Under Rose-Tainted Skies (12 page)

I
t's only 7.10 when my cruel mind forces my eyes open. The sun is firing lasers through my curtains. I duck under my duvet, make a blanket fort to shield myself from the scorching rays.

Despite what was probably one of the most restless sleeps in recorded history, I'm comfortable. My mattress is a giant marshmallow today, soft and squishy. I bear down and sink into it.

I'm contemplating pulling a sickie, blowing off studying, eating and talking to stay here all day when I hear clattering coming from the kitchen below. Mom is like a bird, up at the crack of dawn and always pottering around in the garden. She loves growing things. There are forty-eight different colours of flower in our garden. Eight of them are roses. She keeps them in a pattern that reminds me of a rainbow. I would like to be able to go over and smell them one summer.

With reluctant fingers I reach up, snatch my phone off the dresser, and drag it beneath the blankets. A streak of
pain, like toothache, flashes across my chest when I illuminate the screen and discover there's no text waiting for me. I close my eyes, try to convince my brain that, unlike me, Luke goes to sleep at night. He probably hasn't even seen my message yet. But it's like trying to convince a kid that Brussels sprouts taste better than fries. Pointless.

I'm mentally listing the benefits of being cryogenically frozen when I hear Mom talking and my eyes pop back open. It sounds like she's conversing with a second someone. Maybe I'm mistaken. She likes to listen to the radio. Could be that. I narrow my eyes, because that's what you do when you want a closer listen. There are definitely two voices, and one of them belongs to a guy. A burst of simultaneous laughter bounds up the stairs, confirming that it's not the radio. She definitely has company.

I morph into Nancy Drew, slip out of bed, pull on a sweater, and carefully inch open my door. Mom is explaining the accident to someone. A cop or an insurance guy, probably.

‘Wow. It sounds scary. But you're okay?' Luke. Luke is in my kitchen. Talking to my mom.

I choke. My head turns into a tumble dryer, spinning fast and ferociously. Any upset over his first text message, and the preceding lack of, vanishes. I was expecting a little more time to prepare myself for his return. His return. Our chat. My explanation of why I can't shake his hand.

I slip into a trance, stare at my feet as I walk across the hall to the bathroom and brush my teeth. The conversations that happen in my head are unbridled. There is no line of questioning left uncovered. I lose count of how many brushstrokes I make and have to start over six times.
When I'm finally done, my pearly whites are so polished they squeak against my tongue.

I dab my mouth with a cucumber-fresh wet wipe – I can't use the towel on my face on account of this article I read about bathroom bacteria that breed in fabric.

‘He's nice. He'll understand,' I tell my reflection.

And if he doesn't?

‘Then it's like Dr Reeves's story. I don't need him as a friend.' I wish my bottom lip weren't wobbling when I said that.

As casually as I can muster, I trot downstairs, take the last step twice, and saunter to the kitchen. I'm trying to channel breezy, floating, pretending like I don't even care that he's here.

I hope he can't see the strain on my face.

‘Good morning, sweetheart,' my mom chirps from beneath her oversize straw hat. She's wearing the teddy bear sweater. ‘Look who I found while I was out weeding that pesky patch of daisies in the front yard.' Luke jumps up from his seat, knocking the table with his elbow and making his coffee cup rattle.

‘Hi. My classes don't start till ten. There's this school administration thing going on,' he says. ‘I was hoping maybe I'd catch you hanging out by your front door.' I stare at him. He stares back. Something about his stance makes me think of a dog with its tail between its legs.

‘Well, if you'll excuse me, I have more weeds to destroy,' my mom says, picking up a trowel and swishing it around like a sword. She trots past me, plants a kiss on my cheek before heading out of the front door.

Then silence.

Amy. That's the name of the enormous elephant he's carted into my kitchen. I'm okay with that. The longer we spend talking about the text debacle, the more likely he is to forget about my life debacle.

The tornado in my head picks up speed and I have to scratch. I need to stay busy. The silence is a lit burner and my panic attack is already starting to bubble. I exhale a breath, head to the fridge, pour myself a glass of orange juice, and take a sip. It makes me cringe. Freshly squeezed citrus and recently brushed teeth do not mix.

