I got another detention. The headmistress told me that if I get one more, I’ll be expelled. I felt kind of excited when she said that ‘cos I hate school. Then I felt guilty thinking about Mum and Dad, and how they save and budget so that they can afford to send me there.
Then the guilt and the excitement just got drowned in another big wave of red rage, so I skived off the last lesson of the day and sat on the swings in the park, kicking at the gravel until the black leather on the toe of my shoe was all streaked with white dust.
Adam Carter, the hottest boy in the entire world, was sitting on the swings when I got there. He was bunking off Chemistry, so we got talking, and now I’ve agreed to meet up with him later on. Mum will go mental if I tell her about it so I’m going to have to rope Bindi in to do some covering up for me.
Bindi texted me to find out where I was. She came and sat on the swing next to me and asked me what my anger feels like. But I couldn’t explain it while she was looking at me with her big, serious eyes, so I’ve saved it to write in my diary instead.
This is what my anger feels like:
Kicking a door really hard when I’ve forgotten to put my trainers on.
Someone’s nails digging into my palm until my eyes water and the blood rushes around my ears.
A screw stuck into my chest and being tightened with a screwdriver.
A barbecue set alight in my stomach, and little spits and hisses of heat shooting up around my soft guts.
Burning hot rain falling from a dark red sky.
I’ve been angry for two years.
I’m angry most of the time.
No.
Not most.
Make that all.
So I’m home from school, and I’m trapped in the kitchen like a ball of fire that wants to spread through the house but can’t.
I want to get ready to see Adam Carter, but Mum’s gearing up to ask me That Question.
I can tell it’s coming, because she has just turned around from the sink and given me an intense, scowling sort of frown.
The frown doesn’t match her outfit.
She’s wearing black and white baggy checked trousers, a matching long-sleeved top with a huge white frilly ruff around the neck, giant red shiny lace-up shoes and a small, black bowler hat.
In case you think my mother is some kind of demented nutcase with no fashion sense, I ought to point out that actually she’s a clown.
No, really, she is. She runs a business that organises clowns for children’s parties.
There’s something dead weird about watching somebody in a clown’s outfit doing the washing-up just like a normal mother.
Dad’s not much better. He’s wearing boring clothes but it’s a certain bet that his mind is only full of one thing. Lions.
My dad’s a lion tamer.
Yeah. That tends to kill quite a lot of conversations stone dead, at least for a moment or so. Most people think that lion tamers are some Victorian thing, involving circus big tops and crowds of women in long stripy dresses fainting as the brave lion man does some sort of freak show, perhaps accompanied by a dwarf or two, and a man with a big handlebar moustache.
Well, maybe it was like that in the Olden Days.
But now ‘lion tamer’ is just a name for somebody who looks after the lions and tigers in a zoo, which is what my father does. To give him his full title, he’s Head of Big Cats at Morley Zoo.
He’s a solid bloke, my dad, all hair shaved to a number one and hard muscles. He’s got a tattoo of a green mermaid with long red hair all the way down one arm and my mum’s name, Rachel, written in black inside a red heart on the other. I reckon the big cats know when they’re beaten.
Don’t ask me how he went from serving as a chef in Her Majesty’s Army to confronting lions, leopards and cheetahs on a daily basis, but somehow his career path took an unexpected turn and chucked him towards the jaws of the big cats.
He’s standing in the kitchen doorway with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his hands on his hips. His body language screams I-don’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-mental-teenage-daughter.
‘Groo,’ I say. That’s a Lilah-ism. I’ve invented loads of these words for when I can’t find real ones that explain what I’m feeling inside. I’ve got a whole list of Lilah-isms for various different occasions. I can select them just like I choose an outfit every day.
‘Make it quick,’ I say. ‘I’m going out again soon.’
Both of them are now looking at me as if I am a breed apart. Or an alien daughter, beamed down from Planet Zarg to replace the apple-cheeked violin-playing prodigy they’d have liked to bring home from the hospital fifteen years ago. Hah! That’s kind of rich, them looking at ME like I’m the weird one!
