugs and is handed a tall white takeaway cup with a brown cardboard sleeve to keep her hands cool. She shifts to the side and lets me order. ‘Coffee, please. Medium.’

Maybe-Jo stares at me for a moment, waiting for me to speak again. Finally, she does it for me. ‘What kind of coffee?’

‘Normal. No fancy milks or sugar-free syrups. Just a regular black coffee, please.’

Maybe-Jo rolls her eyes, as if my order is even more pretentious than Sophia’s and turns to slide a glass coffee pot off the heat base. She pours the scalding dark chocolate brown liquid into a cup and hands it to me. ‘Ninety pence, please.’

‘Wait, why is yours so much cheaper than mine?’ pouts Sophia, looking at her scattered silver coins in the palm of her hand.

‘Why do you think?’ I laugh, gesturing to her cup. ‘You sure you don’t want that raspberry loaf? I’ll split it with you if you don’t want to eat the whole thing?’

‘Nah, thanks though.’ She bounces off the step and stands outside the bus while I sprinkle some white sugar into my black coffee.

My feet land beside hers soon after and we start walking back through town. Instead of going straight up the street, back to school, we turn left down Abbot’s Alley and spill out onto the car park at Aldi’s. Then we cross over and take the river path back towards Golfview Road. Sophia lives in a slightly nicer neighbourhood than me. Her dad’s a doctor like mine, but when we moved my dad’s medical qualifications didn’t meet British standards so he’s the manager at Waitrose now. I know he misses medicine. A lot. But he’d never say it. For him, his sacrifices have granted me the kinds of opportunities I’d never have got back in Morocco. After Birchwood High School, a degree from a British university will get me a job anywhere. I’ll never have to make the sacrifices that my dad made.

‘I think I might switch to skimmed milk next time,’ Sophia says, pulling my thoughts back to her, back to the river we walk beside, back to the life I’ve been afforded here.

‘Oh, why? I thought you were vegan?’

‘Skimmed milk has less calories than coconut milk.’

‘Sophia, you don’t need to be worrying about that. Ever. You’re beautiful just the way you are.’

She scoffs and takes a sip of her coffee. She doesn’t hear me. She’s not listening. She’s not seeing what I’m seeing. And I see skinny. I see skinny everywhere here.

I shake my head. One day she’ll listen, she’ll see. I just need to keep telling her until she does. A deep sigh escapes my lips. ‘Just don’t be one of “those girls”, OK?’

‘OK.’ She laughs and takes another sip of her sugar-free, extra-hot, vegan…whatever.

***

Beyond the woods behind the school, up the dog-walkers’ path, past the cyclists’ trail, is a large open meadow surrounded by the trees that cocoon Birchwood High School. Around the end of April, buttercups the colour of an afternoon sun bloom and cover the entire meadow like a soft yellow blanket. It’s around this time that I watch my school friends carry up a blanket and textbooks and spend their free study period basking in the mild sunshine. Outside of this time, the meadow is peaceful, empty of anyone else, like today. The only dents on the meadow ground are those made by Aiden and I as we lie on our backs, our heads touching.

It’s a welcome break from the usual bench we meet at, and here we get to do something even more risky than sitting side by side. Not only do we hold hands, our touch hidden by the overgrown grass around us, but here we get to lie near each other. Here, our heads, our hands, our bodies touch. Here, we’re closer than ever before. Here, we risk everything.

‘What are you thinking about?’ he asks me, as he shuffles in closer.

I push my shoulder gently into his and close the gap between us just a little more. ‘I’m just thinking about Sophia. I don’t know what it is, there’s just something about Steve that I don’t trust. And she seems different when she’s with him.’

‘How so?’ he asks, as he turns and delicately places a kiss on my shoulder, which is covered in dark fabric as it always is. But I imagine what his kiss would feel like and feel the insides of my stomach churn.

‘Not as confident. I’m just worried that he’ll hurt her.’

‘You’re a good friend,’ he says.

I turn and bury my face into his shoulder. ‘I hope so. Thank you.’

A slow whizzing of a motorbike somewhere beyond the meadow pulls my eyes to the bottom left of the field. And then I see something. A flutter of branches. A movement among the trees.

‘What is it?’ he asks, raising his hand to my back as I suddenly sit upright.

‘I thought I saw something.’ I strain my eyes and look deeper into the trees, but all I see are branches and leaves beginning to turn colour and wilt. ‘I was so sure—’

‘Don’t worry. No one comes out here at this time. You might see a dog walker or cyclist, but that’s about it.’

‘That might be enough,’ I mutter, staring into the trees again.

‘Lie back down,’ he urges. ‘It’s so peaceful here.’

