Page 53 of Out of the Blue
The house feels strange, the way it always does when you come home from a long holiday. I get Teacake settled into the living room, the most spacious room in the house. I turn the radio on for her and fish out a packet of KitKats from the kitchen cupboard in case she gets hungry in the night.
‘Sorry, I know it’s a bit small after the hall,’ I say. ‘You can go out again tomorrow. As long as you like.’
Teacake smiles. ‘As long as you like,’ she echoes.
Butterflies start to flit around my stomach as I take Allie up to my room. Everything between us has been put on hold since we began our rescue operation. Now, as I get out a sleeping bag from the bottom of my cupboard, it all comes flooding back: the tension, the almost-kiss. Her silent questions about Leah; the answers I couldn’t have given until a few hours ago.
Right now, though, we’re both too tired to think about much other than sleep; Allie, in particular, looks exhausted. She sinks on to my bed, too knackered to even kick her shoes off, her hands above her head. From this angle, the falling petals look as if they’re floating upwards.
‘How are you feeling?’ I ask.
When she answers, I get the feeling it’s the first time she’s being totally honest with me about it.
‘Pretty shit. Really shit, actually. This isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, but it’s probably in the top three.’ She opens one eye and gives me a watery smile. ‘Also . . . I kind of lied. I’ve only got enough meds to last me until tomorrow. After that, I’ll need someone to bring me more.’
It takes me a few seconds to catch what she means. ‘Calum.’
Her eyes flutter shut again. ‘I know what he did was unforgivable,’ she says. ‘I won’t call him unless you say it’s OK.’
There’s no way I can say no. Her treatment isn’t optional – and if Calum doesn’t bring it her parents will, and they probably hate me for dragging her up here without telling them.
‘What was that thing he wanted the money for?’ I ask, sitting on the bed beside her. ‘Stem-cell treatment?’
She nods. ‘It’s being developed as an alternative treatment for CF. It hasn’t been approved here, but I’ve read about a few people who have gone to the Dominican Republic for it. It costs loads. Thousands – much more than Calum’s photos would have earned.’ Her eyelids droop shut. ‘I guess he’s looking for a miracle, in case things take another turn for the worse.’
My insides turn to ice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?’
‘It doesn’t make any difference. It was still a shitty thing to do. He shouldn’t have gone behind our backs. Besides, he shouldn’t be trying to make decisions about my treatments for me.’ Her hand inches across the duvet, until her fingertips are touching mine. ‘But I think he deserves a second chance. If that’s OK with you.’
People make mistakes. I have. I can’t judge Calum for doing the same. ‘OK. Anyway, it’s Teacake who has to forgive him, not me.’ I look at my phone. Another ten missed calls since I last checked. ‘Actually, I think – I think I need to make a phone call too.’
Allie’s eyebrows lift. Even in the dim glow from my desk lamp, I see the fear, suspicion and anger flickering through her eyes. ‘Your dad?’
‘I promised my sister I would tell him if we were in trouble. I think it’s time for me to trust him,’ I say. ‘Plus, Rani will want to be with Teacake too. She’d want to say goodbye.’
Allie’s silent for a moment, fiddling absent-mindedly with one of her earrings, but then she nods. ‘OK. Let’s do it.’
The sun is coming up now. My mind is fuzzy with fatigue, and my words are beginning to slur. It’s far too early to ring anyone, or maybe far too late. But we take out our phones anyway, and we make the calls.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It happened on a Monday. It happened in November, in a place where we weren’t supposed to be. I should have been in double Maths, listening to Mr Anderson drone on about vectors and tangents. She should have been in the office she’d set up in what was once our guest room, doing her paperwork or responding to clients’ emails. Neither of us was supposed to be walking in the glen.
I couldn’t face school that morning; I was still recovering from Amy Williamson’s party the Saturday before. Part of that was the combination of vodka, Red Bull and Blue WKD that I’d drunk – my first two-day hangover, and hopefully my last – but most of it was down to the same reason I’d spent all of Sunday in my room locked in a WhatsApp fight and drowning out the world with music: Leah.
We had kissed three times by then. Once on my sixteenth birthday, back in October; once on Guy Fawkes’ Night; and once in the woods on an orienteering trip when we realized neither of us knew how to read a map and got completely lost. Each kiss was rushed, but each one lasted longer than the last. Each kiss was secret, but each one felt like a step towards something bigger. She didn’t want a label, but we were building up to something with a name. That’s what it felt like, anyway.
But that Saturday I walked into Amy Williamson’s kitchen and saw her kissing Joseph Macrae, and that ‘something’ – thatthingthat I’d thought we’d been building up to – it had crumbled. The argument we’d had afterwards, the messages she’d sent saying that this wasn’t who she was, that I wasn’t who she wanted, that the whole thing had been a phase and a mistake . . . all that had ground the rubble into dust.
‘I’m not going in,’ I told Mum when she came into my room at half past seven on Monday morning. ‘I’m not well. Got a migraine.’
She put her hand on my forehead. When I was wee, I tried once or twice to fake a fever by pressing a hot flannel against my forehead. This time, I didn’t even have the energy to fake a headache. It was obvious I wasn’t sick, but Mum just swept my hair out of my face and pulled the duvet up to my shoulders.
‘You can stay home with me today, then,’ she said. ‘Get some more sleep; I’ll give the school a ring.’
She came back at ten o’clock with a tray of tea and toast. She stayed with me as I took a few bites, telling me about some emails she’d had from an irate customer, then suggested we go for a walk in the glen. ‘You look like you could do with some fresh air. Clear that headache of yours,’ she said, grinning.
She’d been going on for months about how important my Highers were, how every lesson counted. I didn’t know why she was letting me stay off, but I didn’t argue; I was just happy not to have to face Leah, or Emma’s questions, or Joseph Macrae’s annoyingly handsome face.
