Elsie lets out a laugh-choked sob. ‘How should I know? I have, like, five minutes left before I leave here, maybe forever, and my best friend has spent the last bit of it lying and … and excluding me. She needed me just as long as she didn’t have anyone else, but now I’m discardable.’
I place the last pair of lime-green Chucks beside the now-neat row. It’s only vaguely satisfying; there are untied, uneven shoelaces to deal with, and mismatched red and blue laces in one set of runners that make my eyes hurt. I rub my hands over my face, wondering if the Nayers would mind if I just curled up on their doorstep and slept for the next century.
‘I don’t know what to say, Elsie. The last thing I wanted was to mess up stuff between you. Maybe you have a right to be mad, or hurt, or whatever, but just don’t leave her alone. Please. Whatever you think, she needs you. Maybe … you’re the only person she needs.’
Elsie tugs angrily at her bird’s-nest bun. She gives me that testicle-shrivelling glare again. ‘There’s nothing she needs that you or I can give her. The sooner we both accept that, the better.’ She swallows convulsively. ‘Anyway, I’m not the one who made the decision. Sophia left me behind a long time ago.’
I stand. My fingers are jiggling, trying to take flight. I am making nothing better by being here, and I’m suddenly convinced that every second I stay is somehow making things worse.
‘Elsie, I’m really, really sorry. But I know you guys can fix this.’
Elsie’s tears spill without warning. I stare at her, frozen and useless. I dig through my pockets and hand her a crumpled piece of silk from my vanishing thumb kit. The plastic thumb is still attached. She takes it from me with a snicker.
‘Yeah. She said you were weird.’ She stands and peers at me, full in the face, the evaluating look so similar to her best friend’s it makes my knees wobbly. ‘But I dunno,’ she says softly. ‘I think maybe normal is overrated. Something tells me you might be okay.’
I heave a sigh. ‘Thanks. Elsie, I … don’t think it’s a good idea if I call her, but please don’t give up on her. You and Sophia, you’ll work it out. You have to.’
With no better options, I go home. I lie under my shelves with an old deck of cards, but I can’t find the drive for anything but the most basic shuffle. I ignore the school books still safe in my bag, my dry, pointless homework and the crumpled pages of a practice exam wedged in the bottom of my satchel. I reckon today is not the day to face the growing roil in my guts, the feeling that might look a lot like panic if I acknowledge how far behind I’ve probably fallen. And I ignore my phone – the only person who wants to talk to me is Damien Pagono, and I’m really not in the mood for another extended chat about boobs. I’m struck with the god-sucky realisation that this sensation of floating in the world with no purpose or meaning might be all I have to look forward to.
I have no idea what to do with myself.
So I YouTube some music.
I stick on my headphones. I hunker down in bed. And I pray real hard that my cat finds some sympathy for me and eats my spleen while I’m asleep.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The proof of dark matter
Monday. My nights have been almost sleepless. I briefly consider skipping school, but quickly decide that avoidance is illogical. There are only weeks left till graduation, but barring an asteroid collision or an invite from a secret-genius division of the CIA, I cannot miss all of them.
This morning, Ms Heller decides that we need to work on ‘grounding ourselves in our physicality’, so our exam rehearsals will be replaced by a special class on Baal. It’s a play about a guy who sleeps with lots of women, murders someone, and then dies alone in a forest – so it’s both relevant and appropriate.
I should be relieved that she’s giving us a brief reprieve from exam preparation, but I am so exhausted I’m not sure I even care anymore. I go through the motions, reciting my lines, until my character thankfully drowns herself. Ms Heller scowls – clearly my monotone and stiff, misplaced hand gestures are not Tony Award-worthy – but regardless, my work is done. I retire to the darkness at the back of the room where I can, hopefully, take a nap.
There was nothing in my locker this morning but books. Nothing in my bag but my TARDIS pencil case and Specialist textbook and a crisp green apple, courtesy of Dad. My pockets contain nothing but lint and old tissues. There was nothing on my homeroom desk but new graffiti that read: Stefano Kendrick is a giant bag of dicks. Elsie is absent. I saw no sign of Joshua.
‘Hey, ah, Ms Reyhart?’
I jump. Damien Pagono has materialised beside me. He is not sporting his usual smug face, but actually looks a little uncomfortable, I think.
He pulls a chair in front of me and straddles it backwards.
‘Can I help you?’ I say tiredly.
He shrugs. ‘Nah. Can I help you?’
‘Pardon?’
Damien squirms. He searches through his bag and pulls out a squashed chocolate bar, which he immediately proceeds to devour.
‘Look,’ he says through a mouthful of Snickers. ‘I dunno what happened with you and my boy Josh, but – he’s a good guy. Like, really decent. So maybe you could, I dunno, cut him a bit of slack? Or at least, undo whatever made his face look like someone’s napalmed his cubby house with his cat or some shit in it?’
I want to have this conversation with Damien Pagono about as much as I want to get up on that stage and perform an improvised battle rap. But I parse Damien’s garbled sentences, and I’m arrested by one thought.
‘I’ve upset him?’
For a moment, something foreign flashes across his face. I think he actually looks a bit mad. He shrugs again, his expression settling back into neutral. ‘Look, I ain’t judging. I don’t know what went down – the boy’s a vault, and it’s not like we’re sharing BFF bracelets – but yeah. He’s pretty blue.’
I glance at the front of the room. Romy Hopwood and her friends are parked on the stage steps while Ms Heller potters around Jeremy, who can’t seem to figure out how to work his wig.
The girls are laughing, doubled over, that kind of gasping, tear-filled laughter where no-one can catch their breath. Every now and then they quieten, amid gulping breaths and lots of shushing. But then one escaped giggle or snort sets the whole group off again.
I wonder what particular psychological phenomena is responsible for collective laughter. Romy is hugging her friend Amber, her arms seemingly the only thing stopping the smaller girl from tumbling off the stairs in glee. What is it that makes this laughter ostensibly real, and genuine? Why do I recognise it as true laughter, as opposed to, say, the staccato-guffaw that is the only thing I am able to produce when the spotlight shines on me?