“Kim? What the hell are you doing out here?” My mum’s voice comes crashing through my sleep. I blink, I rub my eyes. The kitchen light blares down onto me, covering my body in a buzzing glow. My skin is covered with goose-bumps and tiny smudges of blood. I breathe. And I realise that Cheryl is no longer asleep beside me.
“I just...I went out, to clear my head last night. And I didn’t want to wake Amy when I came in...so I stayed here...” I’m a bad liar. I can feel sweat cover the palms of my hands, and my heartbeat beginning to race. But luckily my mum had far more important things to think about. She doesn’t even look at me. She doesn’t notice the dried blood on my hands, oxidised into a dark red, almost black. Peeling away from my skin.
“God Kim, you can’t just go out in the middle of the night, it’s not safe-” She’s tying up her hair. I watch the way the dyed blonde curls tumble down her back. Curls sculptured with hot curling irons. Not messy, straggling and chocolate brown ringlets like Cheryl’s.
“Whatever” I mumble, scraping my own hair up away from my face and blinking.
“Have you seen my bag?” my mum pulls on her heels and glances at her watch.
“No...” I rub my eyes again, rolling my head and hearing my neck click.
“I’ll be back later, try not to be so late home tonight after school, where were you yesterday?”
“Just out. I got a little bit lost when I was coming home.” I mumble, feeling a scrunched up piece of paper digging into my back. My fingernails scrapple on the hot leather, searching for the paper.
“Well don’t you dare do it again, I was worried about you, why weren’t you answering your mobile?”
“I turned it off” I whisper, blinking at the ball of paper now clasped in my hand. I straighten it out slowly, careful not to rip it.
“Jesus Kimberley-” I can hear her breath rushing out through her nose, her nostrils flaring in anger.
“Okay, I’ll answer your calls, stop nagging me-” I snap as she finishes the last of her coffee, tipping the last dregs down her throat.
“Don’t speak to me like that, I’ll talk to you when I get home.” She snaps in reply, already calling to Amy. “Are you ready to go yet?” I ignore her and blink at the paper I’m holding tightly, and it’s covered with scrawling, curling handwriting that crawls across the middle of the page. My heart leaps into my mouth as I realise that it’s Cheryl’s writing.
“Coming-” Amy rushes into the room, her mousy brown hair tied up into a tight ponytail, the sleeves of her brand new school jumper tumbling down over her tiny hands as she grabs her school bag.
“Be good-” my mum aims at me before rushing from the flat, dragging Amy with her and slamming the door behind her.
“Whatever-” I breathe as I cast my eyes downwards and finally read Cheryl’s note. It was only two lines of curling, hurried writing.
‘I didn’t want to wake you, so I let myself out. Thank you for last night. I’ll see you at school? Love, C. xx’
I read it again. And then again. The perfect handwriting. The tall, curling C that dwarfs all the other letters. Love. She wrote love. I stand and as if in a dream I walk, no, float, through the narrow, dark corridor to my bedroom. I pull on a clean shirt and a pair of sheer black tights, so caught up in a world of my own at that I overbalance, almost tumbling over and grabbing onto Amy’s bed to stop myself from falling.
“sh!t!” I whisper through my teeth, glancing at the time on my phone. I suddenly realise that I’m going to be terribly late for school. Only a few minutes ago I was seriously considering never going back to school, and right now I’m worried about being late. I think about Cheryl, and where she might be right now. Maybe she’s on the other side of the thin plasterboard wall, desperately trying to explain to her boyfriend why she didn’t come home last night. Or maybe she’s already on her way to school, kicking her hi-top trainers along the wet pavement, her earphones in, the music blasting away her problems. Or maybe she’s thinking of me, her head filled of memories of the girl she slept beside. Does her skin smell of me, just like my skin still smells of stale cigarettes and hot tears? Does she walk by the mirrored surface of the river, her bruised hands tucked into her jacket pockets, her head down, and does she think about me?