My cheeks are pale as goat’s cheese and I don’t play the violin. My sort of music needs to be played loud and is the source of much arguing between The Old Dudes and me.
I live on Planet Rock. It’s a radio station. It’s also my spiritual home.
My mother dries her hands on a scrunched-up tea towel with a picture of Windsor Castle on it, and sits down at the kitchen table. She pulls out a small mirror and starts to remove the big white circles around her eyes.
‘I had twenty of the little buggers earlier,’ she says. ‘I suppose I shouldn’t complain, but sometimes I wonder why their parents can’t just take them to McDonalds and have done with it, and then I could stay home and watch Emmerdale instead.’
I know.
Sad.
It’s not surprising I’ve turned out so twisted.
Mum and Dad are now doing that thing parents do, where they start raising their eyebrows at one another and looking towards their troublesome offspring.
‘Erm, Lilah,’ begins Mum. She stops for a moment to pull a false eyelash off, and then has to fish it out of her wine glass and run to the sink to rinse it clean.
Oh, the ‘Lilah’ thing. Yes, that’s my strange name. It’s short for Delilah, but obviously I can’t go around using that. Not unless I want to spend my final few years at school as a total social outcast. My parents have this obsessive love of names from the Bible, which is a bit weird, as neither of them are exactly church-going types. My brother’s called Jacob but he was quick to shorten it to Jay, which, if you ask me, probably saved his reputation at school too and even made him sound quite cool.
Jay May.
Not that there’s much point asking me any questions about Jay.
I get up from the kitchen table, where I’ve been hacking my name into the wood with a pencil.
‘Gotta go, programme’s starting,’ I mutter. Then I make for a quick exit, but Dad’s all fired up today. His reaction times are impressive. One minute he’s sitting at the table, the next he’s blocking the doorway. I almost forgot that he works with large, dangerous animals for a living and is ex-Army to boot, all darting eyes and big rippling muscles.
‘Not so fast, hotshot,’ he says. I have no idea where these nicknames come from. But they’re, like, so yesterday. Hotshot?
I slump down back at the table. Defeated – for now. I’ll get my revenge with the new Slipknot album later on.
‘The thing is, Lilah,’ says Mum, ‘we want to ask you something. We don’t want you to get offended. We’re just trying to help.’
Oh no. My soul starts to slide towards my black Uggs like thawing clumps of snow.
I wish they wouldn’t start trying to HELP me. I mean – that’s what I’ve got a best friend for, isn’t it? Parents are just there to make dinner and tell you off.
‘Yeah?’ I say. ‘What?’
Mum reaches out and holds my hand. Hers is slimy with greasepaint and make-up. Yuk. Now I’m itching to get away.
‘Lilah,’ she says. ‘How ARE you? You seem so angry all the time. It’s been two years.’
I feel the prickles of anger starting up in my gut again.
I really, really hate it when people ask me this question. How ARE you? It’s mainly adults who come out with it. They always have this kind of soppy look on their faces when they ask it, and they say it in a sort of hushed, low voice that reminds me of something on an American chat show.
It’s the worst question in the world, because I just can’t answer it in any way that is honest, and it makes my eyes sting and my heart thump and my teeth clamp together and my arms fold tight across my chest.
‘Fine,’ I say. That’s what I always say. It’s a complete lie, of course, but I can’t tell Mum how I’m really feeling inside without the risk of shouting at her that of course I’m not fine, I’m probably never going to be fine again and I’ve never felt less fine in my whole life. So I just stick to that one word and I try to keep all my churning feelings of rage inside.
A silence greets my answer. It fills our heads with moving pictures from old home videos. Seeing them is torture. It’s like a knife twisting deep in my guts.
