Under Rose-Tainted Skies (13 page)

I spend the rest of the afternoon reading Plath and wondering if Mom will let me paint my bedroom black.

A
nother Monday morning arrives, but, for the first time since June, it looks like it's going to rain. We're currently cruising towards the end of September, so you could say it's been a while.

I try but fail not to think about Luke and how it's been four long days since I spilt my secret . . . four long days since I last saw him.

After breakfast, Mom kisses me goodbye and jets off to work. Old habits die hard, and I tiptoe towards the porch window, teeth mashed together tight, because everyone knows that makes your movements more cautious. I peel back the curtain and scan Luke's driveway for his truck. It's still there. He hasn't left for school yet.

I exhale a breath that, by rights, should set off our earthquake alarm. ‘Effect and outcome,' I remind myself, just like in Dr Reeves's story about the girl who couldn't catch a break with the football player but still got her happily-ever-after.

My happily-ever-after isn't quite a husband, kids and a
house in suburbia. I just want some rain. See, when you live in a place that only gets twenty inches of rain a year, it does become essential to savour every last soaking-wet second. Plus, I'm not skipping out on world-watching because I'm afraid of seeing Luke. This is the only outside I get to see.

Did I really just think those things?

Apparently so. And I must mean them because I'm already opening the front door. I slide down, sit on the floor, stretch my legs out in front of me, and wince at how pasty they are, like spilt milk. If I hadn't been traumatized by
FakeTanGoneWrong.com
, I would totally invest.

Grey clouds, thicker than smoke from a bonfire, clot in the sky. I breathe in the fresh air. Our front yard is a Monet. Not quite as colourful as the back, but still vibrant and beautiful.

Across the road, the Trips line their lawn with tubs and bottles. They catch the rain, recycle the water. It's why Mom won't drink anything at their house that's not boiled.

Malcolm Trip stands looking up at the sky, hands on hips, smiling like he just fell in love for the first time. He's draped in an eye-bleedingly bright kaftan. Natural fibres, of course. It looks like a sack, makes me itch from all the way over here. He spots me and waves.

Mom says Malcolm reminds her of my dad, aka some man who knocked her up at twenty-one and took off before I was even born. I've never met him, but he wrote to me once. I didn't read the letter. Well, you don't look through a stranger's photo albums if you don't have to, right? You don't know the people in those pictures. Same
principle. I don't know the man who put pen to paper either.

The rain falls slowly at first, huge drops plopping down on the ground, making the blistering concrete fizz. I love the way it smells. Hot. Like a coal fire the day after it's gone out.

In seconds the rain falls so hard I can barely see two feet in front of me. I lean my head back against the door, close my eyes, and listen to the sound of Triangle Crescent being cleaned, the water a soothing balm for everything that's been burnt. Some of the splashes that hit the porch spray my bare legs and I shudder.

The pictures I love looking at the most on my Hub feed are the ones with almost-kissing couples standing out in the rain. Now, it's possible that's because my OCD likes the sanitation implied by running water, but beyond that, the part of me that cries every time I read
Pride and Prejudice
thinks it's wonderfully romantic.

I'm contemplating never moving from this spot when my phone cuckoos to notify me of social media updates.

Again, I've decided to stay away from The Hub until my mood lifts, or at least until I can figure out how to remove Luke from my mind without excessive intake of alcohol. It's all the sloppy status updates. Apparently everyone fell in love this weekend and all they want to do is talk about it. The fawning and excitement over their new romantic endeavours just reminds me that Luke witnessed the full force of my crazy before he left last week. I want to fork my eyes out. In other news, Cupid is an asshole.

With next to no enthusiasm I lift my phone. I'm about to dismiss the notification when the name on my screen
catches my attention.

Luke has requested my friendship.

My thumb can't work fast enough. Pressing all the wrong buttons, I unlock my screen and open the page. His avatar makes me pause, push a hand against my heart to calm its erratic rhythm. The
ACCEPT
button is bright red. I push it and his page opens up automatically.

