12

Even though Mrs Fletcher manages to bandage me up very well, I still get sent home for the rest of the day.

For a while, I sit in a chair outside Mrs Fletcher’s office, still in my rugby kit. I get the impression that Mrs Fletcher doesn’t want to let me get changed, because that would involve leaving me alone for too long. I kind of don’t blame her, but I feel very self-conscious sitting here like this.

She phones several people while I sit outside the office. On the bright side, it would seem that her office is soundproof after all, though she is clearly keeping an eye on me through that glass wall. I don’t know who any of the people she phones are, and after a while, I stop being able to keep track of how many calls she places. When she put me out here, all she said was that she had to speak to a few people. She didn’t tell me who, though she did say it wasn’t her place to call my parents.

This was definitely ominous – saying that it wasn’t her place implied to me that it was someone else’s. Presumably my head of year, or the school nurse. I know I have no choice in the matter. Even if I had a legitimate reason for not wanting my parents to know, they probably have safeguarding shit to think about. And, of course, I can’t tell the teachers the real reason why I don’t want my parents to know.

I’ve been avoiding this situation for months, but now it’s here, I feel oddly calm. Well, part of me feels like crying, and part of me feels like throwing something… but it’s all detached. My main body – if that’s a thing – feels numb. Even after everything that’s happened in the last hour… I feel nothing. I’m an empty vessel, frankly.

I’m watching out the window as I see the rest of the class coming back into the changing rooms from the rounders pitch. If they hadn’t changed the sports schedule today then I would be out there with my friends, not tired in the slightest from an hour of dodging the rugby ball. Luckily, no one seems to see me sat outside Mrs Fletcher’s office as they go past.

Then the door to the block of offices swings open, and Mr Stuart walks into the room. He already has a little frown on his face, but when he sees me, he looks all the more confused. “Why are you here?” he asks sharply.

I see his gaze go down to my bandaged arm, and once again I try to hold the arm close to my stomach. I stare down at my shoes. “Mrs Fletcher told me to sit here,” I say at last, my voice oddly hoarse.

“Hmm,” is the only response that I get from him. Still, his gaze leaves me and I relax slightly in relief. As he looks up, I see him catch Mrs Fletcher’s eye. I can’t see her response as I face straight ahead, but she must wave him away, because with a final frown at me, he turns and leaves the block.

He’s going to come back, though, I know. Even if it’s after I leave. Eventually, he’s going to have to know. How many more of my teachers are going to have to be told? How many of my teachers has Mrs Fletcher already phoned while I sit awkwardly in this waiting room, tracing patterns on the carpet with my foot?

It’s not long after Mr Stuart leaves that Mrs Fletcher finally comes out of her office. I look up immediately, realising as I do that I must seem jumpy. Mrs Fletcher gives me a kind smile.

“I’ve just spoken to the school nurse,” she tells me, her voice still gentle. “She’s called your mum. She’ll be along to collect you soon.”

I drop my eyes back down to my lap. I feel tears coming and I know I have to hold them back. Nodding quickly at Mrs Fletcher, I blink hard. I’m not sure exactly why I’m about to cry; I don’t feel sad, or even panicky. I just feel… drained. Today has been too much.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe, without looking up.

There’s a little pause as I suspect Mrs Fletcher is frowning down at me again. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she says, sounding a little surprised. “No one’s angry at you.”

(This is patently untrue; but in Mrs Fletcher’s defence, she probably thinks she is telling the truth.)

I bite my lip hard, and somehow I still can’t look up. For a second, Mrs Fletcher hovers next to me; but then she sits down on the chair next to me and reaches over to touch my shoulder again. “You’re going to be alright,” she says kindly.

I nod automatically. I don’t know what other response to that there is.

Mrs Fletcher sighs quietly. “Are you sure there isn’t anything…?” She trails off, her head tilted sympathetically at me.

This feels absurd; for so long I’ve wanted to talk to someone, for someone to notice how much pain I’m in. Why am I not telling Mrs Fletcher anything? Shouldn’t I be jumping at the chance? For a crazy second, I consider blurting out everything. But I can’t. I shake my head firmly. I wish there was something easy that I could confess, something that Mrs Fletcher could actually help with.

I can tell that she’s not satisfied, but she squeezes my shoulder lightly before giving it a pat. “Your mum will be here soon,” she tells me again. “Shall I walk you to the main office? You can wait for her there.”

I swallow. “What did they tell her?” I ask at last.

