Lost for Words (7 page)

MONDAY, MARCH 27
^TH

On my way to school I was making a long list of resolutions like I should have made on New Year’s. I resolved to go jogging twice a week even if it was raining. To eat more fruits and vegetables, and do a yoga DVD on Wednesdays and Fridays. To lose a little weight—although not as much as Abi has lost; she looked really thin today—and get toned in the right places. I want to make sure all my underwear matches, just in case I do ever have a boyfriend. (Not Dan,
though. I wish I would stop thinking about him.) I want to paint my nails and have them look nice. I want to write more poems and read a book every week. I want to go back to doing something like drama or judo, one of the things I used to do before everything fell apart. And I want to stick to the one resolution I did make on New Year’s Day: to forget all about it, to move on.

As the morning slid by, I got more and more stressed. I ended up spending the afternoon in the bathroom. Eventually the bell rang for the end of school. I was shaking and hysterical. I watched out the window and saw Rosa-Leigh standing at the stone arch waiting for me, checking her watch. Then, when she’d gone, when everyone had gone and the janitor was about to lock up the building, I escaped and hurried through the park to get home.

When I’d calmed down, I looked on the internet to see if I could find out what was wrong with me. The only thing that fit my symptoms of nausea, mad heartbeat, crazy thoughts, difficulty breathing, and feeling frightened is “panic attacks,” which sound like the sort of thing people get who are really messed up. I’m definitely not going to tell anyone about this; I don’t want everyone to think I’m completely insane.

Trust me to get panic attacks, if that’s what they are. I’m so lame. Everything’s lame. Why can’t I just get a grip? I called Rosa-Leigh, deciding that I needed to stop thinking about all of this. We chatted about what a bitch Abigail is
being, and Rosa-Leigh moaned about how much homework she has. It was all very normal, and for a moment I forgot all the stuff about panic attacks. Rosa-Leigh said she has a surprise for me on Thursday and I totally have to come to her house. Thank God for her. If there even is a God.

THURSDAY, MARCH 30
^TH

I’m staying at Rosa-Leigh’s tonight. I wonder what the surprise is….

FRIDAY, MARCH 31
^ST

Last night was amazing! We got to Rosa-Leigh’s, and all her family was there, including her dad. It’s so fun to have a dad around, especially a dad like hers who is so friendly. He’s short for a man but really broad-shouldered and red-faced, with a huge beard. Even he says he looks like a bear, which is the family joke. He told heaps of stories about Canada and made everyone laugh.

All her brothers were there, including Joshua, her oldest brother (I worked out which one is which) and who I SWEAR looked at me more than once and held my gaze until I blushed. He was sweet and funny and much better looking than Dan. (Although Dan has such nice eyes. But I have to forget about Dan, anyway.) Joshua even made
sure I got enough spaghetti Bolognese, which Mum never makes anymore because we eat only takeaways or leftovers. I miss roast dinners and Mum’s crazy health kicks. It’s like now she can’t even bear us sitting together to eat. Not that I ever want to sit and eat with her. Anyway, the spaghetti Bolognese was the best ever. Rosa-Leigh’s dad made it.

After dinner Rosa-Leigh’s dad dropped us off somewhere in Camden. She said, “There it is,” pointing to a tattered red door. Above it hung a lamp, very nineteen-forties and cool. We pushed open the door, and it was like going into someone’s house, all these sofas everywhere and beautiful lamps with colored glass that Rosa-Leigh said were Tiffany. I thought Tiffany was the jewelry shop in New York, but I didn’t say anything. I sat on a sofa and looked at the crazy-haired people in the room, all dread-locks and braids, wearing multicolored jumpers and skirts. Stuff Emily would have thought was amazing. Except she wasn’t there and I was.

The sofa smelled of dust and smoke. It was covered in a flower pattern. Rosa-Leigh smiled and said hi to a couple who were sitting at a nearby table. Then she went to get us drinks. She didn’t get asked for ID like I would have been. I suddenly felt like I always want to feel: like I fit into my own life.

Rosa-Leigh brought us over gin and tonics. It’s the sort of drink my mum would have. Rosa-Leigh said it was the sort of drink she thought everyone in England had all the
time, which I told her it wasn’t.