When I turn around, Luke is channelling his inner psychic and attempting to read my mind, again. I wonder if he realizes that concentration won't make my skull any more transparent.

Does he want me to break the silence? I hope not. I'd be more comfortable sharing a swimming pool with a gaggle of potty-training toddlers.

‘About the text . . .' he says. Half my brain is with him; the other half is straightening a tub of butter in the fridge. ‘You remember me telling you about Queen Amy?'

‘You said she was hunting you.' Ugh. My voice wobbles nearly as much as my knees.

‘Right. See, she just broke up with this guy, Derek, and, well . . .' He pauses, sits down, squirms in his seat. ‘She keeps dropping not-so-subtle hints that she wants to hook up with me.' I glare at a jar of mayonnaise, try to melt it into mush with my mind. ‘She is one insistent chick.'

If he starts detailing said insistence, I might have to pick up this damn fridge and throw it. At least, I would if I weren't, you know, teetering on the precipice of panic.

‘You don't have to tell me this. It's really none of my
business.' I fight to get the words out.

‘Thing is, she kept calling, so I blocked her number. Last night, when you messaged, I didn't recognize the digits and just assumed it was her, using a friend's phone or something.' I turn to him, relieved, though I'm sure I don't look it. Holding off anxiety feels like clenching your teeth for a prolonged period. My face aches; pressure is building at the back of my neck.

‘I would have told you this last night, but my phone up and died on me. I don't know what's wrong with it. Anyway, I just needed you to know that I don't go around giving out my phone number to every girl I meet.' He puts emphasis on the word
you
, a sentiment that I'm sure would make me feel like a million bucks under different circumstances.

More silence. Stretching out for ever.

There's nothing to think about. There's nothing to do. My head whips around the room searching for a distraction, which is when it hits me that I've forgotten to breathe. So easily done.

‘Norah. You don't look so good,' Luke says, the tempo of his words rising.

My heart stops dead. It makes me light-headed, and I have to grab the countertop to steady myself. I'm free-falling.

‘Whoa. Are you okay?' Luke panics, lurches towards me, and snatches my arm. His fingers close around my wrist.

His flesh, pressed against mine. His palm is warm, damp. I think of pores, open pores on my arm, and his sweat settling on my skin. He sees me glaring, releases me
immediately, and lifts his hands in surrender.

‘Norah, honey. Relax, take a deep breath.' My mom swans into the kitchen, 700 per cent casual as poor Luke loses his shit all over our linoleum.

‘I'm sorry,' Luke splutters. ‘I thought she was going to fall.'

‘Don't worry about it.' My mom dismisses his apology with a flick of her wrist then continues to wash the soil off her hands in the sink.

The kitchen is turning. Words are melding into one.

‘Do you need me to do something?' Luke can't stand still. He's looking at my mom like he might be getting irritated by her lack of haste. Thing is, when you've lived this a thousand times, it becomes less of a trauma and more of a scraped-knee type situation. ‘Is there something I can do?'

Go home
, I think.

‘Stop worrying, for starters. I'm not sure I can handle two anxiety attacks at once.' She smiles, all warmth. ‘Why don't you take a seat?' Mom links her arm through mine and leads me to a chair. ‘This will all be over in a few minutes.'

Why in hells bells would she offer him a seat? This is not a play, a production. He's the last person I want around to witness this. But she is a lover, a Beatles song, one of those people who collect inspirational quotes. She thinks that all my baggage shouldn't matter. She thinks people should see past it, should see that I am more than what is wrong with me. The clouds in her sky are always rose-coloured, which I know is a beautiful way to be. Alas, I have a mind that muddies everything. My skies aren't so
pretty; more tainted with fear than tinted with whimsy.

I cling to the tabletop; the room is tipping upwards like the
Titanic
.

‘Norah, your lips are going purple. If you don't take a breath, you're going to pass out,' Mom says, kneeling in front of me and resting her hands on the top of my legs. She rubs circles. ‘Come on, honey. Take a deep breath.' She shows me how and I copy her. The rhythm feels unnatural. My chest fights it, tries to go faster, tries to go slower. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck.

It goes on and on and on. I think maybe a century passes before my body gets so tired of twitching it comes to a complete stop. I'm still, calm, in the same way an ocean is before a big storm.

