Playing With My Heartstrings (4 page)

"DAD!" Cassie screamed, her tone loud enough to shatter a frozen river.

I glanced at my snow-white hands, which seemed to be turning a weird shade of Smurfs blue. My head throbbed in unimaginable pain and the world was spinning -

Then it suddenly and peacefully stopped.

Chapter 4

"Is Sadie going to be okay?" a voice, terrified and concerned, asked. Another voice, this one frantic and more panicked than the first, replied, but it sounded like the buzz of thousands of bees - totally
intelligible.

In my lethargic and unconscious state, I couldn't place the meaning of the voice's words. Who was Sadie? What had happened to her? Would she would be alright? As I hazily attempted to think, a wave of remembrance hit me head-on, leaving me recoiling in shock.

Wait. I am Sadie. Like, duh! Of course I was Sadie Thompson, teen fashionista, cat-loving sister and the world's biggest fan of The Simpsons. Who else would I be? The voices, rapidly drifting away, seemed like a long-lost dream that used to be mine, but no longer were.

Damn, I was lying on my bed again, my eyes resolutely shut as if I couldn't bear to look at the Daleks on Doctor Who without shrieking in terror, and everybody was worrying about me again. By the looks of it, this seemed to be becoming an endless cycle, one of which I was growing increasingly tired of. All I wished to do was close my eyes, dream of anything other than teardrops falling from the sky - and my face - and wake up feeling like I was the happiest person on earth. Would anyone consider that a lot to ask for? In comparison with the iPad and various Sims expansion packs Cassie had already jotted down on her birthday list, my wishes were priceless - but since when has love ever been handed over without consequences?

Slivers of the cool, relaxed morning sun were breaking through the thick dark curtains and I could feel the sunshine touching my check, its dazzling glow spreading across my face. Ever since I was a young child, I'd loved waking up on bright, sunny summer mornings, which never failed to create a feel-good mood for the upcoming day ahead. It was the one part of summer I hugely missed all year round - and never stopped dreaming of.

I rubbed my eyes open and gingerly hopped out of bed, stretching my arms like a half-asleep cat and narrowing missing the stack of books lying beside my unmade bed. I hopped outside of my room, careful to not make any noise, and
quickly ran across the hall to the bathroom, which was, to my utter relief, free of any attendants.

Closing the door, I rapidly took off my Aristocats pyjamas and jumped into the shower, foolishly ignorant to the possibility of the water not being warm. Therefore I almost jumped out of my skin - and the shower - when a flood of ice-cold water trickled down my bare back and, without thinking, I stuffed my flannel in my mouth to prevent my screams waking everybody else up.

As the initial shock began to subside, the water slowly turned lukewarm and I washed my long, wavy hair - once a short, sleek bob, a hairstyle my friends found trés chic - into a soapy lather with my favourite apple-scented shampoo, regularly sniffing its sweet and somehow comforting smell.

After what felt like hundreds of years passing, I got out of the shower and gently dried myself, then raced back to my room and put on a juicy apple red t-shirt and a pair of sky blue denim shorts - plain, yet colourful was my go-to style during the warmer months, a look I naturally preferred - and popped in my beloved miniature golden hoops, a present I'd received from my 11th birthday, and golden cross chain.

Picking up a brightly-coloured bow, I tied my still-wet hair into a big, bouncy, L'Oréal-perfect ponytail and then I stared at my reflection in the mirror on my make-up cluttered dressing table.

The young, innocent girl staring back at me looked tired - as if I'd been managing to get a proper night's sleep recently - and eerily fragile, like she would fall apart by the faintest touch.

She couldn't be me - there was absolutely no way. How could my lively, smiling persona just drift away within the space of a weekend? And suddenly, fragility hit me like an unexpected earthquake - I just couldn't deal with the weakness, sadness and pain that overcame me.

I needed to get out of the house now; lying on the bed in my out-dated and generally boring room would do nothing quash my sudden change in mood and probably would only make me feel worse, listening to moody Lana Del Rey songs whilst waiting for the world to pass by.

Besides, the fresh air would do me good - and my light bronze tan, obtained from a school trip at a beach the month before, was fading fast, allowing my naturally freckly, porcelain-doll complexion to break through. Not that I didn't like my pale skin - in fact, I appreciated it even more than when I was younger because other students at school often mistaken me for being one of the extras in Buffy the Vampire Slayer - but right now it looked foreign and freaky on me, paired with my dark, zombie-dead eyes. Who would've thought that I'd find resembling Casper the Ghost a curse? Certainly not three days ago, that was for sure.

Glancing at my small Hello Kitty clock - a novelty gift given by Cassie last Christmas, whom I suspected secretly wanted one of her own - I slicked on a poker-straight line of indigo eyeliner and a slick of nifty-nude lip gloss, before stashing my much-abused phone into a berry-red (red, with no relation to love, was a colour I had a strong penchant for) bag and dashing downstairs, irritably muttering under my breath when the family cat, Tinker, nearly tripped me over.

"Out of the way, Tinks!" I ferociously whispered, whilst Tinker gave me the 'evils' (i.e a deadly glare and high, snobbish nose that only the posh could
master) and sulkily stalked upstairs, presumably also muttering unrepeatables under his smelly Felix breath.

Wiping away sweat from my forehead, I headed towards the door and picked up my battered pair of blue canvas trainers, which were ashamedly not Converse (my way of thinking at the age of twelve was that if one could spend £40 on one pair of trainers, why not spend it on loads of rather cheap make-up instead? Needless to say, that opinion wasn't to last for long when Christmas came around a few months later), and I quickly put them on, forcefully holding my breath to avoid smelling my cheese-smelling feet.

