need this.’ You give your shoe to me.
‘You’ve totally lost me.’
‘Well, no gain without pain and all that. What we need to do is break something and the wrist is easiest, even a chip on it will do. Six weeks in a plaster. No PE.’
I think you have lost your mind and my face must tell you as much. ‘My dad’s a doctor, remember, he knows these things,’ you say as if that makes everything OK. I met your dad for the first time on Saturday. He opened the door to me, surfer T-shirt, jeans and flip-flops, tanned face and arms. I thought he was too young to be your father until he said, ‘You must be Rachel. I’m Simon, Clara’s dad,’ with the warmest Saturday-morning smile I’d ever seen. ‘Come in, come in, I’m just making brunch.’
I guessed brunch was something between breakfast and lunch, though I didn’t want to say I’d never had it before. Instead I followed him into the kitchen where you were sitting on a stool at an enormous breakfast bar, a glass of orange juice in front of you, swinging your legs and humming along to the radio. The picture of a perfect weekend. ‘She’s got terrible taste in music,’ he said with a wink, ‘I hope yours is better, Rachel.’ You picked up a satsuma from the fruit bowl and threw it in his direction. But he saw it coming and caught it with one hand. ‘Nice try, Clar,’ he teased and turned back to beating the eggs. ‘I hope you girls are hungry, I’m doing my special sweetcorn fritters,’ he said and I found myself thinking your dad was a revelation.
I can’t imagine he would tell you how to hurt yourself.
‘You mean he told you how to break your wrist so you can skip PE?’
‘No, but I’ve been asking a few questions here and there so he’s not suspicious.’ You take the shoe from me. ‘We need to hit it here.’ You bring the shoe down to your wrist gently. ‘Thing is, I’d be rubbish doing it myself. You can do it for me and I’ll do yours.’ You say it like you’re suggesting we do each other’s hair or make-up. Not taking a shoe to crack your friend’s wrist.
‘You don’t think it’s a bit extreme?’
‘It’s a bit of pain, Rachel, nothing more. I’ll do it on your left arm if it makes you feel better, then you can still write your English essays.’
You press the shoe back into my hand again. ‘I want to do it, even if you don’t so please, you have to do it for me. Think of it as a friendship initiation thing.’ You throw your head back and laugh. When you bring it up again I see your eyes are intense, fiery. ‘Go on, I’ll count to three.’
‘I … I don’t want …’
‘Come on, for me,’ you say, ‘do it for me.’ Then I hear the words, ‘One … two …’ Your eyes are watching me, willing me to do it, and I know I have to, otherwise it won’t be the same. ‘THREE.’ I bring the shoe up above my head and slice it through the air on to your wrist. I close my eyes as it hits but I feel it whack against your bone, like a piece of rock. You roll back and scream a scream that pierces the air. I throw the shoe down and find you writhing on the ground. ‘Are you OK, Clara, Jesus, we need to get you inside.’
‘Of course I’m not fucking OK, you’ve just broken my wrist,’ you say eventually. You are laughing and crying at the same time and your eyes look like they have sparks coming off them. I think the pain is making you manic. ‘Come on,’ I say, pulling you up.
‘It’s your turn.’ You pull me down with your good arm.
‘Clara, honestly, this was a bad idea, you can’t seriously …’
‘We made a deal, remember?’
I can’t remember shaking on any deal but when I see your face drained of colour and your teeth chattering but not from the cold, I know I owe it to you. I take my coat off and roll up the sleeves on my jumper and shirt. ‘Here,’ I say. I see the run of freckles up my arm. My wrist is thin compared with the rest of my body. I imagine it smashing under the force of
‘You’ve totally lost me.’
‘Well, no gain without pain and all that. What we need to do is break something and the wrist is easiest, even a chip on it will do. Six weeks in a plaster. No PE.’
I think you have lost your mind and my face must tell you as much. ‘My dad’s a doctor, remember, he knows these things,’ you say as if that makes everything OK. I met your dad for the first time on Saturday. He opened the door to me, surfer T-shirt, jeans and flip-flops, tanned face and arms. I thought he was too young to be your father until he said, ‘You must be Rachel. I’m Simon, Clara’s dad,’ with the warmest Saturday-morning smile I’d ever seen. ‘Come in, come in, I’m just making brunch.’
I guessed brunch was something between breakfast and lunch, though I didn’t want to say I’d never had it before. Instead I followed him into the kitchen where you were sitting on a stool at an enormous breakfast bar, a glass of orange juice in front of you, swinging your legs and humming along to the radio. The picture of a perfect weekend. ‘She’s got terrible taste in music,’ he said with a wink, ‘I hope yours is better, Rachel.’ You picked up a satsuma from the fruit bowl and threw it in his direction. But he saw it coming and caught it with one hand. ‘Nice try, Clar,’ he teased and turned back to beating the eggs. ‘I hope you girls are hungry, I’m doing my special sweetcorn fritters,’ he said and I found myself thinking your dad was a revelation.
I can’t imagine he would tell you how to hurt yourself.
‘You mean he told you how to break your wrist so you can skip PE?’
‘No, but I’ve been asking a few questions here and there so he’s not suspicious.’ You take the shoe from me. ‘We need to hit it here.’ You bring the shoe down to your wrist gently. ‘Thing is, I’d be rubbish doing it myself. You can do it for me and I’ll do yours.’ You say it like you’re suggesting we do each other’s hair or make-up. Not taking a shoe to crack your friend’s wrist.
‘You don’t think it’s a bit extreme?’
‘It’s a bit of pain, Rachel, nothing more. I’ll do it on your left arm if it makes you feel better, then you can still write your English essays.’
You press the shoe back into my hand again. ‘I want to do it, even if you don’t so please, you have to do it for me. Think of it as a friendship initiation thing.’ You throw your head back and laugh. When you bring it up again I see your eyes are intense, fiery. ‘Go on, I’ll count to three.’
‘I … I don’t want …’
‘Come on, for me,’ you say, ‘do it for me.’ Then I hear the words, ‘One … two …’ Your eyes are watching me, willing me to do it, and I know I have to, otherwise it won’t be the same. ‘THREE.’ I bring the shoe up above my head and slice it through the air on to your wrist. I close my eyes as it hits but I feel it whack against your bone, like a piece of rock. You roll back and scream a scream that pierces the air. I throw the shoe down and find you writhing on the ground. ‘Are you OK, Clara, Jesus, we need to get you inside.’
‘Of course I’m not fucking OK, you’ve just broken my wrist,’ you say eventually. You are laughing and crying at the same time and your eyes look like they have sparks coming off them. I think the pain is making you manic. ‘Come on,’ I say, pulling you up.
‘It’s your turn.’ You pull me down with your good arm.
‘Clara, honestly, this was a bad idea, you can’t seriously …’
‘We made a deal, remember?’
I can’t remember shaking on any deal but when I see your face drained of colour and your teeth chattering but not from the cold, I know I owe it to you. I take my coat off and roll up the sleeves on my jumper and shirt. ‘Here,’ I say. I see the run of freckles up my arm. My wrist is thin compared with the rest of my body. I imagine it smashing under the force of
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