I can hear Mom talking, but a bubble of awkward silence is expanding around me. My shoulders hunch over, my legs shake; my head sags and a curtain of blonde hair flops forward. I hide my face behind it, wishing I could stay cloaked like this for ever.

Luke's army-brown boots are in my line of sight. His left foot bounces. I attempt to think myself invisible. But that never works and I'm still here.

‘You need some water?' Mom asks, standing and patting my shoulder. I nod. Can't talk. My mouth is so dry I'm afraid my throat will split. ‘Luke, can I get you another coffee?'

‘No. Thank you.' There's a quaver in his voice. He's going to leave. He's freaked out, like maybe he just watched an exorcism or witnessed an alien attempting to adapt to oxygen. Any minute now he's going to excuse himself, get up, and go.

‘Right. Well,' Mom says, driving a sledgehammer into the growing wall of tension, ‘I think I'm going to head back out into the garden. Shout if you need me.'

I'm shouting, but there's no sound coming out. It's all internal, tumbling around my chest like a breeze trapped in a bottle. I don't want Mom to go, but the flip-flop sound of her sandals fades into the distance.

I
don't know what to say. Luke apparently doesn't either. The silence descends again. I keep my eyes fixed on his feet, which stay at a standstill for the longest time. Then they move. Stand up and shuffle away. I bite down hard on the inside of my mouth. Harder and harder, until my eyes fill with salt water and I can taste blood, but the pain I feel comes from my stomach. A tortured twist that I want to push on until it goes away. I keep my head down, watch the empty space on the floor.

I scrunch my eyes shut and when I force them open, Luke's feet have reappeared, facing me, just inches away. I catch a breath, keep it trapped in my windpipe. He crouches, and, very slowly, like a rock sailing through space, his fist glides towards me, manoeuvres its way past the blonde curtain, and hovers in mid-air, just above my knees, right under my nose.

U OK?
It's written on the back of his hand in big black letters.

It's possible I began this sprint before the starting
pistol sounded.

My head snaps up and my eyes land on his impossibly adorable frown, his hundred-watt smile turned upside down. I want to coo like you do when you see pictures of baby bunnies snuggling fluffy kittens. Instead, I nod, my dropped jaw flopping around.

‘I'm sorry,' he says. ‘I didn't mean to upset you.'

‘No.' I don't shout, but I want to. His apology is beyond unnecessary. I hate that he's feeling guilty for trying to help. ‘It wasn't your fault.' I consider elaborating but then bail, decide he's probably consumed enough craziness for one day.

There will always be an excuse
.

I'm not sure exactly what he saw. I study his face, try to figure it out. I don't remember what I did, how bad it got. That happens sometimes; panic attacks have a tendency to suck away moments of my memory. I run a mental check. My throat isn't grainy like it gets when vocal tics put in an appearance, so hopefully I didn't make any starving-zombie sounds. My shoulders ache, which means there was probably some intense jerking around.

The good news is there's no drool on my shirt, so at the very least I remembered to swallow. Sarcastic high fives. It gets hard to look at him, and my chin starts to dip again.

‘I'm so embarrassed.' I don't know what else to say. I wish he would fill the room with words so I don't have to.

‘You've got nothing to be embarrassed about.'

Okay. I wish he would fill the room with words that are true.

‘I really wish you hadn't seen that. I didn't want you to see me all freaking out, looking like I'm being
electrocuted or something.' I sniff, scrub stray tears off my cheeks with the sleeve of my sweater. I'm tragic, an unkempt gravestone – I'm what a sorrowful Shakespeare sonnet would look like in human form.

‘You've been trying to keep this a secret?' Luke asks carefully, testing his weight on my mind with only the tips of his toes.

‘No. Maybe. I mean . . . yes. I did. I have. I was . . .' Everything seems so complicated, like a Rubik's cube with twenty-six sides. No matter how much my mind turns over, my explanations won't make any sense. It's too much; there are too many facets.

‘What if . . .' Luke sits back down in his chair. ‘What if I told you I've seen this happen to you before?'

He's joking, being ironic. I can't figure out how exactly, but there's a punchline coming.

‘I'd tell you it was a case of mistaken identity.' Knuckle meets teeth, and I start to chew, because although what he just told me is improbable, he's looking kind of serious.

