‘His first cuddly toy,’ Sam says.
Another pause.
‘He looks like you, you know.’
‘Huh?’ I say, meeting his gaze again in the rear-view mirror.
‘Elijah. He looks like you.’
‘Oh, it’s the ’fro,’ I say.
Just like me when I was a baby, Elijah has a ball of black fuzz that sits on the very top of his head like the bobble on a hat.
‘No,’ Sam says. ‘It’s more than that. The look in his eyes. Pure Mia.’
As if on cue, Elijah opens his eyes, blinking a few times before fixing his gaze on me, and sort of frowning.
‘Yeah,’ Sam says. ‘Determined.’
‘Ha. Good luck with that.’
He laughs.
I give Elijah my right index finger. He hesitates before letting his impossibly tiny digits curl round it, gripping on tight.
If I listen really hard I can hear ‘Shake It Off’ playing on the radio, the volume turned right down. I haven’t heard it since the night of the wedding.
‘I’m sorry, by the way,’ I say.
Sam frowns at me through the rear-view mirror. ‘What for?’
‘About what happened at the wedding. You know, outside, on the grass. I was drunk and feeling sad and I acted like an idiot.’
‘Don’t worry about it. We’ve all been there.’
‘Grace hasn’t,’ I point out.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that. When you get the chance, ask her about the night she discovered ouzo.’
I raise an eyebrow.
‘Trust me,’ Sam says. ‘She has her moments.’
There’s a pause.
‘Are you still sad?’ he asks.
‘Huh?’
‘You said you were sad and that’s why you acted the way you did.’
I shrug. The last two days have been so consumed by Grace and Audrey and Elijah that it’s been easy to ignore the mess with my friends, the fact they still clearly hate me.
‘I’ll be OK,’ I say.
I’m not sure I really believe this, though. Every time I imagine my life without my friends in it, it feels like the complete opposite of OK.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Sam asks.
I sigh and shake my head. ‘Thanks, but I have a feeling this is something I have to sort out on my own.’
When I step into the hall two hours later, the house seems different somehow, like someone’s come in and moved all the furniture a fraction in our absence. It feels like we’ve been away for longer than two nights, weeks not days. It’s not just the house that feels different, though. I feel different too, in ways I can’t quite explain.
I stoop to pick up the post off the doormat. There are a few bills for Mum and Dad, a pizza delivery menu, a couple of taxi cards, and a squishy package addressed to me, which must have only just fitted through the letterbox.
‘Coming through,’ Sam whispers.
I step aside so he can get past with the car seat. Grace and Audrey follow, a slightly bewildered Beyoncé in Audrey’s arms.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ Grace says, padding towards the kitchen.
I head upstairs. Audrey’s pillows and duvet are still on the floor. I pick them up and roughly make her bed. Then I sit down and squeeze the package, confused as to what might be inside.
I rip it open and reach inside. It’s the T-shirts I designed for Newquay.
I unfold one and hold it up against my torso.
It’s All About Kimmie.
I still haven’t heard from her, from any of them. It’s the longest we’ve gone without speaking. I keep checking the Newquay WhatsApp group just in case I’ve missed a notification for some reason but no one has posted a thing since the Friday before the wedding.
Our flight to Newquay is due to leave first thing this coming Monday morning. Stu was supposed to be driving us to the airport in return for a new Xbox game. I wonder if they’re planning to go without me? The thought of my empty seat on the plane makes my heart ache. I keep imagining all the stuff I’d planned – the surfing lessons and the nightclubs and the BBQs on the beach, only with me missing. It just doesn’t feel right. We come as a four, not a three. Mia and Stella and Mikey and Kimmie. I just don’t know how to put it right again.
The rest of the week passes in a blur of dirty nappies and not enough sleep, cheese on toast and endless rounds of tea, and epic phone calls to Mum and Dad. It takes every ounce of persuasive power the four of us possess to convince them not to get on the next flight home and to complete their honeymoon as planned. They’ve been on the phone almost constantly though, and we’ve narrated the story of Elijah’s birth at least ten times. It still doesn’t quite feel real though, no matter how many times I describe it. It’s almost like it happened to someone else and I’m just pretending I was there, making it up as I go along.