Cut to ten minutes later, and I can't seem to bring myself to snoop around. I feel like I'm going to touch the wrong part of the screen or drop my phone and star one of his posts by mistake. Hell, I'm afraid I'll exhale too hard and accidentally friend his mom. This is so unlike me. Usually I zip around The Hub like a teenager who's just gotten her learner's permit. I've never had a problem playing around people's profiles before. Maybe I'm having so much trouble because I know I'm prying. Prying with intent. Ugh. That sounds like a criminal offence. Something people go to prison for. I swear someone got arrested for doing that exact same thing on an episode of
Hollywood Cops
last week. Or was that supplying with intent? Intent to supply? Whatevs. This isn't going to happen. I need to regroup. Get some orange juice, eat some ice.

The rain has stopped, and the clouds are being torn apart by giant chunks of bright blue sky. It's a different colour than it was before. Fresher somehow. Like it needed the twenty-minute reprieve to charge its batteries so it could beam bluer.

Across the road, the Trips emerge from their house and start carrying their buckets of bounty inside. That's when I spot the car.

My mind camera takes all the mental snapshots it needs.

As an avid unofficial member of the neighbourhood watch, I pay attention to the vehicles that visit our little corner of paradise. Well, you have to be observant. What if a robbery was to take place and the police were looking for leads? What if my account of, say, a black Lincoln circling our road twice before disappearing was just the break in a case they needed?

Paranoia is like that kid in high school, the one who runs up behind you and yanks your pants down around your ankles. Paranoia enjoys making you look stupid.

I've never seen this car around here before. It's on another level from Luke's dad's crusty camper. This car is compact, champagne gold, with a black roof that looks like it folds away. The kind of car that would cost you a kidney or the sweet soul of your firstborn.

The windows are blacked out. I'm ogling it with zero discretion when the driver's door pops open and a leggy blonde steps out. I'm not saying she's gorgeous, but the previously absent sun chooses this exact moment to explode in the sky.

She looks up, smiles gratitude at the burning spotlight, then slides a pair of huge white-rimmed sunglasses off her head and down on to her nose. Her hair matches the colour of her car. She runs her fingers through it, shakes her head a little, and I have to remind myself I'm not watching a shampoo commercial.

She makes her way across the road towards my side of the street. This girl doesn't walk – she struts. Puts every inch of her body to work so her shoulders stay straight and
stiff, but her hips sway from side to side.

I want to be her. I don't care how much it costs; I would pay it to have her tan and high cheekbones.

Blondie stops at the edge of Luke's driveway, reaches into her purse, and pulls out a bedazzled compact. With a soft shade of pink, she traces the lines of her lips. My mouth does that mimicking thing, morphs into the same squashed O shape as hers because I'm concentrating too hard. Cork wedges signal her ascent up Luke's driveway and I feel myself shrinking.

I look down at my knees, try to get a handle on my thoughts, but they're running wild, making me dizzy.

Please let her be his sister. Please
.

‘Hi there.' At first I think she's talking to whoever has answered the door. ‘Excuse me. Hello.' Her voice is louder, piqued, like she's frustrated. I look up to see her standing by the boxwood bush, sunglasses raised, which catches me off-guard. It makes no sense. She's having to squint because the sun is shining in her eyes. Why wouldn't she just keep the sunglasses on?

‘Is that a
yes
?' she asks. And I realize that while I was trying to figure out the sunglasses situation, she's been talking to me. I have no clue what question she asked. None. The shaving rash under my arms burns as I start to perspire.

‘I'm sorry. I didn't hear you.' My reply carries for about half a yard before it turns to vapour and vanishes.

‘Huh?' she says, holding a hand behind her ear. ‘Whatchu say? Wait.' She thrusts her ear-trumpet hand at me like a stop sign. ‘I'm coming over.'

