She was quiet again. I knew what she was thinking. I didn’t have any friends. Not good ones. “I’d probably,” she said after a long pause, “just go up to him and do it. It’s not hard.”
I lay for a long time staring into the dark. To me, it was the hardest thing in the world.
The next morning I dressed quickly and left the room before Marcie woke. I didn’t want to see her, filled as I was with the horrible sense that my question last night had made me vulnerable. It was only as we were halfway to school, bags slung over our shoulders, that I realized I had forgotten to pick up Billy’s drawing. I thought about going back for it, but Marcie was in a good mood and I didn’t want to sour it. She didn’t bring up my question at all on the walk, and I wondered if this was yet another example of her growth. Her newfound maturity. I see now how wrong I was.
Her big move came after lunch. I sat in the corner of the schoolyardas I usually did and watched Marcie break away from her gaggle of friends. She straightened her spine in a way I hadn’t seen her do in months. In a way that always suggested she had her sights set on someone. And then—with a bolt of horror—I saw who she was making her way toward. Billy was sitting alone, just like me, except he never made it look awkward or uncomfortable.
He looked up as she approached. Marcie swung her golden hair over her shoulder and sat down next to him. Within two seconds, she had achieved what the rest of us could not. He laughed.
Then she reached down, extracted a roll of paper from her schoolbag. I knew what it was instantly, and the bottom of my stomach dropped out as Billy unrolled it. His eyes widened. He stared at it for a long time. His face split with a smile.
He pointed at her and there was a question in his gaze. She nodded modestly, tucked her hair behind her ear, and, in that moment, I knew she’d passed my work off as her own. Knew she was reaping my reward. And as she shuffled closer to him, arm brushing his, the dislike that always simmered in the pit of my stomach calcified into something darker.
The relationship developed fast after that. They became the most talked-about couple at school. They were all over each other like a rash. Like an infectious fungus.
“We’re taking it slow,” I heard Marcie preach to a friend one break time. “But”—she glanced at me, sitting in my usual spot in the corner of the yard—“I think I might love him.”
I knew this was false. I waited for her to slip up like she had last time. To discard Billy like an empty crisp packet just as she’d done with all the other boys. I readied myself to collect the fragments of his broken heart. But the months dragged on, and they showed no sign of slowing down. I began to lose hope, hating her more with each passing day.
And, nine months after Marcie’s big move, as though they could sense the growing discord between us, my parents suggested the trip to Cornwall. I think they thought it might bridge the gap between us. All I could think was that it was a whole week when we’d have nothing to do except stew in our mutual dislike.
Twenty
Mick’s patience snapson my very next shift. I can’t muster any enthusiasm. This café is draining me of creativity. Any original thought. All I do, day in, day out, is smile benignly at dirty children whom I can barely bring myself to look at, make the same coffee orders for the same tedious people, scrub stains from tables while suppressing the urge to retch. And what do I get in return? A pitiful wage and ungrateful customers.
It’s simply too much, particularly when I’m under so much strain from other aspects of my life. Jack. Mum’s frequent absences. Freddie. That fucking house. It’s all begun to crowd me in a way that is most unpleasant. I slam a coffee onto the counter so hard it spills right over. The exhausted mother for whom it was intended glares at me, but I ignore her and shove a wad of napkins in her direction so she can mop at the spill. I’m not doing it for her.
It is, apparently, the final straw. Mick grabs my arm and drags me into the back room in a blatant display of workplace harassment, but I can’t be bothered to point it out.
I thought I’d become immune to the smell of bacon fat, but it’s worsein here, right next to the tiny kitchen. Out front at least attempts to give the impression of cleanliness, but there’s no need to keep up the pretense in this poky back room, where only the lowly employees are allowed to come. Thick, sticky grime has settled into every available orifice, between the pages of the fat ledger book, which—judging by the figures—tells a sad story of the café’s steady decline. I stand in the middle of the room, back straight, and try not to touch anything.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Mick’s eyes flash dangerously. I’d thought he was a well of patience, but clearly I have gone too far. Pushed him over the edge. “It’s like you’ve been a different person recently. I’m this close.” His thumb and forefinger are nearly touching. “I don’t understand,” he continues. “You asked me for more shifts.”
He has a point, but that was before Jack started ignoring me. Before I realized that I was able to find exactly nothing about Alice online, despite the numerous hours I have spent trawling the internet. Because Alice, I have decided, is the key to all of this.
There is no time to dwell on her now, though. Mick is looking at me as though he barely recognizes me. And, as much as I might like to, I can’t afford to give up this job. Not if I want to leave Mum’s. Which I very much do.
So I summon tears. I grit my teeth, slump against the desk, and force myself not to reach for my sanitizer. I duck my head, round my shoulders, and allow them to shake with silent sobs. It’s not long before the pretense becomes a reality, and the tears start to flow of their own accord.
Anger, frustration, confusion. It’s all been simmering just beneath my surface for the past week. Jack’s curtains are still closed. I’ve checked every night this week, but there’s been no sign of movement. No flicker of interest. I’ve sent a couple more messages, but it’s feeling increasingly like screaming into the void, and my patience—what little there was of it in the first place—is wearing thin.
Mick is by my side in seconds, just as I knew he would be. “You poorthing. You’ve been through so much.” He rubs my upper arm, and it feels a little like a violation, so I shift slightly farther away from him and allow the tears to fall freely onto the desk. Hopefully, the salt will clear some of the bacteria.
I give a believable hiccup. “I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been on the best form recently. It’s just…all been so difficult. All the memories of Freddie. I think being here just brings it all back. We met in a café, you know?”
Mick’s eyebrows pull together. “I didn’t. I can understand how that might be difficult for you.”
I nod, a singularly sad gesture that conveys the depth of my grief. As though my head is too heavy for my body. “And now,” I say, “there’s this new guy. You met him actually. He came in the other day. And I’m just so confused by all the feelings. He’s not talking to me, I’m worried about him, and it’s all just a mess.”
Mick smiles gently. “I knew he liked you. He wouldn’t stop looking at you. I thought I saw him outside the café the other day, but he didn’t come in.”
I snap my head up. “Did you? When?”
Mick removes his hand from my arm. Oh dear, I’ve confused him again with my capricious personality swings. It did come out more sharply than I intended, but I hope he chalks it up to emotion.
“A couple of weeks ago,” he says slowly. “But I wasn’t sure it was him, and, when I looked again, he was gone.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Why is it that everyone in my life is so utterly incapable? “Well, anyway,” I plunge on, gritting my teeth, “it’s all been a bit much.”
