It says:
Sorry I wasn’t at the party this weekend. It would have been good to see you.
I like it because he hasn’t cut any of the words short like people do in emails, as if they’re not really words. (Why do I care about stuff like that? What’s wrong with me?) His email makes me want to know so many things. Like, how did he get my email address? Did he just email me or did he email everyone else? No, definitely just me: he says it would have been good to see me! He wouldn’t have written that to everyone. Abi would know, but I feel weird asking her right now. Yesterday morning she was distant. She didn’t eat breakfast, although I made us both eggs on toast. She said she was too hungover and depressed. I wanted to tell her she had nothing to be depressed about: at least she still has her sister around.
I wish I hadn’t just written that.
TUESDAY, MARCH 7TH
Lynda asked me what I’d written about Emily recently. I didn’t answer. She told me I had to take the diary seriously to stop me blocking out what had happened. I felt heavy, and I couldn’t look at her. I said, “I’m not blocking anything out.” The sentence emerged like I was in a room filled with thick smoke, each word hurting my lungs.
THURSDAY, MARCH 9TH
Half-term over and back to school today. Yuck.
I went to sit on the roof after I’d done my homework tonight. Normally you can’t see many stars from up there, but tonight the sky was full of them, like little needle marks in a swathe of black fabric. It made me remember something that happened with Emily years ago, and I was glad I’d brought my notebook up with me so I could write and write.
I remember the sky was punctuated with stars that night, too. We were out somewhere, we’d gone to watch fireworks, and Emily had just said she was hungry. Mum said to her that we should all get baked potatoes. Emily must have been thirteen. She seemed to have forgotten her hunger and was making eyes at a boy. Mum, oblivious to Emily primping her lips, pulled us toward the food stand.
A man was hunched over, busy opening hot potatoes wrapped in silver foil. Someone shouted through a loudspeaker that the Catherine wheel was about to start. The man asked if we wanted something, impatiently tapping his fingers. He clearly thought we’d want to watch, but all three of us thought Catherine wheels were boring, the way they stay fixed to a fence or tree and just spin around and around shooting out sprays of sparks. Most of the time they don’t even work! Even Mum thought they were boring, although she always said, “Only boring people get bored.” We paid, and the man turned his attention to the thronging crowds, reaching up on his tiptoes to see the Catherine wheel (probably) sputter and die.
I took my potato, filled it with butter and cheese, and mashed the insides with a plastic fork. Emily got hers and did the same thing; so did Mum. Sometimes we were so alike. The air was cold, and the potato warmed my palms. I breathed the smoky smell of bonfires and rotting leaves.
The loudspeaker announced that the fireworks were about to start. The three of us rushed over toward the front row of the firework display, dodging between groups of teenagers and families bigger than ours. I put a forkful of hot potato to my mouth, but before I got any, someone knocked my elbow. My potato fell to the ground. I hadn’t eaten a bite. I looked at it lying there, muddied. I chucked away my fork in frustration.
We didn’t have time to get back to the man selling food before the fireworks started. We got to the front row. As the first firework exploded in the sky with a bang, tears welled in my eyes. I wanted that potato so badly. Emily looked at me; I felt her gaze. The last thing I needed was some smart comment from her. Without a word she gave me her potato.
I took it, feeling the warmth through my fingers. She passed me her fork. I didn’t look at her. I ate the whole thing, never saying thank you.
I should tell Lynda I don’t need help and stop going to our appointments. She said writing it down would help. I feel worse right now. Worse than ever.
FRIDAY, MARCH 10TH
This evening I saw Mum go into Emily’s room and close the door. I felt as lonely as an empty plastic bag. It took me ages to get my breathing under control.
SATURDAY, MARCH 11TH
I went to Rosa-Leigh’s house. When we arrived her stepmum gave us a cup of tea, and we chatted with her for a few minutes. Andrew was at a playdate, so she wasn’t running around after him. She said, “I remember when I was your age and the whole world felt like it was opening up to me. It was—” Her phone rang, so she didn’t finish the sentence.