‘I have a confession to make,' he says, hissing a note through his teeth like he's just been nipped under the arm.

Is this the irony? Is he about to fess up to being the serial killer/stalker/maniacal clown with a cleaver my mind wanted me to believe he was? He must see the look of horror wash over my face, note my features being pulled into a Munch-esque composition.

‘Wait.' Luke chokes out a nervous laugh. ‘That sounded a lot less creepy inside my head. Let me explain. Remember the day I moved in?' he asks, shifting to the edge of his seat.

That day. That day was a Monday, a doctor's-appointment
day. I remember labelled boxes, his boxes. I remember the blackbird bouncing on my windowsill. I remember the stack of books that left me feeling out of sorts.

‘I saw you having a hard time getting across the grass to your car.' He whispers it, like he's telling me secrets.

‘You saw that?'

He turns a slight shade of pink, rubs the back of his neck, and stares out of the kitchen window.

‘I wasn't spying.' For a moment he looks ten years younger. ‘I was hoping to get your attention. You see, I thought we were flirting.'

‘Hang on a second.' I'm confused. It's like being introduced to Advanced Calculus all over again. ‘You mistook an anxiety attack for flirting? How?' Trying to figure out which part of my harpooned-squid impression could be considered anything other than tragic.

‘No. It was before that, by the window. When you waved at me.'

Maybe he gets high. I wonder if he sparked up before he came over here. A bong for breakfast. If that's the case, he needs to leave. I'm afraid of all common-sense inhibitors.

‘I never waved at you.'

‘Yes, you did.'

‘No. I didn't.'

‘You did. I was carrying a box to my bedroom. You knocked on the window and then waved at me.'

The memory crashes into me like a runaway train, almost knocking me off my feet. That damn blackbird.

‘You remember,' Luke says. He must see the recognition
flash across my face. Smiling, all smug, he sits back in his chair, folds his arms across his chest. Oh, breaking this to him is going to be sweeter than cherry pie.

‘Um, sorry to burst your bubble there, Romeo, but I wasn't waving at you,' I tell him.

‘Yes . . . you were.' But he's not so sure any more. ‘Weren't you?'

I shake my head.

‘Then who?'

A wicked smile pulls at my lips. Luke smiles too. ‘I was having a bad day, and there was this bird bobbing around on my windowsill outside. I knocked on the glass to scare it away—'

‘You were waving at a bird?'

‘Exactly,' I say, working hard to stifle a giggle. He laughs and my knees go a good kind of weak.

‘Well, this is awkward. Again.'

‘Is that why you came over to introduce yourself?' Anxiety is a million miles away as I flop back down on to my chair. Elbows planted on the table, chin resting in my hands. It's like we're old friends having a good gossip. He leans on the table too, folds his arms in front of him, wincing and groaning, before falling forwards and burying his face in them.

‘Yes. Of course it is. There you were, this cute girl waving at me. There was no way I was going to just ignore you.' His words are muffled.

We're both laughing. This moment right here, this is the best normal moment I've had in the past four years. I want to put it in a box and keep it for ever.

‘Hey.' He turns his head to look at me. The light pouring
into the kitchen catches his eyes and makes them flash bright green. My heart squeezes. ‘Are you afraid of going outside?' All good things must come to an end. But I guess rarity is what makes a perfect moment perfect.

My turn to fold my arms, fall forwards, and bury my face.

The word
yes
is so small and simple. I can say it in four different languages – including French. After mastering
Mom
when I was a baby,
yes
was the second thing I learnt how to say. But right now, I've forgotten how, and all I can do is nod.

‘I'm sorry,' he says.

‘What for?'

‘I don't know. I mean, I've watched you go through that twice now. It looks painful and exhausting. It's not nice to see someone suffer so much, you know?'

The general populace is compassionate
. Maybe that's not quite the bullshit statement I first thought it was. I turn my face to look at him. He throws a soft smile my way; I catch it and smile back.

‘You don't like being touched?'

I shake my head. Pick at a scab on my wrist.

‘But you're okay if your mom touches you?' There is no accusation in his tone. At all. His curiosity is just taking a gentle stroll around the mysterious workings of my mind, but guilt gurgles in my stomach anyway. It sounds awful, like I've concluded he's going to hurt me or something.

