Good Me Bad Me(3)

School begins tomorrow, we’re all in the kitchen. Phoebe’s saying thank god, can’t wait to get back, and out of this house. Mike laughs it off, Saskia looks sad. Over the past week I’ve noticed something’s not right between her and Phoebe. They exist almost entirely independently of each other, Mike the translator, the mediator. Sometimes Phoebe calls her Saskia, not Mum. I expected her to be punished the first time I heard her say it, but no. Not that I’ve seen. I also haven’t seen them touch each other, and I think touch is an indicator of love. Not the kind of touch you experienced though, Milly. There is good touch and bad touch, said the staff at the unit.

Phoebe announces she’s going out to meet someone called Izzy, who just got back from France. Mike suggests she take me too, introduce me. She rolls her eyes and says come on, I haven’t seen Iz all summer, she can meet her tomorrow. It’ll be nice for Milly to meet one of the girls, he persists, take her to some of the places you hang out. Fine, she agrees, but it’s not really my job.

‘It’s nice of you though,’ says Saskia.

She stares her mother down. Stares and stares, until she wins. Saskia looks away, a pink flush imprinting on her cheeks.

‘I was just saying how nice I thought you were being.’

‘Yeah, well, nobody asked you, did they?’

I wait for the backlash, a hand or an object. But nothing. Only Mike.

‘Please don’t speak to your mother like that.’

When we leave the house there’s a girl in a tracksuit sitting on the wall opposite our driveway, she looks at us as we pass. Phoebe says fuck off you little shit, find another wall to sit on. The girl responds by giving her the finger.

‘Who was that?’ I ask.

‘Just some skanky kid from the estate.’

She nods towards the tower blocks on the left-hand side of our road.

‘Don’t get used to this by the way, I’ll be doing my own thing when school kicks off properly.’

‘Okay.’

‘The close just there runs right past our garden, there’s nothing much up there, a few garages and stuff, and it’s quicker to get to school this way.’

‘What time do you normally leave in the morning?’

‘It depends. I usually meet Iz and we walk together. Sometimes we go to Starbucks and hang out for a bit, but it’s hockey season this term and I’m captain so I’ll be leaving early most mornings doing fitness and stuff.’

‘You must be really good if you’re captain.’

‘Suppose so. So what’s your story then? Where are your folks?’

An invisible hand reaches into the pit of my stomach, squeezes it hard, doesn’t let go. I feel my head fill up again. Relax, I tell myself, I practised these questions with the staff at the unit, over and over again.

‘My mum left when I was young, I lived with my dad but he died recently.’

‘Fuck, that’s pretty shit.’

I nod, leave it at that. Less is more, I was told.

‘Dad probably showed you some of this stuff last week but at the end of our road, just here, there’s a short-cut to school that way.’

She points to the right.

‘Cross over the road, take the first left and then the second street on the right, it takes about five minutes from there.’

I’m about to thank her but she’s distracted, her face breaking into a smile. I follow her gaze and see a blonde girl crossing the road towards us, blowing exaggerated air kisses. Phoebe laughs and waves, says, that’s Iz. Her legs glow brown against the ripped denim shorts she’s wearing, and like Phoebe, she’s pretty. Very pretty. I watch the way they greet each other, drape round each other, a conversation begins a hundred miles an hour. Questions are flung, returned, they pull their phones out of their pockets, compare photos. They snigger about boys, and a girl named Jacinta who Izzy says is an absolute fright in her bikini, I swear the whole fucking pool emptied when she went for a swim. This whole interaction takes only minutes, but with the awkwardness of being ignored, it feels like hours. It’s Izzy who looks at me, then says to Phoebe, ‘Who’s this then, the newest newbie at Mike’s rescue centre?’

Phoebe laughs and replies, ‘She’s called Milly. She’s staying with us for a bit.’

‘Thought your dad wasn’t taking anyone else in?’

‘Whatever. You know he can’t help himself when it comes to strays.’

‘Are you coming to Wetherbridge?’ Izzy asks me.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you from London?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have a boyfriend?’

‘No.’

‘Crikey, do you only speak in robot tongue? Yes. No. No.’ She waves her arms around, makes a mechanical noise like the Dalek from the Doctor Who episode I watched in a drama lesson at my old school. They both erupt into laughter, return to their phones. I wish I could tell them I speak like that, slow and purposeful, when I’m nervous and to filter the noise. White noise, punctuated by your voice. Even now, especially now, you’re here, in my head. Normal behaviour required little effort for you, but for me, an avalanche. I was always surprised by how much they loved you at your work. No violence or rage, your smile gentle, your voice soothing. In the palm of your hand you kept them, isolated them. Took the women you knew could be persuaded to one side, talked close in their ears. Secure. Loved. That’s how you made them feel, that’s why they trusted you with their children.