Читать книгу The Fragile Ordinary - Саманта Янг, Samantha Young - Страница 11

4

How do you conquer each moment,

When you have no one on your side?

Make peace with the idea that life,

Is just one continuous high tide?

—CC

Walking toward form class for daily registration that morning, I saw Steph coming toward me and braced myself. I worried for a second that she knew Vicki and I had been avoiding her last night, but the nearer she got to me the bigger her smile grew. When we met outside the classroom door she threw her arms around me and hugged me.

Used to Steph’s impromptu displays of affection I laughed and hugged her back.

“That was for yesterday.” She pulled out of the hug but huddled against me as we walked into our form room together. “I know I just went on and on about myself. I got so worked up about the audition. Anyway, everything okay with you?”

And this was why it was difficult to stay mad at Steph. I smiled at her as we sat down at a table together. “Everything is fine with me. How did the audition go?”

“Wait, wait.” Vicki suddenly appeared, sliding into a seat at the table. “I want to hear.”

“I already apologized to Vicki on Snapchat last night,” Steph said, which explained Vicki’s renewed enthusiasm for supporting her.

“The audition?” Vicki said.

Steph beamed. “It went great. All those hours spent singing ‘All That Jazz’ in the shower paid off. They asked me back for another audition next week.”

I squeezed her arm. “Steph, that’s great. Well done.”

“Thanks. Ahh! I so want to play Roxie.”

“You’d be the perfect Roxie,” Vicki insisted.

“Not if I have anything to do with it.”

In unison, we turned toward the new voice, and residual anger from long ago burned in my throat. Heather. It was hard for me not to resent her, and I wasn’t sure I cared if that made me unforgiving.

Vicki leaned back in her seat, one eyebrow raised. As cool and laid-back as my friend was, she could also emanate serious pissed-off vibes. Like now. “And what does that mean?”

Heather smirked. “I made it to the second round auditions, too.” Her gaze zeroed in on Steph, who was staring up at her with a mixture of guilt and irritation in her eyes. “And I’m going after the part of Roxie.”

This was a surprise, because Heather had been director’s assistant on the school shows for the past few years. She loved bossing people around. She had not, however, played a part before.

Why now?

Perhaps because Steph had snogged Heather’s ex-boyfriend at her party and she was evil and vindictive?

We were all thinking it.

Vicki snorted. “Good luck with that, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

“Why?” Heather’s gaze locked with Steph’s. “Because you’re so special? Aye, right.”

“Take a walk, McAlister,” Vicki huffed. “No one likes a drama-llama.”

My onetime nemesis gave Vicki a narrow-eyed gaze but strutted across the room, hips swaying, hair swinging, and took a seat with her friends.

“I hate the way she walks.” Steph glowered. “Where does she think she is? At a bloody runway show?”

There was a tiny, tiny part of me that was a little gleeful about all this. It was wrong. It was small. I knew that. But Steph had been disloyal once in order to play nice with Heather McAlister, and now she was getting a taste of why it was futile to suck up to a girl like Heather. She enjoyed causing problems and misery for people.

“What a cow.” Steph turned to look at us, her blue eyes round with shock. “Was she always such a cow?”

Vicki and I exchanged a look. “Yes.”

“God. You kiss someone’s ex-boyfriend and you might as well have murdered him, the way she’s acting.”

I caught sight of movement in my peripheral and turned as Andy Walsh, a video-game-and-rugby-obsessed boy in our class who somehow managed to cross social cliques with admirable proficiency, leaned his chair on its back legs toward us. He balanced it perfectly as he whispered to us, “It’s not about Lister. She’s just pissed off because King messed around with her at her party but doesn’t want to date her.”

Tobias.

“So she’s taking it out on me?” Steph whined.

Andy shrugged. “She’s taking it out on everyone. And it’s not like King made her any promises.”

I noted the hero worship in Andy’s eyes and just stopped myself from rolling mine.

Vicki grinned at him. “Seriously? That would make him the first guy to not run around panting at Heather’s arse.”

Andy grinned back. “The guy is a god among men.”

I groaned but Vicki chuckled. “I don’t know about that, but I’m definitely starting to like him more.”

Once Andy had turned his attention from us, Steph leaned toward me. “I know why she’s being a bitch to me, but now I also know why she was a bitch to you, Comet. At the party I asked her friend Liza why Heather has such a problem with you.”

Not really sure I wanted to know why Heather had a problem with me, I stiffened.

Vicki, however, demanded, “Tell us, then.”

“Well...” Steph’s eyes lit with the power of knowing gossip we didn’t. “Apparently, Heather’s life isn’t as perfect as she wants people to think. Her parents are on her constantly to be the best. At everything. And she was. She was top of her class at her primary school. Then first year hits and you, Comet, scored top marks in our English and history projects in the first term. Liza said her parents gave her such a hard time about it, and that’s why she came after you. That’s why she can’t stand you. Because you showed her up to her parents.”