If there had been time, I’d have told her the world wasn’t opening up, rather closing like a flower when the sun goes down. I’d have said the world sometimes feels completely closed, like Emily’s bedroom door.
Rosa-Leigh elbowed me in the ribs and said, “Cheer up.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Come and help me finish unpacking.”
“You haven’t unpacked yet? It’s been months!”
“Yeah, yeah.”
We ran up to her room in the attic. It’s like a tree house up there, perched at the edge of the last step. Rosa-Leigh has painted it cream. Since I was last there, when we watched Familia together, she’s painted a mural on one of the walls. It’s a street scene with people and animals walking along.
“You really painted this?”
She nodded.
“My sister would have loved it.”
She was quiet. Then she said, “I’m glad. Now, help me with all these boxes.”
MONDAY, MARCH 13TH
Rosa-Leigh gave me a magazine called The New Yorker, which is American (obviously). She wanted me to read the poems. There were two. I’ve never seen a magazine with poems like this. One of them is all about a train stopped at a station. The poem describes seeing into someone’s open front door from the train window. It’s also about cornflowers, which are blue. The whole poem makes me feel like I can see blue cornflowers inside a woman’s front door. And like I’m waiting for something.
After I read it, I wanted to write a poem myself.
Seconds are slipping through my fingers
Small silver fish through a net
Heat in my cheeks, like winter
Sun in my face, summer gone
The fisherman can’t catch everything
In an empty ocean;
In an empty ocean
Small silver fish swim.
I know it doesn’t make sense, because in an empty ocean there can’t be any fish, but I like how it sounds—all deep and cold. I don’t really think it’s finished. Maybe the last line would be better if it said, “Small silver fish can’t swim.”
When I write a poem, I feel good for the whole time it takes. The rest of the time, I don’t know what I feel. I don’t want to feel anything at all, really.
Mum just pushed open the door and asked if we could talk. I was surprised, but so awkward with her, I didn’t know what to say. “What?”
She said, “Are you all right, Sophie?”
“Why?” I said. If I even feel normal for a minute, she wants to ruin it. Anxiety bubbled up in my stomach like acid, so I had to take a slow breath.
She said, “You can talk to me.”
“I don’t want to talk. Not to you. Not to anyone. I’m fine. I’ve got loads of homework, so…”
She sighed heavily, and after a long UNCOMFORTABLE pause she left. I lay on the bed for ages trying not to think about anything. I fell asleep in my school uniform. I peeled my clothes off in the middle of the night because I was in a cold sweat. Maybe I’ve got a virus.
THURSDAY, MARCH 16TH
School boring. Mum’s giving me a lift over to Abigail’s for dinner. I wouldn’t have accepted the lift from her because things are so strained right now, but I didn’t see any other way of getting there. At least Abi’s older brother is home for a couple of weeks, back from traveling in Peru or Ecuador or somewhere. He’s always got an interesting story, and even though Abi’s sister is away at university, it’ll be good to hang out at their fa
mily dinner. Hopefully her mum doesn’t drink too much.
Dinner was a disaster. When I arrived, Abi’s mum was knocking back vodkas, already totally hammered, struggling to focus but still managing to make really dirty jokes that weren’t funny. I was amazed there was food on the table, but she seemed to have managed the cooking all right. I wondered for a moment how Abi felt with her mum in such a state. She must be embarrassed. Then Abi told me her brother wasn’t EVEN THERE. After we’d eaten, Abi and I went upstairs to her room.
She stood in front of her shelves and pulled out the white shirt I like. She said, “You can have it.”
“Thanks.”
“It wouldn’t fit me now anyway.” She put her hands on her hips and sighed.
“What do you mean? You’re thinner than you’ve been for years. It’ll totally fit. It’ll look good.”
“God, Sophie, you’re so—”
“So what? I’m so what?”
“Just, you know.”
