The Art of Not Breathing(28)

I feel for the screwed-up paper ball in my pocket and open it up. “Soliloquy” it says in Lara’s neat, round writing. I drop it on the floor and remind myself that aside from a few revision classes, lessons are nearly over for the summer. Just exams to get through now, and at least compasses are banned in most exams.

At lunchtime I walk to the back of the school field so I can smoke. Lara is sitting down in my space cross-legged on her coat, which has a red satin lining. I start to move away to find a new spot, but she calls me over.

“I don’t know where Dillon is,” I say.

“He’s in the library.”

“Oh. Then what do you want?”

I wonder if Dillon has dumped her, but she doesn’t look upset. I can’t help looking at her chest—her blouse is open enough for me to see the curve of her perfect cleavage. She folds her arms.

“Can I have a cigarette?” she asks. It sounds odd, like she’s saying the word for the first time.

“Sure,” I say. I suddenly feel cool, more grown-up than her.

She makes space for me on her coat, but I lay my own out and sit next to her, leaving a sliver of grass between us. As we smoke, I pluck strands of grass from the ground and sprinkle the little green pieces on my coat. She does the same, but hers are in neat little piles and mine are spread everywhere.

“I know you watch us,” she says. She stares straight ahead.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, feeling my palms sweat.

She turns to me. “I don’t mind. You can watch if you want.”

I think about Dillon’s shallow breathing. I think about how I watched them at the party.

“You know there’re places you can go if you’re into that sort of thing,” I say, lifting my head slowly.

“I’m not!”

“Yeah, loads of places—Dillon told me about them. I’m surprised he hasn’t taken you there yet. He takes all his girlfriends to the woods on the other side.” I smile to myself as she squirms beside me.

She asks me if I’ve been to the other side, and I tell her no. She asks if I’ve ever had sex, and I tell her yes.

Lara hugs me, pushing her small, perfect breasts against me. When she lets go, she says she won’t tell anyone. About what? I want to ask.





10



“I LOVE THE RAIN,” TAY SAYS, BREATHING OUT SMOKE.

“I wish it would stop raining,” I say, reaching for the joint. “Then we could go out on the boat.”

“Soon,” he says. “Maybe tomorrow.”

He rolls over and props himself up on his elbow—his face is inches from mine. He holds his cigarette out to the side so as not to cloud me in smoke.

“Were you okay after our dive in the harbor? It was only when I got home and thought about it that I realized you’d bolted when you saw that shoe. Why did it freak you out?”

Part of me still wants to tell him everything. About Eddie, about Dillon, about my father. But then I imagine myself talking, and it sounds ridiculous. How do you just come out with something like that? Oh, I thought it was my dead twin brother’s shoe, and I think my dad and my older brother are hiding something about the day he died.

What if I cry in front of him? And anyway, I don’t want to share Eddie. It would feel like giving part of me away.

“I wasn’t freaked out,” I reply. “I just wondered what it was.”

Tay flicks ash onto the floor, then rolls onto his back. I watch him smoke. He watches me.

“There’s so much trash in the sea,” he says. “It’s careless, some of the things that people lose.”

I’m one of those careless people.

“I’ve found all sorts,” Tay continues. “Wallets, dolls, keys . . . mobile phones.” He stops to give me a wink. “Cushions, laptops. Even a hairbrush once, covered in hair. I mean, how do you accidentally drop your hairbrush in the water?”

“I dropped my Barbie in the water when I was a kid.”

Tay smirks. “I didn’t think you were the Barbie kind of girl.”

“I’m not,” I say, reaching for the joint. “That’s why I threw it off the bridge. My mum went nuts.”

My turn to interrogate.

“Tay, can I ask you a question?”

“You don’t always have to ask me if you can ask me something.”

I play-punch him on the arm, and it feels nice to touch him.

“I do, because you don’t always answer. And I’m just being polite.”

He rolls in close to me again and licks his lips. It takes every effort for me not to grab him and pull his face to mine, but I have no idea if he wants me to.

“Why did you leave the Black Isle? Where did you go?”

It’s the wrong thing to ask. His smile disappears and he sits up.

“Can’t we just be in the moment?” he grunts. “Why do we have to talk about the past?”

He fumbles for his cigarettes, and when the lighter doesn’t work, he throws it across the floor.

“Sorry,” I say. My cheeks get hot. “I wasn’t prying. You don’t have to tell me anything.” I say this even though I want him to tell me everything.

“No, it’s fine.” His eyes lighten up a bit, and he seems to accept my apology. “It’s just not that interesting, that’s all.”