Seven Days (10 page)

OK, so this wasn’t where I was expecting to be at nine o’clock in the morning. I’m not even sure how I got here either. I dropped Hollie off as usual and then just kept walking. Thing is, I ended up walking past the school and into town and now for some reason I’m standing here at Smithy’s Greasy Spoon. Maybe I’m having some kind of mental breakdown. Or something else is wrong with my brain, but I really don’t remember walking here.

Dad used to bring me here when I was little. We used to sit by the window eating toasted teacakes and watching the world go by. He used to tell me you could spot “all sorts” in a café. He said one day he’d bring a notebook and write about all the characters and “make a mint” out of it. Yeah right, like he’d ever do that! Dad has never been one for sitting down and sticking to anything. Something else more exciting will always whisk him off and his ideas are quickly forgotten.

I think the last time I saw him properly was here. That was three years ago. He bought me tea and told me that I needed to be a big girl now that he was “moving on”.

“Sally doesn’t like children much, you see,” he’d said, stirring his cup. “So it’ll be harder for me to see you.”

I’d wanted to tell him that I wasn’t a child any more. I’d wanted to tell him that I still needed him around, probably more than Hollie who was happy, young and cute. I wanted to tell him that he was being totally unfair and that Sally was just being a nasty bitch. But I didn’t, I just drank my tea and nodded stupidly.

It’s clear now that Sally just doesn’t like children that aren’t her own.

I step inside Smithy’s. It smells just the same as I remembered – rich with grease and coffee. Tinny music blasts from a small portable stereo on the back shelf. A woman with jet black hair pulled into a tight ponytail is busy mopping up tables. She moves quickly like a manic bumblebee, her face is gaunt and her cheekbones project out, dark shadows circle her eyes. She smiles at me as I walk in.

The nervousness is clawing at my belly. I shouldn’t be here. I’m truanting. That could mean a serious fine for Mum. If she found out she would skin me alive, or worse. But I keep walking. I walk to the counter and stare up at the bright yellow sign on the wall behind, listing all my options. I have five pounds to put on my lunch card at school; I reach into my pocket and feel for it with my fingers.

The woman comes over. Her movements are awkward like her back is hurting. As if to confirm it, her hand goes round behind her and starts rubbing.

“Place will be the death of me,” she moans. “What can I get you?”

“A tea?” I say, the words coming out all small, like a squeak. “And maybe some toast?”

“Sure? Jam or anything?”

“That’ll be nice.”

Mum didn’t go shopping, so there was nothing to eat this morning. I had to give Hollie crisps and a slice of cheese. Mum swore she’ll go today. If she doesn’t … I don’t know what I’ll do. I was just lucky to find the five-pound note behind the breadbin.

I go and sit by the window. It’s the same place I sat with Dad three years ago. The tables are a bit chipped and stained. I place my hand on the cool plastic, remembering that his skin once touched here. I wish he’d scratched his name here; it would be lovely to see something that was actually his. Apart from my broken alarm clock, a few books and some tatty photos, I have nothing of Dad. Sometimes it’s as if he didn’t exist. Or is slowly being erased out of my life. I squeeze my eyes shut and I can still picture him sitting here, shaven head, bright blue eyes, huge arms. He has a tattoo on his hand, a small bird. When I was small I used to think it came alive at night and flew around the room.

He used to call me his little bird until I started growing big.

There’s not many people to look at here, Dad would be disappointed. An old man sits in the corner reading a paper and occasionally picking his nose. A tall, young man dressed head to toe in denim sits by the counter fiddling with his phone. He keeps shouting things at the woman working here. I quickly learn her name is Lorraine. She glares back at him and snaps back short, bullet-like answers. I don’t think she likes him much.

Lorraine brings me my tea and toast and even manages a bright smile, even though I can tell the denim man is really annoying her, especially when he shouts over that “she’s a bloody useless cook”.

“My boyfriend,” she whispers, as she puts down my plate. “Take no notice.”

I shrug. Poor her. I’m not sure I’d like to go out with someone like him.

“Shouldn’t you be in school?” she asks softly.

I can feel my cheeks redden, but I take a bite of my toast. “I have an appointment this morning. They’re letting me go in later. I just needed something to eat first.”

“Oh, of course,” she smiles. “To be honest, you looked too nice to be a skiver. They usually hang around later, smoking their fags outside the door.”

I smile back.

Yes, I’m too nice.

“You’re too nice to be with him,” I say.

The word spill out before I can help myself. Her thin cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and I immediately feel the twist in my stomach, the expectation that something bad will happen. But instead, a small smile creeps upon her face. She immediately looks younger.

“You know what, you’re dead right,” she says.

I watch as she walks back over to the counter. As she passes the denim man, she flicks out her middle finger. Then she carries on walking through to the back. The man’s mouth hangs open like a dog left out in sun.

I eat my toast slowly, enjoying every mouthful. As I do, I imagine Dad is still sat in front of me, stirring his tea and talking to me.

But this time he’s not telling me he’s leaving me. This time he’s staying right here.

I’m not sure where else to go. At first I have every intention of going back to school. I even go right up to the gates. They would have been in third period by now, that would be Maths for me. I don’t mind Maths. My foot lingered over the line dividing school and outside. Could I face it? Did I want to?

Then my eyes fell to the spot where they made me kneel. The dog poo was still there, rotting away on the edge of the grass. The ants were long gone. All the thoughts about what happened came rushing back to the surface and it was like I couldn’t breathe. I ended up clawing at my neck, tugging at the tie. I had to pull it off in the end and stuff it back into my bag.

Then I just turned and walked away. I couldn’t do it today. My whole body was fighting against it.

So where the hell could I go?

