The Road Trip(46)

‘Right,’ I say, and in the back of my head I’m thinking, What, you can just travel for ever if you want to? Are you not going to run out of money?

‘My dad has these plans for me, and I’m not sure how I’m going to . . .’ He chews his lip, staring off at something in the distance. ‘I need to be able to present a different plan to him if I’m going to get out of living at home and working for the family business.’

‘Oh, OK.’ I know enough to know Dylan doesn’t want to work for his dad, but I’m not really sure what he does want to do, other than write poetry, which he obviously can’t make a living from right now. ‘So what are you thinking? In terms of your different plan?’

His face is falling and falling. He looks morose, almost sulking. I frown slightly.

‘Dylan?’ I prompt.

‘I don’t know,’ he says, brushing his hair out of his eyes irritably. ‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m still here.’

‘You think you have to be, like, in Thailand to figure that out? Wouldn’t it help to just come home and be looking at job ads and stuff?’

‘Don’t push, Addie,’ he says, and I pull back from the screen, startled. ‘God, sorry,’ he says immediately. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m just worrying about all this a lot and feeling like a bit of a waste of space and just generally getting all up in my own head about it, and Dad’s ringing me almost every day, threatening all sorts, and I just want to escape the world for a bit longer, you know? When I’m out here, I can press pause on everything. I can’t mess anything up.’

I’m not sure that’s true, to be honest. But I can at least see the logic.

‘Well, take the time you need,’ I say. ‘Of course.’

His face lightens a bit then. ‘Thanks. I knew you’d get it.’

I push down the vague sense of unease. I don’t get it, honestly. I’m pretending because I don’t want to be that mean girlfriend who cramps his style.

‘So tell me all about what you’ve been up to this week,’ Dylan says, settling back in. ‘I want to hear it all, every single detail. I’ve been . . .’ But then he goes pixelated and his voice turns into a tut-tut-tut and he’s gone.

I slam the laptop closed in frustration. This is crap, this virtual relationship thing. It’s not real. I want him holding me. I want him back.



Starting my first term at Barwood School is totally brutal.

I’m so lucky to have got a place on this scheme. If I didn’t know that, I’d quit a hundred times over. Kids are evil.

By the first half-term I’ve almost managed to salvage my Year Eights’ respect after a catastrophic start. (I got them to make rockets out of papier-maché and they all made cocks. I cried, someone broke their toe. It was all very bad.) Years Nine, Ten and Eleven have been all right from the beginning, and the Year Sevens are mostly quite cute. But Year Eight is filled with pre-teen demons. Winning them over is up there as one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done, but hands-down the most rewarding.

And Dylan’s still not here. We still Skype at least once a week and we message all the time, but I’m freaking out. How could I not be? He seems different. So distant. When I ask when he’s coming home he says, Soon! And I try to understand, and not be pushy or needy or whatever, but no matter how sweet he is to me, he’s not here. He can say he loves me, but he’s not really showing it, is he?

We’ve had months apart now, and why? Because he’s, what, finding himself? If it was anyone else I’d be scornful. It’s only because it’s lovely, lost-boy Dylan that I’m trying really hard to see that he’s clearly not in a good place, and he seems to think coming home will make things worse. But God. It’s not exactly complimentary, is it, your boyfriend staying away for months for no good reason?

He’s forgotten you, says the little voice in my head. Middling, middle-of-the-road, nothing-special Addie. Did I really think I’d be able to keep a guy like Dylan interested beyond one hot summer?



It’s Fireworks Night. Deb and I have big plans.

She’s been my rock these last few months. We’re both living at home while we save up for our own places. Deb listens to all my tearful rants about work. She makes me tea every morning, bringing it in as I do my make-up and kissing me briskly on the top of the head. When I think about writing Dylan an angry email – Why won’t you just come home? – she confiscates my phone and reminds me Gilbert women don’t beg.

So Fireworks Night is going to be a celebration of sisterhood. I’ve booked us a table at a fancy bar in town, for their Fireworks Extravaganza, which is a regular night out but more expensive, basically. We dress up: five-inch heels, short dresses, no tights. After months of making myself look as dowdy as possible for school, I want to feel sexy. And maybe after all this time waiting for Dylan to come home . . . I kind of want someone to notice me.

To my surprise, it doesn’t take long.

‘No, don’t tell me. I’m going to guess your name,’ says the guy next to me in the scrum for the bar. He has to raise his voice over the music. He has a rugged sort of sexiness to him. Old acne scars on his cheeks, bright blue eyes, a short beard.

‘Give it a pop,’ I say. ‘You’ll be here a while.’