I know that we’re all seeing different pictures. Mine are full of childhood and light and sand and laughter. I don’t know what Mum is seeing, but I’m guessing that it’s babies and nursery and school uniform with nametags sewn inside. Dad has turned away so that I can’t see what he is thinking, but it’s probably football matches and homework and trips to the zoo.
I can feel the prickles of anger starting up in my gut again.
My eyes fill up with hot water.
The tears never fall down my cheeks. It’s like they’ve got to stop just short of my bottom eyelids or else I’ll go to pieces.
I haven’t done proper crying for over two years.
I scrape my chair back and leave the room.
I pass Jay’s bedroom door as I go upstairs.
Closed, as usual.
I aim a swift kick at the wood with the toe of my boot and then curse when it hurts.
I go into my bedroom and take a good look at myself in the mirror.
I want to see whether all the crap I’m feeling on the inside is visible on the outside, but I still look like the same old Lilah May. Glossy shoulder-length black hair, sallow complexion the colour of onion skin, glaring dark blue eyes, and a defiant look in them, too.
I sink onto the bed with a sigh.
My parents are right. Not that I’d give them the satisfaction of telling them so.
Too angry.
I just about keep it under wraps when I’m with Bindi, but something about being at home makes me into this seething ball of wrath.
I pick up my mobile and dial Bindi. Even the thought of tapping in a text message makes me feel cross, and I hate predictive texting, so I just dial her number and wait until her slightly breathless voice answers. Bindi always sounds as if she’s expecting some major adventure to happen. She’s kind of the opposite of me – hopeful, wide-eyed, like she can’t wait to grow up and live her life and make her mark on the big world.
Innocent. That’s the word I’d use for Bindi. But then, she seems to have the perfect home life, and I don’t.
I’d stay in bed every day if I could, with a duvet pulled right over my head to block out any chink of light.
‘Yes, who is it, hello?’ says Bindi’s voice.
She hasn’t worked out that you can save numbers on your phone so that you can see who’s calling you. I’ve given up trying to make Bindi move into the twenty-first century.
‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘Lilah. You know – your best mate. That Lilah.’
Bindi gives her little chuckle.
‘You crack me up, Lilah May,’ she says.
‘Yeah, I’m hilarious,’ I say. But I’m smiling again.
That’s what’s good about Bindi. She really likes me just for being me, even though she knows everything about me.
Everything.
And not all of it is good.
There’s no way that my parents are ever going to agree to me going out with Adam Carter tonight, so I have to rope Bindi into a devious plan.
Bindi does not like deception. She’s the most honest person I’ve ever met. I just can’t imagine Bindi ever lying. Ever.
‘Why can’t you just tell your parents the truth?’ she says. There’s the sound of screaming in the background and the harassed voice of Bindi’s mum, Reeta, trying to separate two of the youngest members of the family. ‘They like Adam, don’t they?’
I sigh.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘They like him because he’s a friend, but if I said I was meeting him on my own they’d lose their cool.’
I squirm on the bed where I’m sitting in a pair of black jeans with my legs crossed and my hair falling like silk around my face in its post–school liberation.
‘I’m going to have to say I’m with you,’ I tell Bindi.
‘But then your mum will ring my mum, and my mum’s not going to lie for you, Lilah. I can tell you that now.’
I roll my eyes – she can’t see me anyway – and flop back onto the bed, sticking my legs up into the air and observing my blue and white stripy socks.
‘Well, then – you’re going to have to pretend to be your mum and answer the phone,’ I say.
I know I’m putting Bindi on the spot here, but nothing can be allowed to ruin my wonderful evening with Adam Carter. He is only like the most gorgeous boy in the entire school. He’s sixteen and plays in a band called Death of Love. They’re thrash metal and really good.
The trouble is, Adam might be all tough when he’s in the band, but when he’s not, he likes girls to be all feminine and pretty and small and laughing. Which is just about the opposite of me. I’m a tomboy, attractive rather than pretty, taller than most girls in my class, and I definitely have not done much laughing of late. That’s why I was surprised when he suggested meeting up.
