Entangled (27 page)

‘
Aunt
? What aunt? What are you talking about?’

I disconnected the call. He called straight back, so I turned off my phone. I retrieved my pencil from the forest floor and wrote a single word in my notebook:

LIES

I underlined it three times, pressing harder and harder on the paper.
Lies
. Unless Devon was spectacularly unobservant and simply hadn’t noticed a middle-aged woman roaming round his house over the past few days. Unless Devon was staying at his dad’s house at the moment.
Unless … unless … unless nothing
.

Nat had lied to me. It was so fucking obvious. I was surprised I hadn’t realized sooner – it’s not like me to be so trusting. Clearly he was still pissed off about the other night. That’s why he was avoiding me. The knock-back must have hurt him more than I’d thought.
God, boys are so fragile. One night they’re punching someone’s lights out, and the next they’re all put out cos their girlfriend won’t put out (for once)
.

I sat on my toadstool in the woods and thought about how best to handle this.
What to do what to do what to do?
Nat had lied. This was not good. But he had lied for a reason – he was upset. And we’d arranged to see each other on Sunday. So was it really so bad if he wanted some time out?

Yes
. Yes, it was. He shouldn’t have lied. If he’d just told me he wanted to lay low for a couple of days, I’d have understood.
Now who’s lying?

I wanted to call him and confront him about the lie, just to see what he’d say. But it would be much better to do it in person. That way I’d be able to see the truth in his eyes (I was sure of it).

Sunday. I’d wait till Sunday. That’d be the best way to play it. I could be patient … if I tried really, really, really hard (and hid my phone somewhere to avoid temptation). Sunday. It would all be sorted then. I felt better as soon as the decision had been made.

It was harder than I’d thought – not calling him. I skived off the last couple of lessons of the afternoon and wandered around town, trying my best to think about anything but him.

Mum made me sit down for a ‘proper dinner’. It was pure torture. She tried to talk about Mick, but I refused to talk back, which took the wind out of her sails somewhat. I shovelled food into my mouth at record speed, desperate to escape to my room.

The rest of the evening was spent battling indigestion, which at least gave me something else to focus on other than Nat. When I turned on my phone there were eleven missed calls from Devon and five messages, all of which I deleted immediately. I didn’t want to hear it. I wouldn’t couldn’t shouldn’t let myself hear it.

I went to bed early so I didn’t have to think. But I dreamed about him.

Got up late on Saturday and went for a long run. This was the first step to getting back to being me. A wheezing, sweaty, beetroot-red me. I was so out of shape it wasn’t even funny. I wouldn’t let this weakness happen again.

Mum was out shopping, so I had the house to myself – the silence was a relief. More missed calls from Devon. Got my laptop out and read the last thing I’d written: a couple of chapters about a girl spookily similar to me.
Lame
. I’d even given her my middle name.
Lame squared
.

I deleted it and started writing a story about a psychotic gnome who hung around in the woods, waiting for unsuspecting schoolgirls to kill and eat. Also lame. But fun.

I forgot about Nat for a whole afternoon. It felt good to be lost in fiction, where everything was so much more straightforward. The characters (mostly) did exactly what I wanted them to. I pulled the strings and they jumped. I felt powerful and good and happy.

At about nine o’clock my phone buzzed with a message. Devon was really starting to fuck me off now. Why wouldn’t he leave things alone?

But it wasn’t Devon this time. It was Nat:

‘Can you come over now? I need to see you.’

That was unexpected, but a huge relief. I replied to say I’d be there in half an hour and then changed my clothes. I looked in the mirror and took a deep breath: better to get things sorted out tonight. First, he’d have to beg my forgiveness for lying, then he’d have to beg me to sleep with him. And I wouldn’t turn him down this time.

Devon was waiting at the front door like some kind of geeky gatekeeper. He started to speak, but I held up my hand to silence him.

‘No. I’ve got nothing to say to you. I’m here to see your brother.’

Devon shook his head and spoke quietly. ‘I was just going to say that he’s upstairs.’

‘Right. Well, thanks for the info.’ I shuffled past him. He smelled good.

As I trudged up the stairs I could feel him still watching me, but I turned around just to be sure. He was leaning against the door, staring up at me. His expression was pained.

I paused outside Nat’s room. Music was blaring. A song we both loved. I smiled to myself.

My hand was on the door handle. I wondered if I should knock.
Not that he’ll be able to hear me. And he IS expecting me …

I opened the door.

I saw lots of things.

The crack on the ceiling, longer and wider than ever before.

A textbook splayed on the floor, spine broken.

A glass of water on the desk, half empty.

Nat on the bed.

With Sal. Not me.

My eyes were broken and my brain was too.

He was sitting with his back against the wall. She was lying down. Her head was on his lap. My head was not. He was wearing jeans and nothing else. She was wearing jeans and a bra. Bare feet. I wore trainers.

He was touching her arm. Not mine.

He was looking at her and she was looking at him and I was looking at them.

My heart was spilling out of my mouth onto the carpet.

I was looking at them and they were looking at me. We were all looking, and no one was speaking.

Music was blaring.

A door was slamming and feet were running. And running. And running. And running.

My eyes were broken and my brain was too.

My heart had been left for dead on the carpet.

My feet were running faster
faster
FASTER.

I ended up at the park. The den at the top of the climbing frame was waiting for me. I hugged my knees to my chest, desperately trying to hold myself together so I didn’t splinter into a thousand pieces. If I let go, no one would ever be able to put the pieces together again.

I was sweating and cold and nothing.

My phone rang. Sal. My phone rang. Nat. My phone rang. Sal. Sal. Sal. Sal. Sal. Sal. A text message. Mum: ‘Where are you? ‘I want you home by midnight.’

Me: ‘Staying at Sal’s. See you tomorrow.’

All I could see was the two of them. The
wrong
two.

1 + 1 = 2

1 + 1 + 1 = broken shards of me

A text from Sal:

‘Grace, PLEASE answer your phone. I need to talk to you. I’M SORRY. This wasn’t meant to happen. It’s all fucked up. PLEASE call me. Where are you? I’m sorry. Call me. x’

I threw the phone out of the window. I wouldn’t be needing it.

I kept thinking about the bra she had on. That bra she bought the other day. Brand-new underwear for a special occasion. The special occasion of fucking my boyfriend.

I kept thinking about him touching her arm. The easy intimacy that doesn’t just come from nowhere.

I kept thinking about them looking at each other. Gazing.

I kept thinking about
         slicing flesh
                    welling blood
                            dizzy high
                                     relief.

Later. A too-bright all-night cafe. Still thinking, drinking cup after cup after cup of coffee until I threw up on the table. Got chucked out.
No tears, not yet
.

The night went on and on and I dreaded the dawn. I didn’t want tomorrow to come. But it did.

Sunday morning and joggers and dogs and people with cappuccinos and newspapers. Up early, making the most of the day. Ignoring the ghost girl wandering among them.

Dazed.
Gazed, gazing, touching, wanting
.

Public toilets. Ghost girl staring back at me in the mirror.

Who are you?

Nobody
.