Page 12 of We All Live Here
Celie doesn’t speak. After a pause, she shrugs. Examines something on her finger and gazes into the distance.
“You know the school called me about it.”
She sees Celie sigh slightly, perhaps at the knowledge that the school will be monitoring her closely from now. She lowers her voice. “It’s not a good time to be bunking off, my love. Not with exams coming.”
She pretty much hears Celie’s eyes rolling. They sit quietly. Celie has been biting her nails again—Lila sees that the cuticles are sore and ragged. Celie glances up at her, opens her mouth slightly. And then her phone rings.
“Lila, do you know where the silver polish is?”
“What?”
Bill’s voice is muffled for a moment, and then he says, “Silver polish. I brought your mother’s silver tea set so that we can have a proper tea. But it’s become rather tarnished and I can’t find any polish under your sink. Or in the back room.”
“I don’t think we have any. And I’m kind of in the midd—”
“No silver polish? But how do you polish your silver?”
“I don’t think we have any silver. Bill, I really have to go.”
Bill lets out a sigh of disappointment. “I suppose I could get some from that shop on the high street. Will they do it?”
Celie has turned away.
“I—I don’t know, Bill. I’ll have a look on the way back.” She ends the call and then, tentatively, puts her hand on Celie’s arm. “Is this about me and Dad?”
“Jesus, Mum. Not everything is about you and Dad.”
There is something odd about her voice, as if it’s just a fraction thicker, slower than it should be. She wonders briefly if Celie is struggling to hold back tears. And then she catches it, the faintest whiff, sweet and acrid. “Celie? Have you beensmoking weed?”
Celie shoots her a furious sideways look, but it tells her everything she needs to know. “What in the—Celie, you can’t smoke weed! You’re sixteen years old!” She feels, rather than hears, Celie’s muttered curse.
“What—Where did you get it? Is someone selling it at school?”
“Why? Do you want some?”
“What?”
“God, Mum, you’re such a hypocrite. I know you smoke weed at night. You’re acting like I’m some kind of freak but you do it.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Oh, my God. Don’t lie. I can smell it through my bedroom window.”
“I—I—That’s different. I just do it when I can’t sleep.”
“And I do it when I can’t relax. What difference?”
“You’re sixteen! And I’m forty-two!”
Her phone rings again. Bill. “Bill, I can’t take this right now—”
“I know, darling. I’ll keep it short. I just wondered if you’re going past the hardware store, whether you could also get me some Bar Keepers Friend?”
“What?”
“It’s a very useful polish. I couldn’t help but notice a few places in the kitchen that are a little…grimy. I know you’re very busy, so if you get me a pot of that I can get going and really—”
“Okay. Okay, Bill. I’ll get it.”