After lots of pleading and begging and persuasion, not to mention a bit of bribery (I’ve promised to buy Bindi any lunch she wants for the next week), Bindi agrees to help.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘You’re a true best mate.’
There’s another loud scream from an indignant child in the background.
I laugh.
‘Is that Adi?’ I ask. Adi is the youngest in Bindi’s household. ‘He’s so sweet.’
It’s Bindi’s turn to give a big sigh now.
‘Not always so sweet,’ she replies. ‘He’ll do anything to get attention. Some of us don’t get a look in.’
‘Oh,’ I say, but I don’t really believe her. Bindi’s parents are very proud of her.
‘OK, I’ll cover for you later,’ Bindi is saying. ‘You’re a nightmare, Lilah May.’
I smile and hang up the phone.
She like so loves me.
Mum never has time to cook during the week.
She’s standing in the kitchen gulping from a new glass of red wine and dishing up a shepherd’s pie that she made at the weekend and then shoved in the freezer.
There are tiny baby carrots to go with it, and a dish of leafy kale.
Dad’s gone out on an emergency lion-call so it’s just the two of us.
That’s nothing new. It’s hardly ever the three of us these days.
‘Mum,’ I start, stirring my fork around in the savoury mince so that a strong smell of animal and onion rises up towards my fringe. ‘Is it OK if I go round to Bindi’s in about an hour? She wants to play me some CD or something.’
Mum looks up from where she’s forking in mince in a vague sort of a way. I know she’s thinking about Jay.
‘I’ll give her mum a call, just to make sure,’ she says, going over to the phone.
I cross my fingers hard underneath the table. I’ve arranged with Bindi that she will hog the phone all evening.
‘Reeta?’ Mum’s saying. ‘How are you?’
There’s a short pause. I’m hoping that it’s Bindi she’s speaking to, not Reeta.
‘Lovely,’ Mum says. ‘Actually Reeta, Lilah would like to come over and see Bindi for a while. I hope that’s OK with you?’
Whoever’s on the phone obviously says that it is, because Mum says, ‘Thanks, love,’ and hangs up with a smile.
‘Yes, that’s fine,’ she says to me.
Megatriff!
‘Poor Reeta,’ says Mum. ‘She sounds as if she’s got a terrible cold.’
I fight back a smile.
Bindi’s such a great best mate.
‘You don’t need to call there to check I’ve arrived,’ I say, rinsing my plate in the sink and gulping down a glass of water. ‘I’ll only be a couple of hours, tops. Promise.’
‘OK,’ says Mum. She looks a little nervous. There weren’t all these rules and curfews and checking-ups when Jay was my age.
‘Thanks for supper,’ I say, bolting upstairs.
I stand in front of my mirror and decide to stay in the black jeans, but change into a tight black and white striped top and some silver hoop earrings.
I spray gloss stuff all over my dark hair and put my eyeliner on again for about the millionth time today. Then I lace up a pair of black Converse trainers and fling my black leather jacket over the top.
‘See you later,’ I call to Mum, rushing out of the front door before she can see how much make-up I’ve got on.
I leap onto my bike and wheel off towards the precinct, wobbling in the stiff breeze.
There’s something strange in the air tonight.
Or maybe it’s just me.
It’s like everything is sharpened and extra-clear after the storm earlier.
I swear I can even smell a hint of danger in the air.
It makes me feel reckless and mad and confident.
I chain up my bike and stroll into the precinct.
Adam’s there early, which is kind of good as I have absolutely zero patience and hate waiting around for people.
He’s got his back to me, so I creep up by the fountain where he’s standing, and then some mad urge makes me leap on his back and shout ‘ADAM!’ so that both of us almost fall into the water.
‘You nearly gave me a heart attack, Liles,’ he says, brushing down his black T-shirt and tossing back his hair.
Liles?
