Upstairs, I put some pillows down on the windowsill, climb back in. I get my blanket and turn the letter over. I start to read.
So, you're forteen now. I wonder what you're like. Do you pay these letters much attention or are they boring compared to the rest of your life? I hope they're boring. I don't deserve much of your attention and I'm not saying that to make you feel pity. Seriously.
My life is far from boring at the moment. I've gotten myself into all sorts of complicated shit that I should have known better about, but there you go. If anyone tries to tell you you get wiser as you get older, don't listen to them. If anything you become stupider. Maybe it's because I'm so much more aware of my looming death now.
Sorry if this is morbid Iris, but life's like that. I never really understood why you aren't supposed to talk to young people about the truest things. I suppose that's why I gave up being a mother.
Is your father still truthful with you? It must be difficult, with everything that's happened. That used to be my favourite thing about him. He never shied away from the truth. He made a thousand people cry. But they respected him.
I know you're in good hands.
I put the letter down. Reading about Dad in Mum's writing has made my nose ache. I really feel as if I could just lie down and cry. It's like there's a weight hanging from my heart, pulling my insides down. I don't get it. I think it's because I don't recognise him. I'm not sure I am in good hands. I mean, if Dad's so truthful, why does he never say anything about her? I see him looking at me sometimes, in a quiet, sad way, and I'm sure it's something to do with her. Something to do with what happened. He is much quieter these days, maybe it's because he doesn't want to have to lie?
I try to remember the three of us. As we were. Before. But it's so difficult. The memories after Mum left are so strong they wiped the earlier ones. I can remember putting dad to bed when he'd been sick on himself in the living room, but I can't really remember what came before that. What the hell were we like?
“Iris! It's time to go!”
Ball-bags. I've got to go to school.
School is shit all over. I'm thinking of taking up smoking so I don't look so pathetic standing on my own, but I really hate the taste of it. I don't really get what's happened to be honest. I mean, I'm a pretty regular girl. I look pretty normal. My parents don't make me wear hessian clothes or anything, although Heather is probably dying to. I have quite cool trainers for PE. But everyone hates me. It's crazy. I just don't know what I'm doing wrong.
I mean, I'm new, but surely that should just make me more appealing? Apparently not. In my last school, I had it all worked out. I had my niche. I got on with the teachers. I misbehaved just enough to relieve the boredom but not get expelled. Everyone left me alone. But here, I'm lost. It's really, really just plain shit. All over.
Take now, for instance. I'm lying on my front on the playing field, watching a parade of ants going about their business, not bothering anyone. But I can see, when I lift my head, a couple of my tormenters thinking about bothering me. I can just tell they're plotting something, that they're on their way over here. The turds. I wish they'd beat me up or something instead of just standing nearby, making it clear they don't like me, ruining my vibe.
“Hey Iris?”
“Aren't you going to say hello?”
It's Jack and Lola talking. They're the year above me and the star couple of the Skip Crew. They usually stick to shouting things at me, as they're supping on their Super Ts, but we must've moved to a new stage.
“What's wrong? Dontcha wanna talk to us?”
I sit up and shield my eyes.
“So. How's your Mum?”
“She's dead.”
Hardly a beat.
“Who's the fat lady in the fabric then that comes into school, then?”
“My Dad's girlfriend.”
“So how's your stepmum?”
“She's not my stepmum.”
“We saw her in school the other day. She had fabric clenched in her arse cheeks.”
“Yeah, it was being sucked into the crevasse.”
“Disappearing into the deep.”
I nod, just waiting for these two to go away.
“She put her hand on my knee in counselling. I think she's a paedophile.”
“Has she ever touched you?”
“Does she touch you in a special place?”
“You're the one going to counselling.”
“Fuck off.”
Lola shuts up then and Jack steps forward. I should have stayed quiet.
“You really think you're something, don't you?”
I turn my face up to the sun. It doesn't take a genius to see that I don't, but I'm not going to spell that out for them.
“Fuck knows what Kurt sees in her.”
Now they've got my interest. Kurt Fitzpatrick is another one of the Skip Crew, but less of a toss piece. Or maybe just more handsome. He stays quiet a lot, which I appreciate, and has that classic, bad boy way. I mean, he's seen all the films the rest of us have. He knows how to play it and he's got the right face. slightly wonky teeth, good cheek bones. He just needed to grow his hair long and he had it made. See. Niche.
I act disinterested. Always a clear sign someone's spewing for more information. Not that these two notice.
“Yeah, fuck knows why he wants to talk to her.”
I stand up then, thinking, I really have nothing to lose.
“Come on then,” I say. “Where is he?”
They laugh and I wonder if they're starting to warm to me.
“Alright Blue?”
“That's what he calls you,” Lou says. “It's because of your ribbon.”
“Oh right.”
Kurt is acting like a gorilla. He's on the skip, sifting through it, chucking bits of desk and cider bottles out the other side with the odd grunt.
“This'll do,” he says, lifting out the bottom half of a school chair. He jumps off the skip and sets it down. “Have a seat.”
I sit down. It's fine if I don't move. Jack lights a cigarette. Smoke curls up into the air around him. The sun shines on my face. I've mostly forgotten how to act with people my own age but I know that just being quiet goes a long way. Be quiet most of the time, then make a funny and people don't mind you staying.
Jack passes the cigarette to Lou and she smokes it, holding it in the side of her mouth, dragging on it casually. I look for signs that she hates it too, but there are none.
She holds it out to me.
“No thanks. I'm trying to quit.” Everyone laughs at that, sort of, and I sit back. Close my eyes and think of Kurt's gorilla body clambering over the skip, hunting out a chair just for me. It's weird, the skip smells bad, but I get it now. This is a nice spot. Round the back of the school, a little space that nobody else uses. It makes sense to sit here.
The bell rings but no one moves. The heat has made us slow, like wasps in a jar. I sit up. No one is doing anything but I've got biology and there's no way I'm missing that. I don't want to boycott the beginning of my niche, but if I have to edit myself to fit into it, it's not the niche for me. Jesus. Heather has really got to me. I stand up abruptly, knocking my wonky stool over.
“I'm off.”
“Huh?” Lou opens her eyes, and I wonder if she's been asleep. “You're going in?”
“Yep.” I look at Kurt. “Thanks for the seat.”
Lou sits up. Jack stays slumped. Kurt puts his hair behind his ears.
“See you around then Blue.”
“Yeah, bye.”
This is stupid. He could at least have thought of a clever nickname. Blue is weak. No thought at all.
*
There are balloons on the front door, but I'm thinking about re-reading Mum's letter so I don't complain about how ghey that is. That's g-h-e-y. Not g-a-y. I'm no homophobe. Miss Clarke explained why we shouldn't say gay anymore and we all understood, but couldn't stop, so we came to an agreement and changed the spelling. Heather is ghey. Not gay. Anyway, the balloons have got Heather all over them and there's no way she wouldn't know they'd piss me off, but, whatever, I'm onto other things.
I creep up to my room. Dad is in the kitchen, beating away at something. He's such a vole. Heather bustles through and I smile small. That's right Heather, keep on walking. I make a shooing motion and she turns around. I run up the stairs.
The windowsill is fully heated by now. I get Mum's letter from down the back of the radiator and slide down to read it again. Maybe I missed something.
