Jenny Downham Before I Die

Twenty-one

Zoey comes to the door, her hair a mess. She’s wearing the same clothes as last time I saw her.

‘Coming to the seaside?’ I jangle the car keys at her.

She peers past me to Dad’s car. ‘Did you come here on your own?’

‘Yeah.’

‘But you can’t drive!’

‘I can now. It’s number five on my list.’

She frowns. ‘Have you actually had any lessons?’

‘Sort of. Can I come in?’

She opens the door wider. ‘Wipe your feet, or take your shoes off.’

Her parents’ house is always incredibly tidy, like something from a catalogue. They’re out at work so much I guess they never get a chance to make it messy. I follow Zoey into the lounge and sit on the sofa. She sits opposite me on the edge of the armchair and folds her arms at me.

‘So your dad lent you the car, did he? Even though you’re not insured and it’s completely illegal?’

‘He doesn’t exactly know I’ve got it, but I’m really good at driving! You’ll see. I’d pass my test if I was old enough.’

She shakes her head at me as if she just can’t believe how stupid I am. She should be proud of me. I got away without Dad even noticing. I remembered to check the mirrors before turning on the ignition, then clutch down, into first, clutch up, accelerator down. I managed three times round the block and only stalled twice, which was my best ever. I navigated the roundabout and even got into third gear along the main road to Zoey’s house. And now she’s sitting there glaring at me, like it’s all some terrible mistake.

‘You know,’ I say as I stand and zip my coat back up, ‘I thought if I made it as far as here without crashing, the only difficult thing left would be the dual carriageway. It didn’t cross my mind that you’d be a pain in the arse.’

She shuffles her feet on the floor, as if rubbing something out. ‘Sorry. It’s just I’m kind of busy.’

‘Doing what?’

She shrugs. ‘You can’t assume everyone’s free just because you are.’

I feel something growing inside me as I look at her, and I realize in one absolutely clear moment that I don’t like her at all.

‘You know what?’ I say. ‘Forget it. I’ll do the list by myself.’

She stands up, swings her stupid hair about and tries to look offended. It’s a trick that works with guys, but it makes no difference to the way I feel about her.

‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t come!’

But she’s bored of me, it’s obvious. She wishes I’d hurry up and die so she can get on with her life.

‘No, no, you stay here,’ I tell her. ‘Everything always turns out crap with you around anyway!’

She follows me out into the hallway. ‘No, it doesn’t!’

I turn on the mat. ‘I meant for me. Haven’t you ever noticed how any shit that’s falling always lands on my head, never yours?’

She frowns. ‘When? When does that happen?’

‘All the time. I sometimes wonder if you’re only friends with me so you can keep being the lucky one.’

‘Christ!’ she says. ‘Can you stop going on about yourself for even a minute?’

‘Shut up!’ I tell her. And it feels so good that I say it again.

‘No,’ she says. ‘You shut up,’ but her voice is barely a whisper, which is weird. She takes one small step away, stops as if she’s about to say something else, thinks better of it and runs up the stairs.