Lying About Last Summer Page 7

  I roll off my lilo and swim up to her, pleased she won’t be going away again, but worried for her. “Did you fail your exams?” I ask.

  “No, but uni’s not for me. I want to work. Make money.”

  Is this about Dad’s business? “Why?”

  I wait for her to tell me more. When she stays silent, sculling her lilo further away from me, I say, “Why haven’t you told Mum and Dad about uni?”

  “They’ve got enough problems right now. I’ll tell them soon, after Oscar’s operation.”

  His operation is weeks away.

  She doesn’t like me coming into her bedroom any more, or me being anywhere near her when she speaks on her phone for hours. When Nico comes round, he calls me “the shadow”. Luisa says I’m being oversensitive when I tell her I hate it. They go to parties, and out for the day in his silver car. They speak in a kind of code, which according to Mum shows they’re a close couple.

  “You’re different since going to uni,” I tell Luisa as I braid her hair in front of the TV before she goes out to a party. I watch how the different shades of brown and gold reveal themselves as I select and twist the various sections.

  “What d’you mean?” she asks, turning her head slightly.

  “Not so … interested” is the best I can come up with. Before, she would have reacted differently to my story about Annika’s sister having her belly button pierced, or the mad things customers say to me when I’m working at the farm shop. “By the way, Toby really wants to see you.”

  Luisa sighs. “He needs to move on.”

  “He only wants to say hello.” I finish her hair and show her the back by taking a photo of it on my phone.

  “Thanks,” says Luisa. She slips her feet into fancy flip-flops, new and expensive. Her toenails alternate red and pink, and clash with the orange dress she’s wearing.

  “I’ll find you an orange nail varnish if you like,” I say.

  “Don’t bother,” she says. “This is my signature toe look this summer.”

  I laugh. She always has a nail varnish thing going on. “You should open a nail bar,” I say. “I could help you. Our own business.”

  “Actually, I…” She hesitates, then says, “I’m trialling a nutrition supplement business. Tablets for amazing skin and general health.”

  Nutrition? Luisa mostly lives off salt and vinegar crisps, and Nutella and banana sandwiches.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask.

  “Because the supplements haven’t received the final-final approval from the government. It’s a secret thing.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, I don’t mind helping.”

  “No,” Luisa says sharply. “I don’t need help.”

  “Don’t be horrible. Let me do something.”

  “I suppose you could help me with deliveries,” she says. Doubtfully.

  So the next day we go out in Mum’s car. Luisa drives fast down the country roads, with the music pumped up high, singing along, air conditioning on and the front windows open. When instructed, I leap out of the front passenger seat and post pink metallic envelopes through letter boxes or to people waiting in prearranged places. It’s fun.

  fourteen

  Now

  “Is it OK if I come to breakfast with you?” asks Fay. Her face is contorted with a nervous I-don’t-mind-if-you-say-no expression.

  “Sure,” I say, and her face smooths out again. I wonder if she can see how jittery I am, incapable of concentrating on anything other than my phone. At least I’ll avoid looking like a complete loner in the main dining hall again. Or worse, having to hang out with Joe. Of course, now I think about it, the whole reason Fay’s making the breakfast trip is probably because she’s hoping to hang out with him.

  I wouldn’t mind sitting next to Brandon, but he’s nowhere to be seen, so when I’ve selected my breakfast, I find a table for two at the back of the hall and ignore Fay’s look of disappointment when she finds me. She sips her orange juice, and picks out all the grapes from her bowl of fruit salad. To begin with, I assume it’s because she hates grapes; then, as she eats them in her fingers, one by one, I realize that’s the only part of the fruit salad she likes.

  My phone is in my pocket, vibrate and volume on maximum. “Have you ever thought your dad was trying to contact you?” I ask. “You know, with a sign or something.”

  Fay shakes her head. “I’d like him to though.”

  I cut my pancake with the side of my fork and tuck my other hand in my pocket, round my phone. “You wouldn’t be scared?”

  “Depends,” says Fay. She pulls the corners of her mouth down as she considers the question further. “It depends what he wanted to say to me. Why?”