Despite Heather’s cruelty, I felt more than a flicker of compassion. While my parents didn’t show me enough attention, Heather’s sounded overbearing. It didn’t soothe the humiliation I’d felt when she was bullying me, but at least now I understood that her lashing out had nothing to do with me personally.

It would appear to be a pattern of Heather McAlister: taking her crap out on the wrong people.

After registration, we dispersed for our classes, Heather throwing Steph another sneering, challenging look before she left. I shook my head, patting my friend’s shoulder in comfort. “Ignore her. She can’t even play the part of the villain originally.”

“Eh?”

“Well...” I gestured to where Heather had disappeared down the corridor. “It’s like she’s watched every American mean-girl movie and combined and adopted the roles as her own.”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s still trying to mess with me.” Steph worried her lip.

Vicki threw an arm around Steph’s neck. “Like we’d ever let that happen.”

Our friend gave us a grateful but still tremulous smile, and we parted ways for our different classes.

* * *

Every day in English Mr. Stone told us he would assign a part from Hamlet to a student and we’d read through a scene. The thought made me nervous, because I was soft-spoken and hated having to try to project my voice to be heard in the room. As I waited for everyone to filter in to class at seventh period, the nervousness I felt dissipated as Tobias walked into the room with Andy. Andy murmured something to him, and they both looked at Heather. Andy punched Tobias playfully on the arm, almost in a good luck, man kind of way, and Tobias walked toward Heather wearing a blank expression on his face.

Mr. Stone had told us yesterday that the seats we had chosen were now our assigned seats for the rest of the year. Tobias was stuck.

I tried to appear inconspicuous as I followed his movement, peeking at him from behind strands of my hair. Heather glared at him as he approached, and then shifted her seat and her stuff away from him like he had a disease.

He didn’t acknowledge her, instead taking his seat and leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head like he hadn’t a care in the world.

Soon class was in full progress and I was happy to escape unscathed as Mr. Stone asked Steph to read the queen’s part.

There was a moment of awkwardness when he asked Tobias King to read for Hamlet.

“No thanks,” Tobias replied, creating a hush of shock in the room.

Mr. Stone crossed his arms and stared impassively at the newcomer. “No thanks?”

“Yeah.”

I looked over my shoulder, because everyone was looking at him and it was nice to be able to stare without anyone watching me. Tobias had his chair tipped on its hind legs with his arms over the back of it, all casual insolence.

“I wasn’t really giving you an option, Mr. King. Participation is a part of the grade in this class.”

Tobias shrugged, staring at my favorite teacher. “Then I guess you’ll need to mark me down because I’m not reading the part of some pansy-assed Danish dude that wants to screw his mom and can’t get over the fact dear old daddy is dead.”

There was sniggering around the room but not from me. I turned away from the boy I’d thought was beautiful when I’d first seen him. Funny how the more I heard from him, the less attractive he became to me.

Mr. Stone scowled at Tobias. “You don’t have to read, Tobias, but you do have to show me some respect. Watch your language and get your chair on the ground. Now.”

Mr. Stone’s authority rang around the room, and I peeked back over my shoulder to see Tobias do as he was bid. However, he didn’t wipe that annoyingly bored look off his face.

It was almost comical how quickly Michael Gates, a guy in the year above us, agreed to read the part of Hamlet after that.

Mr. Stone relaxed, clearly refusing to allow one kid to ruin the class, and we continued.

“‘Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, and let thine eye...’” I wanted to look over my shoulder and grin at Steph as she read, because she was reading the queen’s part in a fake English accent that was causing a buildup of giggles in the back of my throat.

Michael read as Hamlet with absolutely no inflection or enthusiasm. Poor William must have been rolling in his grave to hear it.

“Stop there, Michael, thank you,” Mr. Stone said. “What do you think is being said here between the queen and Hamlet? Comet?”

I raised my head from the words on the page, feeling everyone stare at me.

Mr. Stone gazed at me encouragingly. “What do you think, Comet?”

It wasn’t that I wasn’t used to answering questions in class. We’d had to do class talks, where we either did a presentation to a group of peers or to the entire class. I’d hated every minute of those, but I’d gotten through them. I guess I was nervous because there was a person in our class who had never heard me talk, and I was passionate about this stuff, while he seemed to think it was all a joke.

Come on, Comet. Like you should care what that Neanderthal thinks of you?

“I think,” I started, “the queen is questioning Hamlet’s continued grief over losing his father. When she says, ‘cast thy nighted color off’ she means his mourning clothes and his mood. And then she asks why, when everyone knows of the inevitability of death, should Hamlet’s father’s death be so unique. It’s almost like she’s questioning whether Hamlet’s grief is real or for show, and Hamlet replies that yes, from his outward behavior it might be easy to think he’s just acting a part, but he insists that his grief is deeper than mere appearance.”

