‘Numbers are all pinned to the fridge.’
She nods; a smile lacking any humour sits on her lips. ‘I’ll call—’
‘Before you go to bed and when you wake up. I know the drill, Mom. Go, have fun, stop worrying. PS: did you pack that silky blue shirt? The one that ties around your neck?’
‘It’s not that kind of conference.’
‘I’m just saying, it’s a cute shirt.’
‘Hush.’ She kisses my forehead and heads out the door. ‘Oh . . .’ She turns around, slapping the heel of her hand against her forehead. ‘I almost forgot, Helping Hands is delivering tonight at six. They didn’t have a slot open tomorrow.’
‘Six tonight. Got it.’ I tap my temple.
‘Should I write it down on the fridge?’
‘Go.’
I stand at the door as she loads herself into the car. I test my toes against the step, inching my foot down, like the concrete is red-hot lava. I’m so focused on putting a whole foot flat, outside in the wilderness, that I almost miss Mom pull away. She honks the horn, I wave, and she’s gone.
My fingers curl into the door frame so tightly it’s a wonder they don’t pierce the wood. But I can do it, one whole foot outside my front door, without my chest getting tight.
The step has been in shadow. The cold of the concrete seeps through my sock and makes my foot feel wet. It’s weirdly refreshing, like splashing your face with cool water. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, exhaling ecstasy when I hear a cough. My eyes pop open and he’s there again. The new boy next door. Muscles still bulging under the weight of a new box, this time full of groceries. He flicks his head at me.
‘Hi.’
Like a rabbit reacting to the sound of a gunshot, I retract my foot, scurry back inside, and slam the door shut.
That was close is my first thought. Followed by What was close? Pleasant conversation? Ugh. I press my back up against the door and wilt to the floor. I instantly dislike that a stranger has seen my crazy side, not once but twice within a week. I curl inwards, try hard to split the floor with my mind so I can seep through it.
Once I’m done reassembling my self-esteem, life goes the way it always does.
Technically, I don’t have to study on weekends, but I do anyway. I’m learning to speak French for a trip I’ll never take. I watch some TV, eat, sleep, build a pretty impressive yet rather unstable castle of saliva and peanut butter cookies.
I’m in the middle of licking and sticking a broken turret when my phone sings like a cuckoo. It’s a notification from The Hub telling me six people are talking about Dream Stalker, this supposedly pee-your-pants horror movie that just came out.
It’s forever my intention to avoid social media on weekends, but a morbid sense of curiosity, or a subconscious desire for S & M, always convinces me to open the application when it calls. It’s like a siren’s song.
I click the button and am bombarded with selfies of Mercy, Cleo, Sarah and Jade getting ready for a night out at le cinéma. They’re blowing kisses to the camera and then they’re kissing each other, hugging, and voguing in a creative series of shots.
I scroll down, see more selfies of more former friends wearing make-up and looking much older since I last saw them in real life. Which was only four years ago but feels more like four centuries. Puberty: the ultimate makeover.
I push my hand against my chest. My heart suddenly feels ten times too heavy. I press down harder, trying to keep it from flopping out of its cavity and hitting the carpet with a ground-shaking splat.
I miss having friends. It seems babysitting your housebound BFF loses its appeal when your body turns banging and an active social life kicks in. They never really understood it, understood me when I got sick. We were only young, but I was surprised at how easy I was to forget.
I throw my phone on the table; it hits my cookie castle like a wrecking ball and totals the carefully constructed architecture.
It’s only five, but I trudge through the kitchen and lock myself in the box bathroom.
The most underrated room in the house, the box bathroom is so small, I can’t even spin a circle in there with my arms spread out to the sides. It feels like an afterthought, a room tacked on to the house once it had already been built. I like it. It’s cosy. The walls are bright yellow, and the faucets are shaped like dolphins. Plus, I feel weighted, and right now climbing the stairs is about as appealing as climbing Everest in my underwear.
I run a bath, dump my clothes in the hamper under the sink, and submerge myself. I keep my eyes open, staring through a milky mist at the ceiling above. The water is so warm it turns my pasty complexion red, but I feel cold to the bone. My body is covered in goosebumps. There’s a sob stuck in the bridge of my nose. It stings, but I stay under the water so it can’t escape without killing me.