I check the hallway again. No Aiden. No Sophia. I knew she wouldn’t be in today, but Aiden? He never misses class.
One of the other girls rounds the corner and leans against the wall outside the classroom doors of the chemistry wing. Her brown shoulder bag flops on the ground, her pink phone case sticking out the side pocket, gold feather attached to the top clip. She reminds me of Sophia, but I think her name is Clare, maybe with an ‘i’. I don’t know, not many people talk to me here, except Sophia. She was one of the first people I met at Birchwood, after Trina Davis. Both of them were so warm and welcoming, especially Sophia. She was so kind to me. I thought everyone here would be like her. I was wrong.
Clare looks up at me then goes back to looking at the dark red hue on her fingertips. My parents would never let me wear a nail varnish that shade, or any shade at all. They hate the look of varnish on girls. They’re better about make-up; I get away with some blotting powder, lip balm, and occasionally a little mascara. I’ve never tried eyeliner or lipstick before. Maybe one day I’ll try. Bold lined eyes. Lashings of the blackest blacks of mascara. I’ve seen women like that back in Morocco. Their made-up eyes pop out from brightly coloured yards of silks and chiffons.
The door suddenly opens and hits me in the elbow. ‘Oh sorry, Ulana,’ says Mr Fergusson.
‘No, it’s my fault, Sir. I shouldn’t have been standing right at the door.’ I bend down and slide my bag across the floor before heaving it up over my shoulder. It’s heavy, with every textbook imaginable to a school syllabus. That’s what I carry around with me most days just in case I need to cross-reference anything, or I get a few minutes between class to read up on next week’s assignment. Or sometimes next month’s. I know people must think I’m weird but it’s easy for them. For me, one bad grade is the beginning of a very long discussion that ends with my parents re-evaluating their decision to move the family to the UK for its education system and ‘Western opportunities’.
I know I’m lucky to be living here, to be educated here so I can’t afford to mess that up. After school is university and then I will be a doctor just like my dad was, I mean ‘is’. I know he’s ashamed that he’s not anymore but it’s not his fault. He works hard to provide for us. He would do anything for me. I’m the one that should be ashamed. I lie to him every day. The truth is I don’t know how he’d react to Aiden. He’s such a compassionate man, and he raised me to be kind to others. But I’m terrified he won’t approve, that the same concerns that I have he’ll have too, and the not knowing if that will happen is just not enough for me to take that risk. So I do everything I can to keep these two lives that I’ve found myself living as separate from each other as possible.
Home. School.
Family. Aiden.
Neither can meet.
I make lists, sometimes, of the lies I would tell if I was ever caught out:
1. I’ve never met him before in my life.
2. He’s in my class at school, he was just asking me about the essay due.
3. He offered to walk me home. Through the woods (that’s not weird at all).
4. I heard a noise from the woods so went to check it out. With Aiden (again, not weird).
5. OK, fine, but this is the first time anything like this has ever happened.
6. We’ve only hung out twice, maybe three times, that’s it.
7. I’ve never met him before in my life.
But like I said, neither can meet so hopefully I’ll never have to refer back to that list. Home stays there, school stays here. And that includes Aiden. If only he could understand that. I yank out my journal and stare at the deep black lines on the pages. I’m about halfway in with scribbled notes but today I have something else to write on these pages. Today, I’ll write him a letter. I’ll explain everything, I’ll help him understand. My hands hover above the journal as words jump around in my head. Where do I start? ‘I love you’?
I glance around as if people can hear my thoughts, know what I just said to myself. Love. No, it can’t be love? I can’t love him. And Aiden can’t love me. Our relationship means so much to me of course, but love is different. Love means marriage, maybe. Love means… public acknowledgement. We are definitely not tackling that just yet.
Yet? I just said Yet. That must mean that it probably will happen eventually. So why not just do it now while we’re still somewhat under the radar. Quick lunch in the daytime, no lingering. It could be done, theoretically. I think. Sophia could come round, ‘pick me up’ for the full effect. I leave with her, come back a couple of hours later and no one would have to know how exactly I filled those couple of hours and with who…with whom?
