Текст книги "Forbidden"
Автор книги: Табита Сузума
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 22 страниц)
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maya
I open my eyes and find myself staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling. My head feels fuzzy with sleep, and it isn’t until I find myself blinking over at a desk laden with A-level textbooks, a chair covered in discarded shirts and trousers, that I remember where I am. There is a distinctive smell too – not unpleasant, but unmistakably Lochan. A slight weight on my chest prompts me to look down, and with a start I see an arm slung over my ribcage, bitten-down fingernails, a large black digital watch secured around the wrist. Lochan is fast asleep by my side, stretched out on his front, pressed up against the wall, his arm draped over me.
My mind flashes back to the previous night and I remember the fight, remember coming up and finding him in a really bad way, the shock of seeing him on the verge of tears, the feeling of horror and helplessness as he broke down and sobbed – the first time since the day Dad left. Seeing him like that sucked me back through the years, back to the day Dad came to the house for that ‘special goodbye’ before catching the flight that was to take him and his new wife to the other side of the world. There were presents, and photos of the new house with the pool, and promises of school holidays with him there, and assurances that he would be back regularly. The others had naturally bought into the whole charade – they were still so young – but somehow Lochan and I sensed that was it, we would not be seeing our dad again – ever. And it wasn’t long before we were proved right.
The weekly phone calls became monthly, then only on special occasions, then stopped altogether. When Mum told us his new wife had just given birth, we knew it was only a matter of time before even the birthday presents ceased. And cease they did. Everything ceased. Even Mum’s child support. We older two had expected it – just never guessed he would erase us all from his life quite so fast. I clearly remember that moment after the final goodbye, after the front door had closed and the sound of Dad’s car faded down the street. Huddled up against the pillows with my new cuddly dog and the picture of the house I knew I’d never get to visit, I was suddenly overcome by a huge surge of rage and hatred for a father who had once claimed to love me so much. But to my surprise and annoyance, Lochan had seemed to go along with it all, rejoicing with the others at the idea of us all jetting off to Australia some day soon. I actually thought he was stupid. I sulked and ignored him all day while he forced himself through his charade. Only later that night, once he thought I was asleep, did he break down – softly sobbing into his pillow in the bunk above mine. He had been inconsolable then too – fighting me off when I attempted to give him a hug before finally giving in, letting me snuggle under the duvet and cry with him. We’d promised each other then that even when we grew up, we would always stay together. Finally, exhausted and all cried out, we’d fallen asleep. And now here we are, five years on, and so much has changed, and yet so little.
It feels strange, lying here in Lochan’s bed with him sleeping beside me. Willa used to climb into bed with me whenever she had nightmares – in the morning I’d wake up to find her small body pressed against mine. This is Lochan though: my brother, my protector. Seeing his arm slung so casually across me makes me smile – he would be very quick to remove it if he woke. I don’t want him to wake up just yet though. His leg is pressed against mine, squashing it slightly. He is still in his school clothes, his shoulder heavy against my arm, pinning it to the bed. I am well and truly wedged in – in fact we both are: his other arm has disappeared down the narrow crack between the mattress and the wall. I turn my head gingerly to see if he looks as if he might wake up anytime soon. He doesn’t. He is sound asleep, taking those long, deep, rhythmical breaths, his face turned towards me. It’s not often that I have him so near – not since we were young. It is strange to observe him at such close range: I see things I’ve barely noticed before. The way his hair, drenched in a shaft of sunlight slanting through the curtains, is not quite jet-black but actually contains streaks of golden brown. I can make out a pattern in the fine tracing of veins beneath the skin of his temples, even distinguish the individual hairs of his eyebrows. The faint white scar above his left eye from a childhood fall has not completely faded, and his eyelids are fringed with surprisingly long dark lashes. My eyes follow the smooth ridge of his nose down to the bow of his upper lip, so clearly defined now that his mouth is relaxed. His skin is smooth, almost translucent; the only blemish a self-inflicted sore beneath his mouth where his teeth have repeatedly rubbed, chafed and scraped at the skin to leave a small crimson wound: a reminder of his ongoing battle with the world around him. I want to stroke it away, erase the hurt, the stress, the loneliness.
