Torn (14 page)

I can’t tell if she’s joking. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. We’re supposed to be staying away from each other,
remember
?’

‘Then why are you having lunch with me, eh? Quick! Someone might see! Run away!’ We’ve discussed this a hundred times already. It’s OK for me and Cass to hang out, because we did
before
. It would
be more suspicious if we didn’t hang out (as she keeps reminding me whenever I show any sign of wanting to be alone for two minutes). But we should steer clear of Polly and Rae, just to be on the safe side.

‘Cass, you drive me insane. You do realize that, don’t you?’

‘Ah, but you love me really.’ She tries her best grin on for size. That grin used to make me laugh. It used to charm me. Things have changed.

I have English straight after lunch. It’s a relief to escape from Cass. I used to hate the fact that we weren’t in any of the same classes any more, but now I’m glad. It means I don’t have to sit there looking at Cass and wondering
What kind of person are you, really?

I think I’m doing a pretty good job of hiding my feelings. Cass has no idea how good I am at lying. Nobody knows but me.

We’re studying
Much Ado About Nothing
, and it seems like the stupidest play in the world. I detest each and every one of Shakespeare’s comedies. Random misunderstandings, mistaken identities and overheard conversations do not, in my opinion, equal hilarity.

Daley’s got us reading out loud, which I’ve always
hated. I’ve never seen the point of it – everyone reads in a bored monotone and no one actually listens. It’s impossible to concentrate on the words being spoken when you’re checking a few pages ahead to see what
your
next line is. I usually try to volunteer to read a small part early on. Servant #3 or third-lady-on-the-left. Otherwise there’s a real danger you’ll end up being Juliet or Lady Macbeth or whoever.

Today I’m finding it especially hard to concentrate. My gaze is constantly drawn to Tara’s desk. Danni has to sit by herself now. She’s staring out of the window. To be honest, she’s looking sort of rough. But rough for Danni is not the same as rough for normal people. She still looks ten times better than I ever could. It’s not that her hair looks greasy or anything, but it’s definitely on the turn. Nothing like her usual just-stepped-out-of-a-salon silky mane.

She’s wearing a lot less make-up than usual, which would perhaps be a good thing if she was one of Those Girls – those orange idiots with fat spidery eyelashes (yes, I mean YOU, Sam Burgess and Gemma Jones). But Danni’s make-up has always been perfect. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve wanted to ask her exactly how she manages to get her eyeliner to look like that. But that’s not the kind of conversation you have with someone who can’t
stand you (and who you’re a bit scared of, if you’re being totally honest). I’m not even sure she’s even wearing any eyeliner today, let alone her trademark emerald green (sounds wrong, looks right). Her face looks like all the colour has been drained out of it. She’s in black and white and everyone else is in colour.

I’ve given up trying to follow the play. I can’t stop staring at her. I’m sure she must be able to feel it; I’m sure any second she’ll turn around and catch me watching. But she doesn’t. She is elsewhere.

A thought smacks me round the head and makes me feel worse than ever. It’s a strange, obvious thought: Danni is a real person, with real feelings.

I’ve felt guilty about the grief we’ve caused Tara’s parents. I’ve felt guilty about the grief we’ve caused Jack. Christ, I’ve even felt guilty about the grief we’ve caused Tara’s bloody dog. But it never even crossed my mind to feel bad for Danni or Gemma or Sam or anyone else Tara was friends with. Is it just because I know they wouldn’t give me a second thought if something happened to Cass? Or is because I am fundamentally a bad person with all the empathy of a paper clip?

I’m sure Tara slagged off her friends to Jack all the time, but I don’t buy what he said about her not
actually liking them. Maybe she
said
that, but why would you spend all your time with people you despised? It makes no sense.

But it doesn’t matter how Tara felt about Danni. What matters to me, suddenly more than almost anything else I can think of, is how Danni felt about Tara. How Danni is feeling right now.

I have to talk to her.

OK, so I didn’t talk to Danni. She made a superspeedy exit and Daley caught me as I was heading out the door.

‘Alice, I’ve been meaning to talk to you. How are you?’ Her voice is soft and oozing with sympathy, and, sure enough, her head is tilted to one side. The head tilt: the international symbol for
I feel your pain
. As soon as this thought pops into my head, I feel bad. She’s only being nice. EVERYONE is only being nice.

‘Fine, thanks, miss.’

‘Now that’s not true, is it?’ This is new. Most people are relieved to get a ‘fine’. You can see it in their eyes. They don’t want to talk about it – not really. Because they don’t know what to say. I don’t blame them, because I wouldn’t know what to say either. Death is weird that way.

‘Um …’

‘It’s OK, Alice. You can be honest with me. Do you think I didn’t notice you staring out the window for the whole lesson?’ Thank God she didn’t realize it was Danni I was staring at. That would have led to a completely different conversation – perhaps even more awkward than this one.

I say, ‘Sorry about that,’ at the same moment she says, ‘Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble or anything.’ This makes her laugh a little. I wait for her to speak next. It’s safer that way.

‘This must be especially hard for you.’ There’s a definite emphasis on the ‘you’. I’m sure I didn’t imagine it. I can barely disguise my surprise when she says, ‘I know you and Tara were close.’

How the hell could she possibly know that? She’s been at Bransford all of five minutes, and Tara and I were most definitely NOT close in those five minutes.

