Chapter 8
An evening in early November, the air just starting to flare with little savoury bursts of cold and turf-smoke. The four of them are in their cypress glade, snug in the lovely pocket of free time between classes and dinner. Chris Harper (over the wall and far away, not even a whisper of a thought in any of their minds) has six months, a week and four days left to live.
They are scattered on the grass, lying on their backs, feet dangling from crossed knees. They have hoodies and scarves and Uggs, but they’re holding out a last few days against winter coats. It’s day and night at once: one side of the sky is glowing with pink and orange, the other side is a frail full moon hanging in darkening blue. Wind moves through the cypress branches, a slow soothing hush. Last period was PE, volleyball; their muscles are slack and comfortably tired. They’re talking about homework.
Selena asks, ‘Did you guys do your love sonnets yet?’
Julia groans. She’s drawn a dotted line across her wrist in Biro and is writing under it in case of emergency cut here.
‘“And if you don’t feel that you have, em, adequate experience of, em, romantic love,”’ Holly says, in Mr Smythe’s reedy simper, ‘“then perhaps a child’s love for her mother, or, em, love for God would be, em, would be—” ’
Julia mimes sticking two fingers down her throat. ‘I’m going to dedicate mine to vodka.’
‘You’ll get sent to Sister Ignatius to get counselled,’ says Becca, not entirely sure whether Julia is serious.
‘Whee.’
‘I’m stuck on mine,’ Selena says.
‘Lists,’ says Holly. She pulls one foot to her face to examine a scuff-mark on her boot. ‘“The wind, the sea, the stars, the moon, the rain; The day, the night, the bread, the milk, the train.” Instant iambic pentameter.’
‘Instant iambic craptameter,’ Julia says. ‘Thanks for the most boring sonnet in history, here’s your F.’
Holly and Selena glance at each other sideways. Julia has been a bitch for weeks now; to everybody equally, so it can’t be something one of them did.
‘I don’t want to tell Smythe about anyone I love,’ Selena says, sliding past that. ‘Ew.’
‘Do it about a place or something,’ Holly says. She licks her finger and rubs it on the scuff-mark, which fades. ‘I did my gran’s flat. And I didn’t even say it was my gran’s, just a flat.’
‘I just made mine up,’ says Becca. ‘I did it about a girl who has this horse that comes under her window at night and she climbs out and rides him.’ She has her eyes unfocused so that the moon has turned into two, translucent and overlapping.
‘What’s that got to do with love?’ Holly says.
‘She loves the horse.’
‘Kinky,’ says Julia. Her phone beeps. She pulls it out of her pocket and holds it above her face, squinting against the sunset.
If it had been an hour earlier, when they were throwing off their uniforms in their room and singing Amy Winehouse, deciding whether to go across the road and watch the guys’ rugby match. If it were an hour later, when they would be in the canteen, sprawled forward over the table, catching last crumbs of dry cake with licked fingertips. None of them would ever have imagined what they had brushed up against; what other selves, other lives, other deaths were careening ferocious and unstoppable along their tracks, only a sliver of time away. The grounds are pocketed with clusters of girls, all blazing and amazed with inchoate love for one another and for their own growing closeness; none of the others will feel the might of that swerve as the tracks switch and their own power takes them barrelling into another landscape. When Holly thinks about it a long time afterwards, when things are starting to stay fixed and come into focus at last, she will think that probably there are ways you could say Marcus Wiley killed Chris Harper.
‘Maybe I’ll just do it about pretty flowers,’ Selena says. She stretches a lock of hair across her face – the last of the sun turns it to a web of gold light – and examines the trees through it. ‘Or ickle kittens. You think he’d care?’
‘I bet someone does theirs about One Direction,’ Holly says.
‘Aah,’ Julia says, sudden and too loud, disgusted and angry.
The others come up on their elbows. ‘What?’ Becca asks.
Julia shoves her phone back in her pocket, clasps her hands behind her head again and stares up at the sky. Nostrils flaring as she breathes, too fast. She’s red right down to the neck of her jumper. Julia never goes red.
The rest look at each other. Holly catches Selena’s eye and tilts her chin at Julia: Did you see what . . . ? Selena shakes her head, just a millimetre.
‘What?’ Holly says.
‘Marcus Wiley is a douchewipe, is what. Any more questions?’
‘Duh, we knew that,’ Holly says. Julia ignores her.
Becca asks, ‘What’s a douchewipe?’
‘You don’t want to know,’ Holly tells her.
‘Jules,’ Selena says gently. She turns over onto her stomach to be side by side with Julia. Her hair is bright and messed, with bits of grass and cypress fans tangled here and there, and the back of her hoodie is ribbed with creases from lying on it. ‘What’d he say?’
Julia’s head moves away from Selena, but she says, ‘He didn’t say anything. He sent me a dick pic. Because he’s a fucking douchewipe. OK? Now can we talk about the sonnets some more?’
‘Oh my God,’ Holly says. Serena’s eyes are massive. ‘Seriously?’
‘No, I made it up. Yeah, seriously.’
The sunset light feels different, a slow grind like fingernails across every bit of bare skin.
‘But,’ Becca says, bewildered, ‘you don’t even really know him.’
Julia whips up her head and stares, teeth bared about to bite, but then Holly starts to laugh. After a second Selena joins in and at last even Julia, head falling back on the grass. ‘What?’ Becca wants to know, but they’re gone, their whole bodies are shaking with it and Selena is curled up to hold herself: ‘The way you said it!’ And ‘The face on you,’ Holly gasps, ‘“You’ve barely been properly introduced, dahling, why to goodness would he share his little friend with you?”’ and the fake English accent has Becca blushing and giggling too. Julia hoots up at the sky, ‘I don’t believe we’ve even taken tea and . . . and . . . and cucumber sandwiches together . . .’ and Holly manages, ‘Dicks should never be served until after the cucumber sandwiches . . .’
‘Oh, God,’ Julia says, wiping her eyes, when it dies down. ‘Oh, Becsie baby, what would we do without you?’
‘It wasn’t that funny,’ Becca says, still red and grinning and not sure whether to be embarrassed.
‘Probably not,’ Julia says. ‘But that’s not the point.’ She props herself up on her elbow again and fishes in her pocket for her phone.
‘Let’s see,’ Holly says, sitting up and scooting over to Julia.
‘I’m deleting it.’
‘So let’s see first.’
‘You’re a pervert.’
‘Me too,’ Selena says cheerfully. ‘If you’re scarred for life, we want to be too.’
‘God, don’t be so gay,’ Julia says. ‘It’s a dick pic, not some kind of bonding experience.’ But she hits buttons, finding the picture.
‘Becs,’ Holly says. ‘Coming?’
‘Ew. No.’ Becca twists her head away, so she doesn’t see by accident.
‘Here you go,’ Julia says, and hits Open.