When has he ever called me that?
That’s the special name that Jay had for me.
‘Call me Lilah,’ I say, abruptly.
He stares at me for a moment, but then his good-natured grin returns and he offers me a hand to jump off the side of the fountain.
‘Where shall we go?’ he says.
I shrug.
‘Park?’ I say. It’s a mellow sort of evening now, still and full of promise.
‘Sure,’ says Adam. He pulls a roll-up from his pocket and sticks it between his lips.
‘Smoke?’ he says, offering me the packet of dried worm tobacco.
‘No thanks,’ I say. ‘Smoking is for idiots.’
He gives me a surprised look at that.
I can see why. I mean, I look like a girl who’d smoke. I’m wearing a rock-chick outfit, after all, and I’ve got the attitude to go with it.
But there are things that Adam doesn’t understand.
Things from the days of Jay and me.
‘I thought you’d—’ he starts.
‘I said no,’ I repeat, firmer.
There’s a very packed silence, full of questions and apologies and disappointment.
Oh, mushcats, I think. This date hasn’t got off to a very good start.
‘I like your jacket,’ I say, trying to make my voice softer.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘Got it off eBay for three quid.’
I give him a new look of respect. He’s obviously got an eye for a bargain. And he does look dead gorgeous.
‘So how ARE you?’ he’s saying now. Uh-oh. He asks this while staring straight ahead. Most people can’t look me in the eye when they come up with the question. It’s awkward for them.
It’s even more awkward for me. He’s asked my worst ever question.
I take a long, deep breath through my gritted teeth and kick one of my feet against the other. It’s only a little movement, but it makes me feel a bit better.
‘Yeah, OK,’ I say, all casual. ‘Nothing’s changed much.’
Adam flashes me a look of sympathy and then clears his throat.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Do you still want to go to the park?’
I shrug.
I haven’t really given the evening much thought. All my energies have been focused on getting to the fountain in the precinct and looking gorgeous for Adam. But I guess we’ll have to do something – we can’t hang around the closed shops all evening.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Park’s fine.’
We set off down the road. I’m ultra-aware of how close Adam’s body is to mine as we walk along the pavement. I hold myself very straight and try not to brush against him, but sometimes it just happens, and a little shock of excitement pulsates up from my legs to my stomach.
Thanks, Bindi, I think. I’ve got some serious making-up to do next week.
We’ve reached the high iron gates of the local park.
Adam pushes one of them open and holds it for me while I duck under his arm and head towards the swings.
‘You’re a bit old for that, aren’t you?’ he says, as I plonk myself onto an orange plastic swing and watch my black-jeaned legs fly up in the air and over his head.
‘So?’ I say.
He’s pointing to the sign now. It says, No children over fourteen.
‘It’s OK, I look young for my age,’ I shout from where I’m flying backwards with my hair streaming out behind me and the silver hoops pulling in my ears.
I don’t tell him that I used to play on these swings with Jay when we were little.
Some things are too painful and private to ever say, even with a Lilah-ism.
Adam sits down next to me and does some slow swinging back and forth, but I can tell that he’s not that impressed so I swing down again, bit by bit, and then skid to a stop with my trainers in the gravel.
We walk the length of the park, chatting about this and that, but all the time I’m wondering if he’s bored and if I’ve made a big mistake thinking that he liked me, because he’s acting quite casual and distant. And although he smiles at me, it’s not a smile with much warmth behind it, but more a careful, measured smile kept for friends who just happen to be girls.
After we’ve done the park we wander into a local cemetery.
I like gravestones. Don’t know why. There’s just something solid and comforting about them. The last home of the dead. Kind of like the end of an exhausting journey. It’s like a big, quiet, safe club full of people who can’t shout at me to tidy my room or brush my hair. In fact, it’s the only big gathering of adults I feel comfortable with.