Shit. Why do people keep making me converse? I just
wanted to watch the rain. I think about protesting. Dream about protesting, because, let's be honest, there's more chance of hell freezing over than there is of that.

I clamber to my feet as she strides over the bushy barrier between Luke's house and mine, one shiny bronzed stem at a time. The boxwood must scratch her because before she heads over to me, she scowls at it, and I wonder how it doesn't burst into flames.

She gets bigger as she clomps closer. My heart jumps into my throat. I turtle up, withdraw as much of my body into my sweater as possible. My arms abandon the sleeves entirely and wrap tightly around my waist. But before the blonde can make it to me, Luke jogs out of his front door, school bag slung over his shoulder and what looks like a sandwich hanging from his mouth. I wonder if it's loaded with cream cheese, apple sauce and mayonnaise. We both look at him. He freezes when he sees Blondie, then his eyes travel a few inches further, and he smiles when he sees me.

He looks so good in a button-down blue and white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a length of black cord around his neck.

‘Never mind,' the blonde says, turning around.

‘Amy. What're you doing here?' Luke asks, dry-swallowing a chunk of bread.

Wow. My self-esteem, already beaten black-and-blue, coughs up a lung.

Queen Amy. Of course it is. Except for her hair being a little lighter, this is the chick in her Hub profile picture.

Amy holds out her hand to him. Luke rolls his eyes before grabbing it and helping her hop back over
the boxwood.

‘Morning, Neighbour.' He's talking to me. I just about muster the strength to wave.

Amy clucks her tongue. At me, maybe? I don't know. And I don't care. Can't care. Luke is smiling at me, and it doesn't look forced or fake. It's warm, welcoming, exactly the same smile he flashed my way pre any mention of my mental health.

I get goosebumps, feel a warmth spread through the pit of my stomach.

‘Anyway.' Amy dismisses my presence with a flap of her hand. ‘I thought maybe I could give you a ride to school,' she says, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin so high it grazes the sky.

‘Thanks, but I already have a ride,' he replies.

‘I know, but I thought we could go to school together. Maybe grab a coffee before class?' She bats her lashes, puts a hand on his arm and runs it up and down, over his biceps. He looks down on her, and she wrinkles her button nose and flutters her lashes some more. ‘Please, just a quick cup?' The irritation that was crinkling his brow is replaced by indecision.

He's not going to refuse.

How could he?

Why would he?

It's not like I'm ever going to be the girl that runs her hand up and down his arm, cajoling him into going for coffee, right? And he knows it, must be thinking it. It's too much, the final nail in my inadequacy coffin. I'm done.

I
slink back inside the house and close the door. I'm angry.

Not at her, not really. Not at her, not at him, not at them. I'm angry at myself for wanting to touch him so badly and remembering that the last time he put his hands on me, I almost had a stroke.

The fear of going through Luke's Hub profile is dust. Curiosity is maniacal, controlling me from the inside. My phone is out of my pocket before my butt even hits the couch. I open his page, don't hesitate to scroll down the screen and find any ‘connection' announcements. As suspected, Amy ‘Queen' Cavanaugh is in the first group of connections he made. I hit her picture and it takes me to her profile.

Fate could save me from the torture I'm about to inflict on myself. Her page could be locked and I wouldn't see anything but the promo stuff she pins.

Fate hates me.

Her profile pops up and I hit her photo tab. There are
pictures of Amy sunbathing with her friends, riding horses, cuddling lions on safari in Africa. Pictures of dinners out, of pool parties and boat parties. There's even a photo of her sitting on the back of a motorcycle. I narrow my eyes, lift the phone for a closer look. The guy she's straddling in the motorbike pic looks like Grammy-winning rock god Brock Samson. No. Effin'. Way.

My self-esteem packs its bags and quits me completely. She's grinning like a Cheshire cat in every shot. Loving her life. Living it.

I blink green, breathe green, taste sour grapes on my tongue.

