Seven Days (8 page)

I have fire inside my stomach, travelling up my arms, down my legs – it’s prickling through me like bolts of electricity. I bite my lip hard and taste the blood, warm and metallic. The sharp pain hits me, like a soft buzz of energy. I bite harder. What the hell does Kez know, in her perfect little house, with her perfect little life? Looking down at my shapeless, worn skirt and school jumper, with holes in the sleeve, I can see what she sees. Everything about me is a mess.

“A haircut would be a start,” Marnie adds. “Seriously, have you looked in the mirror lately?”

I’m not looking directly at them, but I can feel both their smiles burning into me. They’re waiting for me to cry. They are prodding and prodding, wanting a reaction. I’m like an elastic band being stretched out between their fingers.

“I guess that style might come back one day,” adds Marnie. “Although it’s doubtful.”

I start writing now, copying the stuff off the board. Mr Jones is droning on, staring straight ahead at the class. His eyes are glassy and faraway.

WHY CAN’T HE SEE?

“Your poor little sister stands no chance, does she?” says Kez coolly.

The elastic band snaps. “What?” I say, turning to face her. The fire is now in my face. Burning and clawing at my cheeks. I’m giddy.

Kez is grinning, her beautiful face as cold as ice. “I said your poor little sister stands no chance, with you as a sister. No wonder your dad ran off.”

I stand quickly, the rush in my head overpowering me. The chair scrapes the floor, making a sickening screeching sound. Mr Jones pauses, mid-sentence. Finally, he notices.

“Jessica, what are you doing?”

I stare directly at Kez. The tears are now here. She is still calm. Watching my reaction, her expression is stone. Marnie just looks bored.

“Well?” Kez says sweetly.

I push past her and run out of the room.

I slip into the medical room quietly. Luckily today it is fairly empty. One Year Seven boy with a nosebleed sits in the corner, a tissue pressed up to his face. He is looking up at me like I’m some kind of freak. At least I don’t have paper hanging out of my nostril.

Janice is sitting behind her desk. She smiles at me.

“Hello, Jess, not seen you for a while.”

“I have a headache, a really bad one.”

Janice gestures towards the chair. “Sit down; I’ll get you some water. Do you want me to call home?”

I think of Mum, trying to sleep. She hates being disturbed, but today I’m past caring. “Yes, I don’t feel good.”

Janice taps away at the computer, bringing up my record. Her faces gives nothing away, but I bet she thinks I’m putting it on. At least this time she would be right.

“Have you taken anything for it?” she asks, still not looking at me.

I shake my head. She gets up and starts rifling through the First Aid cupboard. She pulls out a box and removes two small tablets which she places in my hand. I watch in silence as she pours me some cold water from the tap. We’ve been through this routine so many times now.

“Has something happened?” she asks as she passes me the plastic cup. I coil my hand around it; the tablets are still pressed in my other palm digging into the skin.

“No,” I say flatly. “I just want to go home.”

“You know you could tell me – if you were worried about anything?” Her face is adopting that stupid caring expression again, but it doesn’t fool me. I’ve sat in this room so many times before. She only sees what she wants to see. The anger I feel inside is surprising me. Surely I should be used to all this by now?

“I have nothing to say. I just want to go home early. I feel crap.” My words are short and crisp. I can see the boy with the nosebleed is still watching me intently. I want to push him away too.

In fact I want to push the whole world away.

Janice gives a small sigh and walks back to her desk. “I was young once, remember. I know what it can be like.”

“Were you fat too?” I say.

“No, but there’s always something, isn’t there? People always find a weakness.”

I stare up at her and wonder what her weakness could be. She certainly doesn’t look like a victim. Is her nose slightly too long? Are her fingers a little too stubby? Or was she one of them? A Kez?

“Can you call my mum, please?” I say.

I watch as she taps out the number, see the expression slightly redden when she gets hold of Mum – she won’t be happy, especially if she was woken up. I can imagine her moaning on the other end.

“What do you mean she’s not well? Can’t she just stay there?”

Janice replaces the handset. “She was OK. But she did ask if you were still able to collect Hollie later?”

I pick up my bag, nodding. “It’s fine.”

“Make sure you go straight home,” she tells me. “Mum said she’ll be in bed, but you can let yourself in.”

“I will.”

“And, remember, I’m always here if you need me. You might be surprised to find talking actually helps.”

I don’t answer. I just flash her a “whatever” look. The other girls do it all the time, so why shouldn’t I?

As I leave I see the Year Seven boy is still staring at me. I stick my finger up at him and don’t even bother to shut the door.

The corridors are mainly long and silent. It’s weird when everyone’s in lesson, the place seems different somehow. Calmer, I guess. The only things that remind you of the students are the occasional pieces of litter on the floor and the bright artwork on the walls.

As I turn the corner, I nearly run into two boys coming down from the Music Department stairs. My stomach drops when I realize one of them is Lyn.

“Hey,” he smiles at me.

I flash a quick, not-too-bothered smile back and try and walk past. I don’t want him to think I’m upset. I don’t want anything getting back to Kez.

“Who’s that?” I hear his mate say behind me.

“Oh, just someone I used to know,” he says.

I keep walking, my face burning.

