Drop (28 page)

I try to put those thoughts aside and concentrate. It’s easier with Art because it’s a subject I have a handle on. I get lost in it. I’m in the zone, my synapses firing, creative juices flowing, when Facebook Messenger pops up.

Seeing it committed to type flicks a switch in me. I like Isaac. Oh, God. I think I really do. I understand him. The twist of the gut when you see someone, joy and pain all merged into one super-charged turbo-emotion.

There it goes, the memory, on repeat:
Look at me. I think you’re amazing.

The journey’s gone by in a blur. Isaac’s encouraged me about my art, and told me about the books he’s reading, about the films he likes and that he would love to be a writer like Jonathan Safran Foer or Jonathan Franzen or Jonathan Coe, and I tell him that maybe he should change his name to Jonathan then. I tell him I hope to be an artist and travel the world and ride an elephant and maybe one day, just one day, feel free, like I don’t have to pretend to be someone else to fit in… By which time I must have written the thousand words – an essay – just not on nineteenth-century painters.
Shit
.

When I arrive home, Mum’s out. Big surprise. But Dad’s happy to see me and orders Chinese for dinner. Win.

DAD’S RUBBISH COOKING: AVOIDED.

I spend the evening procrastin-eating, then have a major
yikes
moment. Just one little, miniscule, barely-worth-bothering-with, teeny-tiny thing to finish: MY SCULPTURE.

I’m in Such. Deep. Crap.

My Art portfolio deadline looms and I’ve still got a gazillion tiny butterfly scales to paint. Oh … I’ve known about this date all term, all half-term break, all evening, yet it seemed a better use of time to dip mini spring rolls in sweet chilli sauce and watch
Can You Dance?
with Dad. I’m next to be voted off, for sure.

In my room, I flatten some cardboard boxes to protect the carpet. Lying on the floor, I set to work with my brush and inks on all those delicate butterfly wings.

I lose track of time. It was dark outside when I started; now it’s light, the birds are singing their cheery song. Half-dead and in pain, with crippled claw fingers from painting, I’m
so
not feeling chirpy.

I scan the colossal mess around me. The makeshift floor’s an Impressionist landscape – a Monet with purple streaks and puddles of yellow seeping into cracked, dried-up rivers of aquamarine.

The intense colours have kindled life; she practically hovers above the inky landscape, luminous, incandescent, ablaze. Two pairs of wings, frozen in graceful flight. Each wing covered in tiny scales, and hinged to her slender body.

I can’t believe I made it:
Ornithoptera alexandrae
, all hail the Queen of the Butterflies.

I did it. I am so freaking want-to-kill-myself-tired. But I. Did. It.

It’s got to be worth it. It has to be.

I might pass one AS-level at least.

Dad gives me a lift to school, to save me having to carry my sculpture. I arrive ridiculously early. Havelock’s not even in yet, so I head to the common room to wait.

I swallow a mouthful of purple tea that tastes of purple, with a purple aftertaste. It’s supposed to have a reviving effect. So far all it’s produced is the red-wine-lip-effect. At nine in the morning this is
not
a good look and I sit in the common room, resembling the corpse of Dita Von Teese: pale face, scarlet clown lips, bit scrawny. The sum of my AS-level Art portfolio sits in my lap: sketchbook, sculpture, studies. I yawn. My eyes well up.

I pick at my paint-stained nails. Jiggle my foot. Try to slow my breathing. If I don’t pass Art, then what have I got? I’ll be good at nothing. Good
for
nothing.

The radio is on. I hear:
I could draw you under, let you drown in my depths. Fill your lungs with me, drink me in and never leave.

I pretend to read
Closer
magazine. I slouch, attempting to disappear. I used to be good at disappearing, but not any more. Not since I famously dated, then dumped, the hottest guy in school.

Someone finds me.

“Hey,” Isaac says, sitting down. “All right? I was hoping to see you today. Welcome back.”

“I’d like to say it’s good to be back but I managed to postpone finishing my coursework until last night. Rookie mistake.”

“That explains the dark circles under your eyes.”

“Oi!” I whack him on the arm.

“You got exams today?” he asks.

“No, just came to hand this in,” I say, pointing to the cardboard box on the table with
kitchen cupboard
scribbled on it in black marker.

“Are they low on condiments in the cafeteria or is this modern art? You didn’t seem too keen on that at the gallery.”

“No, silly, it’s
in
the box. The sculpture for Havelock’s class. It’s pretty much the best work I’ve done all year. Mainly because I’ve finished it, unlike my Psych, Chem, Biology or English Lit coursework. Hope it’s good enough, because it’s all I can do.”

“Let me see.”

“No!” I fend off his grasping hands.

“Come on!”

“No way,” I say, but Isaac gives me a look and then somehow I’m smiling and bending back the cardboard flaps and letting him peer in.

“Ohmygod. It’s amazing,” he blurts.

“Shut up.”

“You made this? Did you paint all those by hand?”