  “I had a dream last night about how my sister was trying to contact me.”

  And two actual messages on my phone from her.

  “You should sign up for a one-to-one counselling session this afternoon,” says Fay. She follows the journey of a chunk of pancake and maple syrup as it travels from my plate into my mouth.

  I shake my head.

  “Are you sure?” says Fay.

  “Yep.” I shrug. “I’m not anti-counselling. Just need a break from it.” Mum was straight in there with the counselling stuff, emailing the pastoral team at school as soon as term started last September. Pretty much once a week until we moved I sat on a swivel chair in a tiny office in the head’s corridor mumbling to a woman with a cycle-helmet haircut. I tried to explore my feelings, come up with strategies and set new goals. There was no way I was having counselling at my new school, so now I go fortnightly to a counsellor who sees people at her house. I sit in an armchair and look out at her messy garden, or stare at her desk. At the scruffy folders, gel pens without lids, the Post-it Notes in green, yellow and orange scattered like autumn leaves.

  Fay sighs. “I like having someone to listen to me.”

  I dip a piece of pancake into the pool of syrup.

  “I like that counsellors are trained not to be shocked.” She squeezes a grape between her thumb and forefinger. “Because I have a secret.”

  The guilt in her eyes is like a reflection from my own. It startles me.

  “I’m responsible for my dad’s death. I was arguing with him when he crashed the car,” says Fay. “He was distracted. There was a van coming the other way and my dad let the car drift on to the other side of the road…” She squeezes her eyes closed for a second, haunted by a sequence of memories she can never erase. “Counsellors tell me that it’s not my fault, but they have to say that. It’s their job. I know it’s my fault. I was there and they weren’t.”

  She’ll have had the “Bad things happen” and “Somehow you have to get past this” talks already, so I say, “That’s hard. Is it why you don’t eat?”

  Fay pushes the pile of grapes away with her crumpled napkin. “When I think about my dad I can’t eat.” She rearranges the napkin so that it completely covers the grapes. “I was funny about food before, but it’s got worse.”

  I wonder if she judges me like I’ve judged her, for not being able to stop the unhappiness leaking out in different ways. After I’ve swallowed my mouthful of flabby pancake, I say, “Since my sister died, food tastes different. Sometimes it doesn’t taste of anything at all, but I still eat it.”

  Fay rubs the corner of her tray where it’s chipped. “Sometimes I feel hopeless.”

  “You’re not hopeless,” I say. “You’re going to be a doctor. You’ll make a good doctor.”

  I try not to say compliments I don’t mean. It’s mostly impossible, given twenty-first-century social conventions, but I try. Fay will make a good doctor. She cares about stuff, and she’s weird enough that people wouldn’t feel too weird about themselves in front of her.

  “You think so?” Fay smiles, and her face changes shape. Less skull-like.

  “Yes, definitely. I used to spend a lot of time around doctors.” I know what her next question’s going to be, so I pre-empt it. “My brother, Oscar, was born wit
h heart problems.”

  Out of my side vision, I see a tray and muscly arms. The arms belong to Joe. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that says Dream Big on it in white letters. I can smell the cleanness of it, the washing detergent. What’s he doing? We’re at a table for two.

  “That’s sad about your brother,” he says. “How old was he when he died?”

  “What?”

  “Your brother,” says Joe, pulling up a spare chair from the next table with one hand while balancing his tray on his other arm. “How old was he?”

  “Oscar’s nine,” I say. “He’s still alive.”

  Joe grimaces as he sits down and manoeuvres his tray on to the table. Unfortunately there is just about room for it. “Oh, sorry.” His expression morphs into one of concern. “So how is he? Does he have a decent quality of life?”

  “He’s fine. Absolutely fine.” If Mum were here, she’d be filling him in on the many little details of Oscar’s condition, the checks still ahead of him, the necessary precautions, the possibilities of further surgery. But basics: Oscar is fine.

  “Wow,” says Joe. “Modern medicine is incredible. Morning to you both, by the way.” He sits round properly on his chair and pours milk from a little white jug into his bowl of muesli.

  Fay watches him in a way that could probably be called staring. She catches me looking at her, and blushes.

