A Quiet Kind of Thunder(49)

‘Because I want to go now,’ I said, already annoyed. We’d been in the restaurant for fifteen minutes. ‘With everyone else.’

‘Everyone else can talk,’ Mum said.

‘Joanne,’ Dad said.

‘I’m talking right now!’ I snapped.

‘Stefanie,’ Dad said.

‘Are you sure it’s what you really want?’ Lucy asked me gently. ‘University can be a very overwhelming experience, even for people who don’t have any kind of social anxiety. I think what your mother is trying to say is that the benefits might not balance out the risks.’

‘Yes,’ Mum said. ‘That is what I was trying to say. Thank you, Lucy.’

I can never quite figure out if Mum and Lucy actually like each other.

‘It’s also a lot of money,’ Dad said. ‘I know you don’t want to think about it like that, Steffi, but it is the reality. It’s very expensive nowadays. You’ll be repaying the loans for decades. It’s not a cheap experiment.’

‘It’s not an experiment at all,’ I said. ‘It’s my life.’

‘It’s one small part of your life,’ Dad corrected. ‘Don’t go thinking it’s the be all and end all. Plenty of people don’t go. The majority, in fact.’

‘Why is it so important for you to go?’ Keir asked. This is a very Keir question. He teaches Philosophy at A level and likes to feel like he’s asking the deeper questions.

‘Because I want to,’ I said. Which was a shorter way of saying that I wanted to prove to myself that I could, that I didn’t want my anxiety to be the reason I didn’t do something so huge, even if it terrified me.

‘Do you understand why we’re concerned?’ Mum asked. She was using her put-upon voice.

‘No,’ I said flatly.

‘We care about you,’ Lucy said. ‘That’s why we’re concerned.’

We were having this conversation only a few weeks after the third anniversary of Clark’s death. I wanted to say, ‘I don’t even drive. It won’t happen to me.’ But what would have been the point of that?

Instead, I said, ‘I thought you wanted me to be independent.’

‘We do,’ Dad said. ‘When you’re ready. I’m not sure you are ready yet, love.’

‘Why not?’ I demanded. Frustration was starting to spill over. ‘How can I prove it?’

And that’s when they all came up with my Two Year Plan. That’s what they called it, like they were economists deciding the fate of a nation, or something. The first year – my first year of sixth form – would be the most crucial. I would need to try harder at school, talk to people I didn’t know, receive positive feedback regarding my voice from my teachers at parents’ evening. I’d work with my therapist to learn more coping strategies and to overcome more of my anxiety – they’d also have meetings with her so they could be updated on my progress.

If I’d proven myself by the end of Year 12, I could go on to apply through UCAS as normal with everyone else in my year. Over the course of Year 13, I would jump through some more hoops to prove my gung-ho talky-talkiness. By the time my A-level exams came round and I’d received my acceptance (providing I was accepted, of course, though this had always been taken as a given), I’d be all ready to go. No one would try to stop me.

When I try to explain all this to Rhys, he’s confused. But why don’t they want you to go? he asks. I don’t get it. Isn’t it exactly what they want?

They’re worried, I say. Mum thinks I’ll have some kind of breakdown if I go away by myself. To be honest, I don’t know if there’s anything I could do that will stop her worrying about that.

Why is she worried about that?

I shrug. Because it’s a possibility. But I’d rather do it anyway, and she thinks it’s not worth the risk.

He looks suddenly worried. What do you mean? Why is it a possibility?

I tap the side of my forehead with one finger. Not so good in the head. She said once that if I had bad legs she wouldn’t encourage me to run a marathon.

He makes a face. That doesn’t even make sense.

I shrug again. Mothers.

What about your dad? He seems so reasonable.

That’s more complicated. I think of Clark packing up boxes on his last day at home before moving to Bristol University. Will you miss me, Steffi? Grief, sudden and acute, seizes my heart, then lets go. Dad’s worried too. But for different reasons.

What reasons?

I could tell him about Clark. I could explain how Clark didn’t even really want to go to university, but Dad and Lucy convinced him. They had what was basically the opposite argument with Clark than they now have with me. With him, it was, You should go, it’ll be so good for you. And Clark eventually gave in and went, and then, just as he was on his way back to us for the summer, he died. His death was an accident – we all know this – but grief has a way of twisting sadness into guilt, remorse into regret, until it becomes irrational. Now they want to keep me extra close, extra safe, from somewhere in their heads that has morphed into something dangerous. University.

I could tell Rhys that in all the times my parents and I have spoken about me going to university we never mention this, never even mention Clark’s name, but he’s there. Every time. Dad stuff, I reply, which is meaningless but at least isn’t a lie. If I could just prove to them both that I can do it, I say. I think they still think of me as the mute kid, you know? But I’m not. I hesitate. Or am I?