“I told you the shirt would look good on you.”
“You don’t understand what’s going on. You never do.”
I said, “Give me a break, Abigail,” which I think is what Rosa-Leigh would have said.
“I’m always giving you a break nowadays.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Just take the shirt and forget I said anything,” she said.
I threw it on the floor. “I don’t even want your stupid top.”
“Get over yourself, Sophie.”
“You have no idea what it’s been like,” I mumbled.
She hissed, “How am I supposed to have any idea what it’s been like? You won’t even talk about it. What do you want me to do? It’s sad and horrible and awful, and I don’t know what else to say. And you won’t help me out.”
“Help you out? What do you mean help you out? How can you be such a bitch? I’ve always been the one who helped you out. I’ve always supported you and been there for you, and you just can’t do it for me.”
“Is that what I am? A bitch? And what about you? When have you got time for anyone else? You don’t even know what’s going on.” She started crying. Mascara ran under her eyes like smears of black ash.
“I can’t believe you’d do this to me. I can’t believe you’d be so selfish!” I cried. “You have no idea what it’s like. ALL THE TIME.”
“I can’t handle it anymore.”
“Can’t handle what?”
“You!” she yelled.
“Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything,” she said.
“You’re screaming at me. TYPICAL. Abi, you’re so wrapped up in yourself, you’re so selfish. You’ve always been like this. You’re always the one we have to worry about and talk about, and now that all this has happened to me, you can’t handle it because you’re so SELF-INVOLVED. Nothing bad has EVER happened to you. You don’t have ANYTHING wrong in your life, and you can’t handle that I might need a bit of support.”
“Bad things are happening in my life, not that you’d notice. And how am I supposed to support you when you won’t let me? You won’t even TALK about it!” she screamed.
“I don’t WANT to talk about it. I don’t even want to THINK about it.” I was crying now, and I grabbed my bag and ran downstairs.
Abi’s mum was hovering in the hallway. She said, completely slurring her words, “What’s going on?” She wiped her black hair from her face and smiled sympathetically at me.
“I’m going home. I’m sorry.” I was really crying.
She called upstairs, “What have you done, Abigail?”
“It’s nothing, Mrs. Bykov,” I said. “I just want to go home.” I opened the front door and ran outside. It was dark and cold. I ran to the train station at the end of Abi’s road. I got to the ticket kiosk, and I started shaking. My body trembled all the way through. The man behind the ticket window said, “Where are you going?” The fluorescent lights made everything a terrible grey, the grey of a morgue.
I heard a train rumble onto the platform. From where I was standing, I could see it pulling in. Nausea rose at the back of my throat. I looked back at the man. I couldn’t breathe.
He said, “Are you all right?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” I said. I pulled my phone out of my pocket, trying not to drop it, my hands were shaking that much. I said, “Have you got a number for a cab?”
“I’ll call you one,” he said.
I felt momentarily grateful, and then so shaky and sick I could hardly think. The whole cab ride was a blur. When I got home, I called out a quick hi to Mum and went straight to my room. My mouth was so dry that I thought drinking water would help, but I only felt sicker. I thought I was dying. I wanted to scream to Mum that I was having a heart attack, that something terrible was happening to me, but I was too frightened to call out. My heart was hammering like a woodpecker in my chest, in my neck, in my throat, and it was the loudest thing in the world. Even with my fingers in my ears, I couldn’t block out the sound. I moaned a little and curled up on the bed.
Hours later—or was it minutes? I have no idea—my breathing slowed down, and the crazy thoughts stopped whirling through my mind. I don’t know what had even happened to me. Am I going mad?
6
Fly low again
FRIDAY, MARCH 17TH
Dan CALLED this morning, but I missed his call, and I’m too shy to call back—what would I even say? I got to school, and Abigail wasn’t speaking to me but I don’t even CARE. At least my heart is beating normally now.