I unfold my spine onto the meadow ground again, pressing each vertebra into the soft grass blanket until I flatten out, like Aiden beside me. ‘Yeah, it’s nice to be off that bench,’ I laugh. Plucking a daisy from the ground, I hold it up to my nose and pretend it has a strong smell, like a peony.

‘What kinds of flowers do you get at home?’

‘In Morocco?’

‘Yeah.’

I think back to the tree-lined streets and courtyard displays. Rows of oleander and hibiscus dotted alongside colourful tiled walls and marbled fountains. And for a moment, I’m back there. I’m back home. And everything seems distant, cold. I feel suddenly separated from my life here, from my time with Aiden. A cold shiver creeps up my spine and I sit up again, letting it escape from my body, float into the chilly air and get carried off to somewhere far from us.

‘I don’t remember,’ I lie. Because the truth – the memories – just brings back that gap between us. That gap I don’t like to remember.

‘I’ll have to Google it.’

‘Hmm,’ I mumble, closing my eyes and pushing the hot pink bougainvillea and date palms from my mind.

‘Have you seen the buttercups grow here?’

I smile, open my eyes and stretch my fingers out wide as if I can feel the short stems of the creamy yellow flowers in my grasp already. Now I’m back here in this meadow, right now, with Aiden. The gap is a little smaller again. ‘Yeah, they’re really pretty. I love the yellow.’

‘Your favourite colour.’

‘Good memory.’

He sits up and turns onto his elbow, propping his head with his hand. ‘We can take a walk here when they bloom. Maybe have a picnic?’

‘Can’t. Too many people.’

‘Oh.’ He lies back down and looks up towards the sky, at a low-flying plane soaring and leaving a cloudy streak behind it. There’s an RAF station nearby so occasionally you can see one of the training vessels overhead. He traces the cloudy line with his finger. ‘We could take a walk somewhere else then?’

‘Sure, maybe right in the middle of town. Maybe on my street.’

‘I’m being serious.’

I turn until I’m now on my side and lean slightly more into him. ‘You are?’

‘Obviously not here. But how about we get the bus into Carron or Lennoxtown? That’s about half an hour from here. We shouldn’t see anyone there?’

‘But what if we do?’

‘We won’t. We could walk around, see a movie—’

‘Like a real date?’ The words linger in my mouth and I hungrily grab at them, wanting to pull them close and devour them. A date. With my boyfriend. In public. For once, I’d feel normal, not different. For once, I could act like a typical seventeen-year-old teenager. I could act like one of those girls with time to waste, those I both envy and hate too.

‘Imagine.’ He smiles, gripping my hand.

‘I already can. But it’s so risky.’

‘No, I really don’t think so. I think it’s genius.’ A wide boyish grin stretches across his face, and I can’t help but return it with one of my own.

‘And when would we enact this genius plan of yours? It’s riskier at the weekend.’

‘So, a weekday?’

‘How? We’re at school!’

‘You have a free period after lunch on Wednesdays.’

‘And you have class.’

‘So I’ll miss it for once.’

I roll my eyes. Skipping class would never be an option for me, unless I was really sick. And I mean, really sick.

‘We’ll get the bus when the lunch bell rings at 11.35 and be back for the usual time UCAS Prep finishes. We’d have five hours together.’

‘What if someone sees us getting on the bus?’

‘They won’t. And to be safe, we’ll queue up separately and even sit apart.’ He shimmies closer to me. ‘Whatever it takes. Ulana. It’d be so nice to spend time with you off school grounds.’

His hand grips mine, tighter. I float my head back and see another RAF plane overhead. In the sky, no destination, no purpose. ‘OK,’ I say finally. ‘Next Wednesday.’

‘Next Wednesday,’ he echoes.

‘It’s a—’

‘—date,’ he laughs. ‘See, finishing each other’s sentences.’

I nudge him playfully, then tuck my legs up underneath me.

‘No,’ he moans rolling back on the ground. ‘Is it time already? Please say no.’

‘Don’t worry, this time next week we’ll have five hours. We can suffer through our usual hour today.’ I stretch my hand out and pull him up to standing. He holds his arms out wide and I collapse into them until I can feel his heartbeat against my right cheek.

TRINA

Journal Entry 2: 14.09.2018

I’m not sure when it was that Lucy and I started hating each other. We’ve always been polar opposites. Style, sense of humour (I have one!), social circles, academic interests (I have none!), financial situation (I’m also lacking in that area), family…

Everything from how we style our hair to what we eat for breakfast to what we think is a priority in our lives couldn’t be further apart from the other’s. But I can’t really blame our long-standing feud on our differences. No, I think what we share is just a mutual dislike for one other, to the core. The deeeeeeeep core.

