at last. ‘It’s just, like, a thing. I breathe too fast, stuff like that.’
‘Oh, OK.’ I sense that he nods, although obviously I can’t
look
at him, so I can’t be sure.
Simply sitting here and not running away feels like riding a rodeo. It’s taking a major effort. My hands are twisting themselves up in knots. I have an aching desire to grab my T-shirt and start shredding it to bits, only I have vowed to Dr Sarah that I will
stop
shredding my clothes. So I will not shred my top. Even though it would make me feel a ton better; even though my fingers are dying to find a place of safety.
‘They should teach us this stuff in biology lessons,’ says Linus. ‘This is way more interesting than the life cycle of the amoeba. Can I sit down?’ he adds awkwardly.
‘Sure.’
He perches on the edge of the sofa and – I can’t help it – I edge away.
‘Is this to do with everything that . . . happened?’
‘A bit.’ I nod. ‘So you know about that.’
‘I just heard stuff. You know. Everyone was talking about it.’
A sick feeling rises up inside me. How many times has Dr Sarah said to me, ‘Audrey, everyone is not talking about you’? Well, she’s wrong.
‘Freya Hill’s gone to my cousin’s school,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know what happened to Izzy Lawton or Tasha Collins.’
I recoil at the names. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Oh. OK. Fair enough.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘So, you wear dark glasses a lot.’
‘Yeah.’
There’s a silence which I can sense he’s waiting for me to fill.
And actually, why
not
tell him? If I don’t, Frank probably will.
‘I find eye contact hard,’ I admit. ‘Even with my family. It’s too . . . I dunno. Too much.’
‘OK.’ He digests this for a moment. ‘Can you do anything contact? Do you email?’
‘No.’ I swallow down a wince. ‘I don’t do email at the moment.’
‘But you write notes.’
‘Yes. I write notes.’
There’s quiet for a moment, then a piece of paper arrives by my side, on the sofa. On it is written one word:
Hi.
I smile at it, and reach for a pen.
Hi.
I pass it back along the sofa. The next minute it appears again, and we’re into a backwards and forwards conversation, all on paper.
Is this easier than talking?
A bit.
Sorry I mentioned your dark glasses. Sore point.
That’s OK.
I remember your eyes from before.
Before?
I came round once to see Frank.
I noticed your eyes then.
They’re blue, right?
I can’t believe he registered the colour of my eyes.
Yes. Well remembered.
I’m sorry you have to go through all this.
Me too.
It won’t be for ever. You’ll be in the dark for as long as it takes and then you’ll come out.
I stare at what he’s written, a bit taken aback. He sounds so confident.
You think?
My aunt grows special rhubarb in dark sheds. They keep it dark and warm all winter and harvest it by candlelight, and it’s the best stuff. She sells it for a fortune, btw.
So, what, I’m rhubarb?
Why not? If rhubarb needs time in the dark, maybe you do too.
I’m RHUBARB?!
There’s a long pause. Then the paper arrives back under my nose. He’s done a drawing of a rhubarb stalk with dark glasses on. I can’t help a snort of laughter.
‘So, I’d better go.’ He gets to his feet.
‘OK. Nice to . . . you know. Chat.’
‘Same. Well, bye then. See you soon.’
I lift a hand, my face twisted resolutely away, desperately wishing that I could turn towards him, telling myself to turn – but not turning.
They talk about ‘body language’, as if we all speak it the same. But everyone has their own dialect. For me right now, for example, swivelling my body right away and staring rigidly at the corner means ‘I like you.’ Because I didn’t run away and shut myself in the bathroom.
I just hope he realizes that.
At my next appointment with Dr Sarah, she watches my documentary so far, while making notes.
Mum has come to the appointment, as
‘Oh, OK.’ I sense that he nods, although obviously I can’t
look
at him, so I can’t be sure.
Simply sitting here and not running away feels like riding a rodeo. It’s taking a major effort. My hands are twisting themselves up in knots. I have an aching desire to grab my T-shirt and start shredding it to bits, only I have vowed to Dr Sarah that I will
stop
shredding my clothes. So I will not shred my top. Even though it would make me feel a ton better; even though my fingers are dying to find a place of safety.
‘They should teach us this stuff in biology lessons,’ says Linus. ‘This is way more interesting than the life cycle of the amoeba. Can I sit down?’ he adds awkwardly.
‘Sure.’
He perches on the edge of the sofa and – I can’t help it – I edge away.
‘Is this to do with everything that . . . happened?’
‘A bit.’ I nod. ‘So you know about that.’
‘I just heard stuff. You know. Everyone was talking about it.’
A sick feeling rises up inside me. How many times has Dr Sarah said to me, ‘Audrey, everyone is not talking about you’? Well, she’s wrong.
‘Freya Hill’s gone to my cousin’s school,’ he continues. ‘I don’t know what happened to Izzy Lawton or Tasha Collins.’
I recoil at the names. ‘I don’t really want to talk about it.’
‘Oh. OK. Fair enough.’ He hesitates, then says, ‘So, you wear dark glasses a lot.’
‘Yeah.’
There’s a silence which I can sense he’s waiting for me to fill.
And actually, why
not
tell him? If I don’t, Frank probably will.
‘I find eye contact hard,’ I admit. ‘Even with my family. It’s too . . . I dunno. Too much.’
‘OK.’ He digests this for a moment. ‘Can you do anything contact? Do you email?’
‘No.’ I swallow down a wince. ‘I don’t do email at the moment.’
‘But you write notes.’
‘Yes. I write notes.’
There’s quiet for a moment, then a piece of paper arrives by my side, on the sofa. On it is written one word:
Hi.
I smile at it, and reach for a pen.
Hi.
I pass it back along the sofa. The next minute it appears again, and we’re into a backwards and forwards conversation, all on paper.
Is this easier than talking?
A bit.
Sorry I mentioned your dark glasses. Sore point.
That’s OK.
I remember your eyes from before.
Before?
I came round once to see Frank.
I noticed your eyes then.
They’re blue, right?
I can’t believe he registered the colour of my eyes.
Yes. Well remembered.
I’m sorry you have to go through all this.
Me too.
It won’t be for ever. You’ll be in the dark for as long as it takes and then you’ll come out.
I stare at what he’s written, a bit taken aback. He sounds so confident.
You think?
My aunt grows special rhubarb in dark sheds. They keep it dark and warm all winter and harvest it by candlelight, and it’s the best stuff. She sells it for a fortune, btw.
So, what, I’m rhubarb?
Why not? If rhubarb needs time in the dark, maybe you do too.
I’m RHUBARB?!
There’s a long pause. Then the paper arrives back under my nose. He’s done a drawing of a rhubarb stalk with dark glasses on. I can’t help a snort of laughter.
‘So, I’d better go.’ He gets to his feet.
‘OK. Nice to . . . you know. Chat.’
‘Same. Well, bye then. See you soon.’
I lift a hand, my face twisted resolutely away, desperately wishing that I could turn towards him, telling myself to turn – but not turning.
They talk about ‘body language’, as if we all speak it the same. But everyone has their own dialect. For me right now, for example, swivelling my body right away and staring rigidly at the corner means ‘I like you.’ Because I didn’t run away and shut myself in the bathroom.
I just hope he realizes that.
At my next appointment with Dr Sarah, she watches my documentary so far, while making notes.
Mum has come to the appointment, as
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