Mr. Stone stared at me a moment and the class seemed to wait with bated breath along with me. A slow smile curled his mouth and he nodded. “Excellent, Comet.”

I flushed, relaxing in my chair, as he asked Michael, who was reading the king’s part, to continue.

Pleased with myself, relieved I really did understand the flowery, beautifully overcomplicated prose of Shakespeare, I settled back in my seat to follow the rest of the scene. But that burning sensation I had on my neck when the class was staring at me, waiting for me to answer, hadn’t gone away. In fact, it felt like my neck was burning hotter.

Giving in to temptation, I glanced over my shoulder, searching for the cause, and froze, breath and all, when I did.

Tobias King was looking at me.

Really looking at me.

Our gazes held for a moment, and my cheeks grew warm as my heart picked up pace.

Tobias frowned and jerked his gaze away.

Flushing harder, I turned back fully in my seat and willed my heart rate to slow.

So what if Tobias King had finally noticed me. He was a bad boy. He was arrogant, cocky, hanging out with guys who were going nowhere in life, and he definitely shouldn’t be in my Higher classes with me. I was not attracted to this boy, and I should not feel a thrill of anticipation, a flutter of butterflies, just because we’d made eye contact.

No.

Nope.

Definitely NOT.

I was Comet Caldwell. I might be many things, and not many other things, but I was above having a crush on a boy who disdained Shakespeare.

* * *

“Uh, Comet.” Mr. Stone approached me after the bell rang.

I looked up from putting my books and jotter away. “Yes?”

My teacher leaned a hand on the desk and lowered his voice as the rest of the class filtered out for their last class of the day. “I was wondering if perhaps your dad might be interested in coming in next term to talk with the class about writing skills.”

An instant flush of irritation rushed through me and then worse...

Self-doubt.

Had Mr. Stone paid attention to me only because of who my dad was?

“I just found out.” He smiled, looking sheepish. “I never put K. L. Caldwell and your dad together. It was Mrs. Bennett that told me yesterday.”

Mrs. Bennett was my third-year English teacher. She’d also tried to get me to ask dad to come speak with the class.

“Um...” I stood up, pulling the strap of my heavy bag onto my shoulder. “Did Mrs. Bennett tell you my dad doesn’t do school talks?”

The light of anticipation died in his eyes as he straightened. “She mentioned it. I was just hoping he might have changed his mind.”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stone. I really am. But it’s not his thing. He asked me not to ask him again. He doesn’t like being put in the position of having to say no to me,” I lied.

“Oh, then don’t, please,” Mr. Stone reassured me. “It was just a thought. You better get to your next class.”

As I was leaving he called my name again. I looked back and he gave me an encouraging smile. “You did well today.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stone.” I smiled back and left his classroom feeling reassured that my favorite teacher liked me as a pupil and not as K. L. Caldwell’s kid. But the lie I’d told him, and not the thing about my dad not enjoying saying no to me, sat heavy on my chest, refusing to shift.

I hated lying.

Yet, I hated the idea of my dad coming into our class and talking about writing and books with us. There was no way I’d let the rest of the world see the strange dynamic between me and my father. Plus, he’d love the whole thing. Educating young minds. Passing on literary wisdom. I didn’t want him to have that.

I didn’t want him to have any part of the one place in my life right now, outside of my beach and bedroom, that fit me.

* * *

“Comet!”

Startled by the interruption, I pulled out my earphones and twisted my neck to find my dad standing behind the bench I was sitting on. The sea wind blew his hair off his forehead and his T-shirt batted around his body like a flag.

I looked out at the sea and frowned to see how rough it was getting out there. The clouds above us were growing steadily dark.

“Carrie made her celebratory chicken curry. Thought you might want some.”

Although when I’d gotten home from school I’d eaten two muffins that Mrs. Cruickshank had baked, I wasn’t going to say no to Carrie’s chicken curry. Grabbing my stuff, I hopped off the bench and followed my dad over the esplanade and into the garden.

He glanced over his shoulder at me. “You’re not even wearing a jacket. It’s cold out here, Comet.”

Goose bumps prickled my skin, but I hadn’t even noticed, I’d been so lost in writing. “Yeah.”

After dumping my notebooks and pens in my bedroom I found my parents sitting at the island in the kitchen eating the only thing Carrie knew how to cook.

A bowl of curry had been left out for me, and I grabbed a water from the fridge before sitting down with them. Every time Carrie finished a commission, she made enough chicken curry to last us days. However, usually it was left to either Dad or me to feed us. I had to give my parents props for that. They had never forgotten to feed me. As far as I was aware.

“Kyle said you were writing. Again,” Carrie commented as I dug into my curry.

I froze and looked at them both through lowered lids.