I find myself thinking back to Francie’s comment. A kissable mouth . . . What does that mean exactly? At the time I thought it was funny, I don’t any more. I wouldn’t want Francie to kiss Lochan’s mouth. I wouldn’t want anyone to. He is my brother, my best friend. The idea of anyone seeing him like this, so close, so exposed, is suddenly unbearable. What if they hurt him, broke his heart? I don’t want him to fall in love with some girl – I want him to stay here, loving us. Loving me.
He shifts slightly, his arm sliding up my ribcage. I can feel his sweaty warmth against my side. The way his nostrils contract slightly each time he inhales reminds me of the tenuous, precarious hold we all have on life. Asleep, he looks so vulnerable it frightens me.
There are shouts, yelps from downstairs. Thundering feet on the stairs. A loud bang against the door. Tiffin’s unmistakable, over-excited voice yelling, ‘Homey! Homey!’
Lochan’s arm contracts and he opens his eyes with a start. For a long moment he just stares at me, emerald irises flecked with blue, his face very still. Then his expression begins to change.
‘What – what’s going on?’
I smile at the blurriness of his speech. ‘Nothing. I’m stuck.’
He glances down at his arm, still slung across my chest, and retracts it quickly, struggling to sit up.
‘Why are you—? What on earth are you doing here?’ He looks disorientated and slightly panicked for a moment, tousled hair hanging in his eyes, face hazy with sleep. The imprint of the pillow has left scarlet indentations across his cheek.
‘We were talking late last night, remember?’ I don’t want to mention the fight, or its aftermath. ‘I guess we both just crashed out.’ I pull myself up against the head-board, curl my legs up beneath me and stretch. ‘I haven’t been able to move for the last fifteen minutes because you were half crushing me.’
He has retreated to the far end of the bed, leaning against the wall, dropping his head back with a thud. He closes his eyes for a moment. ‘I feel rough,’ he murmurs as if to himself, hugging his knees, his torso limp and yielding.
Concern grips me: it’s not like Lochan to complain. ‘Where does it hurt?’
He releases his breath with a ghost of smile. ‘Everywhere.’
The smile fades when I don’t return it and he holds me with his gaze, eyes heavy with sadness. ‘Today’s Saturday, right?’
‘Yes, but everything’s fine. Mum’s up – I heard her voice a few minutes ago. And Kit’s up too. It sounds like they’re all downstairs having breakfast or brunch or something.’
‘Oh. OK. Good.’ Lochan sighs in relief and closes his eyes again. I don’t like the way he is talking, sitting, behaving. He seems helpless somehow, in pain and utterly defeated. There is a long silence. He doesn’t open his eyes.
‘Lochie?’ I venture softly.
‘Yeah.’ He looks at me with a start and blinks rapidly as if attempting to engage his brain.
‘Stay here while I get you some coffee and painkillers, OK?’
‘No, no . . .’ He catches me by the wrist to restrain me. ‘I’m fine. I’ll wake up properly once I’ve had a shower.’
‘OK. There’s paracetamol in the bathroom cabinet.’
He gazes blankly at me. ‘Right,’ he says dully.
Nothing happens. He doesn’t move. I begin to feel uneasy.
‘You’re not looking too good, you know,’ I inform him gently. ‘How about you get back into bed for a bit and I’ll bring you breakfast?’
He turns his head to look at me again. ‘No – seriously, Maya, I’m fine. Just give me a minute, OK?’
The unspoken rule in our family is that Lochan is never ill. Even last winter, when he had flu and a high temperature, he insisted he was well enough to do the school run.
‘Then I’m going to get you some coffee,’ I declare abruptly, jumping up from the bed. ‘Go and have a hot shower and—’
He stops me, catching my hand before I reach the door. ‘Maya . . .’