“No, I got my robot servant to do it. Of course I did it myself! I hear they frown upon cheating around here.”

“I don’t think you’ll have a problem passing Art.”

“We’ll see. Not sure about my other exams though.” I check my phone: 8.43 a.m.

“You’ll be fine. Come on. You’re the cleverest girl I know. You’ll ace your exams. Deep breath, Carla. Go show Havelock what you’re made of.”

I push open the door to A2, set down my portfolio and box in my usual place and carefully lift the sculpture out.

All the other sculptures look so professional – well, so arty, abstract, trying to say something more. Mine is so delicate. I fill in the form. Name. Candidate number…

“This is good, Carla. Really good. And just in time.” Havelock, clad in tan like a desert explorer, shuffles around, surveying my sculpture from all angles. He nods with satisfaction, or maybe relief, that I’ve
actually
turned in some coursework.

“Can I go now?” I ask.

Havelock gestures to the door. I take my bag and leave, catching myself wishing Isaac was standing outside waiting for me. He always seems to believe in me.

The fact that Violet and I have to sit next to each other during some exams is a hardship I hadn’t anticipated. A punishment even. The curse of the alphabetical seating plan: Violet Brody, Carla Carroll. I go to my exams. I do my best, but … the cramming is all too late, the questions foreign. Still, I try…

After a morning studying in my room, I need a break so crank up the volume of my sound dock and try to stop thinking altogether. Half an hour later I’m ready to return to reality. I turn it down a notch.

My phone vibrates. It’s Isaac. “Can I come over?” he asks.

“If you like.”

“Good. I’ve been standing outside your house for twenty minutes already and I’m sure your neighbour thinks I’m about to crowbar your window and steal your parents’ sweet forty-two-inch flat screen.”

“Sorry, I was drowning out the world with feisty chick music. Didn’t hear the bell. Two secs.”

I change from jogging bottoms into a short skirt made from an old pair of Levi’s, leggings and a blue T-shirt. I twist my hair into a rough plait, elusive strands straying across my face. I’ve got some colour back in the last few weeks.

I rush to the front door and let him in.

“I brought you a Kinder Egg,” he says.

“Thanks. Is chocolate part of your diet plan, then?”

“You eat the chocolate. I’ll make the toy.”

“Deal,” I agree.

Since we’re on study leave, I haven’t seen Finn, save for our agonizing
fifteen-hour
Art exam and the Chemistry and Psychology papers. But I’m beginning to feel numb about Finn. I just switch off, shut him out. Trouble is, I can’t seem to get the power back on for exams. It’s like I’m running on autopilot, minimal output, back-up generators only. It used to be eat-sleep-rave-repeat, now it’s eat-sleep-revise-EXCRUCIATING EXAM-repeat. I was a study whore; now I’m just a study zombie.

I’m sure Finn wouldn’t be over the moon if he knew Isaac and I were hanging out – but as soon as I think it, I reject it. I don’t allow him into my thoughts. At least, I try not to.

Isaac and I talk a lot. I wrap myself up with him like a child’s safety blanket. He’s not like Finn. I feel safe, in a world of two, where I can say anything,
be me
, like when I do gym: a place to escape.

There’s been no repeat of the almost-kiss. Apart from the Finn complexity there’s too much going on with exams.
The friendzone beckons.

We head upstairs to my room. Isaac perches on the bed.

The music blares; all electric guitar and screaming.

I search through desk junk for the dock remote, then turn the volume down.

“You’ve been keeping something from me,” he says.

I look at him, no clue what he’s talking about.

He reaches into his jeans pocket for a small black box.

“Bit soon for proposals, isn’t it?” I ask.

“Very funny. Open it.”

I lift the lid. Sitting on lilac tissue paper is a butterfly on a silver chain, a silhouette in purple acrylic. With it, a note. I don’t read it yet.

“Your Facebook wall is full of happy birthday messages. You kept that quiet.”

“Wow, it’s … um…” I struggle to find words. It’s so me, so thoughtful, so perfect.

“You don’t like it?” Isaac says, confused by my inability to articulate.

“No, I love it,” I say. Isaac unhooks the clasp and puts the necklace on me. “Really, thanks. I guess, I’m just… You took me by surprise. It’s really kind of you. Thank you.” And while I’m talking, I’m thinking,
All I ever got from your brother was a crushed donut and a drug habit.

Isaac shrugs like it’s no big deal, modest as ever, and the contrast between him and Finn is even bolder; he’s the fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

My eyes stray from Isaac’s neck, to the tips of his hair, to the light jerking between the slats of the blind, to my toes, to his floppy hair, back to the blinds. I observe the barcode of light on the carpet. A car rumbles past. The lines of light vibrate like white guitar strings.

“This is just Part One of your present.”

“There’s more?”

Isaac nods.

“What is it?”

“Ah, time will tell, Carla Carroll. All will be revealed, but when you least expect it.”

“How very cryptic.”

“Got to go now. Keep your phone handy. Don’t switch it off.”

After Isaac leaves I unfold the note.