CHAPTER 12

It’s not a good day. It is definitely not a day that she can be in school, but Mum and Dad are standing firm, even though Tally knew the moment she opened her eyes that everything was wrong and too loud and too much. Even her favourite music is too much to cope with this morning, but she still slips her headphones over her ears in the hope that they will help filter out some of the turbulence in her mind.

Nell has already left by the time Mum has pulled Tally’s socks on and coaxed her legs into her skirt.

“I’ll drive her in,” she tells Dad as she gently eases Tally down the stairs and into the kitchen. “Let’s at least try to get the week off to a good start.”

“I don’t want to go,” Tally murmurs but it is entirely possible that the words only exist in her head, because nobody responds. Mum guides her into a chair and then crouches on the floor, gently pushing a shoe on to each of Tally’s feet. And quiet words flow between her and Dad without any understanding that Tally isn’t listening to music and she can hear their every word and that each one is a weapon, landing blow after blow on their silent daughter.

Having rules should be helping her to cope.

Smash.

School is once again suggesting that it could be a home issue. They say that she’s anxious but able, as if really she’s totally fine but just a bit of a worrier, which Mum and Dad know isn’t the case but how are they supposed to work with school if they can’t see the bigger issue?

Shatter.

They can’t keep letting her opt out of the stuff she finds difficult because what will happen when she gets older? What about her potential?

Flatten.

She has to go to school just like all the other kids. Doesn’t she? Doesn’t she? Doesn’t she?

Demolish.

“It will be OK when you get there.” Dad picks up his briefcase and plants a small kiss on the top of Tally’s head. “Just try to do your best, sweetheart.”

If she thought that she could find the right words then she’d open her mouth and beg them to let her stay at home. But it’s already taking all her energy just to stay sitting in this chair and she knows that even if she tries to talk, it won’t come out right. She’ll start crying or shouting or throwing stuff about, and they won’t hear her fear. They’ll only see her being difficult.

By the time that Mum has led her out of the kitchen, down the hallway and out to the front drive, Tally is not Tally at all. She is splintered into tiny fragments that on the outside might still look like her, but on the inside are a mess of broken parts. Mum opens the door and Tally pours her tiny pieces into the car.

Mum talks to her the entire drive to school but Tally doesn’t listen. All she can think about is what they said about sticking to the rules. Tally likes rules; they keep her safe and they let her know what is expected. She’s always been good with rules up until now and they’re right – the rules should be helping. If she can’t even stick to them then the world is suddenly an even more terrifying place.

Images of Saturday morning flood her head. The sensation of the stolen item against her skin. The terror as she walked past the security guard, certain that he would hear her pounding heart and arrest her on the spot. The delight on Lucy’s face when she pulled the spoils from beneath her T-shirt and the praise that felt warm for a second before instantly chilling. The knowledge that she had passed their test but that she had failed in every other way.

Spoils is entirely the right word for the stolen top. It has ruined everything, and even the knowledge that she shoved it inside one of the shopping centre bins before Dad collected her can’t stop it from looming large in her head when she least expects it, tainting everything she does.

If the colour of rage is red, then the colour of guilt is aquamarine.

The car stops and Mum is still talking, but Tally has taken off her seat belt and crumpled her fractured pieces into the footwell where she is held tightly between the seats, her hands over her ears. Mum retreats and picks up her phone and then shortly afterwards, the car door opens and Mrs Jarman, the one teacher who seems to understand a little bit of what it’s like to be Tally, is standing outside with an encouraging smile.

It’s an unfair move and Mum knows it.

Tally takes her hands from her ears and pushes herself up out of the footwell, not looking at the teacher.

“There we are,” says Mum, her face filled with worry. “I know it’s going to be a bit strange without Layla here but Mrs Jarman is going to walk you into your tutor group and make sure you’re OK.”

Tally takes hold of the rucksack that Mum is passing her and levers herself out of the car, her legs tense.

“That’s the way,” says Mrs Jarman. “There’s no rush.”

“I’ll see you later,” calls Mum as they start to walk towards the gate. “Well done, Tally! I’m proud of you.”

Tally walks stiffly beside Mrs Jarman, staring straight ahead. Mum still doesn’t get it. None of them do. They think that just because she’s doing what they want her to do that she must be feeling better, but that’s not true. She’s still broken and hurting and wrong inside.

She just can’t let her teacher see that.

She must always be the good girl at school – and that’s the one rule that she can still keep.

When school is finally over, Tally sneaks a biscuit to Rupert and after giving him a long cuddle, she heads upstairs to her bedroom. She needs a break from all the confusion and she’s tired – more tired than she can ever remember being before. Even though she was with her friends all day – right in the middle of the action – she still felt as if she was getting it wrong, and it was exhausting. There are only two things that can make her feel good when she feels this way – her music and her dog. They’ve never let her down and they are always there, no matter how difficult everything else might be.

Turning on her keyboard, she runs her fingers over the keys, picking out the notes of a melody that has been playing in her head since Saturday morning. She often likes her music to be positive and upbeat, but today her fingers find the minor chords and she lets them wander, creating something different to her usual style. Then, once she’s happy with the melody, she turns to her journal and starts to write, pouring out everything that she’s feeling on to the page. And, as the words leave her body, she can feel herself becoming just a tiny bit lighter.

A tiny bit happier.

Once she’s finished, she sets up the camera on her phone. She always records her songs, no matter how good or bad she thinks they are, and puts them on her YouTube channel, for an audience of just her. Her channel is private and there’s no point in making it public. Nobody ever listens to what she says in real life when she’s standing right in front of them, so she knows there’s no way they’d take the time to hear her online. It’s fine, though, because her songs aren’t for anyone else. And if she doesn’t share them, then there’s no risk of them becoming yet one more thing to be used against her.

“Tally?”

It’s Mum, knocking on the door. Tally ignores her and keeps playing.

“Tally?”

The door opens and Mum walks inside, messing everything up.

“Get out!” Tally screams, spinning to face her. “I didn’t say that you could come in and you’ve ruined my song now! You’re so stupid.”

Mum’s face crumples and she shakes her head. “I’m sorry I interrupted your song but, Tally, it really hurts me when you speak to me that way.”

Tally glares at her. “It really hurts me when you barge into my room! What’s the point in knocking if you’re just going to come in anyway, hey? Tell me that!”

Mum takes a deep breath. “I’ve come to tell you that tea is on the table and we’re sitting down to eat,” she says, ignoring Tally’s question, just like she ignored her clearly closed bedroom door. “Join us if you want to.”

And then she walks away, leaving Tally to wonder why nobody else seems to understand that what she wants and what she can do are not the same thing.