Torn (19 page)

When I got home Ghost Tara started on about me stealing her best mate. But as soon as I told her she was a figment of my imagination, she disappeared. I’m getting good at this. Maybe I haven’t lost my marbles after all. Or rather, maybe I
did
lose my marbles but I’m gradually finding them again, one by one. Of
course, it’s got nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Jack called. He called! That is at least ten times better than texting.

It was the first time we’d talked on the phone and it wasn’t even awkward. He asked me about my day, and what I’d been up to since we saw each other. I lay back on my bed and rambled on, and he seemed genuinely interested in the banalities of my life. He got the edited version, obviously. I subtly (OK, not really) asked him about Blackdog Sundays.

‘We’ve booked another gig.’

‘Cool. I’d love to come. Where are you playing?’

‘Well, it’s actually a bit of a weird one.’ I fought the urge to shout, ‘Then why are you doing it?!’ down the phone.

‘Weird? How?’

‘Um … it’s at your school. Polly Sutcliffe asked us to play at a dance … in memory of Tara.’ There was a shaky sort of sigh, and I wondered if he was trying to fight back tears.

‘Oh.’

‘Yeah, I know. I could hardly say no though, could I? Well actually, I
tried
saying no, but Polly went on and on at me. And it is for charity, I suppose …’

‘I think it’s the right thing to do.’ I thought this was what he wanted me to say.

‘Really?’ His voice was soft and hopeful.

‘Yes, really.’

‘Will you come to the dance? I mean, will you be there? Um … unless you’d like to come with me? Because that would be good too.’

‘I’d love to go to the dance with you.’ Which was not strictly true. I’d love to go almost anywhere with him. Except for the dance commemorating the life of his sister.

‘Awesome! It’s a date.’ A date! A real one. Not a trip to some musty fusty dusty museum. ‘But it’s sort of a long way away though, isn’t it? I’d like to see you before then. That is, if you’d like to see me too.’

‘I’d like to see you too.’ My cheeks flushed with heat. Thank God Jack couldn’t see me. Anyone would think I’d never been asked out on a real proper date before. Um. Yeah.

But there’s a catch: I’m going to his house. Tomorrow.

This should be interesting.

I don’t know why I agreed to it. The thought of being in her house … It’s almost more than I can deal with. But I’ll be with Jack. And being with Jack is exactly where I want to be.

I get a text from Cass just as I’m thinking that she must never find out about me going round to Jack’s. It’s like she read my mind from ten miles away. We’ve barely spoken since I lied to her about going to see Nan and Grumps. It’s not like I’m ignoring her or anything. We see each other at school and say hi, but that’s about it. I just … have nothing to say to her. There’s only one thing worth talking about any more, and I definitely don’t want to talk about that. And she’s hardly been bombarding me with texts and IMs, so maybe she feels the same way.

This is the real way a friendship ends. Not with some huge screaming row, but with a gradual withdrawal. You’d think it would be less painful this way. Of course, not many friendships have the added burden of a dead body to deal with.

The text message is a surprise:
Hey, think we need to talk. After school tomorrow? My house?
No ‘x’ at the end. Cass doesn’t go in for that sort of thing.

It’s much easier to lie in a text message than face to face:
Sorry, can’t. Dad’s cooking a special dinner. He’s been planning it for ages. x
. I sometimes play the ‘lonely Dad card’ when I want to get out of something. I’ve just never had to use it with Cass before.

She doesn’t text back, which is her way of telling me she’s pissed off without actually starting an
argument. It’s a relief that she doesn’t try to fix up a date for this ‘talk’ she has in mind. One less thing to worry about – for now.

I spend the next day feeling mildly nauseous and strangely jumpy. I manage to avoid Cass by having lunch in the library. Eating in the library is STRICTLY FORBIDDEN, but I’ve done worse things in my life. And it’s not as if I spill my Diet Coke on the carpet. Well, maybe I do just a little bit. But I scuff the stain with my shoe until you can hardly see it.

I make it home in record time, grab a slice of two-day-old pizza from the fridge and find myself standing in front of my wardrobe wondering why all my clothes are so
boring
. I really wish I was better at shopping. It would help if I actually enjoyed it, but I get hot and tired and impatient because nothing ever fits the way I want it to.

After careful consideration of my options, I pull on some jeans because I can’t think of anything else. For once I’m actually glad when Ghost Tara turns up. ‘I reckon you should show a bit of cleavage. Boys like boobs. Fact.’ Unfortunately my wardrobe isn’t exactly heaving with revealing tops. Eventually I find this old grey jumper of Dad’s. It has a deep V-neck, and I’ve
never worn it without a T-shirt underneath. It looks good though. Sort of almost sexy in an understated way.

I go for a little bit more make-up than usual – nothing too full on. As I’m rummaging for one of Mum’s old bracelets I do my best to ignore Tara’s ring, but something makes me pick it up. A sudden flashback almost floors me. Tara’s cold hand slipping through mine. The sound of rocks hitting fragile flesh. It still stuns me just how physical the pain is. My heart hurts and my insides feel like they’re clambering over each other to escape from my body. Tears roll down my cheeks. I rush to the toilet, Tara’s laughter echoing in my ears.

By the time I’ve redone my make-up and am feeling vaguely human again I’m already late. I fire off a quick text to Jack, scrawl a note to Dad (telling him I’m off to the library), scratch Bruno behind the ears and run out the front door. I hope my eyes have lost their redness by the time I get to Jack’s. I’m so flustered and shaky and rushed that I almost manage to forget that it’s Tara’s house I’m going to. It’s only when I turn the corner onto the street that the memories come flooding back and all of a sudden I’m drowning.