  “So, is it a genetic thing?” asks Joe. “A family problem?”

  Luisa and I had tests and scans, but none of that’s any of Joe’s business.

  “Nah,” I say, waving my hand as if the whole thing bores me. “So, who’s pumped for the obstacle course this morning?” I glance down at my phone, at the black inactive screen, and for a moment I’m light-headed at the thought of the two messages lurking inside. I think of them waiting there for me, automatically saved, to shock me all over again.

  When I mentally join the obstacle-course chat again, Fay is worrying about the chance of rain and whether she’ll be made to crawl through mud.

  “Today’s going to be difficult for me, whether there’s mud or not,” says Joe through a mouthful of muesli.

  “Why?” asks Fay.

  I’d have left that sentence hanging myself.

  “Today would have been my girlfriend’s birthday.” Joe loads up another spoon with muesli while Fay communicates panic to me, wanting me to say something first.

  I mutter that I’m sorry.

  Joe picks his phone up off his tray and shows us his wallpaper photo. It’s a head and shoulders shot of a girl in a plain white T-shirt, shiny blonde hair to her shoulders. She’s wearing a necklace made from what looks like a shoelace and a triangular wooden pendant with a squiggle on it. Her expression is serious, almost blank. Not your usual surfer-girl attitude. “That’s Kyra the day before she died. She would have been sixteen today. I should be celebrating with her.”

  “She looks nice,” says Fay.

  I feel sorry for Fay, seeing the dead girlfriend of the boy she fancies.

  Joe nods, and carries on holding his phone for us to see.

  “Nice necklace,” says Fay. She’s run out of things to say.

  “Thanks,” says Joe. “I made it for her.” He brings the phone back towards him and fiddles around with it. “I make things for the tourists. Look.” The screen is full of beaded and wooden necklaces and carved wooden fish. He swipes the screen again and there’s another photo. Him and Kyra in wetsuits with wet hair and surfboards. She’s smiling this time. They both are.

  “That’s my favourite photo,” he says. “Look how happy we were.”

  He makes a choking noise and puts his hand to his eyes so that his thumb is pressing down on one eyelid and a couple of fingers are on the other. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to make a scene.” He clamps both hands over his eyes and leans forward with his elbows on the table.

  “You’re not making a scene,” says Fay. “It’s OK to cry. I’ll get you a napkin. Hang on. I won’t be a moment.” She hurries off towards the cutlery counter.

  If Joe were anyone else, I might put my arm round his shoulder, but the memory of him doing it to me stops me. He’s sniffing quietly and I’m still in exactly the same position when Fay rushes back.

  “Here you go, Joe,” she says.

  He raises his head and takes the napkin. Around his eyes his skin is reddish, but I’m struck by the fact that his eyes aren’t watery and he doesn’t have to blow his nose. If he’s trying to make himself look upset, what would the point of that be? An embarrassingly inappropriate form of flirting? I wouldn’t put it past him.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, and he presses the napkin against his eyes.

  Fay looks at me.

  “We should get a move on,” I say. “Aren’t we supposed to be meeting at nine-thirty?”

  “You two go on,” says Joe. “I’ll follow you in a minute.”

  “If you’re sure,” says Fay in a very unsure way. “I know this is going to be a very sad day for you, so if there’s anything you want me to do…”

  Joe removes the napkin. His eyes flash with an alarming intensity and his jaw is tight. “Kyra shouldn’t have done it. She shouldn’t. I don’t know why she did it. She had me.” He opens up the napkin and buries his face, and this time his sobs sound genuine and heartfelt.

  “Don’t,” says Fay. “Please don’t upset yourself.”

  “I’d like…” he says in a wobbly, muffled voice, “a few minutes to myself now.”

  I motion to Fay that we should leave.

  fifteen

  “He seemed really angry with Kyra,” I say to Fay as we walk back to our room.

  “I’ve heard that people left behind after a suicide are often angry,” Fay says. She adds something else but I don’t hear because I feel my phone vibrate, and a split second afterwards hear the high-pitched ping that I chose as an audible alert for a MessageHound message.