Then I turned around and opened the old, pillar-box red door, which indiscreetly creaked loud enough to wake everybody else up, so I used the last of my Maltesers-filled energy on making a rapid dash outside, racing onto the path and then the peaceful, sleepy street, when I slowed my pace to a forceful walk. Ah, the suburbs - absolutely perfect when I was little, but unlike how Mum loved to brag about it, Rosemary Avenue was definitely no Wisteria Lane. The lawn in front of everybody's house had turned an unpleasant shade of yellow due to the recent spell of warm weather and not even garden-obsessed Mrs Tate across the street could keep her usual magnificent display of lemon-bright roses and eccentric carnations looking like contenders for the Chelsea Flower Show.

Yeah, it was a street that I loved to hate.

A few minutes into my walk, I suddenly realised that I had no idea where I wanted to go. The park in the centre of town would still be strife with aging drunks lying on the benches, gulping the last of their £40 brandy in an emotionless pity, and early risers walking their hyperactive dogs, whose loud barks always set me on a panicked edge. So, the park was a major no-no and having just spent the last half-hour getting ready in silence, I totally wasn't ready for some cheerful banter at the local café, despite my fondness for their delectable just-baked pains au chocolat.

My stomach growling as noisily as a lion's roar, I flipped my phone out of my bag and searched through my contacts' list, eventually deciding on who to call.

I waited for the irritable, yet welcome beep and then I heard a sleepy, bewildered voice on the other line.

"Sadie!" she exclaimed, her shock apparent. "Why are you phon-"

"There's no time to talk now," I said, my voice urgent and rushed. "Can I see you in a moment?"

"Sure, just let me get out of bed first -"

"Thanks," I replied, before casually adding, "and Tara, don't forget to lay out some of your Mum's waffles, too," and then I swiftly ended the phone call, already heading towards my destination.

Gosh, just living was an exhaustion in itself.

********

"Hey," Tara said, relaxation warming her glowing face. "Come on in," she beckoned, gesturing her hands towards me. I gingerly walked up the spotlessly clean white steps. my legs aching as if I'd entered the London Marathon twice.

Well, I reckoned that I'd walked around town twice because a grumpy, bitter pass-goer incorrectly advised me to head north for Amethyst Lane, the street of Tara's residence. As I'd never bothered listening to Mum's directions for Tara's house, I'd stupidly got lost and wasted a heck of a load of time, angrily punishing myself for my lack of breakfast.

"Been running a little too much recently, eh?" Tara noted, apparently amused.

"Hardly," I muttered.

"So, what's the matter?"

I hesitated, unsure what to say. Hmm, how could I explain in less than fifty words how a boy whom I've had a crush on since primary school unexplainably dumped me in the middle of a large, rather terrifying forest and my world has been in an unstoppable merry-go-round spin ever since? Still, my heart assured me that I wouldn't have got out of bed literally at the crack of dawn to visit my old, loyal friend, who I trusted whole-heartedly.

So, my answer? "Boy issues," I cleanly stated without a hint of a tear or angry outburst threatening to upstage me before I got the opportunity to have a proper heart-to-heart.

"Ah, right," Tara winked, before both of us burst into laughter. Even as Barbie-mad schoolgirls, Tara had built a well-reputed reputation as an unofficial agony aunt, who everybody from myself to even the shyest kid in class heading towards her for some much-needed advice - or maybe to pinch one of her to-die-for double chocolate chip cookies, lovingly made by her mother, a world-class professional baker.

Tara closed the door and headed into her luxuriously large kitchen, which contained everything that a baker could dream of - millions of cupboards, stacked to the brim with thousands of ingredients; several widely spaced ovens, all built into the flower-painted walls; and professional, scary-looking equipment which an amateur wouldn't dare touch. I felt like I was standing in a catalogue picture, with a sleek black marble table in the corner, neon high chairs surrounding dazzling clean worktops and the most delicious-looking batch of freshly made waffles sitting on a plate a step away, not my best friend's kitchen. Freaky.

"Did your mum get the kitchen renovated, Tara?" I asked, flicking through the newspaper discreetly lying on the table.

Tara turned around, holding two glasses of Tropicana, and replied, "Honestly, I never know. Hmm, thinking about it, the kitchen does look a bit different than it did last year, but maybe it's cleaner than usual."

"You don't say," I mumbled as Tara handed me my drink and sat down beside me, casually taking little sips at a time.

"Anyway," Tara started, switching into her bubbly let's-talk mode, "what have you been doing recently? Tell me! I haven't heard from anyone since the holidays began!"

Knots formed in the pit of my stomach, turning me right off my refreshing drink, and I closed my eyes in a silent, desperate pray. Please, I pleaded, self-pity almost over-whelming me. I need to tell somebody who is not 5ft 2in tall, hopelessly in love with Liam Payne and no longer wears teddy bears pyjamas. With all of my other close friends out of town for next few weeks, I had no choice but to confide in my honest and secretly best friend who I'd known since nursery school.

"Um, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," I nervously said, fidgeting with my clenched hands underneath the table.

"Okay. Like what?"

God, hadn't she heard the slightest hint of gossip? It's definitely not every day when a tear-stricken, emotionally unstable fifteen year old girl is found lying asleep on moss and fallen twigs in the middle of a Blair Witch-alike forest, crying about her so-called boyfriend leaving her alone in a squashed tent with absolutely no explanation for his actions. Not even the dramatic and often far-fetched soap Eastenders could have possibly created that storyline without it being some kind of comedy sketch; yet I was far from having a laugh about it.