Seven o’clock Saturday morning I go out to do my paper route and I can’t see my hand in front of my face. A dense sea mist is covering our end of the Island. No one’s out, not even Mrs. Saddler with Jeremy. She’ll probably just chuck him in the back garden today. Me and Trudy run on the beach whatever.
My marathon trainer says running on sand will strengthen my muscles. He thinks I could win. I really, really want to win because you get interviewed by the papers. I’ve already decided what I’m going to say and I know it’s completely insane but it could be my one and only hope.
Dad, if you’re reading this then you know I’ve won the Junior County Marathon but it’s not worth it unless you come home or at least ring me.
How else am I going to find him? Mum never talks about him so I have to try and find him myself.
I’ll give them my cell phone number to print in case he’s lost it.
It’s freezing and my hands inside my thermal mountain gloves are already numb. I’ll probably die from frostbite. Can it actually kill you or is it just that your fingers drop off? Would that be worse than death?
I had asked Kim what she thought would be worse.
“Never hearing Mozart again,” she’d said, still running her fingers over her legs, and that was in the lunch queue.
She was really strange yesterday. I was shooting baskets with Samir after lunch. He’s always on his own and anyway he’s sort of nice, quieter than the other boys. Once we started, a couple of other kids joined in and then I saw Kim on the other side of the playground. I called out to her but she just ignored me.
What was that all about?
I didn’t get another chance to ask her. We were in different classes in the afternoon and then she disappeared off to band practice straight after school.
I shift the cart with the newspapers into my other hand and start to jog to try and keep warm. The foghorns are moaning out on the Solent, that’s the bit of sea between Hayling and the Isle of Wight where Grandpa was going to teach me to sail, only then he died. The shrouds are jingling and rattling away on the boats down at the yacht club. They make me feel a bit like one of those old sailors navigating the streets in the fog, wondering if I’ll fall off the edge of the flat world.
By the time I make it back to the newspaper store I’m a total block of ice.
Chaz hands me a mug of coffee. “You’re a proper little star, Alix. Cold as a monkey’s bum out there, wouldn’t catch no London kids out on a morning like this.”
Chaz looks a bit like a jockey, small and thin and sort of wired up all the time. He’s always dashing around the shop, straightening the papers, filling up the cold cabinet. He’s got very pale skin, with red blotches on his face. His hair is short and mouse brown and he combs it back all the time with a plastic comb he keeps in his shirt pocket.
“Bet it’s warmer in London,” I grumble, almost burning my numb fingers off on the hot mug.
But Chaz loves the Island. He tells everyone, “Wouldn’t never live nowhere else now.”
I’m so cold I sprint all the way home and throw myself down in the living room with Trudy on my lap and the log-effect gas fire up full.
I’m sort of dozing when I hear a crash and a loud scream. Oh my God! Mum! I rush in the kitchen and find the teapot in pieces on the floor and Mum running her hand under the cold tap. “Burned myself,” she says in a wobbly voice.
I can’t even doze without her winding me up, so I go upstairs to finish my homework.
By midday Mum is already comatose in front of the telly. I swear I nearly got out Grandpa’s ladder last night to climb onto the roof and knock down the aerial. Only the thought of having to talk to Mum all day actually stopped me.
“Walk,” I say to Trudy, and she jumps up with a little bark of delight.
I leap the stairs in two halves, it’s only a small cottage, and clip her leash on before she goes completely mad, crashing into the front door.
“Just off to the beach,” I call out.
No answer. Mum’s still asleep. Excellent.
Out in the street the sea mist is worse if that’s possible. I can’t even see Mrs. Saddler’s house across the road but I can smell the wood smoke from her fire. That’s one of my favorite smells, up there with lemon peel and Prada perfume, which Kim gave me last Christmas and makes me feel, well, really sexy when I wear it and we go out to a club.
We’re really too young to get into clubs and Kim is really small, she only comes up to my chin, but she has long dark brown hair with these amazing red lights in it and under the strobes they sort of glitter. I’m almost five six, which is great for running, but I’m too skinny, not really pretty or attractive like Kim.
At New Year’s, Jaxie, Kim’s big sister, who’s eighteen and works weekends in a club in Portsmouth, got us in for free. It was awesome. Kim was seriously worried about someone spiking our drinks; we only drank Budweiser from the bottle. She worries about everything. Even crossing the road at traffic lights. We danced with two of the 12th-year boys and even made out. Maybe they’ll be at the Spring Rave tonight. Kim managed to rip herself away from Mozart long enough yesterday to say, “Yes, of course we’re still going.”
Down the yacht club road the sea mist is so thick I can’t see the clubhouse at the end of the point. There’s a salty seaweed smell in the air and a lot of rubbish has washed up overnight onto the main beach on the Solent side.
The tide is in and the water is very choppy. It’s that cold gray color that makes you shiver just to look at it.
It’s getting colder, if that’s possible, and even I don’t think it’s safe to run in this.
Trudy’s already looking up at me as if to say, Isn’t it lunchtime yet?
Why do dogs only think about food?
Why do mums and dads, well my mum and dad, only think about themselves? Then I have the thought I’ve had so many times before, I’m sick of it. Why did Dad disappear off the face of the earth? He could’ve kept in touch with me at least. It’s not as if he’s a spy and switched sides, or lost his memory or become an astronaut. It didn’t always used to be like this. Dad and I used to do loads of stuff like go bowling. When we got to the bowling alley, we’d put on our special shoes, then we’d always talk American. We’d say things like Mom and fries and cookies and pants.
Dad would say, “Hey, Alix, pull your pants up,” or I’d say, “Hey, Dad, I need some new pants!” and everyone would turn around and stare and expect to see me wearing my underpants over my jeans. We’d both scream with laughter.
Then a familiar voice thuds me back to the real world. “Hi, Alix.”
It’s Samir, emerging from the mist like a ghost.