I step onto the porch.It smells the same as ever.Coffee, old leather, and the citrusy air fresheners Mum puts everywhere.I stand on the step to take my shoes off and feel like a failure because my body’s telling me it’s going to keel over in the next forty-five seconds if I don’t sit down.I, Olive Mary Henderson, can’t even manage to take off my shoes standing up.I didn’t know it was possible to despise yourself this much, but it really is.
Later, eating dinner with Mum and Dad, I feel like I’m onthe outside looking in.I still hardly have any appetite, but I’ve got just about enough sense to finish up my plate of rice and vegetables.I’ll never regain my old fitness if I don’t eat enough.I didn’t have many reserves to start with, and my time in intensive care has used them all up.The muscles built up from swimming and regular weight training—gone without a trace.My body’s like jelly, and even the bloody bowl is cracked.Everything’s so knackering.
“Is it OK to go straight up to my room?”I ask after dinner, because the fatigue is suddenly pulling at me.I long ago gave up being angry about going to bed when primary-school kids are still watching TV.I have to give myself time.Isn’t that what everyone keeps telling me?
I stand up.Dad hesitates.I should have known earlier, when he glanced at Mum.I sit down again.
“We’d like to talk to you about something,” he says slowly.
I don’t move.I manage to say “OK,” but it sounds more like a question.
“We understand that you’re longing to get back to school, Olive.”
“Back to normal life,” I correct him.Normality.Everyday life, far from cheerless hospital rooms and constantly stressed-out doctors, who look at my shoulder, ask if I’ve had a bowel movement—as if I wasn’t a seventeen-year-old girl, someone embarrassed by their entire life at the best of times—then hurry on to the next room without even looking me in the face.
“We know that, love,” says Mum, glancing briefly at Dad.“And we want to make that possible for you.”
“We spoke to Mrs.Sinclair last week,” he goes on.Hold on.Why didn’t I know about this?“She’s happy that you want to go back so soon, but she’s also very concerned about you and your health.As we all are.”
I nod, holding on to my self-control.“But you’ll be there to keep an eye on me,” I say.Two mornings a week, at least.And any time Dad isn’t scheduled to be at Dunbridge as the school doctor, Nurse Petra will be there in the sick bay.It’s virtually the same as the hospital.I don’t need 24-7 care: I need a glimmer of hope.
“Yes, I will,” he agrees seriously.He folds his hands over his lips.“Olive, your mum and I agree with Mrs.Sinclair that it will be better for you to repeat the lower sixth.”
“What?”I laugh.I really laugh.Then my face freezes.Mum and Dad are looking at me in silence.“That...you can’t mean that.”
“It’s the only way you can—”
“The lower sixth?”I interrupt Mum.“But they can’t just leave me behind!What about my friends?”
“We know you found last year a struggle, Olive.It’s a big step up to A levels, and you only just scraped through your exams.”
We may be in Scotland, but at Dunbridge, we do A levels—four or five courses in the lower sixth, dropping to three for our final year.So she’s got a point.Not that I’m admitting to it.No way.
“Yes, but Mrs.Sinclair and all my teachers had faith that I could do it.She said so!”My heart is starting to race; I’m raising my voice, starting to shout as I realize that Mum and Dad aren’t here for a discussion.They’re informing me of a decision they’ve made for me, as if I’d asked them to.
“We know that, Olive,” Dad says calmly.“And we’re not making this decision lightly.But that was before the fire.The new term has already started, and you know you’ve got to switch from A-level PE to Spanish—there’s a lot of catching up to do there.The upper sixth is stressful enough as it is, and you can’t just cram in a whole year’s worth of Spanish on top of that.It’s just not feasible.”
Not in the state you’re in.
Not while you’re still so weak, still having nightmares.
“You can’t do this,” I yell.“Mrs.Sinclair said—”
“Olive, we’re your parents.Until you’re eighteen, we have to take responsibility for you.”
I jump up.My shoulder throbs, but I hardly notice the pain.It’s nothing compared to the despair rising inside me.
“You can’t do this,” I repeat, because my mind’s a blank.Mum and Dad just sit there.The tears well up.“But what about my friends?”My voice cracks.My friends in the upper sixth.Having this one last year with them before we’re scattered to the winds was the only thing driving me on to make quick progress.
“They’ll still be there, pet,” says Dad.
Mum says nothing, won’t meet my eyes.
I shake my head and turn away.I can’t let them see me cry.Not again.I bite my bottom lip; I straighten and walk tall.I don’t cry until I get to my room.
2
Olive