Mrs Fletcher hesitates. “That you hurt yourself today, I think,” she tells me cautiously. “And – I expect – that you’ve done it before.” Head still tilted, Mrs Fletcher sighs again. “To be fair… you haven’t told us very much. There isn’t much to pass on.”

I guess she has a point. Though, that being said, I know she means it as a bad thing. As if the more I share, the more they will be able to help me. But really, right now, I’m just glad that I’ve managed to dodge almost every question that Mrs Fletcher could have thought to throw my way.

Maybe that’s obvious on my face, because Mrs Fletcher looks a little sad. “You’ll get there,” she says heavily. The statement in itself is somewhat ambiguous, but I kind of know what she means. And I know that she means it kindly. Whether I will get there, or not…

“Come on,” she says. “Let me walk you to the main office.”

She doesn’t trust me to get there safely on my own is the implication, but I nod and stand up. For a moment I dither as to whether to cover my bandaged arm with my sleeve; but actually, I think the massive blood stain is going to displease my mum more than the bandage. At least the bandage is still white. Unspoiled. Less aggravating.

Mrs Fletcher and I walk to the main office in silence, stopping only at the changing rooms to grab my school bag. Luckily, everyone has finished changing back into their school uniforms by now. When we reach reception, Mrs Fletcher gives a quick but significant look at the ancient receptionist, presumably to tell her to make sure I don’t go anywhere, and turns to me.

“You’re going to be OK,” she says gently, and, touching my shoulder again, she leaves me alone to wait for my mum. I wonder, briefly, what she will tell her husband about her day. If I will feature or if she will gloss over it. If she knows that there is a lot that I’m not telling her.

This train of thought ends abruptly when the door to reception buzzes, and my mother steps into the long room. The look on her face is enough to tell me that it’s not going to be a fun ride home.

She says a few words to the receptionist as I grab my school bag. Of course, to the receptionist, she is polite and friendly; but the fact that she won’t even meet my eye isn’t a great sign. When I have collected up all my things, my mum turns without a word and walks out the door she came in through, out to the car park. I don’t say anything either, even as we reach the car and get inside. It’s only when my mum is starting the engine that the silence is finally broken.

“Whatever’s wrong,” my mum says tersely, “this isn’t the way to deal with it.”

I sigh. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say here; all I know is that I am determined not to apologise. For one thing, it’s none of her business. What I do to my body is up to me. Besides, really – does she have a leg to stand on when it comes to this issue?

I stay stonily silent. For a minute, so does my mum. I’m not sure if she’s just concentrating on driving as she backs out of the parking space and joins the road.

But before too long, she speaks again. “This shouldn’t be your way of dealing with… stress,” she says snappily, sharply.

I speak before my mind has time to remind my mouth to shut up. “Stress,” I repeat, and my voice surprises me in how harshly it comes out. “Stress?!”

She shakes her head dismissively. “Well, whatever,” she says with a condescending little sigh. “Acting out like this – what is it supposed to achieve? What if it hadn’t been your teacher who found you today? What if it had been one of your friends?”

I resent the implication that my friends wouldn’t stand by me, that their knowing about my self-harm would cause problems for me. Obviously I can’t guarantee how they would respond, but I’m fairly sure that they wouldn’t have a go at me like she is now. I don’t trust most of my friends very much at the moment, but in a fight between them and my mother, I automatically take their side.

“I didn’t mean for Mrs Fletcher to catch me,” I snap.

She sighs again, impatient. “You wanted to make a scene,” she corrects me. “Why, I don’t know, but—”

I’m tempted to swear at her but I’m well aware that that would make things worse. “And what about all the other cuts?” I interrupt. “All the ones in secret?”

“You’re the one doing it,” she reminds me harshly, almost sarcastically. “You tell me.”

“Like I would,” I retort before I can stop myself.

That’s the truth, though. I can hazard a guess as to why I’m doing it, I suppose, but she would be the last person that I would tell the truth about it to. Firstly, I hardly need to – if she would get her head out of her arse, she would know why. And even if she doesn’t know right now, well – treating me like I’m just a problem to solve isn’t exactly the best way to get me to open up.

And more so – I know once her initial anger at this has abated, she is going to start asking questions like it’s her birthright to know. Like I don’t have a choice but to confide in her. And I know that an attitude like that is going to make me even angrier. She doesn’t get to abandon me, to forget about me, and then demand that I tell her about my life. She’s abdicated the right to act like that, in my view.