First I walk to the library. Luckily it’s not far and I spend a few hours hiding in the reference section, writing out my History homework and trying to get to grips with
Wuthering Heights
. Then I realize I’m getting some funny looks from one of the workers and paranoia gnaws at me. I can’t let them report me for truanting. I leave quickly, trying to look relaxed and natural.

This is normal. I’m just taking one day off – that’s all. I’m not doing anything wrong.

I can’t walk too far. I already have a blister coming up on the back of my foot; it’s been making me walk funny. As I head up the hill, back towards the Mac, I’m aware that I’m dragging my leg a bit. I wonder if I look strange, out of place. Mind you, don’t I always?

Coming back to the Mac might not be my brightest idea. There’s a risk Mum might see me. Then again it’s unlikely, she barely leaves the house. As I approach the towering blocks, which loom like greying Duplo blocks, I decide to head for the park. At least it will be quiet there.

The field itself is deserted apart from an old man walking his dog. He walks carefully, moving his hip like it’s made of lead. The dog is a small yappy thing that looks at me with his bright, knowing eyes and delivers a short, strangled bark. The man tugs at his lead and mutters under his breath. He passes us without looking my way once. That’s what it’s like here. No one looks at anyone.

I sit down on the bench facing the play area. It’s old and worn and the wood has all splintered away at the edges. People have carved their initials all over it, marking it for ever. Where I’m sat someone has written “DEADZHEAD”, the letters are large and challenging. I run my fingers over the grooves. If I had a knife, or anything sharp, I would be tempted to add words of my own.

What would what I say anyway? Why is everything stuck inside me?

“Hello, dimples.”

I look up, startled, wondering who the hell has come up behind me. I certainly don’t expect to see Lyn smiling down at me; his hands slung in his jeans pockets. He looks almost shy, awkward maybe. His eyes seem tired, less sparkling. I wonder whether he’s had much sleep.

“Hello,” I say back. It’s like sparks of electricity are dancing across my arms and back. I want to shiver but I hold back. “What are you doing here?”

“I was going to ask the same of you,” he says, sitting himself down beside me. “I never took you for someone who’d skive off school.”

“I don’t. I just couldn’t face it today.” I don’t look at him. I keep my eyes set on the deserted playground. It looks so weird when there’s no one in it.

“I can’t face it any day. Teachers are always giving me grief, reckon I’m going to fail my exams,” he shrugs. “So what.”

“Don’t you care?” I ask.

“Nah. There’s bigger things to worry about than some stupid qualifications. Where the hell will they get me anyway? I’d be lucky to scrape through.”

“They could get you out of here,” I say and then instantly regret it. The Mac is like the centre of the universe to most of the people here.

Lyn is really staring at me now, his eyes are so intense. “Is that what you want? To get out?”

“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry, but I do.”

“No need to apologize. Just hope you get what you want.” He starts digging at the grass with the heel of his trainer. “Maybe you’ve got a chance. You’re clever, aren’t you?”

“I guess.”

“Well, then. You shouldn’t be missing school.”

“Says you.”

“Says me!” he laughs. “I do have good reason though, had something important to do.”

I want to ask him what it was, but I sense a change in his mood. His shoulders are now slumped forwards and he’s chewing hard on his lip. He carries on digging at the mud, harder now.

“This whole town is a hell-hole,” he says finally.

“You’re not wrong there,” I reply, sitting back a bit.

He digs about in his pocket and pulls out some cigarettes. “Do you want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“Oh, course not, you’re a good girl.” But he’s smiling again at me while he lights up. “You don’t mind if I do though?”

I shake my head.

“You get a lot of stick at school, don’t you?” he says, still staring at me. He puffs hard on the cigarette; his face frowning like it tastes bad. I don’t bother answering him. What’s the point?

“I know they say stuff about you. I’ve seen it all on the internet,” he says softly. “I don’t get why they do it.”

“Everyone’s seen it. I’m getting used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that. You don’t deserve that.” He’s shaking his head. “I swear I don’t understand people sometimes.”

I frown at him. “You know your girlfriend is behind most of it.”

Lyn shifts in his seat. “Yeah, well, that’s part of the problem. I mean, we are going out. She’s a nice-enough girl, but stuff like this does my head in. I’m not even sure…” He pauses, staring out into space like something has distracted him. “I can have a word with her if you like?”

I immediately picture Kez’s reaction if Lyn were to challenge her. It was bad enough when she caught us talking the other day. I feel myself tense all over.

“No. Don’t talk to her. It’s fine. I can handle it.”

“Well, as long as you’re sure? Anytime. I can talk to her anytime.”

Sure? Of course I’m not sure, but I don’t even bother to answer that. My life now is just an endless game of avoiding trouble. Just as long as I can convince people stuff like this doesn’t bother me, it might actually go away.

Yeah, just keep telling yourself that, Jess. Who is it you’re really trying to kid here?

“I was with my dad today,” Lyn says suddenly, his head still turned away from me. “He’s not been well.”

“Oh.” I’m not really sure what to say, I know how close Lyn is to his dad. “Sorry to hear that – is he OK now?”

“Not really. He’s in hospital. They’re running tests, all kinds of things to find out what’s going wrong. He keeps puking and stuff.”

“That’s not good.”

Lyn takes his cigarette and grinds it hard into the ground. “It’s life though, isn’t it? You’re born, you get ill, you…”

“…recover,” I finish for him. Before I know what I’m doing, I reach over and touch his hand. It’s cool and rough. I expect him to pull away, but he doesn’t. He’s still staring straight ahead.

“So you have no idea what’s wrong with him?” I ask.

“Nah. I don’t think anyone does really. Like I said, they keep running these tests. Thing is, he smokes, drinks and he eats crap. It’s no wonder his body’s given up on him.”