Candy [MCCARTNEY]

NINE

THERE'S NO RAINBOWS

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"You told me you were studying."

I lowered my paperback of Dawn slightly to find Mum in my doorway, watching me coolly. If this were the wild, she'd be a crocodile, observing me from the lake.

"I am. I'm taking a break," I responded softly, trying not to ignite the flame that had burned so intensely from the moment Mum picked me up the morning after, reeking of alcohol and vomiting into a plastic bag on the drive home.

"Well," she glanced around my room. "You can clean this place up when we get back home, too, please."

I dropped the book into my lap. "No, Mum, please – I can't go this week. I've really got to study."

"No. Not after what you did. You're coming."

"Mum, please. I swear."

The duel began. Her eyes bore into mine, her mouth pursed. She looked so icy and determined in her navy blouse and silver jewelry that couldn't help but emphasise how much I resembled my father instead. That probably didn't help my situation. . .

"Fine, Rebecca," Mum snapped, marching further into my room, holding out her hand. "But give me your phone."

"Seriously? I haven't even turned it on since—"

"Don't care. Hand it over."

Huffing, I pulled out my phone from where it lay under my pillowcase and she grabbed my laptop, too.

"Cut the attitude. You can use the textbooks for once," Mum said, leaving my room with her loot. "And stop reading Virginia Andrews novels."

Closing my eyes, I fell back against my bed, not even truly bothered with my internet ban. I hadn't summoned the courage to check any of my social media since Saturday, which wasn't too hard anyway since I was distracted with nausea and a mountain of a headache. And yet, when this morning rolled around and my fingers itched for my phone, I couldn't bring myself to open an app and hear from George what stupid things I did.

I knew I had gotten very drunk — I had blurry memories of fumbling around. Visions of Stu Sutcliffe's face. Paul's face. The feel of grass on skin and the image of getting into a car. I couldn't remember how I made my way to the bedroom.

If I'm being completely honest, I just didn't want to know what happened. If something did happen, it was better I didn't remember. All I knew was that I saw Paul's face at the party and that was all I wanted to know. The end. Fin. Story's over.

If I made a fool of myself and turned him off me completely, then I never wanted to see him again. If we crossed paths at the party and he saw me somehow hook up with someone else, then I never wanted to see him again. If he saw me and I saw him and nothing happened, then I never wanted to see him again.

Propping my socked feet up on my bedroom wall, I examined my options. It wasn't looking good, and yet: I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Although, that's nothing new, isn't it?

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