Page 27 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

I’m at The Twins’ house the night before my fifteenth birthday. Tomorrow my family and I are going to Chessington World of Adventures to ride the Vampire ride and then we’re going to Pizza Hut so I can load my bowl up at the salad bar without supervision and eat as much of those bacon crunchies as I feel like, smother everything in thousand island dressing and get to call it greens. Then I’ll eat a whole entire (pretty much fried) pepperoni pizza – showered with fake parmesan – by myself, before visiting – at least four times – the refillable ice-cream machine. All washed down with four pints of Coke. And no, you can’t say anything, Mum, because it’s my birthday.

But I’m still waiting for my dad to pick me up. He’s running late. Which isn’t unusual; we don’t live that close. Maybe he had to get petrol.

I can sense The Twins’ mum feeling the nerves – should she be making me a birthday eve dinner? The pressure of not knowing if she should be frying up a few rib-eyes or not. Am I staying the night? The Twins’ mum is never late. She always has petrol. We wait for Dad to call. He’ll be here in a minute, I say.

Sure, I like The Twins’ house, far better than my own, but it’s 251 that I want now. It’s my birthday; I want my mum and dad.

I’m out of phone credit, so am rinsing The Twins’ phone like a babysitter with hot gossip, waiting for Mum and Dad or Violet to pick up the phone, but it rings out for so long I begin to hear new melodies in the simple pattern of it. We watch MTV, self-medicating with snacks, tripping out at Crazy Town’s video for ‘Butterfly’, wishing somebody wanted us like that, until The Twin’s mum hands the flashy cordless phone to me. ‘It’s your dad.’ I can smell the relief oozing off her.

‘Listen, Ellabell, I’m not going to be able to pick you up tonight, chicken. Your mum and I have a lot to sort out over here … ’

He sounds drunk. His voice raspy, like he’s been shouting. And he’s wheezing like he has dried up leaves in his lungs.

‘Have you got your Ventolin?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Don’t worry.’

My eyes water; The Twins’ burglar alarm blinks every thirty seconds to remind us we are safe here. I can’t imagine that kind of security.

‘Do you think it would be OK if we came and got you in the morning?’ he asks.

‘You mean stay the night?’ I ask, horrified, shaken, fizzing like a SodaStream. ‘On my birthday?’

I have never been apart from my parents on a birthday. And what about Violet and Sonny? It’ll feel to them like I have died, surely? They might open my presents, assume I’m dead? ‘Stumble’ across my incredibly powerful poetry, publish it and turn their future children into entitled brats with my millions. It’s what Ella would have wanted.

NO. IT’S NOT.

‘If that’s OK with The Twins’ mum?’

‘I’m sure that’s fine.’ Put me up for adoption, why don’t you?

The Twins hold me. They say, ‘Let’s all make one big bed on the floor tonight!’ and drag out the mattresses. We spread out on the living room floor and watch Cruel Intentions and chat shit until we don’t make sense any more.

In the morning, their mum – total diamond of a woman – lays out warm croissants and jam. The Twins pick flowers from the garden – flowers that could earn prizes – to decorate the table. I take one to press when I get home. Enjoy today whilst it lasts. Because today is yours.

So after breakfast, when Dad calls to say, ‘Grab your coat, birthday girl, we’re going to Chessington!’ I say I want to stay here. Where I know there will be cake. And I’ll get spoilt all day. The last thing I need is my parents arguing upside-down on Rameses Revenge.

So I do.

Even though it’s only 10 a.m. I slide on my sassy choker necklace and zig zag my parting. It feels like we’re getting ready for a wedding, like I’m the bride and The Twins are my loyal bridesmaids. Like this is going to be a special day. One I will remember forever. And out we roll into summer, in our baggy jeans and—

OH MY GOSH—

There at the end of the street, waiting.

My one. Lowe Archer.

He’s wearing his cap, a grey t-shirt with a blue star on it, a strawberry Ribena in between his hand and the handlebar of his bike.

‘My favourite!’ I say. But – this is a secret – I’m talking about him, not the drink.

‘Happy birthday, Ella,’ he says. And he hugs me. Him. He props his cap on my head and I feel like I’ve won an Oscar. Is it just me or is there spring blossom everywhere? Pale butterfly kisses hang from every tree, every streetlamp, sweeping down the road, skipping and slipping into the drains. Is the day not fucking gorgeous? Is it not such sweet paradise here in South London? We walk through the woods where the others meet us with cakes, homemade cards and balloons. We eat those big flat chewy strawberry jelly sweets that get stuck in your teeth, and Dad calls again to say he’ll come and get me, that it’s not too late for Chessington? and even then I still say no. I’m happy under the overcast mushroomy sky – with everyone sitting on the common, singing out our favourite grunge songs like a pack of crying wolves. I am exactly where I need to be. Fifteen years old. And loved.

Lowe pulls out a guitar and begins to play one of my favourite songs that he’s learnt.

‘No way … SHUT UP!’ I squeal but he doesn’t falter. He’s trying to concentrate, trying to keep his hands steady. Tears bulb in my eyes and we all begin to sing, maybe twenty of us now, just kids, perfectly annoying kids, living out loud until the sun sets and our friend the moon is our glowing campfire, our watchful eye.

Lowe pushes his bike up to The Twins’ house. The stars wrap around us. I am living in a fantasy where this is my hotel; this is my life.

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