While Mr Fergusson demonstrates a rather indecipherable chalk model of molecules and cluster cells on the blackboard, I craft a very indecipherable letter to Aiden. At first it weakly consists of lots of ‘I’m Sorry’ but soon moves on to what he really wants to hear, and what I really want to say.
It is worth the risk.
What we have is worth the risk.
What I don’t write is ‘What we have is worth any risk’ because that’s a statement I’m not ready to be tested on. Any risk implies complete and full disclosure to my parents. I can’t do that. But I now have to consider that there will be a time when Aiden does ask me to do that. And then his question really will have to be answered – are we really worth the risk?
By the time the bell rings for lunch, my letter is neatly folded into three sections and tucked between my textbooks. Sliding them off the table, something knocks me, sending everything to the floor. ‘Hey!’ I yell, as the figure steps over me.
‘Sorry, but you were in the way,’ he says, glancing back, hands still tucked into his pockets. ‘Your head scarf must have been over your eyes.’
I roll my eyes and quickly gather up my strewn belongings on the floor. I hurry down the hallway under the throbbing of the lunch bell. I know she’s not here today but I push open the doors into the cafeteria hoping to see Sophia’s smiling face. Instead, all I see is Clara from her drama class.
‘Hey, have you seen Sophia?’ she asks me, clutching a copy of As You Like It in her hand.
‘No, she’s…um…absent today.’
She turns and a sympathetic smile inches onto her face. ‘Yeah, I guess I would be too.’
‘Oh, you heard?’ I feel nauseous. Why are so many people talking about this today? Sophia must be going out of her mind. I’ll stop by after school, tell her no one mentioned it today. I hate lying.
‘Yeah, I think everyone at school saw those photos. It’s disgusting that he did that. That must be a crime.’
‘Yeah, I said that too.’
‘Well, if you talk to her, tell her we’re all thinking about her. No girl will go near him now. Well, except one I suppose.’
‘Wait, who?’
Clara rolls her eyes, ‘Lily Shepherd is telling everyone that she and Steve hooked up at the weekend. Twice.’
Great. As if Sophia needs this too. Blood searing hot inside me, I spot Steve sitting at a table in the way back. By the time I push through the lunch crowds, I’m suddenly right there beside his chair. He turns to face me, and I immediately notice Aiden next to him. It’s too late to turn back. ‘Have you talked to Sophia? Apologised?’ I ask Steve. He ignores me but his eyes flicker to the ground. His cheeks redden slightly. I open my mouth to say something else, something that will really get his attention but then I see Aiden. He seems to be looking at a piece of paper flat out on the table. My piece of paper. That’s my writing. That’s my letter.
I turn back to my textbooks, my eyes searching for the letter I once held but it’s no longer there. It must have dropped out when that guy bumped me. Yes, I wanted Aiden to read it but not the entire Sixth Year too.
‘What’s that?’ My voice hitches a little at the end and I hope no one notices.
‘Aiden here got a love letter,’ laughs Lee. ‘Listen to this, Aiden, I want you to know how much I care about you and how important you are to me. You’re sweet and—’
‘I think I’ve heard enough.’ I’m going to throw up.
Aiden tries to snatch the letter from Lee’s hands, but he pulls it back too quickly and passes it on to Steve.
‘You’re so patient and understanding—’
‘Haven’t you got better things to do, like deleting those photos of Sophia from your profile pages?’ I blurt out. Then I turn and walk out the cafeteria, my shoes loudly stomping the tiled flooring underneath my soles.
I’m burning inside. The humiliation courses through my veins. How dare they read that letter like it’s some kind of joke? There are real emotions in there. My emotions are in there.
Am I a joke to them? Am I a joke to Aiden? And why isn’t Sophia responding to my texts?