Which is funny because we were in most of the same classes at the beginning when we started Birchwood High School. Yes, she attended more classes than me overall, but there were times – a lot of times – we sat next to each other in class. I remember one particular English class that I’d forgotten my copy of Little Women and she shifted her chair closer to mine and let me read off her book. I didn’t even have to ask her, she just did it. And when my mind wandered, which was often, she pointed to the sentence that we were meant to be following along with, pressing into the ink with her manicured rose-hued fingernail that was gently shaped into an oval. We were different back then too but we didn’t hate each other. We weren’t friends, we didn’t eat lunch or even walk to the cafeteria together after the lunch bell rang, but if we saw each other in the hallway or in the girls’ toilets, we either smiled and nodded, or said ‘Hi’ like we meant it. We did mean it, I think. She was different back then. She was friendly, she was nice to people. And she smiled a lot more.

Now she’s an empty shell – plastic on the outside, hollow on the inside. Like one of those dolls that fit inside other dolls, you know the little one goes into the medium one which fits into the larger one and so on? That’s perhaps not the best analogy or maybe doesn’t even make sense, but I can’t think of another one right now. If I do, I’ll write it down later. Then I’ll remember it for the next time I try to analyse Lucy’s inner workings, which may take five seconds or five years. I don’t know why she’s so mean to everyone now. It’s like she gets off on making people miserable, highlighting their flaws or their mistakes. It’s like she looks for people’s secrets and exposes them purely for some evil enjoyment. Nothing stays hidden around Lucy McNeil. All you can hope for at Birchwood is a smooth-sailing school year of living under her radar. If not, good luck. Because – You. Will. Need. It.

Lucy Freaking McNeil.

Pretty, smart, popular, well-liked, with a perfect boyfriend (now a perfect ex-boyfriend…), perfect family unit. I envied her. I’d always wanted the perfect family. Both a mum and a dad. My mum is amazing. She’s a strong woman and she does what she can to support us, I understand that. There’s nothing more I can ask her to do. She’s trying to do it all. And she is. But I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like had Dad not left. It’s been so long, I don’t even remember him to be honest. I think he stuck around for the first year or two of my life but took off after that. Mum thinks he was working as a promoter in Ibiza for a while, but we don’t really hear too much about him now. That was just hearsay from old mutual friends they once shared. But Mum doesn’t even hear from them now. I remember I used to call one of them Uncle Rob. He’d bring over Liquorice Allsorts for me, and the odd bunch of yellow daffodils for Mum that I’m pretty sure he stole from the neighbour’s garden. I think he was quite keen on Mum for a while. But I don’t remember him much after that. I guess he got bored and left us too. Everyone leaves eventually, right? Nothing’s really permanent.

I don’t know too much about him, just a few details from things Mum has said, or things I’ve found. Once around my twelfth birthday I suddenly felt an urge to go up to the attic to see if I could find anything about my dad. I missed him more than usual that year. I always miss him on my birthdays, at Christmas, at Easter when Mum and I roll chocolate eggs down the hill at Kings Park and point out all the five-bedroom houses on Park Place that we’d live in if we won the lottery.

But I missed him more that year. I think because I started my period right before my twelfth birthday and suddenly I felt like I was a woman and that Dad had now officially missed my entire childhood. And I started to panic that he’d miss my adulthood as well, that he’d miss more of my growing up, especially at a time when I needed him the most. I was changing, and everything around me was too. I wasn’t a child anymore, but I wasn’t an adult quite yet either. A bit like now, I guess. I still don’t know what to do with my life, and no one can give me those answers but my mum and dad, right? They can at least steer me in the right direction, maybe? I needed my dad more than ever that birthday. And he’s gone. Still.

So I dragged the ladder up against the hatch, and climbed up. The door was stiff, probably hadn’t been opened for a while, and when it opened inwards it swung back and hit the floor. Mum wasn’t home yet from work, so I didn’t worry about waking her up. When I climbed up, I had to push through a cobweb and watch a spindly amber-hued spider scurry away, forced to rehome.

The boxes were in no clear order with the most recent at the front, the older years packed tightly at the back. No, nothing like that. Not here at 57 Huntley Road. Some of the boxes weren’t even sealed properly, or upright. My pyjama bottoms were covered in dust and attic dirt before I’d even sat down. I started going through the boxes, one at a time. Slowly at first, then faster. Every time I finished one, more appeared, multiplying faster than bacteria in a warm environment. I learned that in home economics during a food safety lesson two years ago. I liked home economics, although it sounds weird when I think about it – the economics of the home.

