Page 46 of I Love You, I Love You, I Love You

‘Can I come?’

He doesn’t reply.

‘Jackson?’

‘What, to shake off your guilt?’

‘No, so I can be with you, so that when we get home we’re on the same page, so we can talk about last night – and all the other things – and see if we can make it better.’

He folds his arms. ‘Ten K?’

‘Ha! Five!’ I blurt but read the room, love. ‘No, yes, yes, ten K sounds absolutely brilliant.’ OH GOD.

We run – my style more shuffle – down our street, which is OK because it’s on a slant, almost downhill; if anything I’m scared I’m going to trip on my laces and smash my face in. Past the row of shops and down the backroads where everyone else is probably just being cosy and watching TV – jealous. My knee aches and my ankle feels dull – probably shouldn’t put weight on it – arriving at the park gates. I was hoping that this would be The End because he knows this is the most I’ve run in a long time but oh no, it dawns on me that at the park there’s kind of nowhere to go except follow the track around in a huge endless circle and if you wanted to, or were mad, you could just run that track around and around until the end of time. Very quickly my face goes bright red. My chest hurts as the cold air hits my lungs and burns. I am breathless and have had enough.

Come on, he says. I can tell he’s hanging back for me. I cup my boobs to stop them bouncing. Gulp huge mouthfuls of air and exhale. There is snot. A lot. My nose won’t stop running. Why do I suddenly have a cold? I want to cough. Then my shoulders start playing up – I’m hunching them: I remember to drop them and now it’s my leggings, wrinkling up at the ankle. He says, Keep going, you’re doing great. Are we not even going to play some music? Korn or Rihanna or The Strokes? Is he not irritable? Does this not make him annoyed? Jackson’s so naturally light on his feet; he’s like an athlete, swinging in these long power strides, human and cave-person-like. But then I see people walking with coffee cups and we pass them at speed, leave them behind in the dust. We see a dog chase a squirrel. Kids on bikes. Leaves bustling. Emerald, jade, chestnut, radish red leaves. Parakeets. Geese. Conkers. Pigeons. The sky above us, expansive and swallowing. And our breaths, in out, in out. We find a rhythm. Without forcing it, we find a pace. We’re together. We don’t talk; we just run. And then I start to feel it: the simple pleasure, of my feet on the ground, of my own body motoring me along, fuelled by my own steam. I’m doing this! The challenge, the reward, the sweat begins to come in little trickles but it’s sweat all the same. I get all-over body vibrations, tingles, the stretch, the ache, the pain, endorphins and Vitamin D. My heart beating, flooding blood all around my body and at every point, when I promise myself I’ll stop at that bush, that lamppost, that tree, I don’t. I keep going.

When we reach the river, it’s Jackson who stops first. He invites me to admire the view. But I’m bent over, huffing and puffing, hands on thighs. I look up to see he’s breathless too. Hands on hips, face in an expression of I wouldn’t say enjoyment but endurance. We are reasonably far from home. I look out at the water and then I just release. I begin to cry.

Jackson wraps his arms around me.

‘I’m so sorry.’ I sniff.

‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘Life is … a lot. Neither of us can get it right all the time. We’re just learning. Doing our best. It’s OK.’

And we turn back and walk home.

Chapter 19

Then

My college doesn’t feel like school. We do things like lie down, whilst a teacher plays political speeches at us which are meant to get us fired up but we’re all too self-absorbed so just lie there, thinking about our own problems. We study Chekhov. Stanislavski. We turn Dr Seuss books into protest theatre. We bark cliché messages about anti-drugs. Anti-racism. Anti-bullying. Anti-sexism. Anti-homophobia. Anti-war. We stare at ourselves in the mirror to Massive Attack’s ‘Teardrop’ and the aim is to cry. We make movement pieces. We are trees. We are ghosts. We have no tongues. We are mothers. We are cows. We then have to become a city, without talking, to twist and turn like the river, improvise. ‘Trust,’ whispers the teacher as my hands link with a girl called Dominique – perfect eyeliner and an oversized washed-out tracksuit, which she somehow manages to make look like fashion – to mime a bridge.

‘What the fuck?’ I ventriloquist-whisper and this makes us both crack up.

Our school says: you get out what you put in. So we put in everything. Very quickly I realize I don’t to be an actor but I do feel like I’ve met my kind, people who want to make stuff happen. Like Dominique. She’s made her own coat; it’s long and black with colourful felt shapes. It’s incredible – just like her. Here, there aren’t gangs and crews and groups; everybody meshes. Everybody can just be themselves. I am able to express myself outside of my notebook, in my clothes and body. I wear more bright colours, I accept my raggle-taggle look and scruffy hair. I am lifted, lighter, happier. A few months in, I find the confidence to share some of my poems with Dom.

‘You should write us a play, Ella!’ she encourages, wrapping her braids into a bun.

Really?’ I ask.

‘A hundred per cent!’

I shrug. ‘OK, why not?’

Here, without even trying, I start to think – no, believe – that I am actually alright at writing, which I never did at the girls’ school with its academic grades and unobtainable targets.

‘I’m writing a play!’ I rush in from school, slamming around my house. I need a notebook, a pen, a beret.

Violet rolls her eyes.

‘If you must know’ – she didn’t ask – ‘it’s called Bad Wolf and it’s a modern adaptation and feminist examination of—’

‘Little Red Riding Hood?’

‘Yes.’ How did she know?

‘Kind of obvious.’

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