I turn, tightening my fingers around his. ‘What?’
His jaw tenses and I see him swallow. His eyes seem to be searching mine, hoping for something – a sign of understanding perhaps. ‘I can’t – I really don’t think I can—’ He breaks off, breathing deeply. I wait. ‘I don’t think I’ve got the energy to do the whole family meal thing today.’ He pulls an apologetic face.
‘Well, of course I’ll do it, you silly!’ I think for a moment and begin to smile. ‘Hey, I’ve got an even better idea.’
‘What?’ He looks hopeful suddenly.
I grin. ‘I’ll get rid of them all – you’ll see.’
I stand in the doorway for a moment, soaking up the chaos. They are seated around the kitchen table, a mess of Coco Pops, Coke cans, Jaffa Cakes and crisps strewn out in front of them. Mum must have sent Tiffin to the corner shop when she discovered only muesli and brown bread for breakfast. But at least she’s up before noon, albeit still in her sleazy pink dressing gown, her blonde hair uncombed, great bags beneath her bloodshot eyes. Judging by the ashtray, she has already been through half a packet of cigarettes, but despite her appearance, she seems surprisingly spry and perky, helped no doubt by the shot of whisky I can smell in her coffee.
‘Princess!’ She holds out her arms. ‘You look like an angel in that dress.’
‘Mum, this is the same nightie I’ve been wearing for the last four years,’ I inform her with a sigh.
Mum just smiles complacently, my words barely registering, but Kit chuckles through a mouthful of Coco Pops, showering the table. I’m relieved to see that he looks none the worse for his run-in with Lochan last night. Beside him, Tiffin is trying to juggle with three oranges from the fruit bowl, his sugar levels clearly sky-high. Willa is talking rapidly and indistinctly, her mouth crammed to capacity, chocolate smeared across her chin. I make some coffee, retrieve the muesli from the cupboard and start slicing the bread on the sideboard.
‘Wanna Mars bar?’ Tiffin offers me generously.
‘No thanks, Tiff. And I think you’ve probably had enough chocolate for today. Remember what happens when you have too much sugar?’
‘I get sent to the head,’ Tiffin responds automatically. ‘But I ain’t at school now.’
‘I’m not at school now,’ I correct him. ‘Hey, guess what, I’ve had a really good idea for a family day out!’
‘Oh, how lovely!’ Mum exclaims eagerly. ‘Where are you going to take them?’
‘Actually I was thinking of a day out with the whole family,’ I continue jovially, careful to keep the edge out of my voice. ‘And we’d definitely want you to come too, Mum!’
Kit glances up at me with dark, mistrustful eyes, snorting in derision. ‘Yeah, let’s go to the seaside or something and have a fucking picnic and pretend we’re just one big happy family.’
‘Where, where?’ Tiffin shouts.
‘Well, I was thinking we could all go to—’
‘The zoo, the zoo!’ Willa cries, practically falling off her chair in excitement.
‘No, the park!’ Tiffin counters. ‘We can play three-aside football.’
‘How about the bowling alley?’ Kit suggests unexpectedly. ‘They have arcade games there.’
I smile indulgently. ‘We might be able to do all three. There’s a massive fairground that’s just opened in Battersea Park – there’s a zoo on the other side of the park, and I think the fairground even has arcade games, Kit.’
A flicker of interest registers in his eyes.
‘Mum, will you buy me candyfloss?’ Tiffin yells.
‘And me, and me!’ Willa shrieks.
Mum smiles wanly. ‘A day out with all my bunnies. How lovely.’
‘But you’ll all have to get ready double quick,’ I warn. ‘It’s almost noon.’
‘Mum, come on!’ Tiffin yells at her. ‘You gotta put on all your make-up and get dressed right now!’
‘Just one last ciggie . . .’
But Tiffin and Willa have already gone tearing out of the room to put on their coats and shoes. Even Kit has swung his feet off the table.