“Finally going to admit we’ve got another writer in the family?” Dad teased.

“I’m not,” I lied. “It’s homework assignments for English.”

They seemed to accept that. Or at least they pretended to.

“I wish I was writing a bloody homework assignment.” Dad frowned at his dinner. “I wrote fifty words today. Fifty.”

“Honey, it will come.” Carrie wrapped her small hand around the nape of his neck and squeezed him in comfort. “It always does.”

He gave her a pained smile. “I think maybe I need a change of scenery.”

I covered my snort with a cough, but neither of them were looking at me. We lived on a beach! Hello! He had the best view of any writer, ever.

“Well, we could go away.” Carrie flicked a look at me. “Comet’s old enough to stay home alone for a few days.”

Again with the covering of more snorts.

I’d been old enough to stay home alone while they went on a mini-break together since I was thirteen years old. It was just another reason Mrs. Cruickshank didn’t like my parents. They’d left me to take a mini-break to Vienna, and our neighbor hadn’t realized I was home alone until my parents’ return. She’d told me to tell her next time so I could stay with her. I hadn’t ever actually stayed there, but the few times my parents did leave me at home while they traveled, she’d kept an eye on me and cooked dinner for me. To be fair Dad hadn’t seemed all that keen on the idea of leaving me, but Carrie had insisted she’d been left home alone far younger than that and it had never bothered her.

Except, I knew from my confounded curiosity and eavesdropping that the last part wasn’t true. As I’d grown older, stumbling—sometimes deliberately—upon their private conversations, I’d learned there were reasons that Carrie treated me like I was more of a housemate than her daughter. And although I was angry on her behalf, I was still furious on my own behalf, too.

“Why don’t we go to Montpellier for a long weekend? You love it there.”

Montpellier was my dad’s favorite city in southern France. I waited, dreading him saying yes. We might not spend huge amounts of time together when we were at home, but it was comforting to know they were there when I went to sleep. I hated being alone in the house at night. Whenever they left me, I slept with a baseball bat I’d borrowed from Steph beside my bed. Pride stopped me from slipping over to my neighbor’s house to stay in her guest bed. I didn’t want her to know it bothered me when my parents left me.

Dad turned to me, a plea in his eyes. “How would you feel about it, Comet? I just... I really need a break. Help with the writer’s block.”

I shrugged, like it was no big deal to me. “You guys do what you want.”

“There!” Carrie beamed at me. “We can go.”

He grinned back at her. “When should we leave?”

“I’ll see if I can book us in somewhere this Thursday to Monday.” She tilted her head. “Maybe we should consider making this a monthly thing. Why don’t we look at property while we’re there, get an idea of house prices?”

“I love the idea.” He glanced back at me. “As long as Comet’s okay with that?”

I swallowed a piece of chicken, the food I’d consumed suddenly sloshing around in my stomach. “Sure. Buy a holiday home in the south of France. I’ll just assume I’m not invited to these monthly weekend breaks.”

He gave me a pained look but Carrie scowled. “Comet, we’ve come this far without you turning into a sullen teenager. Don’t start now.”

“That would be a ‘Yes, Comet, you assume correctly.’” I pushed my bowl away, no longer hungry. “Don’t worry about it. I prefer when you’re not here anyway.”

After locking myself in my room, I slumped back on my bed and stared at my ceiling. When we first moved into the house I’d wanted glow in the dark stars all over my ceiling. The problem was the ceiling in my bedroom was higher than one in the average house. Before my bed was moved into the room, my dad had borrowed tall ladders and stuck the stars on the ceiling under my direction.

He and Carrie had argued that night, because she’d been left to unpack so much herself while he “arsed around with bloody stickers on the ceiling.”

A year later, when I asked if I could get fitted bookshelves, Dad hired a guy, didn’t even inspect the work as it was happening, or notice that I’d asked for the added expense of a ladder and rail so I could reach the highest shelves and move across them like Belle in the bookshop scene in Beauty and the Beast. When it was finished, my dad just paid the guy without commentary, without caring.

That was my dad. One minute he cared. The next he didn’t.

Mercurial.

That was one of my favorite words in the English language.

However, I doubted any kid wanted their parent to be mercurial.

I grabbed a pen and opened my notebook to write it all down.

A ball of frustration tightened in my chest. Why did I need that constant reminder? I should just get it by now. I was on my own. I always had been.

Enough of the woe!

I slammed my notebook closed and crossed the room to my bookshelves. It was time for a mood changer. My eyes lit on the first book in a bestselling teen vampire series. The heroine was sassy, kick-ass and she was all those things despite being neglected by her parents. I pulled out the book and curled up with it on the armchair in the corner of my room.

As I fell into my heroine’s adventure, my parents, the house...it all just melted away.

THE FRAGILE ORDINARYSAMANTHA YOUNG