It’s Saturday morning. I’m sitting out on the patio when Grace emerges from the kitchen, cradling a cup of tea.
‘Mind if I join you?’ she asks.
‘Go for it,’ I reply.
She sits down and puts her feet up on the table next to mine. She looks exhausted but happy, the dark circles under her eyes offset by an almost permanent smile of wonder. ‘They nice?’ she asks, nodding at the fancy box of macaroons balanced on my thighs. They were a gift from Sam’s mum who came to visit yesterday (hands-down the poshest woman I’ve ever met).
‘They’re insane,’ I admit, offering up the box. ‘Can’t stop eating them.’
Grace chooses a pistachio one and takes a delicate bite.
‘Back to normal tea, then?’ I ask, leaning across to peer into her mug.
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘Thank God. That raspberry stuff was evil.’
‘Oh, it wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was quite nice once I got used to it.’
‘What was it meant to do again?’ I ask. ‘Facilitate an easy birth or something?’
There’s a beat before we both burst out laughing.
‘You should ask for your money back,’ I say.
‘Don’t,’ Grace gasps, clutching her stomach. ‘My tummy muscles can’t take it.’
By the time we’ve calmed down Grace’s tea is stone cold.
I set the box of macaroons on the table and sit back in my chair, my arms dangling over the sides. Grace reaches across and grabs my hand, taking me by surprise. Her fingers are soft and warm.
I glance over at her. She’s looking at me intently, her eyes wide and unblinking.
‘I couldn’t have done it without you, you do know that, don’t you?’ she says.
‘Yeah, you could have,’ I say, letting our joined hands swing back and forth. ‘You’re “Amazing Grace” – you can do anything.’
She winces ever so slightly at the nickname. ‘I mean it, Mia. You were …’ She pauses as if searching for the right word. ‘Miraculous,’ she says eventually.
I raise an eyebrow. Miraculous. Now, there’s a new one.
‘Miraculous Mia,’ she says.
For once I don’t argue. I just shake my head and smile and let my head drop back so I’m looking up at the brilliant blue sky. Grace does the same, so we’re matching.
We’re sitting like that, our fingers still entwined, when we hear Audrey yelling our names from indoors. Frowning at each other, we stand up and head inside, as surprised as each other to discover Mum and Dad struggling through the front door with their suitcases, a day early.
Half an hour later we’re all in the living room, Mum and Dad installed on the sofa. Elijah is tucked in the crook of Mum’s arm, and she and Dad are gazing down at him with complete heart eyes. It turns out they managed to get on an earlier flight and wanted to surprise us.
‘We would have tidied if we’d known,’ Grace says, gesturing at the messy living room.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Dad says, not taking his eyes off Elijah.
They ask for yet another account of the labour; Grace, Audrey and I taking it in turn
s to narrate while Mum and Dad listen open-mouthed, despite the fact they’ve heard it all before. After about a billion questions they distribute New York-themed gifts – fridge magnets and snow globes and jumbo packs of Reese’s Pieces and ‘I love NYC’ T-shirts (plus a babygro version for Elijah).
I’m in the kitchen making a round of tea when Mum comes in. She looks tanned but exhausted. I don’t think she slept on the flight, which means she’s been awake for at least twenty-four hours now.
‘Need some help?’ she asks, yawning.
‘No, I got it,’ I say, counting out mugs from the cupboard and lining them up on the draining board.
She sits down on a stool and watches as I reach for the tea bags. ‘You’re different,’ she says.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Different how?’
‘I’m not sure, just different. More grownup.’
‘It’s only been a week since you last saw me,’ I point out.
‘A pretty extraordinary week though, wouldn’t you say?’
‘That’s one way of putting it, I suppose.’
There’s a pause as I drop tea bags into the row of assembled mugs.
‘What you did for your sister was so special and amazing, Mia.’
I bite my lip. ‘Special’ and ‘amazing’ are adjectives usually reserved for Grace. Then Mum’s face changes.