We drive home without another word. For my part, I’m frustrated and upset and stressed. I don’t need her making it worse. For her part? I think she just knows that this is a battle that she can’t win.

I slip my shoes off at the door and leave them by the foot of the stairs before I walk up the stairs to my bedroom and shut the door. I dump my school bag by my desk and for a second, I stand, lost. I can hear my mum downstairs, clattering around as she makes a cup of tea. In all honesty, I hope she just leaves me alone.

I lie down on my bed, facing away from the door so as to have time to pretend to be asleep if my mum does come in. I look down at the arm that two hours ago, Mrs Fletcher was carefully bandaging. Sometimes I wonder – Mrs Fletcher is fit, and I know I have a little thing for her, but today, I wasn’t thinking about that. I was thinking that she made me feel safe.

The arm is wrapped up tightly in several layers of bandage, and though I have a brief urge to rip it all off, I leave it alone. It feels like it’s nicer to leave it intact. Ironically, it’s the only part of me that feels intact right now. I draw my arm towards me protectively, and now I’m curled up in a ball, almost in the foetal position.

Suddenly, I’m exhausted. Today has been exhausting. To be fair, I’m tired a lot of the time at the moment anyway. But today has been something else, frankly.

I manage to roll over to the edge of my bed to grab my blanket from where I’ve left it lying on the floor. I grasp the soft fabric and pull it up onto the bed with me. It’s not cold in here, but I feel like I need something covering me. Somehow, I feel the tiniest bit safer now I’m cocooned. My little teddy bear, who I left lying on the pillow this morning, is nestled in by my neck, doing her duty to protect me.

I didn’t lie down to sleep, but now I’m warm and I’m lying on something soft, my eyes are starting to close themselves. Maybe a nap isn’t a bad idea. To move now, to shake off this tiredness and try to force myself to do something… No, it isn’t going to happen. I’m going to drift off…

It feels like an age later when I start to wake at the sound of my bedroom door creaking open. My automatic reaction is to stretch, but instead I stiffen, forcing myself to keep completely still. I’m not sure why. Maybe I just want to keep my mum from coming in.

I hear the door creak open the full way and then footsteps come into my room. I stay still, but I can’t stop her from approaching my bed and then sitting on the edge. With all the criticising I do of my mum for not knowing me, I know that she can tell I’m awake. There’s just something in my pride that means I can’t turn over and face her.

She smooths my hair out of my face and for some reason this makes my chest hurt a little bit. It’s odd that most of the time, I don’t get on with my mum; because when she wants to, she knows how to mother me. She has barely touched me, and already I can feel myself forgiving her.

“Are you cold?” she asks softly as she takes the edge of the blanket and gently pulls it over the place where it’s fallen off my shoulder while I was asleep. She sighs, but this time it isn’t irritable or impatient. It’s soft and I feel cared about.

“Look at me,” she says, and finally, reluctantly, I turn over on the bed so that I’m looking into her eyes.

I don’t get a chance to talk before she continues – not, admittedly, that I would know what to say anyway. “Your dad gets so angry at me when you’re like this,” she says, very quietly. I feel guilt rise up; I hear them shouting at each other. Not even just when they think I’m asleep, like the cliché. Though they don’t outright go for each other when I’m there, they don’t exactly have qualms about getting shots in at each other.

This is not the first time that my mum has told me that the problems in their relationship are my fault. I guess she has a point. In any case, I don’t argue.

“What did you tell that teacher?” she asks. Her voice is still quiet but the softness has somehow become a little menacing. I try to return myself to the feeling of warm safety, but it won’t quite come.

I shake my head. “Nothing,” I reply, my voice coming out hoarse. “Just that I’ve done it before.”

Ashamed, I look away, and suddenly my mum is motherly again, stroking my shoulder. “That’s good,” she tells me, quiet but definitely praising me. “You know if you start telling them… these things… they’re just going to think you’re ridiculous, don’t you? Or they’ll overreact and you’ll end up in a foster home. You’ll have to change schools and leave all your friends…”

She trails off, her fingers playing with my hair, as I shake my head again. I can’t quite speak right now, but she knows what the gesture means. She knows I won’t tell. I don’t want my life destroyed when all I have to do is keep my stupid mouth shut.

“Shall I get you a drink and a biscuit?” she asks, like I’m a child. Still, it works, and slowly I sit up, nodding this time. As much as I fight with my mum, I know that it always ends up here. I’m her baby. I’m too stupid to think for myself.