Two days. Two days of rushing back from school, taking the rattling bus to the hospital. Swinging my legs, scraping the toes of my black converses across the laminate floor as Cheryl dozes. Sometimes talking. Sometimes silence. Sometimes her tiny, dark haired mam sat next to me, her face tight with worry as she watches her youngest daughter sleep. And today it’s Friday. My mam and Amy are going down to London. And Cheryl is finally coming home. All day I’ve dozed through classes, barely noticing the blurry concrete classroom and the loud, rowdy teenagers around me. I rest my head on my hands, staring blankly at the clock. I’m too tired to concentrate. I’m not happy. I’m too worried to be happy. Now that I know she’s going to be okay, I’m too worried about what’s going to happen now. Where she’s going to live. What she’s going to say to me. I glance down at my phone, and my heart leaps as I see a new message. Maybe my hands shake a fraction as I open the message, but I don’t care. Cheryl’s name flashes onto the screen. Five words. Made of tiny pixels on a blanched white screen, lighting up my face. Words that can make me feel...feel...a lot. Too much. I feel too much.
’Can I see you later?’ I wonder if her bruised hands shook as she typed the words. I don’t know.
I blink.
’When?’ I reply quickly, my fingers hovering over the keys for a moment before I click send. And then I instantly regret it. Should I have put kisses? Was I too abrupt? I shake my head a fraction and glance down at my textbook. But her reply is instant.
’As soon as you can. I’m coming home tonight, I can call at yours. At about six, if that’s okay? xxx’Kisses. She left kisses. Three. What do three kisses mean? But I try not to smile at my phone as I reply.
’It’s perfect, it’s great you’re coming home! See you later xx’ Two kisses. What do two kisses mean? Why can’t it be simple? And then I remember her broken body in the floor, her dark, drugged eyes. And I realise that I don’t care. This is never going to be simple. I just send the message. My fingers hover over the keys for another second, running the message over and over in my mind. And then I continue staring at the clock once again. But now a shadow of a smile is still curling across my lips. And my chest feels a little lighter.
I glance back down at the book I’m supposed to be reading. And then up at the clock. And then down at the book once again. And I smile.
***
Nearly seven o’clock. I tap my short fingernails on the cheap wooden kitchen table, running my other hand roughly through my hair. Amy sits beside me, surrounded by colouring pencils and thin white paper, her cheap pencils scratching at the hard table. My mam hovers somewhere near the even cheaper gas cooker. The leather sofa squashed into a corner is piled high with their bags. Down to London for another weekend visiting my dad, another two nights in the cheapest hotel they could find. I’m surprised they even bothered to unpack. I don’t want to think about how much the train tickets cost either, but I know we can’t afford it. I wonder how long it will take before my mam realises this too. And then Amy can go see our dad every other weekend, or maybe every month. And then just in the holidays. And then maybe just hurried phone calls, in between art club and tea, when they don’t really have time to talk. And my little sister will be shy, because she won’t know her dad anymore, and all the memories they have will be blurred by time. I shiver slightly.
“So is she eating with you, do you want me to cook for her too? Me and Amy are catching the train in two hours-” My mam asks, frowning at me. I know she’s concerned. I know she wants to make a good impression. She’s desperate for me to make friends.
“I don’t know” I shrug. Biting my lips. Glancing at the time on my phone.
“What’s she like?” Amy asks, blinking up at me. Colouring pencil still clutched in her chubby hands. I wish I could be young again. Be innocent. I wonder if my memories will ever blur with time, countless seconds all cramming into my mind, until I forget what it feels like to be young and scared. I touch my tongue to my lips. Trying to compress Cheryl into words. It’s like trying to force a lean, velvety panther into a wiry birdcage. I blink.
