The Art of Not Breathing(2)

I pound on the door and give it a kick for good measure.

“Just a minute!” he yells.

He sounds as though he’s holding candy inside his cheek, his voice strained and muffled.

“Hurry up, Dillon. I need to pee!” I shout through the door.

Mum leans on the banister at the end of the landing, glancing down the stairs, watching out for my father coming home from yet another “work trip.”

She asks me if I’ve done my homework and I lie and say I did it all yesterday. If I don’t do my homework, she often tells me, I won’t pass my exams and I’ll end up being a receptionist like her.

“Think of your exams, Elsie. Dillon will get all As for his Advanced Highers,” she says.

Dillon’s got two years on me and he’s a complete brainbox, so it’s not really fair to compare us. I’m already a school year behind because of my Laryngitis Year, and I’m only taking half the exams I’m meant to be taking—the school thought I “needed more time.” Dillon’s a year behind too because he also lost his voice, but he’s making up for it by taking extra exams. He likes to be the best at everything, whereas I take pride in being the worst.

Dillon eventually emerges from the bathroom with bloodshot eyes.

“What were you doing in there?” I hiss.

He ignores me and disappears into his bedroom.

There’s something that looks like a piece of spaghetti in the toilet. Mum calls to Dillon, but he doesn’t answer. I flush the toilet to drown out his silence, then turn to the mirror.

Unfortunately, my father didn’t pass his good looks on to me. I got my mother’s dark, wild curly hair and green eyes, which I don’t mind too much, but I didn’t get her petite figure, dainty nose, or perfect skin. My face is blotchy and my double chin grows by the day. I tried losing weight once, but the more my mum commented on what I was eating, the more I wanted to eat. I’m hungry just thinking about it.

Ruby Red is the color of my lipstick—stolen from Superdrug along with a packet of condoms that I might put in Dillon’s pocket as a joke, and some hair spray. The lipstick feels silky smooth on my lips as I apply it, and it glues the chapped bits of skin back down. I don’t blot with a tissue like Mum does. I like it when the red comes off on my cigarettes.

When I come out of the bathroom, Mum is sitting halfway down the stairs with her chin in her hands. I prod her shoulder, and she slowly turns around as though she has no idea who might be behind her.

“Your father is on his way. As soon as he’s back, we’re all going to the supermarket.”

She doesn’t move, so I climb over her to get downstairs.

No matter how carefully and quietly I try to open the fridge, it always makes a loud suction sound.

“Elsie!”

“I’m just getting a drink,” I call back, reaching for a Coke. I take a few slices of ham and throw them into my mouth before anyone comes in, careful not to wipe my lipstick off. Mum says I eat her out of house and home, but this isn’t true, because my father pays for the food, and Dillon eats like a baby sparrow, so I’m entitled to his share. Anyway, I do most of the cooking, so it’s fair payment.

“A watched door never opens,” I say as I climb back over her.

But then we hear the keys jangling. Neither of us goes to open the door, so my father is surprised to find us staring at him from the stairs. He looks as though he’s been up for days.

“I’m back,” he says, as if for some reason we couldn’t see this.





3



THE SUPERMARKET IS COLD AND I’VE GOT MY ARMS INSIDE MY orange raincoat so that the sleeves hang lifelessly by my side. Dillon trails behind me with his hands in his pockets, looking embarrassed to be seen with us. I get an urge to do my zombie impression. Twisting at the waist, making the sleeves swish about, I stagger toward him with my mouth open and eyes rolling around in my head.

Dillon raises his eyebrows and shuffles close enough to whisper. “What are you doing? You look like you should be in a mental hospital,” he says.

“You should see yourself,” I reply, slipping my arms back into the sleeves.

“Have you forgotten why we’re here? You’re going to really piss them off.”

It’s impossible to forget. Especially because it’s my fault we have to go through this.

“Course not. But zombies don’t like miseries. If you don’t cheer up, they’ll get you.” I roll my eyes back again and hang my tongue out. As I lurch into him, a very convincing zombie-like groan escapes from my mouth.

Dillon smiles. A tiny sideways smile, but it is there.

Then my father picks up some Cadbury chocolate fingers and Mum freaks out.

“He hates those, Colin,” she says, loud enough that people turn and stare at us. I look at Dillon. He shakes his head and pretends to read a sign on the shelf behind.

“Well, he won’t have to eat them,” my father mutters.

“That’s not the point!”

When my father puts the fingers in the trolley anyway, Mum whimpers and pulls her hair, her fingers working through her curls like hungry little worms.

“Why are you being so insensitive?” she says, spitting the words out.

My father stands quietly, looking around, shaking his head. I’m not going to help him out; he is being insensitive. He steps back as Mum hurls packets of biscuits at his feet. We seem to have taken over the snacks aisle, and there’s a crowd of people at one end watching us. Two of them I recognize from school, so I hide behind a shopping trolley filled with Jaffa Cakes. I think about doing my zombie impression to distract them from my parents’ argument, but I’m stuck to the floor with shame. Dillon is still reading the sign on the shelf, but it’s obvious he’s pretending, because even from here I can see it says OUT OF STOCK in big red letters.