‘I told you, Dad. I’ve been going there every week since September,’ I mumble, checking my phone screen again. Why isn’t Sophia responding to my messages?
My dad paces in front of the dining table. His tall heavy frame shakes Mum’s display plates in the glass cabinet every time he passes it. He only paces when he’s stressed or thinking a decision over, or both. He grips an A4-sized typed letter in his left hand. His right hand is free to occasionally rub his chin, massage his temples or run through his hair which is now salt and pepper-hued. He stops at the chair closest to me, then sits back down in it. ‘So why is the school saying that you haven’t been going?’
I slowly put the phone down on the table. ‘What? I have been going. Ask for the attendance. You’ll see I sign myself in every week. No absences.’
‘Every week?’
‘Yes…well except this week. But I came straight home that day, remember?’ If I’d gone to the UCAS Prep then I’d have been tempted to go look to see if Aiden was up there waiting for me on the bench. And if I had checked, then either he would be there and I’d find that conversation too difficult and probably cry, or he wouldn’t be there and I’d still cry. The outcome would be the same, either way.
‘So, I’ll call the school tomorrow and get this sorted out. I don’t want this sort of letter going into your file. Your record needs to be clean for going to university.’
‘Dad, my record is clean. Plus I have the best grades in the class. I’ll be just fine,’ I say, leaning forward and resting my hand on his arm.
He claps it with his free hand and finally breaks into the warm smile I’m used to. ‘I’ll call the class tutor too, speak to him directly.’
My body is suddenly on fire. ‘Why?’
‘I want to know why I’m getting this letter, but I also want to make sure you’re learning everything you should be. I want you to have a strong application to submit. If this prep class is a waste of time, you stop going.’
My mouth is dry. If my dad talks to the teacher directly, he might confirm that I’ve been signing myself in every week, but he might also know that I’ve been sneaking out after about ten or fifteen minutes. What then? How do I explain that? I can’t. He’ll wonder where I’ve been going, what I’ve been doing, and soon, with whom I’ve been with.
‘He’s not a real teacher at school, Dad. He’s a rep for UCAS, so you won’t be able to contact him directly.’
My dad’s forehead cracks and tiny thin lines scatter across it. I don’t think he’s going to let this go that easily.
‘But I’ll tell him next week that you want to talk with him, and see what he can do.’ I pat my dad’s hand and he smiles again. ‘I’ll start dinner with Mum.’ I hurry into the kitchen before any more questions arise, and turn the radio on loudly. Fragments of string and wind instruments seep through the speaker into the kitchen, and out from under the door into the rest of the house. My dad always keeps the radio tuned to Classic FM. Anything else he just doesn’t understand. Except for the Beatles. He understands the Beatles.
My mum slips in behind me and slides out the spice rack. She starts pulling out the turmeric, cumin, masala. Fluffy powders of orange, yellow and dirt brown. A cinnamon stick lies by the white plastic chopping board, its edges stained with the colours of our country. My dad is last to enter the kitchen. He tenderly touches my mum’s shoulder as she sautés the garlic and ginger, then moves to the radio and tweaks it a little louder. He starts on the fish – a whole one too, eyes, head, teeth, too much. Together we cube the fish and simmer the spices, plum tomatoes, chickpeas and onions, until the smells fill the whole house. The steam keeps us in our bubble in our little kitchen, protected from the outside world which, like popular music, we don’t understand. I’m safe here in this bubble, in this family. So why would I want anything different? With Aiden, it would be a life so drastically different from the one I’ve been raised in. It would mean compromising on my beliefs, it would mean sacrificing everything I have for a future that’s not even guaranteed to make me happy?
This is why I avoided Aiden for so long. At the time it wasn’t difficult for me because I barely knew him. But once we started to open up to each other, once the feelings got stronger, the decision became harder, and soon I couldn’t stay away from him. I thought about him all the time, even dreamt about him. So I started talking to him again. I reinitiated it. Not him. He gave me the chance to walk away, before we’d lost any time to it, lost any emotions to it. But I came back, not quite done with what I could never have. And those conversations moved from the classroom to the back of the school, to the woods, to the bench, and beyond. The sadness I felt without him far outweighed the negatives. But this summer changed things for us. The physical distance between us brought us closer. It made me realise that I needed him. That I wanted him in my life. But at what cost?
Now I’d lost him. I’d lied to my parents, snuck around behind their back, skipped out on after-school activities. For what? A relationship that had ended all by itself. All that risk for nothing.
It’s always for nothing.