Drop (18 page)

We walk home, full of our own majesty. King and Queen of London, England, United Kingdom, World, Universe. As we amble across the bridge, the river stretching out for ever either side of us, I feel like I’m flying. Not crazy LSD “I can fly!” nonsense but, I don’t know, just happy and soaring in some other place. Some secret place where it all makes sense. A parallel universe, but better. So much better… I feel confident, pretty, and I have the guy. Un-fucking-believable. This is amazing!

I don’t want it to stop. I don’t want to stop being this girl. The beautiful girl in the foreground, not a smudge of paint in the background. Health damages be damned! New friends, new experiences, this new life: it’s going to be a masterpiece.

I wonder if the London Eye is moving. It can’t be. Must be the drugs playing tricks. We’re hand in hand, me silent and him singing “Water” by Traction:

Like a breaker I could carry you, thrill you, together we’d ride. Or I could draw you under, let you drown in my depths. Fill your lungs with me, drink me in and never leave.

I do have to go home though, don’t I? I have to sneak in, at least be there. It won’t matter if I’m not very vocal later, as long as I make an appearance. Anyway, Mum will probably be shopping/working overtime/on a business trip/networking/researching/generally not around. Delete as appropriate. Finn lends me his old iPod so I can listen to some tunes if I can’t get to sleep. I hope to be comatose in the near future but, although my body is tired and empty-feeling, my mind is still click-click-clicking…

Finn.

Finn.

I did coke.

I did pills.

Have I damaged myself? Don’t think about that…

Think about Finn…

I don’t feel well. Understatement of the year, the decade, the century. After exactly zero hour’s sleep, Sunday is just an extension of Saturday. I lie in bed for ages, waiting for my stomach to stop churning and for my thoughts to switch off. I can’t relax. I repeat,
Lights off, nobody home
, vainly trying to convince myself I’m done thinking for today. But … although the ecstatic feeling is long gone, the crazy thought process and wide-awakeness persist. Stop this ride! I want to get off!

I’m in conflict. Body wants to shut down; brain wants to talk. Right now, it’s chattering pretty damn loudly.

What if Isaac never accepts me as Finn’s girlfriend? Or he makes Finn choose between us? Finn won’t stop talking to his brother… And does Isaac
really
fancy me, like Finn said?

Isaacgate
is coming. I can feel it.

And besides all
that
churning around in my head,
this
:

HOLY CRAP, I TOOK DRUGS.

THEY WERE AMAZING.

THANK FUCK, I’M STILL ALIVE.

OHMYGOD, I FEEL AWFUL.

Was it worth it? Now it’s over, feeling the pain of the comedown, the epic hangover, I’m not so sure.

I confide in Dad that I had a bit to drink on Saturday night. I can’t really hide that I’m a wreck, so I have to say something. He laughs. “That’ll learn ya.”

I fall asleep mid-afternoon, but wake at one thirty a.m., six hours ahead of schedule. Not good. I try to get back to sleep but my body refuses. I shift under the sheets, fluff my pillow, take some painkillers. Still awake. Then BEEPBEEPBEEPBEEPBEEP… Siren of doom, most hated sound in the known universe. Why is it that now, at seven thirty a.m., when I actually have to get up and resemble a human being, I feel compelled to hibernate for ever? OH GOD. I have to go to school, and if they ask me what I did this weekend I’ll just crumble and cry because I am a sleep-deprived-shell-of-my-former-self wreck of a person today.

7.37 a.m.: Dad calls, “Carla, are you up?”

7.42 a.m.: He shouts again. No answer.

What do I do?

1. Lie: Pull a sickie, which, in the current circumstances, won’t exactly be a stretch of my acting talent.

2. Tell the truth: I have a two-day hangover.

Um, obviously I’m going with Option 1.

Did I hear that someone was off school with a stomach bug? A virus? No, too specific. Nausea and sore throat? Headache?

7.46 a.m.: Dad taps on my door.

I pull the duvet around my neck. It smells like dust and shampoo. I straighten my pyjama top over my stomach and rub my feet together in an attempt to get comfortable. I don’t want to lie to Dad, but … it’s not
technically
lying because I feel like death, yet it
is
my doing. I am, just a smidgen, in the wrong.

Suck it up. Go to school.

I sit up in bed. The walls spin. I’m not going anywhere.

Lights off, nobody home. Go away, conscience.

I made this happen, but to be honest, the guilt card is totally trumped by the grim death card. I can’t go to school like this. I don’t want to show my face in the mirror, let alone a classroom.

“Carla, you’ll be late if you don’t get up now.”

I rummage in my portfolio of physical abilities for “constructing sentences and speaking aloud”. I swear it’s like I have to switch a skill off to allow another one to switch on. Honestly: turn off “balance and spatial awareness”, turn on “listen and assimilate information”. Multi-tasking is a no-go after no sleep.

“Not feeling well, think I should stay home,” I croak.

“What’s up? Can I come in?” he asks, brimming with concern.

No, don’t come in.

“Yeah, come in,” I say. “Feel sick. Bit of a headache.”

Dad hesitates, weighing up what’s best to do on his invisible parenting scales. A cough, forlorn expression and “Dad, please” tip them in my favour, but he isn’t stupid.