I muster up superhuman levels of nonchalance. ‘Not really. What makes you think that?’ I try to sound light and airy and fine and dandy, but I’m sure I sound suspicious – with a dash of petulance thrown in for good measure.

‘I thought I heard that somewhere.’ Now she stares off into space, searching the murky corners of her Shakespeare-addled brain.

I say nothing.

‘Maybe I was mistaken. But I thought …’

Still nothing from me. It’s not easy to keep quiet in situations like this. You want to say something – anything – to fill the quiet. Normally I’d start babbling like crazy, but I have to be careful here. Very careful.

Daley shakes her head as if to clear it and starts to gather up her notes. ‘Never mind. Anyway, if you need to talk to anyone – about anything at all – my door is always open.’

I thank her and head for the door as fast as my legs will propel me, but once again she foils my escape plan.

‘I can’t help thinking … I can’t help thinking there must be something I could have done.’ Her voice is shaky. She sighs deeply and her shoulders slump, like her body has decided to fold in on itself. She’s been putting on an act for us, that’s as clear as anything now. It must be exhausting for her. I try to look at it from her point of view. Her first trip away in her new job, and one of the kids goes and dies on her. Of course she’d blame herself. Even if a giant cartoon anvil had fallen from the heavens on top of Tara’s head, she’d
still
feel responsible. Because that’s the kind of person she is.

I want to reassure her that there was nothing she could have done. Whichever version of Tara’s
death you choose – swimming accident or practical joke gone wrong – there was nothing she could have done.

But I don’t reassure her. I turn my back on her and leave.

By the time the bell rings at three thirty I am dog-tired. Every day is the same now, and I can’t help wondering how long it’s going to last. It takes all my energy – and then some – not to shout out, ‘WE DID IT! IT WAS US! IT’S OUR FAULT!’ I wonder what would happen. Would it be the second biggest mistake of my life? Or would there be an epic sense of relief? An unspeakable, unthinkable weight lifting off my shoulders.

I head to the local library. It’s one of my very favourite places. Mum used to bring me here after school on Fridays. Then we’d pick up fish and chips on the way home and watch a film with Dad.

For ages after Mum died I couldn’t bear the thought of coming here. Dad met me at school one Friday and tried to bring me. There was a scene – not quite a tantrum, but pretty close. He never mentioned it again. We still kept up the tradition of fish-and-chip Fridays, but the library was
our
place. Mine
and Mum’s. It didn’t seem right going there without her.

This particular library is a beautiful old red-brick building, slightly worn around the edges. I used to think it looked like a magical castle or Hogwarts or something (I was sort of stupid that way). About a year ago I was wandering past, trying to ignore it as I always did. But my legs betrayed me and wandered me right up the steps and inside. My legs obviously knew it was time for me to get over it, even if my brain didn’t. And it was OK; I didn’t break down sobbing at the enquiry desk or anything. I stood just inside the entrance and breathed in that perfectly musty book smell. I felt like I was home.

I could picture Mum with her specs propped up on her head – making her hair go every which way. I called it her mad-professor look (and she called me a rude little oik). Mum would always head straight for the new releases and I’d head for the children’s section, which was down some spooky stone stairs in the basement. I would spend half an hour (no more, no less) picking three books for the week, and we’d meet up on the front steps. It always made Mum happy that I was a reader, so it made me feel hideously bad that I read a grand total of nothing in the year after she died. Mum loved stories. She loved escaping from reality. It’s
only now that I wonder if she loved escaping so much because she wasn’t exactly happy with her real life. Maybe she hated her job. Maybe one day she’d have got bored with Dad and run off with Mr Humphries from next door. Maybe I’d have been a huge disappointment to her. Except there’s no ‘maybe’ about that last one.

Today the library is pretty much deserted – everyone else in the world is gearing up for the weekend. I am learning German vocab. Truly pathetic. But it’s better than being stuck in my room with Ghost Tara. Or hanging out with Cass, trying to pretend that nothing’s changed. Or sitting in front of the telly with Dad, dreading what he’s going to ask me next.

My phone buzzes, scaring the crap out of me. It’s a text from just about the only person in the world I want a text from. Jack:
How about tomorrow for that pizza? J.
My heart starts racing a billion beats a minute. My heart is clearly stupid. It has a tendency to get overexcited for no reason.

I wait a few minutes before texting back, so he doesn’t think I’m a total desperado:
Can’t do tomorrow – sorry. Next Sat?
Of course, I
am
free tomorrow. I have zero plans for the whole weekend. Unless you count surfing the Net, writing an essay
and playing Scrabble with Dad. Which I don’t. But I have to at least pretend not to be a complete loser.

Next Sat works for me. Want to meet at Nat. History Museum at 2? Pizza later?

The Natural History Museum?
WTF?

OK! See you there!
I debated about using two exclamation marks in one text. It seemed a bit overenthusiastic, but I didn’t want him to think I
wasn’t
enthusiastic either.

I’ll be waiting by the dead diplodocus – you can’t miss it.
:)

There I was being all impressed that he didn’t use text speak and he goes and ruins it with a smiley face. But the idea of Jack smiling at me, even in a text message, pleases me more than I’d like to admit.

I sit back in my chair, German vocab leaking out of my brain at an alarming rate. There’s no room for it in my head now that Jack’s taken over. So, we’re going to a museum. That’s … different. I’ve only been to the Natural History Museum once, on a school trip years ago. All I remember is that it was big and busy and we were supposed to go round filling in some sort of activity sheet. I think I got lost.