Someone I used to know…

In this area most of the artwork is by my year. My eyes glance at the names. A floral picture by Hannah. Phillip has done some computer-aided work with plenty of squares and bright colours. In the centre is a beautiful self-portrait by Ishrat, probably the best artist in the school. And then there’s Kez’s.

I stop now to look at it, because I’m quite surprised. I’ve not really noticed it before, but I’m amazed she could be capable of anything like this. It’s pretty simple, quite bleak really – a bridge overlooking a railway line. Brambles and nettles tumble over the steps like long, twisty arms and the metalwork is rusty and brown, rotting into the ground.

I recognize it. It’s the railway bridge on the other side of town. It’s not been used for years since the small station was taken out of use. Kids sometimes play round there, but it’s pretty dangerous, they reckon the bridge is close to collapse and is just waiting to be smashed down.

I wonder what made Kez paint it. It’s hardly the most inspiring of places.

And then I see something else. A little girl’s face, peering through the bars, down to the track. I push my face right up close to the painting.

I swear she’s crying.

I don’t go straight home. What would be the point? Walking into a small, cluttered flat where I’d have to stay as quiet as a mouse? Mum wouldn’t want me there. I don’t want to be there.

Instead I walk. The afternoon air is fresh and clear and I find myself moving at pace. I’m not thinking about where I’m going. I just let my feet lead me. I find myself coasting past the Mac, barely taking it in.

This is the estate where I grew up, but I feel nothing for it. The damaged, graffitied walls are like the burly arms holding the place together. I remember kicking footballs up against them, drawing pictures in chalk on the battered bricks. Once, I was proud to be part of it. As kids we would meet on the main field and spend hours playing “It” or Red Rover, while our parents watched from the grey-bricked houses and flats.

Then it didn’t matter what size you were. You were part of the Mac and that counted for something. Scrap that, it counted for everything.

But then you get a bit older and none of that is relevant now. Half of us are desperate to escape these crappy walls and do something better.

There’s no place for people like me.

I turn a sharp left by the park and keeping walking. I pass the pub (where Marnie’s mum works), the community centre and the church. The church actually freaks me out a bit with its huge looming cross and windows, like all-knowing eyes. There is a poster pinned to the noticeboard by the gate. The letters are in red.

The one who conceals hatred has lying lips, and whoever utters slander is a fool

I picture a tightly pressed mouth trying hard to keep back the words they long to say. Could that be me? Another image of Kez comes to mind, spitting venom like a snake. Who’s worse? I wish I could tear down the poster with its useless words.

I keep moving. The Mac is behind me now; the towering flats – the looming twins A and B – are in my shadow. I’ve reached the nice part of town, where the cars are half decent and the front gardens are neatly kept. Some houses even have names – like “The Willows” or “The Croft”. What would they call our place if they saw it? “The Fleapit”?

Kez lives here somewhere. She likes to act like she’s all hard, part of the Estate – but she’s not. She’s a nice little middle-class girl, living a pretty decent life. If only I knew her address. I’d hammer on her door and tell her nice little mummy just what a cow she really is.

Except I wouldn’t, would I? Because I’m a coward.

I walk quicker, my chest is hurting, I even have a stitch. My feet slap on the pavement making hard, sharp sounds.

I walk until I reach number 32, “Beaches Rise”, and then I stop.

Everything is the same as the last time I came past. The little hanging baskets, the Mini parked in the drive. I stand at the gate daring them to move, willing them to come out and see me. And then it happens, the front door swings open and out she steps. My dad’s girlfriend. And then seconds later he walks out behind.

And he’s holding a baby carrier.

“GET OUT OF BED!”

He looms in the doorway, glaring down at me like the Grim Reaper. I pull at the covers feeling both hot and cold at the same time. My mobile is blinking beside the bed. I glance over at it. It’s not late. Why is he freaking out?

“Did you hear what I said? Get up – now. I’m sick of seeing you lazing about.”

“I’m not lazing about. It’s seven. I’ve just woken up.”

“What time did you get in last night?” His eyes are like lasers burning through me. He’s gripping the door frame so tight the tips of his fingers are turning white. This is not good. Not good at all.

“I went for a walk. Then I went to Marnie’s.” My mouth is dry and the words sound thick and slurred.

“So what time were you back?”

“You were asleep. Half-ten, I think. I didn’t want to wake you, did I?” I glare at him. I can’t help myself.

“Your mum was worried sick.”

“She didn’t say nothing,” I say, irritated now. Mum was there when I walked in, her nose stuck in her stupid book. She’d barely looked up.

“All evening she kept checking her phone. You use this place like a bloody hotel.”

I pull myself up. My school clothes are thrown on the chair on the other side of the room. I grab them and move towards the door. “Excuse me,” I say, barging him a bit.

“I’m talking to you. Don’t think you can just walk off again.”

“I need to get dressed. Or do you just want me to turn up to school like this?” I gesture at my faded T-shirt.

Dad’s face is getting redder. I know I’m pushing it. “Where the hell is your respect, girl?” he hisses.

“This is my room.” I finally manage to force myself past him. “You have no right coming in and having a go.” I go into the bathroom and slam the door, quickly locking it behind me. Relief floods my veins. I’m surprised at how sweaty and breathless I am.

I can hear him thumping downstairs. His voice is like it’s on loudspeaker. I sit on the toilet, listening.