Chapter 10

Disconnect

Where are my roots? I love my family, but I don’t feel anchored by them. I don’t feel understood. How could I, when I don’t understand myself?

‘Let me take a photo. Your first date! Oops. I’ll try another one.’ Mum is way too excited. Trying to distract herself from worrying about Lily passing out last week. Lily’s getting headaches, too, I’m sure of it, but she won’t say anything. I heard her throwing up again this morning. It made me remember how pale she looked against the white tiles beside the pool, splayed out like she was waiting for the police to draw a chalk line around her. White on white.

I stand by the front door and fidget while Mum fumbles with her phone camera. Lily stands behind her and makes kissy faces. Supposed to make me laugh. Doesn’t. Lily should be the one who looks like she’s going to the executioner’s, not me: she’s going into hospital to have tests done this afternoon. On a Sunday. I don’t know if that’s normal or an extra reason to be worried.

‘Your hair’s getting rather long,’ Mum says. ‘Do you want to go and get it cut?’

‘Bit late now—I’m meeting Sarah in half an hour.’

I blow upwards to try to get a clump of hair out of my eyes, but another scraggle dislodges from the mop on top of my head and falls down in its place. Aliya never has this trouble: she braided her hair about two weeks ago and hasn’t spared a thought for it since. ‘Maybe I should grow it long so I can plait it,’ I muse out loud, and Mum and Lily both crack up.

‘Why not?’ I mutter. ‘It keeps it out of the way.’

‘You have no idea how much work it is having long hair, dear,’ Mum says. I open my mouth to disagree but then close it again. I don’t know why I’m so resistant to the idea of telling anyone about Aliya; maybe it’s because I like having something that is just mine, something special. Or maybe it’s because I know this way of dreaming isn’t exactly normal. Just like Aliya doesn’t want to be thought of as a shaman even though she obviously is, I don’t want to be different either. Except that Aliya’s differences make her extraordinary… Maybe I can be extraordinary, too.

‘I’m going to grow my hair,’ I decide.

Lily sniggers. ‘You’ll look like a girl,’ she says.

‘I’ll look like me!’ I snap at her. I’m suddenly angry; much angrier than I should be about a little dig like that. ‘Nice hair doesn’t just belong to girls, you know!’

‘Geeze, keep your hair on,’ Lily mutters.

Okay, that was actually pretty funny. I almost laugh, but I’m afraid that if I stop being angry I’ll start crying instead.

Mum runs a gentle hand through my hair and kisses the top of my head. ‘It will have a lovely wave when it grows out.’

That sounds good.

The rest of the day doesn’t sound so good at all. It sounds like this:

‘Do you want to get an ice cream?’

Sarah sniggers. ‘What are you, five?’

‘No. I just like ice cream.’

Even I can tell that this is not going well.

‘It’s crowded; you’d better hold my hand so we don’t lose each other,’ Sarah says.

Oh. Maybe it is going well, then? I take her hand. Losing her in the crowd suddenly feels quite appealing.

She pulls me over to a stall. ‘Ooh, look at these earrings—aren’t they gorgeous?’

‘They are, actually. Oh, I like these ones.’ They are intricate silver hoops with a feather hanging off them. I hold one up to my ear and look in the little mirror on the stall. When Sarah laughs as if I’ve told a great joke, I realise what I’m doing and hastily put the earring back.

This is worse than Call of Duty. At least when Dean makes me play that, I’m dead within the first five minutes. Here, I keep treading on landmines and I’m expected to keep going. There are so many rules to remember.

Be a gentleman. Take charge. Don’t be yourself.

I must’ve managed to follow at least the last one of those rules, because on the way home she wants me to snog her. She makes it very obvious. We’re under a bridge along the canal—that might sound romantic, but only if you’ve never seen the Regent’s Canal. It’s damp and gloomy. Sarah pulls me to a halt and steps in close, her face turned up. And I know this rule: the boy has to be the one to start the kiss. How is that fair?

I lean in. Close my eyes. Sarah has a nice face, but I don’t want to see it. I might see myself reflected in her eyes. The kiss is awkward. I’m watching it like a film instead of being in it. I wouldn’t get any Oscars. A bunch of people come along the towpath, giving me an excuse to break away. I take her hand, and we carry on walking.

There is a small tree clinging to life at the edge of the towpath. I brush my hand along its trunk as we pass, trying to feel its roots. Trying to connect with this girl I just made out with. But there’s nothing.

Happy Effing Birthday to me. Sixteen. I can legally have sex. What joy.

• • •

‘As-tu encore appris le français, Luke?’

I look past Grand-mère Sylvie to where Dad sits on her other side, squished in around the dining room table that’s already too small at the best of times. Grand-mère takes up way too much space. Not that she’s fat. I’d just rather sit next to a sabre-toothed tiger.

Dad shakes his head slightly, so I say, ‘No, Grand-mère.’

She rounds on Dad. ‘How have you not taught the boy French, Frédéric?’

The argument about me and Lily not speaking French is always her opening gambit. It’ll get worse from here. I don’t need a psychoanalyst to tell me why I chose to do Spanish for GCSE instead.

She doesn’t have a French accent. She’s lived here for over forty years, and she only moved back to France a few years ago, after my granddad died. Unfortunately, I’m her excuse to come and visit.

‘So, stand up and let me look at you, Luke. Well, there is still time for you to have a growth spurt. But your hair! I’m sure it is very fashionable, and the young girls like it. But you will find that in the end what a woman wants is tradition. A man who is solid, reliable. Effeminacy is not reliable.’

Right, and women are all gentle and caring. How does being an intolerant cow fit into that? Isn’t she insulting herself by using effeminacy as an insult? Why do people make these gender roles so complicated? My generation is inheriting such a mess. Just let us be, without labelling it.

Mum comes in with a birthday cake and puts it in front of me. She hugs me from behind, saying, ‘Sweet sixteen!’

Grand-mère tuts. ‘That is not a sentiment a boy wants to hear, Keira. A man is not sweet.’

‘Not all women are sweet, either,’ says Lily. Grand-mère turns her hawk’s eyes on my sister, trying to judge if she is being insulted. I catch Lily’s eye, and the moment of solidarity almost makes the night worthwhile.

I close my eyes and blow out the candles, wishing that I still believed in wishes.

‘Luke! Fais attention.’

I sit up and pay attention, tell Grand-mère half-truths about hobbies and girlfriends. I’m a dog that’s being patted on the head and told, ‘good boy.’ I’ll wag my tail and perform my tricks again and again in search of approval, but that’s all it is—a performance. I did what a boy is supposed to do. After sixteen years of playing this role, you’d think I’d be better at it. But it’s getting harder and harder to keep it up.

On Monday, the guys all want to know how the date went, of course—but ‘I don’t kiss and tell’ works to fob them off. They leave the topic alone, mostly, until Friday.

‘I heard that Sarah’s going on a date with Rico this weekend,’ Justin tells me in the tone of someone announcing a funeral.

Every muscle in my body unclenches. I try to look upset. But not too upset, obviously. Or maybe I should pretend to be angry? Oh, sod this. I settle for a shrug. Manly and non-committal.