I’m still doing the awkward smile. A part of me really wants to go back to his. The other part of me wouldn’t know what to do, where to start, and it all feels a bit like it’s too much too soon. Also I can’t because I should probably get home. ‘Oh, I uhhhh … well, my parents aren’t.’
‘Oh God, of course, yeah!’ Josh shakes his head. ‘Sorry!’ He rolls down on to the grass by my side. We’re squashed in between two graves, Josh’s dad’s and someone else’s. Josh clutches my hand and presses his palm against mine. I press mine against his too. We are hot. Sweaty. My heart is racing again.
‘We can still kiss though, right?’ I whisper.
He smiles. I smile back. And we do that cute smile-kiss thing again that turns into a laugh-kiss, our teeth clashing together. Then Josh kisses my neck, and it feels good. Any awkwardness around the headstone or invite home slips away.
But now I’m thinking about home. Have my parents maybe woken up? No, no, I push the thought out of my head. I want to stay a bit longer and they’ve ruined enough already. I’m not going to let them spoil this too.
I kiss Josh back.
And eventually my parents and the bad thoughts drift away.
I wake up abruptly, as if someone has pushed me. My head’s spinning and pounding all at once. At first I think I’m still at the graveyard: I’m cold, damp with sweat, a horrible sour taste in my mouth. But then panic fills me as I realize I’m in a bed that’s not mine. Josh’s bed? I sit up. Look around. My heart steadies. No. I’m in Akash’s room: grey walls and lemon-yellow curtains and bookshelves full of thick art books. His guitar is balanced against the wall in the corner. Beneath me is his grey-and-white striped duvet.
I’m struck again by a horrible, sickening thought: Soon this won’t be Akash’s room any more.
But I push the thought away. I need to focus. Why am I in Akash’s bed? How did I get here?
I’m in my pyjamas. I have my phone. But I don’t remember coming into Akash’s room, getting into his bed, or falling asleep. It must be very early; the sky is deep orange and the air is cool. I check the time on my phone: 5.30 a.m.
Images from last night flash through my mind as I try to piece everything together. I remember a feeling of dread coming over me as Josh and I said goodbye outside the graveyard. It was the thought of Dad catching me again. I practically had to drag myself home. The closer I got, the heavier my legs felt, and the more my chest tightened. And then, as I walked down the drive, I started shaking uncontrollably. I was still shaking once I’d climbed back through my bedroom window. Dad wasn’t there. But, even though I should have been relieved, I kept shaking and shaking.
It was a full-blown panic attack. I hadn’t had one like that since the Year Nine SATs. After that, I remember nothing.
Another buzz of panic flashes through my chest now. Did I shut my bedroom window?
Silently – and I’m seriously impressed by how silent I can be, especially considering how dizzy and tired I feel – I climb out of Akash’s bed, straighten the covers, tiptoe across the hallway and slip into my room.
I look around. OK. Good. The bedroom window is shut. Everything looks normal other than the pile of clothes on the floor. Muddy, grass-stained jeans and the light blue top I wore last night. I grab them to put in the wash basket before Mum or Dad see them, but as I gather them together I discover the whisky bottle I drank from before I went out, hidden under the clothes. I freeze. Weird. I remember putting it back under the bed when I was messaging Josh. Before I went anywhere. I pick it up – it’s practically empty. Whoa! Did I drink all that when I got back from seeing Josh last night?
No, I couldn’t have. Why would I? There must be some other explanation.
But then my mouth is really dry. And I have a pounding headache. Urgh. I quickly shove the bottle back under the bed and chuck my clothes into the laundry basket. That’s when I see it: my painting.
It’s the one of the Ridgeway that I was working on before I went out yesterday. But it’s … well, finished. And so alive. There’s this painter called Jackson Pollock who my art teacher and I totally love. His paintings look like they’re just splashes of colour. Like a kid could do them really. But people pay a ton of money for this ‘messy’ kind of art. And what you notice after looking at them for a while is that they’re actually splashes of feeling. Well, that’s what I think anyway. And it looks like I’ve used that style in this painting; there are flecks of white, red and gold paint all over it. It looks great!
It’s not the kind of thing I would ever usually do. And I don’t remember doing it. Did I get home, drink a ton of whisky, finish the painting and then sleep in Akash’s bed? Is the whisky why I don’t remember? Memory loss?
I stare at the painting. It really doesn’t look like my work. My skin prickles all over. I feel cold and shivery. I know I brushed the thought off last night, but was Akash here? Did he do this?
No, no. It can’t be. I haven’t been sleeping much. I’m not thinking straight. Nothing’s been making any sense since Mum announced she was having a baby.
And yet … Could that be why I don’t remember the drinking or the painting? Because it wasn’t me? Did Akash drink that whisky? Did he finish my painting? Did he … maybe pick me up off my bed and put me on his to sleep? As a sort of sign?
Is he sending me a message? Telling me he’s still around?
I know, I really do know, that I could be imagining it. But I have to check if he’s still here. I look under my bed, and peer into my wardrobe. My head’s spinning. He’s not here. I look around for more clues. I don’t know what, exactly, I’m looking for. His shoes maybe? Or a footprint. But there’s nothing.
I sit down on the edge of my bed. Take deep breaths.
Am I being totally unreasonable? Do I just need some sleep?
But everything’s pointing towards him. Is he trying to help me? I was stuck with my painting, and he wants to help, like he always did. And didn’t I smell him at the Ridgeway yesterday? Maybe that was him playing the guitar later; maybe he was just hiding. Hide-and-seek.
Where is he?
This is all too confusing. I need sleep. I need my thoughts to stop spinning. But I don’t want to take any pills. Those days, they’re over. I get into bed. Close my eyes. I keep thinking I’m falling asleep, but then my alarm goes off.
I sit up, confused all over again. It’s 7 a.m. already? It doesn’t make sense. I just got into bed! But I force myself up and start getting dressed. I need to work hard and get good grades. I can do this, especially if … if Akash is helping me. And I can’t wait to get to school, where I’ll see Josh again.
Maybe Akash will be there.
The weeks pass in a daze of schoolwork and revision. Dad makes me change my shift at the art centre cafe to Sunday afternoons, because I have to go to church with him in the mornings. And every week, on the way there, it’s the same talk: Stay on the right path, Neena; pray your worries and mistakes away, Neena; really think about your behaviour, Neena.
I make a pact with myself, but for my own reasons: no more sneaking out, no more drinking, no more climbing over the school fence and going to the chippy at lunchtime. I don’t want any more panic attacks, or any more memory loss; I need to focus on getting good marks to keep Dad happy, so that I can go to art college and get away from this baby.