‘Is Lochan coming on this little jaunt?’ Mum asks me, dragging heavily on her cigarette. I notice Kit’s eyes sharpen suddenly.
‘No, he’s got a ton of homework to catch up on.’ I stop clearing the table suddenly and slap a hand to my forehead. ‘Oh no. Damn!’
‘What’s the matter, sweetie?’
‘I completely forgot. I can’t come today. I promised I’d babysit the Davidsons’ new baby this afternoon.’
Mum looks alarmed. ‘Well, can’t you just cancel and say you’re ill or something?’
‘No, they’re going to a wedding and I told them I’d do it ages ago.’ I can’t believe what a good liar I am. ‘Besides,’ I add pointedly, ‘we could do with the money.’
Tiffin and Willa return to the kitchen, bundled up in their coats, and stop, instantly sensing the change in atmosphere.
‘Clever Maya’s just realized we can’t go after all,’ Kit informs them.
‘We’ll go tomorrow instead!’ Mum exclaims brightly. ‘Nooo!’ Tiffin’s howl is one of despair. Willa looks up at me accusingly, her blue eyes stricken.
‘But you can still go with Mum,’ I say casually, carefully avoiding her gaze.
Tiffin and Willa turn to gaze at her, their eyes pleading. ‘Mum! Mum, pleeeease!’
‘Oh, all right, all right,’ she sighs, shooting me a pained, almost angry look. ‘Anything for my babies.’
As Mum goes upstairs to get dressed and Tiffin and Willa tear about the house in a sugar-induced frenzy, Kit returns his feet to the table and starts idly flicking through a comic. ‘Well, look how that turned out,’ he mutters without looking up.
I feel myself tense but continue to clear the table. ‘What difference does it make?’ I retort quietly. ‘Tiffin and Willa get to go out and have fun and you get five times your usual pocket money to spend on arcades.’
‘I’m not complaining,’ he says. ‘I just think it’s touching the way you fabricate this whole complicated lie just ’cos Lochan’s too ashamed to face the fact that he’s a violent bastard.’
I stop cleaning the table, squeezing the sponge so hard that the warm, soapy water runs through the cracks between my fingers.
‘Lochan doesn’t know anything about this, OK?’ I retort, my voice low with repressed anger. ‘It was my idea. Because frankly, Kit, it’s the weekend, Tiffin and Willa deserve to have a bit of fun, and Lochan and I are completely shattered from running the house all week.’
‘I bet he is – after trying to kill me last night.’ He glares up at me now, his dark eyes as hard as pebbles.
I find myself gripping the edge of the table. ‘From what I remember it was a two-way deal. And Lochan’s so bashed up, he can hardly move.’
A slow grin of triumph spreads across Kit’s face. ‘Yeah, well, I can’t say I’m surprised. If he didn’t spend his days hiding in stairwells and actually learned to fight like a real—’
I slam my fist down on the table. ‘Don’t give me your macho gang bullshit,’ I hiss in a furious whisper. ‘Last night wasn’t some kind of sick competition! Lochan’s really upset about what happened. He never wanted to hurt you.’
‘How very considerate of him,’ Kit replies, voice dripping with sarcasm, still flicking infuriatingly through his magazine. ‘But kind of hard to believe when just a few hours ago he had his hands around my neck.’
‘You played a part in this too, you know. You punched him first!’ I glance nervously at the closed kitchen door. ‘Look, I’m not going to get into an argument with you about who started what. As far as the fight’s concerned, you’re both as guilty as each other. But just ask yourself this: why the hell d’you think Lochan was so upset in the first place? How many of your friends have a brother who would stay up half the night waiting for them to return? How many of them have a brother who would go scouring the streets at three in the morning because he was afraid something terrible might have happened? How many have brothers who shop for them, cook for them, attend parent–teacher meetings and stick up for them when they’re suspended from school? Don’t you get it, Kit? Lochan lost it last night because he cares about you, because he loves you!’