I asked her what this place is. She put her finger to her lips and raised an eyebrow in a
wait-and-see
gesture.

Then the lights went low, and over in one corner I saw the microphone in a spotlight. A black guy with the most gorgeous face went up to the mike. I could hardly stop looking at him, not because I fancied him but because he was so classically handsome that he looked like a painting. Then he started to talk. Except he wasn’t talking; he was saying POEMS. He recited this most amazing poem about war and bombs. I shivered as if someone were kissing my neck (which made me fantasize about Dan). It felt like the guy was saying the poem for me. Except he wasn’t saying it like it was a poem; he was saying it like it was REAL. I imagined Dan whispering along my spine.

After he was done, I clapped so hard my hands stung. Then a huge woman did three poems about sex and being a woman. She was hilarious. There were maybe four or five poets after that, all different stuff. One guy was no older than me, I swear. He looked like the sort of kid who sits at the front of class peering through his glasses. The sort of guy who is really awkward around girls. Except then he did this series of poems as fluid as water.

I asked Rosa-Leigh how she knew about this place. She leaned forward and whispered, “One of the exciting things about coming to London is spoken-word events like this.”

I’d never heard of spoken-word events. I wondered
suddenly what Abigail would think of all this and saw the room through her eyes. She’d be trying to get the attention of all the other people there by speaking loudly and too much because she was uncomfortable.

Just then I caught my breath because I thought I saw Emily come into the room and sit at an empty table nearby. She scratched her neck and looked over at me. Except it wasn’t her. It was someone who looked like her, that’s all.

Rosa-Leigh must have seen my eyes get all wet because she squeezed my forearm and said, “You miss her, right?”

And I didn’t ask her how she knew. I didn’t have to.

SATURDAY, APRIL 1
^ST

April Fools’ Day. I sat on the roof this morning remembering April Fools’ Day last year. Emily called and said she was pregnant. Mum started screaming and yelling, and I came out of my room to see what all the fuss was about. I took the phone from Mum. Emily was laughing so hard, she could hardly speak.

“Don’t tell her I’m joking: I told her I was pregnant,” she said.

I started laughing, too, and Mum got even more mad before she realized what was going on. She didn’t laugh, though. She didn’t think joking about being pregnant was funny at all. I wonder now if we were happy then. Was that a good day?

SUNDAY, APRIL 2
^ND

It’s not even lunchtime and today has already been too long. Mum and I are stuck in the house together. I finished reading a book by Stephen King; once I start reading one of his books, I can’t put it down. Then I tried something Rosa-Leigh suggested. It’s called a found poem. What you do is take words that you’ve found and put them together to make a poem. You “find” the words by choosing sentences, or bits of sentences, you really like. Then you rearrange them to make something new. It was something I thought Mum might like to do with me, but I didn’t know how to ask her to join in. Things are not great between us. She was going out anyway.

“Where are you going?”

“Highgate, to the church. Do you want to come?”

I was amazed she asked me, but I couldn’t stop myself saying no. I ignored Mum’s sigh.

Here’s my first attempt at the poem.

It’s short. I used one of Mum’s magazines for it. I’m going to use a couple of books from the living room to try and make up a better poem.

Maybe I should have gone with Mum. I haven’t been to the church yet this year. I last went on the day before Christmas. It only made me cry. At least Fluffy’s here with me, purring and kneading my lap with her black paws. I stroked her and she tried to bite my hand, then jumped off and slunk away. I could tell by her catty disappointment that she finds me a poor substitute for Emily.

In the end I gave up on the poem and climbed onto the roof. I started thinking about this stupid fight Emily and I had about a year ago. I was watching TV when Emily walked into the room wearing a green skirt.

I said, “Where’s your skirt from? It’s nice.”

“I cut it up from an old dress.”

“What old dress?” My stomach sank.

“A green dress I found in the wardrobe.”

“Whose wardrobe?”

“I don’t know.” The phone rang. She was already on her way out of the room.

I waited for her to finish talking to whoever it was, listening to her grating cheerful voice, each word sticking itself into my ears like a cotton bud pushed too far. When she got off the phone, I bounded from the sofa and grabbed
a hold of the skirt. “What wardrobe?”