Box after box, and nothing. Until I hit the last six boxes and there it was. A large padded envelope filled with photos, letters, even a mix CD. His entire life – with us anyway – fit into one A4 envelope. I wonder if his new life – without us – would still fit, or if it would need more boxes than this entire attic. Did his life flourish without us? Were we dragging him down?

There weren’t many photos and in a couple, his face had been scraped out by a sharp utensil, likely by Mum in the weeks after he’d left. I’d do the same. But at least I saw his face in some. It wasn’t always clear – his head was turned away in some, others he was laughing and his face was all scrunched up. But I could tell that he’d had a beard back then, that he liked grey and navy clothes, that his hair was cut short, and that I had his smile.

I still have the mix CD. I haven’t played it yet. I’ve hidden it in my bra drawer for five years now and still haven’t brought myself to listen to it. I know it’ll just be music. Songs that he liked, bands he listened to in the car. But I’m scared. What if there are some songs that I like? Bands that I also listen to? I want to be like him but I’m also terrified that I am like him. What if I’m like him in other ways too? What if not only do we have the same smile, the same taste in music, but the same fear of the future, of change? What if I start a family someday and then decide to abandon it, like him? What if I’m the one that changes, or worse, the one that can’t change?

I missed him a lot that day.

I still miss him, even now after all these years.

It’s weird to miss someone you don’t remember, right?

How can you miss someone whose voice you’ve never heard, whose face you’ve never touched? How can you miss someone that you know nothing about? Does he like football? Does he still have a beard or does he prefer to shave every morning? Does he have an allergy to peanuts or shellfish or anything like that? What’s his favourite colour? What does he do all day with his time? Is he married again? Hopefully not, because I think legally he’s still married to Mum and I’m pretty sure it’s a crime to get married twice.

Did he have more children? Do I have a half-brother or half-sister somewhere out there?

Does he think about me? At one point, did he ever want to have a relationship with me?

We could have written each other, sent postcards, talked on the phone, FaceTimed. Maybe if he was rich he could have flown me to Ibiza and I’d tell everyone at school that my dad works in the clubs in Ibiza and can get me in for free.

But I don’t live in that fantasy. In reality, I have no idea where my dad is and no idea what he even looks like now.

No, I don’t have the perfect life. Far from it.

SOPHIA

I stare at the reflection in the full-length mirror on my wardrobe wondering what exactly Steve would change about me if he could. I know if I asked him, he would say nothing. He would say I’m perfect as is. But I don’t believe that. No one’s perfect, certainly not me. I would change a hundred things about myself. But I would love to know what he would change. I just wish he’d be honest if I asked him. Would it be my nose? My finger grazes the bridge, feeling a slight bump. I would change my nose. Shave off the bone. Smooth it out. No curve. No bump. Would it be my chin? My dad always says the slight dimple in the centre was ‘cute’. But I don’t want to be ‘cute’. I’m sick of ‘cute’.

I wish my eyes were bigger. Boys like big wide eyes on girls, lined with fluffy thick eyelashes slick with black mascara, rimmed with soft dark eyeliner. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I can line them with as much mascara, eye pencil, shimmery shadow as possible, but there’s no surgery to make eyes bigger. Or at least I don’t think there is?

I turn to the side and take in my profile next. OK, my tummy is finally getting flatter. I’ve been cutting out starches, so no bread, pasta and rice. And definitely no to any sweets and crisps. I already feel so much better with myself. Even Ulana commented that I was looking thinner.

A ripped patchwork of magazine cutouts line the rectangular mirror. The ones I most aspire to look like are taped up at my eye level so I notice them more. The bottom is reserved for more fashion-based inspiration, or hair and make-up ideas.

I’d never thought about my body much at all before I met him. Everything was so much easier back then. I wouldn’t do anything to change my relationship with him, to ever risk it, but I miss the innocence of that time, that confidence I had in myself because I didn’t know about expectations and pressure. I didn’t know there was one body we all had to have. No room for difference. We live in a factory where we’re all built to look the same, be the same weight. And if the mould skips us, then it’s our job to create it.

The perfect female body.

No excuses. We can all attain it. Anything else is just laziness. And I’m not lazy.

My eyes wander over to the shopping bags on the bed. Thin strips of lace and ribbon folded neatly in tight tissue paper secured with pink heart seals that I would have to split to open them. It was so nerve-wracking going into Boux Avenue after school today. I was terrified one of my mum’s friends would be walking by, or worse, that someone from school would see me. Everyone would know why I was in there. I have a boyfriend, I’m seventeen, and I’m in a lingerie shop. Hmm, who wouldn’t be able to guess the explosion of thoughts thrashing around in my mind right now?

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