Kit throws the magazine across the table, making me jump, his eyes igniting in anger. ‘Did I ask him to do any of those things? D’you think I like having to depend on my fucking brother for every little thing? No, you’re right, my mates don’t have older brothers like that. They have brothers who hang out with them, get pissed with them, help them get fake IDs and sneak them into nightclubs and stuff. Whereas I’ve got a brother who tells me what time I’ve got to be home and then beats me up if I’m late! He’s not my father! He may pretend to care, but it’s only because he’s on some sick power trip! He doesn’t love me like Dad did, but he sure as hell thinks he can tell me what to do every second of the day!’
‘You’re right,’ I say quietly. ‘He doesn’t love us the way Dad did. Dad buggered off halfway round the world with his new family the moment things got tough. Lochan could have left school last year, got himself a job and moved out. He could choose to run off next year to a university at the other end of the country. But no, he’s only applying to ones in London, even though his teachers were desperate for him to try for Oxbridge. He’s staying in London so he can live here and look after us and make sure we’re all right.’
Kit manages to pull off a sardonic laugh. ‘You’re deluded, Maya. You know why he isn’t going anywhere? ’Cos he’s too damn scared, that’s why. You’ve seen him – he can’t even talk to his classmates without stammering like some kind of retard. And he certainly isn’t staying here because of me. He’s staying because he’s power-drunk – he gets his kicks from bossing Tiff and Willa around ’cos it makes him feel better about the fact he can’t even articulate a single word at school. And he’s staying here because he adores you, because you always take his side in everything, you think he’s some kind of God, and his sister’s the only friend he’s got in the world.’ He shakes his head. ‘How pathetic is that?’
I stare at Kit, stare at the anger in his face, the colour in his cheeks, but most of all at the sadness in his eyes. It pains me to see him still hurting so much about Dad and I keep reminding myself he’s only thirteen. But I just can’t find a way to make him step out of his own selfcentred circle, even for a second, and see the situation from any other viewpoint than his own.
Finally, in desperation, I say, ‘Kit, I understand why you resent Lochan’s position of authority, I really do. But it’s not his fault that Dad left and it’s not his fault that Mum’s the way she is. He’s just trying to look out for us because there’s no one else. I promise you, Kit, Lochan would much rather have remained your brother and friend. But just think – under the circumstances, what else could he possibly have done? What choice did he ever have?’
When the front door finally slams shut and the excited voices fade down the street, I heave a sigh of relief and glance at the kitchen clock. How many hours do we have until Tiffin and Willa start to bicker, Kit starts arguing about money and Mum decides she has done more than enough to make up for her absence all week? Factoring in travel time, we can expect three hours – four if we’re lucky. I feel as if I should immediately start making the most of it, try out all those things that I’m forever planning to do but putting off because there is always something more pressing at hand . . . But suddenly it feels absurdly luxurious just to be sitting here in the silent kitchen, the dappled sunlight falling through the kitchen window and warming my face – not thinking, not moving, not worrying about homework or arguing with Kit or trying to control Tiffin or entertaining Willa. Just being. I feel I could stay here for ever in the sunny, empty afternoon, slung sideways on a wooden chair, my arms folded against the smooth curve of its back, watching the sunbeams dance through the leaves, the branches peering in through the window, creating swaying shadows on the tiled floor. The sound of silence fills the air like a beautiful smell: no raised voices, no slamming doors, no pounding feet, no deafening music or babbling cartoons. I close my eyes, warm sun caressing my face and neck, filling my eyelids with a bright pink haze, and rest my head on my folded arms.
