Under Rose-Tainted Skies(35)

My heart is in my throat, my intestines all tangled up. I’m not sure any more if it’s nerves or excitement. Maybe a bit of both. I place my phone on my pillow, flip over on to my stomach, and lean up on my elbows. With hawk eyes I watch my screen fade to black, then start willing it to light up with a text.

It doesn’t.

The second hand on my clock goes round and round and round, sending my head into a spin. Reluctantly, I stop scrutinizing the dial and collapse into the crook of my arm. I don’t have the latest cell, one of those that tell you when a text has been read. I’m completely in the dark. An agoraphobic obsessive-compulsive’s most favourite place to be.

I’m listing forms of torture that would be infinitely more merciful than waiting for a boy to text back when, at last, my cell bleeps.

My fingers are slicker than oil as I unlock my phone and punch buttons to find the message: Amy?

Ouch. At least the message I sent him was better than that. A picture of a monkey scratching its butt would have been better; almost anything else would have been better.

One Thanksgiving my mom bought a deep-fat fryer. On Sunday mornings, she likes to load it with everything she can find in the fridge, and the smell of greasy food floods the air. It lingers for hours, clings to your skin, your hair, and the fabric of your clothes. It’s sticky and gross and the only way to get rid of it is a scalding-hot shower and plenty of soap. I feel like that right now.

Deep breaths.

My brain starts pitching ideas: don’t freak out. He couldn’t have known it was me texting. I didn’t sign my name and he doesn’t have my number. So how could he have known? But then, he was obviously expecting a message from Amy. Amy, the girl whose name keeps cropping up. Why doesn’t he already have her number? Should I be texting a boy who wants to talk to Amy? Should I be texting a boy that Amy wants to talk to? Am I going to become one of those girl-friends? You know, a girl that is his friend and nothing more? And if I am going to become that, will I have to hear stories about him and Amy?

I chew on my nails, pick up my phone, heart thumping fast, and hammer on the buttons that spell out my name. This time it takes me less than a minute to write my message.

It’s Norah.

My thumb dances around the send button until I utilize a burst of courage and punch it. It’s gone. MESSAGE SENT flashes up on the screen. I hope to God I’m not texting someone else’s boyfriend. I’ve seen love-triangle fights go down on my Hub feed. It never ends well.

I wait for Luke’s reply. I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more.

He doesn’t text back.

I watch my phone until 5.00 a.m., occasionally illuminating the screen to make sure my signal bar and battery are both still full. They are.

It’s possible I’ve ingested enough of my own fingers to call myself a cannibal. They’re so chewed I have trouble straightening them. I very much doubt every girl my age does this. This is perhaps bordering more on my unhealthy levels of panic.

By 5.30, I’m begging sleep to drag me under.





It’s only 7.10 when my cruel mind forces my eyes open. The sun is firing lasers through my curtains. I duck under my duvet, make a blanket fort to shield myself from the scorching rays.

Despite what was probably one of the most restless sleeps in recorded history, I’m comfortable. My mattress is a giant marshmallow today, soft and squishy. I bear down and sink into it.

I’m contemplating pulling a sickie, blowing off studying, eating and talking to stay here all day when I hear clattering coming from the kitchen below. Mom is like a bird, up at the crack of dawn and always pottering around in the garden. She loves growing things. There are forty-eight different colours of flower in our garden. Eight of them are roses. She keeps them in a pattern that reminds me of a rainbow. I would like to be able to go over and smell them one summer.

With reluctant fingers I reach up, snatch my phone off the dresser, and drag it beneath the blankets. A streak of pain, like toothache, flashes across my chest when I illuminate the screen and discover there’s no text waiting for me. I close my eyes, try to convince my brain that, unlike me, Luke goes to sleep at night. He probably hasn’t even seen my message yet. But it’s like trying to convince a kid that Brussels sprouts taste better than fries. Pointless.

I’m mentally listing the benefits of being cryogenically frozen when I hear Mom talking and my eyes pop back open. It sounds like she’s conversing with a second someone. Maybe I’m mistaken. She likes to listen to the radio. Could be that. I narrow my eyes, because that’s what you do when you want a closer listen. There are definitely two voices, and one of them belongs to a guy. A burst of simultaneous laughter bounds up the stairs, confirming that it’s not the radio. She definitely has company.

I morph into Nancy Drew, slip out of bed, pull on a sweater, and carefully inch open my door. Mom is explaining the accident to someone. A cop or an insurance guy, probably.

‘Wow. It sounds scary. But you’re okay?’ Luke. Luke is in my kitchen. Talking to my mom.

I choke. My head turns into a tumble dryer, spinning fast and ferociously. Any upset over his first text message, and the preceding lack of, vanishes. I was expecting a little more time to prepare myself for his return. His return. Our chat. My explanation of why I can’t shake his hand.

I slip into a trance, stare at my feet as I walk across the hall to the bathroom and brush my teeth. The conversations that happen in my head are unbridled. There is no line of questioning left uncovered. I lose count of how many brushstrokes I make and have to start over six times. When I’m finally done, my pearly whites are so polished they squeak against my tongue.