Good Me Bad Me(14)

MK.



MK. I’ve never known a teacher to sign off with initials before.

The rest of the day is uneventful. Maths, double science and religious studies to end on. When the bell goes, I head up to the art room. I hear their voices before I see them. Nasal and shrill. Mean. Girls. They come down the stairs towards me and I wonder what sort of punishment, if any, MK gave them for the poster. I pause to let them pass, the staircase not wide enough. Phoebe pushes me against the banister.

‘Hello, dog-face.’

Dog-face? We were supposed to become sisters. Little women.

‘She’s waiting for you. So sweet that you got your itty-bitty Miss Kemp to fight your battles.’

‘About the necklace, Phoebe, I won’t wear it, I feel bad.’

‘What’s this about a necklace?’ Izzy asks.

‘Nothing,’ Phoebe responds.

‘Oh, come on, share,’ Izzy says, jabbing her in the stomach.

Depleted. Less hostile, less brave. Embarrassed in front of her friend. I should feel bad for mentioning it now, in front of someone else. I should.

‘My stupid fuck-face of a mother bought her one of those gold name necklaces too.’

‘The one she had made for you? Did she not have one made for herself as well, so you guys could be matching?’

Phoebe nods. I try to say sorry, but she tells me to shut up.

‘Uh-oh, dearest Mummy let you down again, has she?’

‘Fuck off, Iz.’

‘Chill out, who needs mothers anyway when we have each other?’

They laugh and continue down the stairs to the next landing. I say nothing, but I want to say, I do.

I need a mother.

Izzy stops, looks up at me, asks, ‘Had any strange phone calls recently?’

My hand moves towards my phone in my blazer pocket.

‘I take it by the silence that’s a no then. Well, strap in, I’m sure it won’t be long.’

More sniggers and laughter.

Salt in the wound. Stings. As I look down at their beautiful faces I remember a story I read. A Native American tale where the Cherokee tells his grandson there’s a battle between two wolves in all of us. One is evil, the other good. The boy asks him, which wolf wins? The Cherokee tells him, the one you feed. Their faces become targets as I look at them. I’m tempted to open my mouth, saliva and spit across the make-up on their faces. Dolls. A biscuity smell of fake tan hangs in the air. Izzy makes a V with her fingers, shoves her tongue through them. Phoebe does the same. Bad thoughts in my head. A door opens in the corridor below, prompts them to move. I check my phone as I head up the remaining stairs to MK’s room, no calls.

When I arrive there are two easels set up opposite each other. Two stools, two boxes of charcoal. Two of everything.

‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Welcome! Ready to do some sketching?’

I nod, place my bag and blazer down. She asks me if I’d like a glass of water.

‘No thank you.’

‘Have you worked with charcoal before?’

‘A little bit.’

‘Good, grab a seat at one of the easels.’

Her hands are flighty, move quickly, as if the weight of the rings would be too heavy if they remained stationary for more than a split second. She sits down opposite me.

‘Any idea what you’d like to draw?’

Yes. But I don’t think people would approve.

‘Not really, I don’t mind.’

‘How about we sketch the figure over there on the table, it’s by a sculptor called Giacometti, or I’ve got some perfume in my bag, the bottle’s an interesting shape.’

Her perfume. That’s what it is. Familiar. Fresh sprigs of lavender cut from our garden, by you.

‘The figure is fine,’ I reply.

‘Good choice, I’ll grab it.’

She moves with fluidity, the tribal beads she wears leaving a wake of noise with each step. Her hair piled up in a messy bump, secured by a clip with some kind of Asian pattern on it. She reminds me of something from a National Geographic magazine – a cross between a messy geisha and a tribal high priestess. We begin sketching at the same time, in tune somehow, our hands synchronized, reach for the charcoal. She asks me how things have been so far, I tell her fine.

‘Fine as in really fine, or as in could be better but you don’t want to say?’

‘A bit of both maybe.’

Sweep. Dust. A head on the page, I wonder if she started at the top too.

‘Art’s an excellent therapy, you know.’

I feel the prickles advance. Half-built walls live inside me, erected fully in minutes if I feel a threat of exposure. ‘Therapy’. Why would she say that? A need-to-know basis, Mike said. Ms James, the headmistress at school, and Sas and I, that’s it. Nobody else knows about your mother. I look over my easel at her. No make-up, a natural blush. Peaches and cream. She looks up, smiles, gentle crinkles and creases forming round her eyes. I bet she smiles, laughs, a lot.

‘How’s it going over there?’

‘Good, thanks.’

The head has a body now, thin as a whip like the one you used, even though I said no.

‘How have things been with the girls?’

Worse than ever.

‘Not too bad, I suppose.’

‘You suppose?’