I must have fallen asleep, for time suddenly seems to have leaped forward and I find myself sitting up in a shaft of bright white light, wincing and massaging a crick in my neck and the stiffness in my arms. I stretch and stand up stiffly, moving over to the kettle and filling it. Padding out into the corridor with two steaming mugs and heading for the stairs, I hear the rustle of paper behind me and turn. Lochan has ensconced himself in the front room, lever arch files, textbooks and copious notes spread out over the coffee table and carpet around him as he sits on the floor against the edge of the couch, one leg stretched out beneath the table, the other drawn up to prop open a hefty tome. He is looking a lot better: much more relaxed in his favourite green T-shirt and faded jeans, barefoot, his hair still wet from the shower.
‘Thanks!’ Sliding the textbook off his lap, he takes the mug from me. He leans back against the couch, blowing on his coffee as I sit down on the carpet against the opposite wall, yawning and rubbing my eyes.
‘I’ve never seen anyone sleep with their head hanging off the back of a wooden chair before – was the couch not comfortable enough for you?’ His face lights up with a rare smile. ‘So tell me – how the hell did you get rid of the whole lot of them?’
I tell him about my fairground suggestion, my lie about the babysitting.
‘And you managed to persuade Kit to accompany them on this little family outing?’
‘I told him there were arcade games at the fair.’
‘Are there?’
‘No idea.’
We both laugh. But Lochan’s amusement is quick to fade. ‘Did Kit seem . . . ? Was he . . . ?’
‘Absolutely fine. In true antagonistic form.’
Lochan nods but his eyes remain troubled.
‘Honestly, Lochan. He’s fine. How’s the revision going?’ I ask quickly.
Shoving the huge textbook away from him in disgust, he emits a laboured sigh. ‘I don’t understand this stuff. And if Mr Parris understood it, at least I wouldn’t have to be teaching myself from some library book.’
I groan inwardly. I was hoping we’d go out and do something this afternoon – take a long walk in the park or have a hot chocolate at Joe’s or even treat ourselves to the cinema – but Lochan’s mocks are only three months away, and trying to study over the Christmas break with the kids at home all day will be a nightmare. I can’t say I’m particularly bothered about my AS-levels – unlike Lochan I’m just sticking to the subjects I find easiest. My strange brother, on the other hand, has decided, for reasons best known to himself, to take on his two most challenging subjects, further maths and physics, as well as English and history, the two big essay ones. My sympathy is limited: just like our ex-father, he’s a natural academic.
Absent-mindedly sipping his coffee, he picks up his pen again and starts sketching some complex diagram on the nearest scrap of paper, labelling the various shapes and symbols with illegible code. Closing his eyes for a moment, he proceeds to pick up the scrap and compare it to the diagram in the book. Crumpling up the sheet, he tosses it across the room in disgust and starts chewing his lip.
‘Perhaps you need a break,’ I suggest, looking up from the newspaper spread out at my side.
‘Why the hell can’t I get this to stick?’ He gazes at me imploringly, as if hoping I will magically conjure up the answer. I look at his pale face, the shadows beneath his eyes and think: Because you’re exhausted.
‘D’you want me to test you?’
‘Yeah, cheers. Just give me a minute.’
As he returns to his textbook and his diagrams and scribbles, his eyes narrow in concentration and he continues to gnaw at his lip. I flick idly through the paper, my mind flitting briefly to the French homework buried at the bottom of my bag, before deciding it can wait. I reach the sports section without finding a single article of interest and, suddenly bored, stretch out on my stomach and pull one of Lochan’s files off the coffee table. Leafing through it, I glance enviously at the pages and pages of essays, invariably accompanied by nothing but ticks and exclamations of praise. Nothing but As and A stars – I wonder if next year I could get away with passing off some of Lochan’s work as my own. They’d think I’d morphed into a genius overnight. A recent piece of creative writing makes me pause: an essay, written less than a week ago, its usual list of superlatives in the margins. But it’s the teacher’s comment at the end that catches my attention:
An extremely evocative, powerful depiction of a young man’s inner turmoil, Lochan. This is a beautifully crafted story about suffering and the human psyche.
Beneath this panegyric, in large letters, the teacher has added: Please at least consider reading this out in class. It would really inspire the others and would be good practice for you ahead of your presentation.
