My Favourite Part

51: yes, mum

That first Monday back was... tough. It was a day of obsessively checking my email inbox on the library computer, walking past his office every chance I got, and frantically scouring each corridor before I walked down it so that in case he'd dyed his hair or somehow grown shorter, I wouldn't miss him.

At home, Mum asked if I'd seen him. I said no. I asked if it was because of her – if she'd said something to him or to the school. She said no. I asked if she planned to. She didn't answer that one. She fixed her eyes on the kitchen top and kept chopping without a word.

My stomach's been in a perpetual state of knots since then. He didn't show up for the rest of the week – not to assembly, not to lunch, not to the bench in the orchard where he takes his cigarette breaks.

He hasn't answered any of my messages, either. And every time a teacher calls my name, I blanche, expecting everything to come crashing down – Mum's called them, Eric's been fired, and I am in a shitload of trouble.

Then Thursday came and passed as though it was any other day, and that was when it started to hurt. Like, 'deep in the pit of your soul, you know something is very wrong' hurt. Not even the rumour mill had anything useful in its blades to soothe me. Dylan heard from Katie R who heard from Connor G that "Macklin's moved to Luxembourg", but

I throw my head back against my pillow with a groan, tired of thinking. Would sneaking to his house be too far?

My laptop pings from beneath my bed, just in time to interrupt my conspiring. The little bubble onscreen shows a Skype request.

Incoming call from The Taco Belles...

"Hola!" Babe's face pops up alongside Caz's, with a smile that'd be contagious if I could muster one. "We were talking about Saturday – did you get permission from your mum yet?"

'Saturday' is when Babe turns 19. Or, Sunday, rather. Babe's the oldest of the three of us, and ever since her 16th birthday, it's our tradition to throw midnight parties – the party starts early, but at 12 on the dot, you blow out your candles and celebrate like there's no tomorrow. Midnight parties are not to be missed. The only issue is that this year, I'm grounded.

I sigh and scratch my temple,

"Not yet, guys. Forgot to ask, I'm sorry."

Caz winces in disapproval when she strains and hears a familiar song playing from my phone.

"Ange. Tell me, you're not listening to 1,000 Miles again, are you? Is this a cry for help?"

I try to laugh it off, but the gnawing stomach pain won't let me. "Just sort of worried about it still, I don't know. I don't get it. I mean, he should have tried to reach me by now, right?"

"Hon, I'm sure he's just still shaken from everything that happened last week. I know you guys'll talk soon."

There's such sincerity in Caz's empathetic red-lipped pout, and she always knows the right thing to say. I just wish I believed her.

"Yeah..."

"And until then..." Babe says, her tone rising as she attempts to lift the dampened mood, "think about fun things. Like my party! And you getting permission to come to my party. I swear to God, Angie, I'll cancel the whole thing if you don't."

"Alright, alright, let's not get drastic. Maybe I can-"

I'm about to propose a permission-acquiring plan of action when there's a quick three wraps on my door – Mum. I motion to the girls to stay quiet as I tuck my laptop back under my bed.