I don't know what has me more jealous, the Hollywood-esque life that she has or the fact that I never went horseback riding before I got sick. I didn't have time to catch a tan that wasn't filtered through windows. I never went to a concert, let alone snuggled up to a lead singer on the back of his bike. There was always going to be time for that later. Always.

My hands are shaking. I flick back to Luke's profile, blow up a picture of him, and spend a few seconds staring at it. My thumb touches down on his face. Maybe he was smiling at me because he felt sorry for me. Maybe it was just to piss Amy off. Maybe he wanted her to think there was something between us so she'd leave him alone. I pick at the cuticle on my thumb, peel it back and make it bleed.

I'm done with today, I decide, tossing my phone on the coffee table and curling up into a ball on the couch. I'm all pout, being devoured by my diva counterpart as I tug a patchwork throw from underneath me and cocoon myself in a blanket fort.

Except it's too stuffy. My breathing is coming thick and fast. It feels like someone's got a fire going under here.

It's frustration is what it is. I can't close down and shut the world out like I could before. Great. Something else I can add to my ever-growing list of new experiences. Except this isn't one of those times when it feels like I just won a blue ribbon. Shutting out things is essential; it's my Swiss army knife, my flask of water, the compass that points me home.

I'm pissed off. I throw the blanket off. I may not have a horse at hand or a buff rocker and his bike, but the sun is blazing right now. There is no reason why I can't step out into the backyard and snap a selfie of me catching a few rays. I'm always whining about how pale I am. Maybe some colour will make me look more alive.

Light bulb. Maybe I can use this urge, this growing mound of motivation, to create a new root, a different thought pattern. Right?

Right, I decide, and march up the stairs.

I know I have a bikini top somewhere. It doesn't look like Amy's; all white with a gold, half-moon-shaped, fancy-button thing on the front.

The first place I look is my underwear drawer. It makes sense I'd keep it here because a bikini top is not unlike a bra. I dig through bunches of socks, maybe a million pairs of tights, briefs that are anything but, and a couple of sports bras before I become acutely aware of how comfortable and safe everything I own is. Everything is white or black, no frills or patterns because that's what's comfortable. And I can't be worrying about itchy lace or a cutting thong while I'm trying to manipulate the big
bad world.

God. That's a depressing thought pattern. How did I not notice that my illness has taken over my wardrobe too? I pick up a pair of once-white leg warmers that have gone a gross shade of dishwater grey. This. This drawer is a visual representation of my life, I think, as I volley the leg warmers into the trash can at the end of my bed.

I find the bikini top scrunched up amid thick woollen socks. It's plain black and clips around the back of my neck. I think I got it free with a magazine. I know I haven't bought one while I've been sick, and I didn't have any boobs to put in it before that.

Leaving the safe, warm fabric of my sweater, I slip the top on, handling the clasp like I'm wearing Mickey Mouse gloves. I pull my hair back into a bun and head to the bathroom for sunscreen.

We have two different kinds stockpiled in the bathroom cabinet, one with SPF 20 and one with SPF 50. I read the backs of both bottles like they're how-to guides on defusing a bomb. I opt for smothering myself in the stronger stuff and head back downstairs fifty shades whiter than I was when I went up.

Several panic attacks and a perpetually tight stomach have seen me lose a few pounds over the past couple of weeks. I hug my hips, notice more sharp edges on my body than usual. In conclusion, I look ridiculous. Maybe I should skip sunbathing, I think as my fingers curl around the door handle. Who wants to see a picture of a bag of bones in a bikini anyway?
That's not a good enough reason for you not to try
, I can hear Dr Reeves saying in my head. She would tell me,
Don't do this for the picture, forget that. Do it
because you want it
.

Need
it, I mentally correct as I pull open the door.

I'm a wave breaker to the wall of heat that hits me. It's so warm it sends a shiver down my spine. The sun is a slice of lemon. A soft hue, like fine smoke, blurs the contrast of Mom's blooming garden. The scent of flowers hums as it sails across the patio and nearly knocks me off my feet. For a second, I wonder if I've accidently opened the door to an English country garden in the nineteenth century.