  I slow down. “You go on,” I say to Fay. “I’ve got to check my phone a moment.” I wait until she’s enough paces away not to be able to see my screen and in almost one touch I tap the dog and input the code.

  LUISA: I could tell you your favourite Harry Potter character is Ron Weasley and that my favourite snack is salt and vinegar crisps, or you could have faith and believe that it’s me.

  My favourite Harry Potter character is Ron Weasley, and Luisa was addicted to salt and vinegar crisps.

  I want so badly to believe it’s Luisa writing, that she’s hoaxed her own death, Sherlock Holmes–style, and very soon I’m going to work out how she did it. Seeing her familiar profile photo pop up each time makes it easy to imagine it’s her sending the messages. In mine I’m wearing a hat with furry antlers and doing an impression of an overexcited buck-toothed reindeer. Luisa is modelling a horrendous bobble hat in hers, knitted by our great-auntie when she heard Luisa was going on the school skiing trip.

  I rescued that bobble hat from one of the charity-shop boxes. Luisa had only worn it once for that photo, so it didn’t smell of her, and the bobble at the top was coming apart, but I still wanted it.

  They were taken the day we set up our MessageHound account. Neither of us ever changed our profile photos; I’m not sure why. We still found them amusing, I guess.

  I look down again, and another message pops up.

  LUISA: How’s life?

  Breathe. Breathe. I close the app before dizziness blurs my vision. This is too weird to cope with.

  “Don’t be late for the obstacle course! No phones allowed. Plenty of time for texting later.” Pippa strides past me with her clipboard. “See you there.”

  *

  I don’t want anyone to know about the messages, which means I have to act normally. Leaving my phone in the room will help; it’ll stop me checking it obsessively.

  Danielle has already left when I arrive at the room, and Fay is waiting for me. I bury my phone under a half-dirty T-shirt at the bottom of my suitcase and pull the zip round firmly.

  “Teeth
, then I’m done,” I say to Fay.

  In the bathroom, I lean against the sink with my toothbrush and blink away stupid, stupid tears.

  The obstacle course begins with a series of car tyres that leads to a ramp with hand-and footholds and a vertical climbing wall the other side. After a short run, there’s a plastic tunnel, low hurdles, rope netting over a wooden structure, a set of monkey bars, a steeper ramp with a rope to pull up on and a ladder the other side, and six cones to zigzag round. On a raised platform at the end is a red buzzer the size of a football. There are two identical sets of equipment, side by side.

  “This is going to be a team thing, isn’t it?” wails Fay as we look at it.

  Leaving my phone in the room hasn’t made me think about the messages any less.

  “Why does everything have to be a competition?” Fay says.

  “It’s about getting people to want it more, to encourage each other, isn’t it? You know, the usual team-building bollocks.” I walk with her to the start of the course and stand on one of the car tyres. “Don’t worry, it doesn’t look too hard. You’ll be fine.” I resist telling her I’m looking forward to it. I have the same compressed energy inside me that I used to have before a swimming race. Yesterday I had more stamina than Brandon when we ran through the fields. I managed to vault over that five-bar gate with no problem. I’m fitter than I thought.

  Thinking about Brandon appears to conjure him up. He walks towards us. In a grey shirt with a stiff white collar, and another tatty pair of shorts.

  “Morning!” he says. He seems a lot happier than yesterday. “I’m still trying to get wheat out of my hair. How about you?”

  “What are you talking about?” asks Fay.

  “Wheat angels,” I say. I feel myself reddening. “An orienteering thing.”

  “There’s Joe,” says Fay. “I’m going to see if he’s OK.”

  “What’s wrong with Joe?” asks Brandon.

  I open my mouth to explain but an instructor bellows at us to gather round, and we have to watch a demonstration of the course, and hear how expensive it is to replace the electronic buzzers so there’s to be no mucking around with them.

  Pippa uses a randomized selection app on her phone to split us into two teams of six. The app allocates me to the same team as Fay and Joe, and the opposite one to Brandon. At least I’m not with Danielle, who’s mostly ignoring me this morning. I guess it’s because I spat out half her tablet and complained about the effects of the other half.