“Get off me! Get off!” she yelled.

“That’s MY DRESS you’ve cut up! My favorite dress.”

“It was too tight on you anyway.”

I slapped her cheek and she reeled back. “You cow,” she said. Even as she said it, I knew I’d gone too far, but I couldn’t stop.

“What’s your problem, Emily?” I screamed at her. “You can’t bear something not to be yours. I loved that dress and you knew it.”

“You looked like a tart in it.”

“No, I didn’t,” I yelled. “You’re just old and you can’t wear a dress like that anymore.”

She tried to get away, but I had her backed against the wall.

I screamed, “I didn’t look like a tart in it! I looked totally great in it, which is why you had to cut it up. Right?”

“I don’t know why you’re so stressed out. It’s better as a skirt. You can borrow it if you want.”

I hated her at that moment. I wanted to slap her again, but I knew it wouldn’t make me feel any better. I wanted to spit in her face. I said, “I wouldn’t touch it if you paid me.” Then I backed away and started crying.

“Come on,” she said, “it’s only a dress. I’ll get you another one.”

“I hate you.”

“Take the stupid skirt. You can have it.” She pulled it
down and stood in her white knickers in the corridor. I walked into the living room and turned up the TV insanely loud. My blood was pulsing in my body. I kept thinking about her face as I hit her, the red mark on her cheek, the way she stood in the corridor in her underwear holding out the skirt. I stayed sitting on the sofa with my arms crossed, waiting for the rage to die down.

Now I can’t even believe I got angry about it. It seems so stupid.

MONDAY, APRIL 3
^RD

Mum came into my room just now. She sat on the edge of the bed and told me a friend of hers was coming over a week from Friday. She said she’d be really happy if I could be there. I could tell from her voice that she was nervous but also kind of excited. I remembered how she’d been going to that support group and how she had tried to talk to me a couple of times recently. And now here she was sitting on the end of my bed smiling. What was going on with her? I lay there and flung my arm over my eyes.

She said, “Are you all right?”

“I didn’t think you’d even noticed.”

“That’s not fair, Sophie.”

“What’s fair about life, Mum?” I said. I squeezed back the tears that were fizzing up.

I thought for a moment she was going to put her hand on
my shoulder and I thought for a moment she was going to make it all better so I could say to her, “I miss you.”

Except she said, “I don’t know what to do, Sophie. I really am trying. I know it’s not good enough. I know I haven’t been doing very well.”

Even though you’d think what she’d said would have made me feel better, it didn’t. It was like I went crazy. Like the right numbers had been rolled into the combination lock and I was opened up. I sat suddenly and yelled at her to get out. I told her I didn’t want to meet her stupid friend and I was sick of us pretending. Mum’s face went slack. The light faded from her eyes. I hadn’t realized until it was gone that she’d had light there because it’s been so long since she’s looked happy. I’d just made her miserable again. I couldn’t stop though; I yelled, “You don’t care about me!”

“I’m sorry, Sophie,” she said. “I’m doing my best. I promise. I’ve been going to a support group to try and get myself together. I know how hard this is—”

“You never have time for me. You never even see me. And now you have a friend coming over and everything is supposed to be FINE?” I could hear how horrible I was being. And then I caught her look. I said, “Your friend is a man, right?” Even as I said it, I was hoping she’d tell me I was wrong.

She looked down and then looked back up at me, tears in her eyes. She said, “Please, Sophie. He’s just a friend. And
I have been trying, I have, but I don’t know how to make this better.”

What was I supposed to say to that?
I
couldn’t make things better. It was
my
fault in the first place. It was my stupid shoelace. I was on the far side of the bed from her and tears leaked out of me. I said, “You have no idea what it was like. No one has any idea what I live with EVERY day.” Then I started screaming, “Get out! Get out!” I told her again and again to get out, but I stopped yelling it. My voice became quieter and stiffer. I repeated the words, frightening myself. She gave me the saddest look, but she left. I took a deep breath. Fear clambered over me like a body trying to get out of a grave. My heart slammed, my breathing became choked, I cried silent tears. I got into bed and lay there shaking. I thought I was going to die.