SATURDAY, MARCH 18TH
I slept badly last night. I was having the worst dreams. I dreamed I was giving birth to these horrible creatures all made of fire, and they screamed as they were born. I woke up, and I was having my period. I hate periods. They just seem the most stupid, pointless thing for someone who’s sixteen. I don’t want to get pregnant (not that there’s any chance of that, even if I did want to). No sixteen-year-old in the universe wants to get pregnant, so WHY do we have periods? Some girls start when they’re ten. Why does a ten-year-old need to have a period? Mine is so irregular I can never predict it, which is a nightmare.
I had bad cramps, and I lay there with a hot water bottle, watching TV. My weekends used to be so full and busy. I’d go to trampoline class first thing on a Saturday, then judo, then drama on Saturday evenings. After, I’d go to Abigail’s or she’d come to mine. Then Sundays we’d wake up together and make breakfast, and we’d hang out or go shopping or something, and then we’d do homework until it was time to go home. But Abigail didn’t call today and I’m not going to call her.
I watched an episode of a soap I’ve never seen before. I cried when someone called Ness broke up with this cute guy Martin because she had cancer and was dying. Then I switched channels and watched a DISGUSTING documentary about female bodybuilders.
After the bodybuilding thing the news was on, and there was another suicide bomber in Afghanistan. Twenty-five people murdered. Just like that. Because that’s how it goes: people die and there’s nothing that can be done. The edges of the world seemed suddenly darker. My heart slammed against my ribs. How can the world be like this? Why do people do such terrible things? It doesn’t make any sense. I couldn’t breathe. I threw up. Even that didn’t make me feel any better.
We’re going to the Haywoods’ for the rest of the weekend. Katherine must have taken pity on us because, when she called just now, I answered the phone and I was really bored and down and Mum probably sounded no better. She invited us straightaway.
SUNDAY, MARCH 19TH
We’re just back from the Haywoods’. I spent most of the time spinning like a third wheel with Lucy and Kai. Seeing them together made me think about Dan, which is completely stupid. I wish I had someone, though. I wish it were Dan. I haven’t heard from him since I missed his call. I wonder if I should call him back.
This w
eekend I found out Lucy has a blog. It’s strange that she tells the whole world everything that happens to her while she can’t seem to find the words to tell me anything. I can’t imagine writing a blog and putting all my secret thoughts out there for everyone to read. I did create my own blog once but I couldn’t write a word. It was like someone was holding my hands behind my back; the idea of all those people out there being able to read it just killed me. Loads of people do it. I know annoying Megan does, but hers is so ridiculous that it makes me want to pass out. She has stupid pretend names for everyone, and it’s all this stuff about her boring life. She once wrote something about Abigail (using the name Annabel), and Abigail went mad.
It’s weird not being friends with Abigail.
Lucy’s blog is better than Megan’s. She won an award for it, and loads of people read it. I’ll try and remember to take a look.
Mum spent lots of time with Katherine. They went to a Pilates class, followed by lunch. Mum even smiled once. No one said anything about us moving in with them. I don’t know if I was happy about that.
TUESDAY, MARCH 21ST
I climbed out on the roof tonight. It was chilly and lonely, but I settled myself down and started writing.
I remember Emily holding my hand one time, maybe two and a half years ago. We were on a family holiday in Greece, and Mum was off looking at some old ruin. Emily and I were sitting close together in a café on the beach. She talked about a cute boy walking past. She’d taken my hand without thinking, it seemed. She let go when the food arrived. We ate a Greek salad—Greek salads smell of Greece to me: all fruity tomatoes and sharp feta and the warm smell of fresh basil; she had the olives because I hate them—and saganaki, a fried cheese that we both adored.
Later we sat on the beach for the final moments of the day. We both loved sunsets. The sun melted into the sea. The light bounced off the water, making the surface of the ocean look like the scales of a fish. I wondered aloud what it would be like to be a mermaid. Emily laughed at me but not unkindly. I moved closer to her on the sand. I reached for her hand, but she brushed me off. The next day we left for home.