‘It's not you. It's about feeling safe,' I tell him. Hives and concentrated patches of heat are blistering on my body. ‘I mean, I guess it's about you a little bit . . . or anyone I don't
know. It's confusing . . . complicated.' It's like trying to talk underwater; nothing coming out of my mouth sounds like it should. ‘We're still working on figuring it out.'

‘Norah.' Luke's hands go up. ‘It's okay. Am I grilling you too much?'

‘No. It's just, my head works so fast sometimes. I want to explain it, but most of the time I don't understand it.'

‘You're shaking a little,' he says, looking at my hands. I retract them, pull them back up into my sweater sleeves, and tuck them underneath my knees. ‘I know this is tough to talk about, but will you let me know if there's anything else you're afraid of? I don't want to scare you again.' His voice is so soft, you'd think he was reading me a bedtime story. I consider offering him a list then remember he has a life to get back to.

‘Everything,' I confess in a whisper. ‘I'm afraid of everything.'

He looks so loaded with sympathy there's a real danger of him joining me for a dip in my ice-cold pool of depression.

‘You know what scares me?' he says, sitting up suddenly. Something in the air shifts. His voice is light. It makes the sombre fog scatter.

‘What?'

‘Spiders. Not the small ones.' He doesn't quite beat his pulsing pectorals. ‘The big ones. Anything equal to or more than the span of an Oreo.' He shudders. ‘I can't handle them.'

This guy makes me smile so easily. I have to wonder if his cologne is mixed with laughing gas.

We sit at the table until nine-thirty. Talking nonsense
about movies and music. He likes horror, like me, and if anybody asks, he listens to all the latest bands, but secretly, his heart belongs to jazz. He talks about musicians I've never even heard of and does a pretty convincing playing-the-saxophone impression. He prefers comics to books, and when he graduates from high school he wants to study fine art.

It's weird. I know he goes out, has friends, throws banging parties and the whole school shows up, but his mouth moves at lightning speed, like he hasn't spoken to a single soul in more than a million years.

‘I gotta go,' he says, glancing at the retro Casio on his wrist. ‘Need to drop my phone at the store before school starts, see if they can fix it. I might not be able to text for a while. Just so you know. I don't want you to think I'm ignoring you.'

I wasn't thinking that – not until he said it, anyway. Doubt sneaks up behind me like some horny dude at a disco, its arm snaking around my waist, wrapping me in its cruel embrace.

I wonder if I'm ever going to see him again. The last hour and a half rolls through my head; everything I've said, done, is highlighted. I'm looking for anything that might have put him off coming over again.
All of it
, I conclude. Doubt hugs me tighter.

‘We'll chat soon, though,' Luke tells me. But all I can focus on is the lack of a specific date. When is soon? My mind is pushing the idea that soon is never. Is his phone even broken? My heart splinters, but I refuse to let the anguish creep into my face. I stand up, swallow down all the feelings. They taste like ash and scratch like nails.

‘Catch you later,' he says, signing off with a half-wave.

‘Bye,' I tell him. And with that, he leaves.

I'm joined in the kitchen a few moments later by Mom. She's carrying a tray of scrawny, scrunched-up seedlings. They're exhausted, like the world was too much for their fragile little frames so they went to sleep instead. I can relate.

‘I like him,' Mom says, squirting the plant graveyard with some of her ‘special mixture'. I'm not sure what she puts in it, but it gives her dying flowers a new lease of life. For another week, anyway.

I wonder if it would be safe for me to use in the shower.

I don't respond to her Luke comment. I'm too busy pondering whether or not I'm going to see him again.

‘Are you okay?' she asks.

‘I'm fine,' I reply, fixing a plastic smile on my face. ‘I'm going to go and read for a bit.'

I skip to my bedroom and turn into a troll the minute I close the door. My shoulders slump forward and my steps get heavy. I thump down on to my mattress, grab my laptop instead of a book. I'm not really sure why, but I scan through my search history and click on one of the kissing videos. Instead of the cute couple wearing matching sweaters and strolling through an auburn wilderness, I see me and Luke. There are none of my issues stacked up between us, stopping him from clasping my hand.