“Carla,” he says accusingly. Yet he feels my forehead and adds, “You
are
a bit warm.” His eyebrows rise like helium balloons. “I’m such a bloody pushover. Don’t tell your mother I let you stay home. And no more boozing. Even at the weekend.”

Dad disappears downstairs. Five minutes later, he’s back. “I rang school. If you’re up to it later, you can get your assignments online.”

“OK,” I say.

He gets my laptop from the desk. “Don’t download too many movies.”

He kisses me on the forehead, then exits with a gust that whips my door shut.

I screw up that last atom of guilt like a receipt for a top I couldn’t afford.

Lights off, nobody home…

Bang, bang, bang
…

I wake to the sight of rolling credits.

Bang, bang, bang
…

The door.

I cocoon myself in my stripy duvet and stumble downstairs. I feel fuzzy, scatty, a sandwich short of a picnic. Halfway down, I duck to try and make out who’s at the door. For a millisecond I’m convinced it’s Finn, come to see if I’m all right. He has the same dark hair, the same fair, smooth skin and dark eyes, but Isaac’s rougher around the edges. It’s got to be Isaac. I mean, Finn’s no Ken doll, he has style. He has a metrosexual emo chic thing going on, but it’s a controlled, deliberate roughening of his edges, whereas Isaac just doesn’t care if he looks good or not.

I open the door to the face of someone trying to do a hard sum: perplexed, awkward, in pain.
There’s no way he likes me.

I cough an opener. “Hi.”
Not my best line…

Isaac surveys me like he’s looking at a building for the last time before pulling the demolition lever.

“I, er, came to check on you. Finn said you were sick.” He doesn’t look me in the eye. I twist the corner of the duvet in my fingers.

“Couldn’t sleep last night. Coming down with something. Best keep your distance.”

“Bet you’ll be feeling better by tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, watching his dark hair flap in the wind, exposing a few little furrows on his forehead. He’s always in his head, thinking, analyzing, calculating…

“Just… Saturday night” – Isaac descends into mumble – “going pretty hard and…”

Dramatic pause. I’m freaked at the length of the silence.

“Anybody home?” I say.

Nothing.

I sigh. “I feel like a giant slice of death, if I’m honest.”

“Look, um…” He shuffles his feet, then looks right at me – in a scary making-me-wish-I-wasn’t-home-alone kind of way – and starts projectile word-vomiting. He just wants to get it over with and go home. “Carla, I came because, well, Finn couldn’t. He asked me to. He’s gone with Slink to some way-out board shop for bearings. It was a favour for him. I’ll let him know you’re OK. You can go back to sleeping or whatever.”

“OK, well, yeah, I’m alive. Report back to Finn. Thanks for stopping by,” I say, and wait for a nod or a “Later” or a wave goodbye, but…

I scan his face for life-signs.
Nada.
Zero. Flatline. Blank. He’s forgotten how to end conversations. I’m too tired to cope with the complex workings of the male brain, and I need to be lying down, or with my head in the toilet right now, so I break the deadlock with “See ya” and shut the door.

I slump into a pile of duvet on the hall floor, listening for the thud of his footsteps to fade away before returning to the man I actually
do
understand and can guarantee will always supply the happy ending, my romcom husband, Gabriel Grayson.

What was
that
about?

“You can do better than this, Carla.” Havelock’s words pinch me at the back of the neck. A guilt grip. I
can
do better, he’s right. It’s only mocks though. Just fake exams. What will happen if I fail my fake exams? I won’t get a fake job, earn invisible money and afford a fictional car? I’m saving my
real
energy for
real
things, conserving my brain for something that actually counts. Things are going so well with Finn, and he deserves my time, too.

Havelock leans against his desk. Sighs. Looks to me for an explanation.

I wave my white results transcript in surrender, with its list of descending grades: A (Art) to F (Biology). With C, D, D between.

“Sorry,” I say. It sounds
pitiful
. “I guess exam nerves really got to me.”

He shoots me a bewildered, concerned look, but I think he buys it.

“Are you sleeping and eating OK?”

I don’t answer, and look down at my tatty Converse. I guess my clothes are getting a bit baggy.

“I understand exams can be stressful – some stress can be good, motivational. Try not to let the pressure overwhelm you.” Havelock opens a file and removes a sheet of paper and I’m thinking,
Great, more homework
. “Here are some ideas on managing stress,” he says, handing me the piece of A4.

Guilt tightens its grip. Should’ve done more revision.

In Psychology, I open my textbook and try to concentrate on Bowlby’s Theory of Attachment. Finn’s wearing a V-neck black T-shirt and his emo jeans. I can’t get over how perfect this all is. I mean, aside from the odd homework dodge and lesson skive, everything is pretty darn good. Finn straddles the back of his chair, swinging around to face me. I could dive right into him. I want to. A smile steals his entire face, holding it captive. I love that his emotion is right there, raw, taking over his whole body. And mine. He locks me in a staring match, with those beautiful coffee-bean eyes, an ear-to-ear-grinning–stare-down. I’m one hundred per cent guaranteed to lose this contest. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Heart to jelly; can’t look at him any longer.
Have
to get on with some work.