They Just Don't Know You

Chapter 4

Jade's POV

Saturday, September 7

How's everything going?

I consider the text from my friend Marcus. He's in the UK, but not South Shields. I met him in year 6, which was three cities before we moved back to my mother's favourite town. Or maybe four. Unlike Karl, who jumps easily into the social scene every time we switch schools, I hang on to my virtual best friend and keep the in-person stuff surface level. It's easier to move on that way. It requires fewer emo playlists anyway.

Let's see. We've been here a week and so far the highlight is yard work.

Marcus sends a few sad face emojis, then adds, It'll pick up when school starts. Have you met any cute preppy New England boys (or girls as of recently!!!) yet?

Just one (girl). But not peppy. And possibly a vandal.

Do tell.

I pause, not sure how to explain my run in with the girl at Caitlin Robinson's fundraiser, when my phone buzzes with a call from a number I don't recognise. My heart leaps and I fire off a quick text to Marcus: Hang on, getting a call about my luggage I hope. I've been in Vermont a full week, and my suitcase is still missing. If it doesn't show up within the next two days, I'm going to have to start school in the clothes my grandmother bought at Echo Ridge's one and only clothes shop. It's called Dalton's Emporium and also sells kitchen goods and hardware, which should tell you everything you need to know about it's fashion cred. No one who's older than 6 or younger than 60 should shop there, ever.

"Hello?"

"Jade, hi!" I almost drop my phone, and when I don't answer, the voice doubles down on its cheerful urgency. "It's me!"

"Yeah, I know." I lower myself stiffly on to my bed, gripping the phone in my suddenly sweaty palm. "How are you calling me?"

Norma's tone turns reproachful. "You don't sound very happy to hear from me."

"It's just...I thought we were supposed to start talking next Thursday." Those were the rules of rehab, according to Nana: 15 minute Skype sessions once a week after two full weeks of treatment had been completed. Not random calls from an unknown number.

"The rules here are ridiculous," Norma says. I can practically hear the eye roll in her voice. "One of the aides is letting me use her phone. She's a Defender fan." The only speaking role Norma ever had was in the first instalment of what turned out to be a huge action serious in the '90s. The Defender, about a down-on-his-luck soldier turned avenging cyborg. She played a sexy robot named Zeta Voltes, and even though she had only one line, That does not compute, there are still fan websites dedicated to the character. "I'm dying to see you, pet. Let's switch to FaceTime."

I pause before hitting Accept, because I'm not ready for this. At all. But what am I going to do, hang up on my mother? Within seconds, Norma's face fills the screen, bright with anticipation. She looks the same as ever, identical cheekbones to me, with her hair short and straightened. I see the dimple in her right cheek flash with a smile, and I force myself to mirror it back. "There you are!" she crows. Then a frown creases her forehead. "What's going on with your hair?"

My chest constricts. "Is that seriously the first thing you have to say to me?"

I haven't talked to Norma since she checked into Hamilton House, the pricey rehab centre Nana's paying for. Considering she demolished an entire shop-front, Norma lucked out: she didn't hurt herself or anyone else, and she wound up in front of a judge who believes in treatment instead of jail time. But she's never been particularly grateful. Everyone and everything else is at fault: the doctor who gave her too strong a prescription, bad lighting on the street, our car's ancient brakes. It didn't fully hit me until just now, sitting in a bedroom that belongs to a grandmother I barely know, listening to Norma criticise my hair through a phone that someone could probably get fired for giving her, how infuriating it all it.