‘Although it doesn’t erase what happened last weekend –’
I chew my thumbnail and look at my feet, embarrassed at the reminder.
‘– I don’t think it’s going to do either of us any good to dwell on it.’ Mum continues. ‘So here’s what I propose. Starting today we turn over a fresh page, and going forward you’re fully responsible for what you write on it, OK?’
I nod.
‘Because I believe that page could be filled with wonderful things, Mia, incredible things. But it’s up to you, you’re the only one who can change the narrative.’
I nod again and try to let her words sink in.
I’m getting a second chance. A proper one.
I raise my head. ‘Thank you, Mum,’ I whisper.
There’s a long pause where Mum just looks at me, her head tilted to one side. ‘I’m so bloody proud of you, Mia,’ she says eventually, her eyes glistening with the beginnings of what look like tears.
This makes me go red for some weird reason, which is totally not like me.
‘We both are,’ Mum continues. ‘Me and your dad. Grace said you were just incredible during the labour.’
‘It wasn’t like I had much of a choice,’ I say. ‘I was hardly going to file my nails and leave her to it, was I?’
‘Stop playing it down.’
I shrug, mainly because I don’t know what else to do.
‘I mean it. You really stepped up, Mia. Not many sixteen-year-olds can claim to have safely delivered a baby into the world.’
‘Nearly seventeen,’ I say, reaching for the kettle.
I’m still having trouble with the word ‘delivered’. Surely it was Grace who delivered the baby? I was just the one there to catch it.
Mum smiles. ‘Sixteen or seventeen, no one’s ever going to be able to take that away from you.’
‘I’m not planning on a career in midwifery any time soon if that’s what you’re getting at,’ I say.
‘Why not? You’d be brilliant.’
I put down the kettle. ‘Mum, you’re not serious.’
She holds up her hands. ‘Just a suggestion.’
‘No bloody way. I saw things the other night I never ever want to see again.’
She laughs. ‘Fair enough.’
There’s another pause. I open the fridge and reach for the milk I bought earlier.
‘I also wanted to apologize,’ Mum adds.
‘Apologize?’ I say, unscrewing the lid. ‘What for?’
She takes a deep breath and makes me put down the milk, holding both my hands in hers. ‘I’m not sure your dad and I have always been very fair on you, Mia, especially over the last few months. We try our best to treat you girls equally but I don’t know if we’ve always succeeded in doing that. I just wanted you to know that we’re sorry and that we’re trying. I never ever want you to think we’re not proud of you, Mia, because we are, OK? More than you’ll ever know probably.’
I squirm. I’m so unused to praise from Mum I have absolutely no idea how to take it.
‘I guess what I’m trying to say is that success or achievement isn’t always about getting straight As or winning medals, and I’m sorry if your dad and I haven’t always made that clear.’ She smiles and leans against the counter. ‘You know what I said to your dad earlier?’
I shake my head.
‘I said, it wouldn’t surprise me if Mia took over the world one day.’
I pull a face.
‘I mean it,’ she says. ‘And so does that RS teacher of yours.’
I frown and look up. ‘Miss Linden? Wait, when did you talk to Miss Linden?’
‘I didn’t. She says so in your school report.’
I swallow. As far as I was aware it was still under my mattress, where I shoved it.
‘I found it while I was changing your bed sheets,’ Mum explains.
‘Oh.’ I pause. ‘Did she really say that?’ I can’t resist asking. ‘About me taking over the world?’
‘She sure did. She thinks you’re a proper force to be reckoned with. She really wants you to join the school Feminist Society too, thinks you’d make an excellent chair.’
‘The chair? Me?’
‘Yep, she thinks you’d be wonderful at the job.’ Mum’s face changes. ‘Hang on a second – haven’t you read it? I put it back.’
I shake my head.
‘Why not?’
‘I dunno,’ I say, fishing the tea bags out of the hot water with a spoon, catapulting them into the sink one by one.
‘Oh, Mia,’ Mum says. ‘Come here.’ She holds out her arms. I put down the spoon on the counter and let her hug me. ‘I love you,’ she says. ‘So much.’
‘I love you too, Mum.’
