‘You do know I’m a massive atheist, right?’ I’m not sure I should be risking one of my only Balmoral friendships, but honesty seems important right now.
‘Of course, Chloe. I’ve matured a lot. I can be friends with non-believers.’
Lisbeth picks up my photo and dusts it off. She takes off her blazer and lays the photo carefully on top of it.
Something dawns on me.
‘Hang on, Lisbeth, are you wagging class?’
‘I am. I should be in Maths right now.’ She looks equal parts terrified and pleased. ‘It’s my first time, but it turns out to be quite easy, especially if you have chronic sinusitis. Mr Scrutton thinks I’m in sick bay.’ She pats me on the arm. ‘I’ll stay for as long as you need me, Chloe. And I’m going to pray for you extra-hard tonight.’
‘Thanks Lisbeth.’ I’m in danger of tearing up again. I may be a heathen but I know praying is her way of showing she cares and I’m grateful. ‘Don’t go overboard. Just one little mention will do.’
Mum is on the night shift so I deadlock the front and back doors and give in to Sam’s demands to paint his nails, toes and fingers. I was so busy on the school holidays that he is super thirsty for my attention. We had to send him on a council holiday program for the first time in ages, and I’m full of guilt.
Sam chooses a Disney soundtrack playlist and instead of complaining I sing along. It blocks any thoughts I might have had about messaging anyone or hopping online to vent or rant or see if anyone even cares about my photo.
I paint Sam’s fingernails alternating blue and red, with silver stripes down the centre of each nail. Superhero nails, sort of. He’s so excited he can barely sit still, and I keep smudging the stripes. I sincerely hope the kids in his class think they’re as cool as he does.
My phone beeps and I lean over to see who it is. Mum, plus three unread messages.
Mum—feeling sorry for me obviously—authorises takeout for dinner using her credit card.
Lisbeth forgot what chapters we were supposed to revise for Japanese—easy. I text her back.
Katie wants to sneak into the dodgy pub next to Meridian—definitely not.
Natalia wants to discuss ‘our next move’—hard no.
I’m caught between being hurt that Natalia didn’t confide in me about Yin, and feeling terrible that I made her pose like that. Her reaction makes more sense now. I hope I didn’t traumatise her.
I can see from my notifications that Bochen has sent me a Facebook message too. Every message makes my head hurt even more.
‘And then Louis gave me a go only the batteries were almost flat so I only got five minutes but do you think Mum would buy me one? Not the old model, the new one.’
Sam has been erupting words, an unending monologue, for at least an hour now. I’m trying, but I can only keep focus for so long before my mind wanders, going back to the same few sore scenes. Petra shunning me in the library. Ms Nouri’s office. The common room.
Petra’s right. I’ve been at Balmoral for less than a year and clearly I don’t understand anything or anyone. I could finish her sentence for her: you haven’t been here as long, and by the way—in case you haven’t figured it out yet—you still don’t belong.
‘Why don’t you put it on your list for Santa?’ I say, even though Mum has been trying to break that particular news to him for two years now. Sam’s not ready to let Santa go.
I look at his too-long hair and his grimy pyjamas and worry about whether everything lovely about him will be lost when he becomes a teenager. I’ve no intention whatsoever of leaving the house tonight when I could be home, where I belong, with one of the best people I know.
‘I could and I suppose it’s not that far away when you think about it and do you think maybe there’ll be a sale before then—’
When I slot the brush into the bottle of polish, I accidentally topple the neighbouring bottle, sending a pool of sticky red across the couch cushion.
‘No!’ I’m up in a flash, righting the bottle and dithering. I blot the puddle with my sleeve, only to realise I’ve just ruined my favourite hoodie.
‘Fuckety fuckety fuck!’
‘Swears, Chloe!’ Sam is halfway between disapproving and impressed.
My jumper comes off in a huff.
‘Why are you so upset?’ Sam asks, and it’s a good question. My eyes are prickling again. I screw all three nail polish lids on slowly and perfectly until the tears subside.
I will not cry any more because I’m sick of red eyes and having a raw nose because Mum is too tight to buy the good aloe tissues.
‘I’ll give you a foot massage, that always makes you feel better.’
‘You can’t, Sammy, your nails are wet.’
I’m angry, boiling hot, but I don’t know if I even have the right to feel that way, so I am just stuffing the feeling deep down in a very healthy, sustainable way.
‘Watch me do a headstand then, I’ve got much better.’
‘Your nails!’ I say, but Sam doesn’t hear me, or he ignores me, and he has his blue toenails up in the air and his sticky fingers squishing into the carpet before I can stop him.
Dad calls late and I know that Mum must have told him what happened. Sam has emptied himself of every thought he’s ever had and is asleep on the couch.
Dad speaks in a low voice, and I know from the clink and echo that he’s sitting on his porch with a beer, watching fruit bats whirl around overhead.
‘Chloe, I’m so sorry, mate.’
There is a clot in my throat that won’t let me speak. I fiddle with the pens in the mug on my desk.
‘It’s senseless, love. You made a beautiful piece of art that meant something.’
‘But what did it mean?’ I don’t speak
