‘No, thank you.’
‘Let’s leave it at that for tonight then but if anything does crop up in between now and our first session, my door’s always open.’
As I go back to my room I can’t help but feel frustrated that Mike wants to continue with the hypnosis. He thinks by calling it ‘guided relaxation’ I won’t recognize it for what it is, but I do. I overheard the psychologist at the unit telling a colleague that the hypnosis technique he’d been using on me would hopefully be a good way to unlock me. Better left locked, I wanted to tell him.
I hear music as I pass Phoebe’s room so she must be back. I work up the courage to knock on her door, I want to ask her what to expect at school tomorrow.
‘Who is it?’ she shouts.
‘Milly,’ I reply.
‘I’m busy getting ready for tomorrow,’ she responds, ‘you should do the same.’
I whisper my reply through the wood – I’m scared – then I go into my room, lay out my new uniform. A blue skirt, white shirt and a stripy tie, two shades of blue. And try as I might not to think of you, it’s all I can do. Our daily drive to and from school, you worked the early shift so I wouldn’t have to get the bus. An opportunity to remind me, the song you sang as you pinched me. How my mouth watered with pain. Our secrets are special, you’d say, when the chorus came on, they’re between me and you.
Just after nine p.m. Saskia comes in to say goodnight. Try not to worry about tomorrow, she says, Wetherbridge is a really lovely school. After she closes my door I hear her at Phoebe’s. She knocks, then opens it. I hear Phoebe respond – What do you want?
Just checking you’re all set for the morning. Whatever, Phoebe replies, and the door closes again.
4
I made it through the first two days of school, Thursday and Friday last week, without incident, sheltered by the induction programme. Lectures on rules and expectations, an introduction to my guidance teacher, Miss Kemp. Year Elevens don’t normally get guidance teachers but as I’m the only new arrival in the year, and she teaches art, I was paired with her. The headmistress from my old school sent a letter via social services, explained the talent she thought I had for art. Miss Kemp seemed excited, said she couldn’t wait to see what I could do. She came across as nice, kind, although you can never tell. Not really. I remember her smell more than anything, tobacco mixed with something else I couldn’t put my finger on. Familiar though.
The weekend was quiet. Mike works Saturdays at his practice in Notting Hill Gate – where the real money comes from. Saskia was in and out of the house, yoga and other things. Phoebe at Izzy’s. A lot of ‘me’ time. On Sunday evening Mike and Saskia took me to a cinema called the Electric on Portobello Road, and even though it was so different from those movie nights we used to have at home, I spent the entire time thinking about you.
When we got back, Phoebe was in the games room, wandered out looking angry. How cosy, she said. We asked you if you wanted to come, Mike replied. She shrugged, yeah, well, I wasn’t back from Iz’s in time, was I?
She and I walked upstairs together. Looks like you’re settling in nicely, doesn’t it, she said to me. Enjoy it while it lasts, you won’t be here that long, no one ever is. I felt it, deep in my gut. An alarm. A signal.
The next morning at breakfast it’s only Mike and me. He explains Saskia’s having a lie-in, catching up on some sleep. He doesn’t know that I’ve seen the pills in her handbag.
Unfortunately Phoebe’s gone already, he says. Would you like me to walk with you, it’s your first full week? I tell him I’ll be fine on my own though I’m not sure it’s true. During my two days of induction I had lunch with the other girls in the canteen. Curiosity at first, soon became disinterest when word spread – she speaks like a robot, stares at her feet. Freak. I hid the fact my hands sometimes shake – permanent damage to my nervous system – by putting them in my blazer pocket, or carrying a folder. It’s clear things move fast at this school, ruled in or out in the blink of an eye. No point looking to Phoebe, it’s obvious she prefers not to associate with me, so I’m ignored, firmly in the category of outsider. THE outsider.
But today, Monday, is different.
Today, a wave of nudges and sniggers from the girls in my year ripple with intent as I cross the school courtyard.
I’m noticed.
I take a hard right once inside, keen to avoid the middle corridor, a gauntlet, a gathering place of catty, snobby, beautiful girls. I leave behind the sniggers I can hear, the high-pitched insults traded so easily between them, even the ones that are friends – especially the ones that are friends – and head to the locker room.
I use my back to open the door. Arms full of folders.
I turn. See it immediately.
SUPERSIZED. Taped to the front of my locker. My school photo, taken last week on my first day. Awkward and unsure. Ugly. Mouth slightly open, enough to be stuffed with an image of an oversized penis, a speech bubble.
milly fucks willy
I move, let the door close. A gentle shunt seals the room. I’m drawn towards the poster. Towards me. Curious to see me in a way I have never. A pink, veiny intruder juts out of my mouth. I tilt my head, picture myself biting down. Hard.
A blast of noise bleeds in from the corridor as the door opens and closes again. The soft steps of the person behind me. I pull the poster down at the same time as a hand reaches out, rests on my shoulder. The clunking of her heavy bracelets; her distinctive aroma wraps round me like a blanket on a day already too warm. I curse myself for pausing. She saw it before I pulled it down, I know she did. Idiot. I should know better. You taught me better than that.
‘What’s that in your hand, Milly?’
‘Nothing, Miss Kemp, it’s fine.’
Leave me alone.
‘Come on now, you can tell me.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
The bulky assortment of her rings. I feel them against my collarbone as she guides me round to face her. Invested already, I can sense it, and if what I’ve overheard in conversations between the girls – about her being a bit silly, a bit over-involved at times – is true, I know she won’t let this drop. My eyes, trained on the ground, move to her feet. Chunky hippy clogs, heavy wooden soles. The longer I stare, the more they look like two boats marooned ashore, stuck in a secret sandbank under her skirt. Sail away, leave me alone.
‘It doesn’t look like nothing, let me see.’
I crumple it into the small of my back. Pray a silent spell. Make me vanish, or her. Good. Better.
‘I’ll be late, I should go.’