Not really. Because I know it will be bad. But it comes out anyway. “What?”
Ed smiles. And then I know it’s with me. “Nothing,” he says. “Well, not nothing. I mean, you got royally drunk and me and Matt put you in the back of the van.”
“You drove?”
“Matt. He doesn’t drink.”
“Just smokes,” I say.
“It’s different.”
I look at Ed. And I need to know. Need to make sure. “Was I awful?”
“No. I mean, you were totally out of it. But you didn’t do anything dodgy.”
“What, like dance naked or fight with the Hollys or anything?” I try to joke.
Ed laughs. “Nope.”
“Thank God.” I clutch myself tighter in the sleeping bag.
“You’re a happy drunk,” I hear him say. “Kind of nice. Until you passed out, anyway.”
I smile. Even though my head is pounding. “I feel terrible.”
“You look it.”
“Thanks a million.”
I close my eyes. I try to see it. There are flashes. Like twisting my ankle, still throbbing, even now. Like the sun setting and someone raising a toast to the god of the sea. But no one could remember who that was. Like Matt kissing Holly Harker. Like Blair’s hands, moving inside Emily’s top. Like Stella dancing, leaning over the ledge . . . I open my eyes. Oh, my God! Stella. Ed has said nothing, but he must have seen her. So either he didn’t recognize her or doesn’t care. Or . . .
“Jude.”
I start. “What?” I wait for it. For him to say it. Say something.
But it’s not that. “Is everything OK?” he asks.
I look at him. He’s still smiling, but it’s forced now. He’s got that “I know you’ve had a tough time, and it must be really hard” kind of look on his face. The kind I hate.
“Why, shouldn’t it be?”
“No. Just . . .” He pauses. Trying to find the words. “The drinking and stuff. It’s not like you.”
And he’s right. It’s not like the old Jude. But I’m not her anymore. Don’t want to be her. “I told you, I’m not a kid.”
“No, but —”
“What are you so worried about, anyway?”
He shakes his head, like I’m stupid. “You, of course.”
“Well, I don’t need you to worry about me. I’m fine.”
“Right. That’s why you’re here at, what?” He looks at his watch. “Eleven on a Sunday morning, hung over and looking like seven kinds of shit.”
“Eleven?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Why?”
I remember something Dad said last night. Along with the “Be back by half ten, don’t drink, don’t talk to strangers” lecture.
“Gran,” I groan. “She’s here.”
“Oh,” he says.
“Exactly.”
Then Ed is finding me a washcloth to clean my face, a hairbrush, my shoes. Making me coffee and toast and Marmite to take away.
“Thanks,” I say.
Ed is standing on the doorstep in last night’s T-shirt and boxer shorts. He smiles. “You’re welcome.”
“I mean it . . . and not just for the toast.”
“I know.”
And for one brief moment we’re us again. Me and Ed. Like we always were. And as I walk down the road, his eyes on my back, I wish I could hold on to them both. Him, and Stella. But it won’t work like that. I know I will have to choose.
DAD IS waiting for me.
I walk up the bare treads of the stairs. My head’s hanging down, heavy with sleep and sun and last night, my stomach alive with butterflies, a can of Coke in my hand to quell them, poison them. I see his feet in front of me, on the landing, faded-brown socks, a hole in the left one. I stop. And wait for the words I know are going to come out. Seen it on the soaps.
“Where the hell have you been?” Like he’s scripted.
“Ed’s.”
“I know that. His mum rang last night. But, why, Jude? You knew your gran was coming.”
“I forgot.” True. “Where is she?”
“At the beach with Alfie. I’ve told her you’re helping Ed clear out the garage.” Lying. To cover for me.
I shrug, like it’s nothing. But it’s everything. To him.
The TV script starts again. “Have you seen the state
Ed smiles. And then I know it’s with me. “Nothing,” he says. “Well, not nothing. I mean, you got royally drunk and me and Matt put you in the back of the van.”
“You drove?”
“Matt. He doesn’t drink.”
“Just smokes,” I say.
“It’s different.”
I look at Ed. And I need to know. Need to make sure. “Was I awful?”
“No. I mean, you were totally out of it. But you didn’t do anything dodgy.”
“What, like dance naked or fight with the Hollys or anything?” I try to joke.
Ed laughs. “Nope.”
“Thank God.” I clutch myself tighter in the sleeping bag.
“You’re a happy drunk,” I hear him say. “Kind of nice. Until you passed out, anyway.”
I smile. Even though my head is pounding. “I feel terrible.”
“You look it.”
“Thanks a million.”
I close my eyes. I try to see it. There are flashes. Like twisting my ankle, still throbbing, even now. Like the sun setting and someone raising a toast to the god of the sea. But no one could remember who that was. Like Matt kissing Holly Harker. Like Blair’s hands, moving inside Emily’s top. Like Stella dancing, leaning over the ledge . . . I open my eyes. Oh, my God! Stella. Ed has said nothing, but he must have seen her. So either he didn’t recognize her or doesn’t care. Or . . .
“Jude.”
I start. “What?” I wait for it. For him to say it. Say something.
But it’s not that. “Is everything OK?” he asks.
I look at him. He’s still smiling, but it’s forced now. He’s got that “I know you’ve had a tough time, and it must be really hard” kind of look on his face. The kind I hate.
“Why, shouldn’t it be?”
“No. Just . . .” He pauses. Trying to find the words. “The drinking and stuff. It’s not like you.”
And he’s right. It’s not like the old Jude. But I’m not her anymore. Don’t want to be her. “I told you, I’m not a kid.”
“No, but —”
“What are you so worried about, anyway?”
He shakes his head, like I’m stupid. “You, of course.”
“Well, I don’t need you to worry about me. I’m fine.”
“Right. That’s why you’re here at, what?” He looks at his watch. “Eleven on a Sunday morning, hung over and looking like seven kinds of shit.”
“Eleven?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Why?”
I remember something Dad said last night. Along with the “Be back by half ten, don’t drink, don’t talk to strangers” lecture.
“Gran,” I groan. “She’s here.”
“Oh,” he says.
“Exactly.”
Then Ed is finding me a washcloth to clean my face, a hairbrush, my shoes. Making me coffee and toast and Marmite to take away.
“Thanks,” I say.
Ed is standing on the doorstep in last night’s T-shirt and boxer shorts. He smiles. “You’re welcome.”
“I mean it . . . and not just for the toast.”
“I know.”
And for one brief moment we’re us again. Me and Ed. Like we always were. And as I walk down the road, his eyes on my back, I wish I could hold on to them both. Him, and Stella. But it won’t work like that. I know I will have to choose.
DAD IS waiting for me.
I walk up the bare treads of the stairs. My head’s hanging down, heavy with sleep and sun and last night, my stomach alive with butterflies, a can of Coke in my hand to quell them, poison them. I see his feet in front of me, on the landing, faded-brown socks, a hole in the left one. I stop. And wait for the words I know are going to come out. Seen it on the soaps.
“Where the hell have you been?” Like he’s scripted.
“Ed’s.”
“I know that. His mum rang last night. But, why, Jude? You knew your gran was coming.”
“I forgot.” True. “Where is she?”
“At the beach with Alfie. I’ve told her you’re helping Ed clear out the garage.” Lying. To cover for me.
I shrug, like it’s nothing. But it’s everything. To him.
The TV script starts again. “Have you seen the state
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