I gave her a tremulous smile instead of scowling at her like I was mentally. Satisfied with my response, she dropped her arm and turned to Vicki. For the rest of break, whether they realized it or not, my friends spoke to one another like I wasn’t there. My chest ached as I watched Vicki laugh with Steph, and I realized that somehow over the last few weeks my best friend and I had grown apart. A wall had slowly risen between us, and I didn’t know how to stop it from becoming too epic to climb.
* * *
I saw Tobias in maths but didn’t speak to him.
I never saw him for the rest of the day. He and Stevie and their annoying crew weren’t in the cafeteria at lunch. The reprieve might have made me happy, until I realized Steph and Vicki were also nowhere to be seen. When I texted them, Vicki replied: We both had free period b4 lunch. Munchin’ @Nana’s. C U l8er. xx.
More hurt and irritation ripped through me. Nana’s was this great little café off Porty High Street that we all loved. Nice of them to tell me they were eating out of school. I could have joined them. Huffing, I yanked out a battered copy of Angela Carter’s The Magic Toyshop. I’d discovered Carter over the weekend when I’d read a review of one of her short story collections, written by a blogger I followed. I’d hit the library, determined to make my way through all her weird and wonderful work.
As amazing as her writing was, however, I couldn’t concentrate.
I hated this distance between my friends and me, and I felt solely to blame. But what could I do? Change who I was to keep them?
Every great book, play or poem in the world told you to be yourself, and I wanted to. I did. But clearly the authors of those works didn’t know what it was like to be a teenage girl in the twenty-first century.
* * *
My mood hadn’t lifted any by the time dinner rolled around. It was a typical day in our household. Carrie was locked in her studio working on another commissioned piece, and Dad had ordered Chinese food because he was actually making some progress with his book and couldn’t spare the thirty minutes it would take to cook something, apparently. My offer to make something was rejected.
“You know pork chow mein is my brain food,” he’d said.
Weird, weird choice of brain food, in my opinion.
Despite his excuse for not making dinner, he didn’t seem all that keen to get back to his office as he sat down at the kitchen island with me to eat.
“So, I saw you’re reading Hamlet for English,” Dad said, as he finished off his meal.
“Yeah.”
“I know you’ve probably read it a few times already.” No, really? Was it the big painted quote above my bed that gave it away? “But I wanted you to know I did a paper on it at uni. Just...well, if you ever need help.”
It was such a small thing, but the offer, the act of taking some interest in my life, lifted me from my melancholy. I sat up straighter in my stool. “Really?” I said.
My dad frowned at whatever he heard in my tone. “Of course.”
“I know you’re busy but...I have a presentation to write. I worked on it with a classmate and we’re almost finished. Would you...” I suddenly felt vulnerable all over again. Not quite as vulnerable as I’d felt knowing Tobias had read my notebook, but still... I never let my dad read my work. Maybe I’d lowered my guard because I was feeling especially alone in that moment. “Would you read through it for me?”
Dad beamed at me, seeming thrilled that I’d asked. “Of course, Com. Let me just run upstairs with food for your mum and then I’ll be down to read it.”
Just a few weeks ago, I would have resented the idea of Dad sticking his nose into my writing. It was amazing what a bad day could do to a person’s attitude.
While he carried a tray of food upstairs for Carrie, I hurried to my bedroom to print out what I’d written so far based on my and Tobias’s notes. Back in the kitchen with the essay, I waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
After twenty minutes, I went into the hall and quietly climbed a few stairs, straining to hear.
Carrie’s giggles and the low rumble of my dad’s voice met my ears. I climbed a few steps more. The sounds of kissing and soft moans filtered down from above and just like that, melancholy crashed back over me.
Resentment filled my chest until it was so tight that it hurt.
I strode back down the stairs and threw the essay into my room, the papers flying up and floating down to land all over. I grabbed my jacket from the coat hook by the door and shoved my feet into wellies while I zipped it up.
After wrenching open the front door, I stormed outside then slammed it shut, hoping the sound interrupted my parents’ amorous pursuits.
Selfish arseholes.
All of them.
Every one of them.
Or maybe I was the problem.
After all...out of everyone who had hurt me today, I was the only one who was alone.
Blinking back tears, I strode out of my garden and was almost out the gate when I heard Mrs. Cruickshank’s voice. “You all right, Comet?”
I turned to find her sitting on the bench that abutted the wall of her house, wearing a thick cardigan and cupping a mug of something that steamed in the chilled air. I was pretty sure it was peppermint tea, her favorite. “Hi, Mrs. Cruickshank.” I almost winced at the croaky sound my voice made in the air between us. I hoped she didn’t see the sheen of tears in my eyes.
I knew from the way she leaned forward, frowning, that she did. “Do you want to join me for a cup of tea and tell me your woes, sweetheart?”
On any other night I would. But tonight I just needed solitude. “Thanks, but I’m just going to take a walk.”
She nodded, seeming to understand. “Well, you know I’m always here. A cup of tea goes a long way to fixing a problem.”
I gave her a small smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Cruickshank.”
“Happy walking, Comet.” She sat back against the bench and raised her mug to me.
Giving her a small wave, I darted out of my garden and began to walk along the esplanade. The tide was high in the evenings this time of year, so I couldn’t walk along the beach. Instead I watched the water rush the sand, like fingertips stretching toward something that was just out of reach. It persevered, slowly but surely growing closer and closer to the wall of the esplanade.
“Comet?”
The familiar voice jerked me out of my isolated thoughts.
Somehow—and I didn’t know how—Tobias King was standing on the quiet, sand-speckled esplanade, staring at me. He wore only a thin sweater over a T-shirt, the fabric fluttering in the coastal wind. His hands were jammed into his jean pockets, and he was staring at me almost as if he were willing me not to run away.
“I was hoping I’d see you,” he said, taking a few steps toward me.
I hugged myself, wondering why this boy kept seeing me at my most vulnerable. “Why?”
Instead of answering me he asked, “May I walk with you a little?”
I didn’t know if it was his correct use of grammar or the gentlemanly way he asked...or if my reason for nodding yes was bigger than an appreciation of good manners. He’d caught me in a moment of absolute loneliness, and I was so desperate for company that I let myself believe he was sincere. Tobias’s interest in me was too tempting to ignore.
Falling into step beside him was surreal. Here was the most popular boy in our year walking beside me, casting me surreptitious looks as I tried to find something to say to him. Strangely, my struggle to find words wasn’t borne from shyness like it usually was. I was beyond that with Tobias now that he knew so much of me. In a weird way, knowing that he seemed drawn to me even after he’d read my poetry obliterated my insecurities with him.
My inability to make conversation was borne of having too much to ask. I was no longer afraid of being nosy. He knew so much about me; it felt only fair that he reciprocate.
I didn’t know what to question him about first: his life before Scotland; his parents; why he was friends with Stevie and Co. Was it familial obligation? Still, I’d seen them interact at school and at home. The two cousins might seem like night and day, but they were clearly close.
Above all, I wanted to ask what was it about my poetry that drew Tobias to talk to me.