Which is precisely why I didn’t want to tell Mum I was entering the school election in the first place.
‘You want my advice?’
It’s a rhetorical question, so I emerge from the fridge with an apple in hand and wait to hear the answer.
‘Be true to yourself, Troy. Don’t turn into someone you don’t like or even recognize simply because you think it will win you this contest,’ says Mum, suddenly very serious.
‘It’s not a contest, it’s an election.’ I bite into the apple, which has more of my attention than my mum.
‘Oh, honey, elections are the most cut-throat contests there are,’ she says. ‘My second piece of advice? Watch your back.’
Her tone of voice has me straightening up. ‘Wow, Mum. It’s a school vote to choose our head student, not a general election.’
‘Ah, Troy, you’re so young!’ she says. ‘Whether it’s a general election or an election to decide who’s the best at picking up litter – when it’s a position you really want, there’s no difference. When it comes to politics, people will lie, cheat and steal to get what they want. And don’t talk with your mouth full.’
I sigh inwardly. Typical Mum! Always blowing simple things out of proportion. Being head student really isn’t all that. It looks good on university applications and it means sitting in on a few staff meetings throughout the school year, but that’s about it. I must admit though, if I’m voted head boy, I have plans to make the role bigger, like attending school-policy meetings, not just boring staff meetings. But the role is hardly vital to world peace. Mum is taking this – along with everything else – too seriously.
‘I wish your dad was here to see this. He’d be so proud of the way you’re stepping up to fight for what you believe in.’ Mum gives me a hug. I put up with it for a good three seconds before trying to shrug her off.
‘OK, let go now, Mum.’
She hugs me tighter.
‘Mum! Get off!’
She hugs me tighter still. ‘This hug is from your dad as well as from me so it’s got to be twice as long.’
I sigh. ‘Mum, you’re talking shite again.’
‘Language, child. I’m your mother!’
But at least she lets me go. She smiles, but not enough to lighten the trace of sadness dimming her eyes.
‘I miss him too, Mum,’ I say quietly.
She opens her arms to give me another hug. Hell, no! I leap back. ‘Had today’s quota of hugs, thanks.’
Mum laughs, her hands dropping to her sides. I love to see her laugh. After Dad died, it was as if her smile died with him.
It was the spring term of Year Ten. March 8th to be exact. The voice of Miss Juniper, the school secretary, played out over the school public-announcement system.
‘Could Troy Ealing report to the head’s office? Troy Ealing to the head’s office, please.’
‘Ooooh!’ the rest of the class called out spontaneously. The automatic assumption was that I’d done something heinous and was now in deep manure.
‘Er, do you mind?’ said Mr Marshall, annoyed. The class quietened down. ‘Off you go, Troy. Don’t keep the head waiting.’
I closed my history books and scraped them off my desk into my backpack. What was going on? I racked my brains for something I might’ve done that would warrant a visit to Mrs Paxton. When I reached the school office, I was stunned to see who was waiting for me.
‘Mum? What’re you doing here?’
‘Troy, it’s your dad. He’s been in an accident,’ she said, hugging me to her.
‘What kind of accident?’ I tried to pull away but Mum wouldn’t let me.
‘A bad one. He’s in hospital. Come on, love. Let’s go.’
A bad one …
Those words and no others kept echoing in my head. I don’t remember much of what happened after that. Time moved in a series of snapshots, fast and sharp like finger snaps. Getting in the car. Getting out of the car. Outside the hospital. Inside the hospital. The click of Mum’s heels as we walked along a corridor. The smell of bleach and vomit. Beeps and whirrs and flickering lights overhead. The sour taste of fear in my mouth.
Is Dad OK?
Please let Dad be OK.
Mum and I sat in a waiting room with faded green plastic chairs.
A Cross female doctor with neat, close-cropped hair and wearing a white coat entered the room. She was tall, willowy, holding herself straight, proud to make the most of every centimetre of her height.
Mum stood up. Her hand on my shoulder stopped me from doing the same. She stepped forward to speak to the doctor. How many seconds passed? Five? Ten at the most. Mum’s whispered ‘No …’ echoed in the room. She swayed to her knees.
I jumped to my feet.
Mum buried her face in her hands. Tears dripped between her fingers. Her body shook, racked with silent sobs. She didn’t make another sound. I ran to her. Hugged her. Held her. My own tears fell like winter rain. In the course of a day, hours, minutes, both our lives changed.
To this day, I’ve never heard these words spoken to me – ‘Troy, your dad is dead.’
Still can’t remember when or how I learned exactly how he’d died. It must’ve been later that same day. Dad was a hit-and-run victim. The car that killed my dad was a dark blue Whitman Scorpius. A vintage car. Very expensive, very rare. The driver didn’t stop but accelerated away as my dad lay dying on the road.
The police never found the car, let alone who was driving it. The person who killed my dad got away with it. No repercussions, no comeback, no clapback, nothing. The driver and the car were long gone. That was the day I learned the truth – the bitter truth – about the real world: sometimes the guilty get away with it.
The very worst thing is knowing Dad’s killer is out there somewhere, enjoying life, while my dad isn’t. I had to watch Mum fall to pieces. If it weren’t for Nana Meggie and Callie, I don’t know what we’d have done.
‘Earth to Troy. Come in, Troy.’ Mum’s voice drags me out of unhappy memories.
‘Seriously, Mum, being head student isn’t all that,’ I say, covering the tracks of where my thoughts had taken me.
‘That depends on your point of view, Troy. Just because you think a certain way about something doesn’t mean everyone else feels the same,’ she says. ‘Believing that is not just narrow but dangerous.’
For Shaka’s sake! ‘Mum, I only wanted a snack, not a lecture.’
‘Sorry.’ She smiles ruefully. She walks over to me, studying, scrutinizing my face. I frown. What’s she doing? ‘I love you, Troy.’
My frown deepens. ‘Are you dying?’
Mum bursts out laughing. ‘No. Hopefully I have a few decades left before that happens. Can’t I say I love you now?’
‘Fine, but don’t say that in front of my friends though, yeah?’
Mum smiles and kisses my forehead. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Now go and change for dinner.’
Hang on … Mum is looking fresh, roast lamb for dinner on a weekday and the table in the dining room is laid. Damn, but I’m slow.
‘Mum, is it just you and me for dinner tonight?’ I already know the answer.
Mum’s gaze falls away from mine. ‘Er, I invited Sonny to join us.’