We break apart, our faces identically tear-stained. Mum starts to laugh, wiping her tears on her sleeve before reaching to smudge mine away with her thumbs. Gently she pushes a loose curl behind my ear, pausing to tweak the lobe, the way she used to when I was little to signal she’d finished combing my hair.
‘You must be getting excited about Newquay,’ she says, resting both hands on my shoulders.
‘I thought I was grounded until further notice.’
She lets her arms fall to her sides. ‘About that. Your dad and I had a chat on the plane and we both agreed that we want you to go. Providing you take it steady with the drink and check in with us every day. New page and all that.’
I fiddle with the hem of my T-shirt.
Mum tilts her head to the left. ‘What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy.’
‘I’m not going.’
‘What?’
‘We kind of had a falling-out at the wedding. No one’s talking to me.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s a long story. It’s all my fault, though.’
‘Oh, Mia, I’m sorry. I know how hard you worked to pay for it. Maybe they’ll come round at the last minute?’
‘I doubt it.’ It’s been a week. If they were going to forgive me, surely they would have by now.
‘Have you tried talking to them?’
‘I’ve called and messaged about a hundred times.’
‘But have you tried talking to them face-to-face?’
‘They’re not gonna speak to me if they’re not even returning any of my calls or messages. Anyway, I wouldn’t know what to say. You know what I’m like, I’ll only come out with the wrong thing and make it even worse.’
‘Maybe try writing down how you feel then. That way you can say exactly what you want.’
‘I’m not good at this stuff, Mum.’
‘That Miss Linden of yours begs to differ,’ she says. ‘Look, at
least give it a try. You never know, getting everything off your chest might just be the key.’
Later that evening, I sneak upstairs. Before I do anything else, I reach under my mattress and pull out my school report. I sit down on the floor and flip to the last page. Squished beneath the table of numbers and grades, Miss Linden has added a handwritten message:
Mia is a bright, inquisitive and charismatic young woman, bursting with energy and ideas. She brings the classroom to life and I’m proud to teach her. My only fear is that she doesn’t realize just how much potential she has. I truly believe the world will be hers for the taking if she just puts her mind to it.
P.S. The Feminist Society is on the lookout for a new chair and I suspect Mia’s personality and magnetism would make her the perfect candidate. Something to consider over the holidays perhaps?
I read it twice, then hug it to my chest for a few seconds as I process her words.
I exhale, set it aside and stand up.
Time to try and be the Mia in the report; the one Mum and Miss Linden claim to see.
Time to face up to things and say sorry. Properly.
I head over to the desk. I find some paper in one of the drawers, pick up a pen and start to write. It’s not as simple as just starting at the beginning though, and it takes me ages to figure out what I want to say, balled-up pieces of paper soon littering the carpet like snowballs. In the end I figure out my only option is to tell my friends absolutely everything, in all its ugly messed-up glory.
No more lies, no more excuses, just the truth.
38
Dear Stella, Mikey and Kimmie,
I thought about writing you guys individual letters until I realized:
a) That would take bloody ages,
and
b) It would basically be all the same stuff anyway.
So here I am, writing to all three of you at once. I hope that’s cool.
I suppose I should start by saying sorry. I know I’ve said it loads on texts and voicemails and stuff but that doesn’t mean I don’t mean it when I say it again now. The opposite. I mean it loads.
Kimmie, I’m so sorry about what happened with Aaron. I was in a bad place that night. That’s not an excuse by the way, I just want to try to explain a bit why I did what I did. I’d had a really shit couple of days. I didn’t let on how crap I felt after that supply teacher ripped into me. And I lied about what Ms Parish said afterwards. I did get into trouble. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I suppose I felt embarrassed and I was worried that if I let on I was embarrassed, you’d be embarrassed for me. Then we went back to Stella’s and I saw the uni prospectuses under your bed, Stells. And it really hurt. I know it shouldn’t. I mean, if you want to go to uni, you should go, of course you should. I just felt really stupid because I didn’t know about it and I’d been banging on about flats and stuff. But instead of talking to you about it, I just got really annoyed and sort of shut down. I’m sorry.