We were eight years old and Tara and her family had moved here in the middle of the school year. Miss Murray gave me the Very Important Job of showing Tara where to hang up her coat and where the toilets were. Miss Murray made Jamilla move desks so that Tara could sit next to me. I was secretly pleased that out of a class of twenty-two girls
I’d
been chosen.

Tara was super-shy and only made eye contact when she absolutely had to. Back then her hair was a nondescript light brown and she always wore it scraped back in a ponytail. It was usually wet from her morning swim. Everyone thought it was weird that Tara had to go swimming before school. I couldn’t think of anything worse than crawling out of bed two hours early on a freezing cold morning in the middle of winter, but Tara didn’t seem to mind.

Her mum picked her up every lunchtime so she
could have lunch at home. That made people think she was even weirder. I didn’t though. I would have gone home too, if Mum and Dad hadn’t both been at work.

It took a while to break through Tara’s defences and actually become her friend. She was so serious all the time – her brow scrunched up in concentration whenever the teacher was talking. She chilled out eventually, giggling at my stupid jokes and passing notes under the table. Sometimes I’d notice Jamilla staring at us from across the classroom.

Tara had been to my house four times before I got invited back to hers. She got on really well with Mum and Dad. Tara was parent-friendly to the point of ridiculousness. I used to tease her about it:
How was your day at work, Mr King? … Oh, Mrs King, this pasta is delicious. It’s even better than the pasta I had in Italy last year! … Mr and Mrs King, don’t you prefer
me
to your not-so-perfect daughter?
… Needless to say, Mum and Dad lapped it all up.

When Mum dropped me off outside Tara’s house for the first time, one look at the HUGE place she called home and I knew why she’d been so reluctant to invite me round. Our house was half the size of hers. There was a fancy black sports car in the driveway (a driveway!), parked next to a huge white
4x4. Mum’s Ford Focus suddenly seemed a little bit rubbish.

Tara answered the door and introduced me to her parents. I remember thinking they were shinier than my parents somehow – like someone had polished them up with a cloth. Before I had a chance to practise my parent-impressing techniques Tara dragged me away, pausing only to roll her eyes disdainfully at her grubby-faced little brother. Jack had a gappy smile and very messy hair. Not much has changed on the hair front.

Tara’s room was heavenly. The ceiling was painted to look like the sky on a summer’s day. The furniture all matched perfectly – white and artfully distressed. I thought it looked French, but that assumption was based on nothing whatsoever. The mantelpiece was crammed with trophies. Medals, mostly gold, hung in a row. Someone had put little hooks all the way along the wood to hang them on. Tara said she wanted to keep all that stuff in a cupboard but her mum wouldn’t let her. Apparently it was important for positive visualization or something.

We sat on Tara’s bed and chatted for a bit. Then she got this funny shy look on her face. ‘Do you want to see the most precious thing I own?’

‘Not that HUGE trophy in the middle there? It’s
almost bigger than me.’ I giggled to show I was only teasing.

‘Urgh, no. Not
that.
’ She leaned over to her bedside drawer and pulled out a green velvet box. She opened the box ever so gently and held it out for me to see.

‘My grandma gave me it just before she died. She said that whenever I wore it, she’d be watching over me … keeping me safe.’

‘It’s beautiful. Why aren’t you wearing it now?’

‘Mummy says I should only wear it on special occasions,’ she muttered.

‘I think you should wear it every single day and never take it off. That way your grandma can be looking after you all the time.’

She was hesitant. ‘Do you … Do you really think so?’

‘Definitely. Here …’ I slipped the ring onto her index finger.

I never saw her without the ring after that day.

It kept her safe for a little under eight years.

There are no cars in the driveway today. The house looks the same though. Pristine.

Don’t think about Tara. Think about Jack. Think about his smile.

I knock on the door and wait.

The door swings open and there he is. ‘Alice! Hi!’

He wraps me up in a hug and I want to stay there forever. His hair smells so good. I wonder if he’s been using Tara’s shampoo. So much for not thinking about Tara.

‘Come in. Don’t worry – the parents are out, thank God. It’s the first time I’ve had the house to myself since … in ages.’ It’s painfully obvious what he was going to say. When someone dies, everything neatly divides into two categories: since and before. Before is always better. ‘Mum and Dad are starting to loosen the reins a little bit, thank God.’

A black cocker spaniel bounds up to me and Jack introduces me to Rufus. He’s gorgeous.

We sit in the kitchen, on either side of the breakfast bar. Rufus settles down for a snooze at Jack’s feet. The kitchen’s changed since I was last here. It used to be all English country kitchenish, but now it’s all white gloss and black granite. I preferred it before.

Jack pops some crumpets in the toaster and slathers them with butter when they’re done. I could seriously fall for a boy who gives me crumpets.

We talk about the band. He’s worried they won’t be ready for the gig, and I do my best to reassure him. He talks about his parents. They’ve been arguing a lot recently, and even started going to counselling.

‘What have they been arguing about?’

‘Tara, mostly. Dad reckons it’s all Mum’s fault for being so pushy about swimming. She was on at Tara all the time about training. I guess Tara had kind of gone off the whole swimming thing recently, but Mum wouldn’t let her quit. She wouldn’t hear of it. Reckoned Tara was good enough to swim for England one day. I don’t know … maybe that
is
why she went swimming that morning …’