I perch on top of a tomb shaped like a treasure chest, and Adam sits on the grass at my feet and rolls up another cigarette. After a pause, which is loaded with meaning and anticipation and stuff, and just when I’m sure he’s about to say something really amazing to me, he looks up from beneath his wing of fair hair and says, ‘You know something? You kind of scare me, Lilah May.’
Then he gives an abrupt laugh and becomes very busy with stuffing the tobacco worms into his cigarette paper again.
Somewhere behind the wall of the cemetery, the sun finally starts to sink down, leaving a blank grey sky and an edge to the air.
I zip up my leather jacket and hug my elbows.
I scare him?
‘But you’re the one in the big hard rock band,’ I say. ‘You’re far more scary than I am.’
Adam smiles at this, but still looks a bit wary.
Great.
This date is going about as wrong as it could do. Or, to be more exact, it isn’t exactly going anywhere at all.
So I’m frightening. I scare people.
I never used to scare Jay. It was more the other way round, particularly towards the end.
I get up, and toss my hair back over my shoulders.
‘Maybe I should do something scary, then,’ I say. ‘Kind of live up to your expectations, huh?’
Adam gets to his feet and lights his cigarette.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he says. ‘We’re good mates, yeah? You can just be yourself, can’t you?’
My heart flops to the grass beneath his feet and is trampled to death underneath his red Converse boots.
Mates.
I feel like an idiot now. It’s all Bindi and her stupid suggestions. She kept passing me messages in class saying he was staring at me. How can she have got it so wrong? He doesn’t like me at all in that way.
I feel the little flicker again. Red-hot, rising up from my feet towards my chest.
I can’t see my own face, but I know what it looks like.
Tight. Pinched. Lips sucked in. Eyes dark and cold.
Anger sucks all my prettiness out of me.
I head off towards the cemetery wall.
I don’t yet know what I’m going to do, but my feet seem to be carrying me wherever they want and I’ve got no control over them.
‘Lilah,’ calls Adam. ‘Come back. What are you doing?’
I don’t answer.
I’ve had enough of him now.
The wall to the cemetery is high, and made of dark red bricks.
I climb onto the top of a gravestone and then launch myself at the top of the wall with my hands outstretched.
I heave myself up until I’m sitting on the top, drumming my heels against the bricks.
‘Lilah,’ pants Adam. He’s rushed over and is staring up at me with concern. ‘Don’t be stupid. Get down.’
I ignore him. It feels good sitting so high up above him, with the wind in my hair.
Up here I feel all-powerful, like the world belongs to me and I’m above everything and everyone.
It’s a strong wind, but I can’t stop what happens next.
My legs push me up into a standing position, until I’m balancing on the thin line of bricks in my skinny jeans and my flimsy trainers.
‘Oh my God,’ I hear Adam say. ‘Lilah. You’re crazy. Please will you sit down again? I’ll come up and get you.’
I laugh at that. Bit late for him to go all romantic now.
I don’t care about him any more.
I don’t really care about anyone.
I put my arms out, as if I’m flying, and then I balance my way, one foot in front of the other, until I’ve walked the whole length of the high brick wall.
Adam’s face is ash-grey below me. He keeps looking around wildly to see if anybody’s coming to help, but it’s a cemetery on a weekday evening and there’s nobody around.
I reach the far end of the wall, sit down, and then jump onto the grass far below with a thud.
Adam’s there in a flash.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
I can’t stop laughing.
‘Your face!’ I say. ‘Get real! I was only walking along a wall.’
Adam’s smile of relief fades to a glower.
‘You stupid idiot,’ he says. ‘If you’d fallen, you could have broken your back, yeah?’
I lie on my stomach and laugh into the grass. Bits of it go in my mouth, but I don’t much care.
Adam hauls me up and we leave the cemetery and head for home.
He refuses to speak another word until we get to the gate outside my house.
Then he glares down at me through his floppy fringe, and says:
‘You’re not the only person who’s got issues, you know. Get over yourself, Lilah May.’
