The Worst Day of My Life
by Clementine Darcy

Today, when we came to class, you had written something on the whiteboard:

‘Every step you take is your own, and the direction in which it takes you is the one you choose. Only dead fish swim with the stream.’

You looked at us. ‘We are not defined by the moments of our life. We are not defined by our histories. Every second of every day is the second we can change it all.’ You perched on the corner of your desk and smoothed your argyle jumper. ‘But it helps to look at the moments we have lived and see what effect they had on the person we have become. It helps us to shed those moments. To move forward.’

And then you wrote today’s topic on the board. ‘The Worst Day of My Life.’

I didn’t start writing straight away. I stared at the words you’d written first – about the dead fish.

And I thought: I am swimming with the stream.

Worse than that, my brother is not swimming at all. He’s sunk to the bottom of the fish pond. He’s not even floating anymore.

He’s dead inside.

The only way to save him is for me to swim like crazy, for the both of us. I have to do it for him, Ms Hiller. I have to fix him.

The worst day of my life was when Fergus went into his room and didn’t come back.

The day started normally. Fergus came down to breakfast with us, and he said ‘Good morning’ and made himself a strong coffee and thumbed through the entertainment section of the paper, like he always did. But then, when Dad put some toast in front of him, he said, ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Maybe you’d prefer if I made you a . . . yak brûlée?’ I asked in a dodgy French accent. Ever since he’d first started his training, I’d made fun of the posh-sounding menu items he had to create, changing the ingredients to the most bizarre things I could think of. ‘A gnu bouillabaisse, perhaps? Meerkat mousse? What do you sink?’

I was trying to cheer him up, Ms H, in my own clumsy way. Because I’d discovered something the night before.

After the birthday dinner, in the middle of the night, I woke up thirsty. I got up for a glass of blackcurrant cordial, and I was in the pantry when Fergus came into the kitchen talking on his phone.

‘Please, Lyssie. Don’t do this to me.’

I shrank back into the darkness.

‘But he’s my friend,’ Fergus said. ‘How could you . . . I mean, it’s Phil! He’s my best . . . I know. I know you told me, but I still thought . . . Come on, Lyssie. It’s been a horrible week . . . You heard about work? Of course, Phil told you. It’s crap, Lyssie. I did nothing wrong. I just didn’t turn up one . . . No. I don’t want to talk about why. I don’t want to talk about it at all.’

There was a long pause then. I held my breath. Finally, he spoke again.

‘I understand, Lyssie. I’m not Phil. I’m not smart. I’m not studying to be an architect. I’m not even that good a chef. I’m pathetic. I know you have to go, Lyssie. Phil’s waiting. Okay. I love you. Lyssie? Lyssie, it’s my birthday . . . I know. I know you never meant to . . . I know that . . . I just love you. I love you. Lyssie?’

I heard Fergus’s phone beep as he hung up. I heard it clatter as he dropped it to the floor. I heard him sit down, heavily, on one of the kitchen stools. And then I heard something I hadn’t heard for a very long time.

I heard Fergus cry.

Some time later – long enough that every limb on my body had gone to sleep – I heard the scrape of Fergus’s chair against the kitchen tiles, and I heard the creak of the fifth step as he went upstairs.

I pushed myself up unsteadily from the pantry floor. I looked at the bottle of Ribena. I couldn’t stomach it anymore. My belly ached with worry. Fergus and Alyssa had broken up. And Fergus had lost his job?

Why hadn’t he told us?

The next morning, though, Fergus seemed normal. Quieter than usual, perhaps, but not crying. Not calling himself pathetic. And so I thought everything was all right, and cracked my dumb meerkat mousse joke.

‘Do you not find me funnee, Monsieur Losér?’ I followed on, making fun of him, the way we always made fun of each other. I poked him on the arm. ‘Remember what Jimmy Buffett says, hey? We’ll go insane if we can’t laugh!’

Fergus looked, slowly, up from his plate. His eyes were empty. ‘Sorry,’ he said. And then he went upstairs. To his room. And closed the door.

‘Oh no,’ I groaned.

‘What’s up, honey?’ Dad asked.

‘He lost his job,’ I said, quietly. ‘But he seemed fine this morning, and so I thought . . . I shouldn’t have teased him like that.’

Dad looked shocked. ‘He lost his job?’

‘And Lyssie dumped him,’ I added, wincing.

Dad sat down on the kitchen stool. ‘Oh no,’ he said quietly. ‘Poor Gus.’

‘I’m going to talk to him.’ I pushed my stool back roughly and sprinted up the stairs, two at a time.

I knocked on Fergus’s door. ‘Come on, Fergus,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about what I said. I’m sorry I made you angry. I know you mucked up at work. And with Alyssa. Do you want to talk?’

For ages, there was silence. Then Fergus said, ‘Piss off, Clementine.’

I tramped slowly back down the stairs. Hot tears rolled down my cheeks.

I stayed home from school that day. I told Dad I felt sick, and he didn’t question me. He and Mum stayed home, too (a big deal for Mum), and had hushed conversations in their bedroom, with the door locked. I mostly stayed in my room. A few times, though, I went up to Fergus’s door and knocked, softly.

He didn’t answer.

‘Do you think he’s okay?’ I asked Mum tearfully when she and Dad came to visit me.

Mum put her arms around me and squeezed. She kissed the top of my head and said, into my hair, ‘I don’t know.’

One year on, we still don’t know, Ms Heller.

One year on, Fergus still won’t come out of his room, at least not when we’re around. We know he emerges while we’re at work and school. Food is disappearing. Books get taken from the bookshelves and put back. He borrowed my Doctor Who series once.

He’s alive. But he’s drifting. He’s floating away.

I mucked everything up. I have to make it right again.