The space is big enough for a swimming pool. I know this because my grandma wanted to buy us one before she died. Alas, Mom said we didn't need it. At the time I thought it was because she hated fun. I later found out she'd had a chat with the Trips and they'd guilt-tripped her about our carbon footprint.

My mind is whirring, already building a case to keep me inside. I lift my eyes; there's not a single cloud out now. But I'm not really surveying the weather. I'm checking for planes because I've read about them falling from the sky. I eye the trees because I know they can topple over too. Earthquakes are what worry me the most. I can't see them coming. And then there's the spiders, and snakes. Anything that can force me to step away from the house to visit a hospital is a major cause for concern.

Thing is, my survival instinct seems to have been malfunctioning since the day this all started. It's pretty messed up, probably makes zero sense to a person with normal thought processes, but I'm not sure I could trust myself to leave the house for help, not even if my life depended on it.

My bare foot hovers over the mosaic flags that mark
out our patio. I wriggle my toes in the fresh air, testing the outside, as if too much exposure will scorch my skin.

Fifteen minutes later, my toes are cramping and I haven't made it any further. My heart's been hammering out Slipknot songs and I can't feel the right side of my face. I'm tired, frustrating myself to a dry whimper.

Screw it. Screw this. Screw thought patterns. Screw roots. Screw Amy's photos. Screw everything.

Life was never this complicated before life got involved.

I slam the door shut on the world outside, storm back through the kitchen and into the hall, where I'm forced to stop dead. The front door is wide open and Luke is on the porch. I can't be sure, but I think I see the smudge of a champagne car, careening away behind him.

The door is open.

Why is the door open?

My first reaction is to eye my surroundings. The door is open because someone must have come through it.

‘Hi . . .'

‘Mom?' I cut Luke off to call up the stairs. He stays silent as I wait for a reply. ‘Mom? Are you home?'

‘Norah. Is everything okay?' he says after my second call gets no response.

‘Why is the door open?' I'm twitching, scanning our open-plan living room. I grab the throw off the back of the couch and pull it around my shoulders.

‘I can answer that.'

I turn to him, glowering, fully expecting him to fess up to opening the door and invading our house.

‘Before, when you went inside, it bounced back when
you tried to shut it,' Luke replies with a nonchalant shrug.

‘No,' I scoff. Ridiculous notion. He's made it up. ‘No. I always make sure it's locked before I walk away.' It's routine, robotic. Like how a dancer remembers every single step in her recital.

‘Okay,' he says, drawing out the word. ‘But maybe this one time you forgot.'

‘No,' I say, marching over to the door. At this point, I'm willing to believe witchcraft and wizardry are more responsible for this mishap than I am. I look at the lock, see that the bolt, the small sticky-out bit that's supposed to slot into a hole in the frame and keep the door closed, isn't poking out.

No
.

I don't forget to check locks. The latch clicks, and, ever since Helping Hands dude came into my house uninvited, I hit the bolt.

This can't be right.

It's either black magic or broken
.

But it is right.

I run my hand over and over it. My fingers disappear into the groove where the latch is tucked away. Because that's where it stays when you hold down the button and twist. The very reason we had it installed was that every time Mom went to collect the mail, she got locked out in her pyjamas.

I remember doing that, holding down the button and twisting. Keeping the latch hidden away while I watched the rain, just in case some freak thing happened and I found myself outside, unable to get back in. I knead an eye with the heel of my hand.

‘I can't remember checking it or throwing the bolt. Why can't I remember checking it?' My nails creep down my thigh and start scratching at skin. Another new/scary/terrifying thing to add to my list. Before long, I'm going to need a wheelbarrow to lug this list around.

‘Norah. It's okay.'

‘It's not okay,' I snap. How can it be okay? I don't forget to do things that make me feel safe.

I don't.

Except I did.

Who even am I?