My curiosity aroused, I leaf back through the pages and start reading Lochan’s essay. It’s about a young man, an undergraduate, returning to university in the summer break to find out whether he has got his degree. Joining the throngs that crowd the display boards, the guy discovers to his astonishment that he has received a first, the only one in his department. But instead of elation, he feels only a sense of emptiness, and as he moves away from the crowds of students hugging distressed friends or celebrating with others, nobody seems to notice him, no one even looks in his direction. He receives not one single word of congratulation. My first thought is that this is some kind of ghost story – that this guy, at some point between sitting finals and coming back to find out his results, has died in an accident or something – but an eventual greeting from one of his professors, who manages to mispronounce his name, proves me wrong. The guy is very much alive. Yet, as he turns his back on the department and crosses the quad, he looks up at the tall buildings that surround him, trying to gauge which one will guarantee him a fatal fall.
The story ends and I raise my head from the page, stunned and shaken, blown away by the strength of the prose and suddenly close to tears. I glance across at Lochan, who is drumming his fingers on the carpet, eyes closed, chanting some physics formula under his breath. I try to imagine him writing this tragically poignant piece, and fail. Who could think up such a story? Who would be able to write about something like this so vividly unless they had experienced such pain, such desperation, such alienation themselves . . . ?
Lochan opens his eyes and looks right at me. ‘The force per unit length between long parallel straight current-carrying conductors: F equals mu to the power of zero, iota to the power of one, iota to the power of two over two pi r . . . Oh, for chrissakes let it be right!’
‘Your story is incredible.’
He blinks at me. ‘What?’
‘The English essay you wrote last week.’ I glance down at the pages in my hand. ‘Tall Buildings.’
Lochan’s eyes sharpen suddenly and I see him tense. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I was flicking through your English file and I found this.’ I hold it aloft.
‘Did you read it?’
‘Yes. It’s bloody good.’
He looks away, appearing acutely uncomfortable. ‘It was just taken from something I saw on TV. Could you test me on this now?’
‘Wait . . .’ I refuse to let him brush this aside so easily. ‘Why did you write this? Who’s the story about?’
‘Nobody. It’s just a story, OK?’ He sounds angry suddenly, his eyes darting away from mine.
The essay still in my hand, I don’t move, giving him a long, hard look.
‘You think it’s about me? It’s not about me.’ His voice rises defensively.
‘OK, Lochan. OK.’ I realize I have no choice but to back off.
He is chewing his lip hard, aware that I’m not convinced. ‘Well, you know, sometimes you take a few things from your own life, change them, exaggerate parts,’ he concedes, turning away.
I take a deep breath. ‘Have you ever—? Do you sometimes feel like this?’
I brace myself for another angry reaction. But instead he just gazes blankly at the opposite wall. ‘I think – I think maybe everyone does . . . now and again.’
I realize this is the closest I’m going to get to an admission and his words make my throat ache. ‘But you know – you do know you’ll never ever find yourself alone like the guy in your story, right?’ I say in a rush.
‘Yeah, yeah, of course.’ He gives a quick shrug.
‘Because, Lochan, you’ll always have someone who loves you – just you – more than anybody in the world.’
We are silent for a moment and Lochan goes back to his formulae, but the colour is still high in his cheeks and I can tell he’s not really taking anything in. I glance back down at the teacher’s scrawled message at the end.
‘So, hey – did you ever read this out in class?’ I ask brightly.
He looks up at me with a laboured sigh. ‘Maya, you know I’m crap at stuff like that.’
‘But this is so good!’
He pulls a face. ‘Thanks, but even if that were true, it wouldn’t make any difference.’
‘Oh, Lochie . . .’
Drawing up his knees, he leans back against the couch, turning his head to gaze out of the window. ‘I’ve got to give this damn presentation soon,’ he says quietly. ‘I don’t know – I really don’t know what the hell to do.’ He seems to be asking me for help.
