Last Bus to Everland, page 20
But I didn’t ask, either. And – I remember with a kick of guilt – she had asked to speak to me. She’s right. I wasn’t there.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘I’m not saying I have it harder than you,’ she says. ‘I definitely don’t. I know I’m lucky. But that doesn’t change how I feel about things.’
There’s a long pause, our silence swallowed up by the chatter and laughter of the people rushing past on their way to classes or exams. I take a deep breath. I’m leaving soon. Might as well be honest.
‘Look, I know that.’ I swallow, trying to find the words. ‘It’s just, the stuff that’s been going on, with Nico and with my family and everything . . . I thought you wouldn’t understand. I guess that’s why I shut you out a bit. I’m not saying that makes it OK. I’m just explaining.’
Megan’s face hardens. ‘Maybe I couldn’t. I don’t know what it’s like to be you. But I thought you’d at least give me a chance to try. I’m supposed to be your best friend.’ She shrugs. ‘Anyway. I kind of think it’s done now.’
‘What is?’
‘Just . . . this. You and me.’
We stare at each other in the reflection of the vending machine. So that’s it. Done. Seven years of secrets and in-jokes and TV marathons unravelling in my hands. I’m surprised by how much it hurts. Our friendship was going to come to an end either way, but this isn’t how I wanted to leave it.
‘Don’t you think that’s a bit extreme?’ My voice comes out strangled. ‘This seems so sudden.’
Megan finally looks directly at me. Her mouth is hanging open; her mascara has smudged beneath her eyelashes, but she doesn’t go to wipe it away. ‘What are you talking about, Brody? You’ve hardly talked to me all year – we haven’t properly hung out since before Christmas. It’s been months.’
She’s right. She’s right. It’s been ages – a whole school year. I hadn’t realised. With a level of fear, I remember Kasia’s warning: that life could start to slip away from me. Maybe it already has, and I haven’t even noticed.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘OK, then. If that’s what you want.’
I wait for her reply, but it doesn’t come. For once, Megan has nothing to say to me.
I feel her eyes follow me as I turn and walk back down the corridor. It’s OK, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to Everland. I have my friends there. And soon, I’ll probably have forgotten Megan altogether.
* * *
Walking home from school later, I try to fix memories in my mind. There’s the smell of sweet, warm dough floating out of the bakery on the corner, the one that does the amazing macaroni pies. There’s the second-hand clothes shop, which puts the most blatant lies on the posters in their windows: ‘Mittens kindly donated by Zayn Malik – £3’; ‘Beret worn by Gal Gadot in Wonder Woman – £5.50’. There’s the old soldier who sits in a wheelchair outside the pub collecting for veterans almost every afternoon, even when it’s pouring.
Feels strange, getting nostalgic for a place I haven’t left yet.
When I get back to Mackay House, it hits me harder. Despite the drug raids and the constantly broken lift and Mrs McAskill always gurning at us about noise, this is home. Even with Leanne and Michelle sitting on the swings, passing a fag between them, I feel a pang of sadness at the thought of leaving it all behind.
‘Look who it is,’ Michelle says on cue, as I push the gate open. ‘Lassie-basher Brody.’
Leanne takes a long draw on the cigarette. ‘You back for round two, Fairy? Gonnae push me off the swings now?’
Michelle starts singing her ‘Crater Face’ song again, and Leanne joins in. My skin’s actually cleared up a bit lately, but I don’t think that’s why it doesn’t get to me so much this time. I know now that the stuff they say about me . . . it’s not really about me. It’s like they took a photo of me, defaced it, and tried to tell me that this is who I really am. It says nothing about me, but a lot about them.
Besides, there’s only so much they can do to me now. After tomorrow, I won’t have to deal with their bullshit ever again.
I wait until they reach the end of the chorus, my hands in my pockets. For the first time, I wonder why they’re out here so much. Leanne, especially, is here all the time: I’ve seen her sitting on the swings in the rain, or shivering outside the front door to her block at eleven o’clock at night. Maybe there are things she’s running away from, too.
When their singing tapers out, I take a step forward. I look Leanne right in the eyes. She sneers, but her hands grip the chains of the swing a little tighter.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. Loudly, clearly. ‘I shouldnae have lost the rag like that. It’ll no happen again.’
There’s silence. They weren’t expecting that.
‘Aye, whatever.’ Leanne clears her throat. I can see the cogs turning behind her eyes, trying to think up a good comeback. Eventually she leans back and gives me a dirty look. ‘Away and piss off back to Neverland, Peter Pan.’
I burst out laughing. If only she knew. Michelle and Leanne’s foreheads crinkle in confusion.
‘All right, then,’ I say, grinning. ‘See youse later.’
Inside, Dad’s doing the dishes, and Mam’s reading an old magazine. She turns around and smiles when she hears me come in; Dad leans out the door and waves a soapy hand at me. My stomach lurches. It keeps hitting me: going to Everland means leaving all of this.
I still don’t really believe I could forget it all. But just in case, I need to take something to help me remember them by.
Stuck to the fridge with a magnet, there’s a photo of the five of us, taken two Christmases ago when my grandparents came to stay. I used to hate it – it was right at the start of Brody vs. Acne, and I’d have picked a ten-hour U2 concert over getting my picture taken – but it’s the most recent photo we have of us all together.
When Mam’s not looking, I pull it off the fridge, open my bag and slide it into my Maths textbook so it doesn’t get squashed.
Keira’s out, so I slip into her room and take a stick of the strawberry bubblegum that she’s always chewing and a bottle of green nail polish. I sneak one of Dad’s Louis Theroux DVD cases from behind the TV, and one of Mam’s nearly finished perfumes from the bathroom. I find a manky toy mouse that Tink used to play with when he was a kitten and shove that into my pocket, too. He’s still part of the family, even if he does live on the other side of the city.
I even take something to remind me of Jake: a page of Latin notes that’s slipped down the side of the desk. Fugissem, fugisses, fugisset . . . I don’t understand a word of it. Kind of fitting, in a way. Jake and I never really got each other.
In my room, I pack a bag for Everland with all my mementos, plus a Polaroid of me and Megan from one of her brother’s parties and the Drag Race card she made for my birthday. But the nervous feeling in my stomach won’t settle. I need to leave something behind for them, too.
Hidden under my bed are the presents I got at the Everland market before Christmas. I find a bit of paper, cut out tiny labels with my family’s names on them, and attach them to the crafts: the purse for Keira, the typewriter paper sculpture for Jake, the pocket watch for Mam, and the village in a bottle for Dad. For Megan, I leave the copy of Peter and Wendy that Kasia gave me. I write her a note saying that I’m sorry again, and that I can’t explain, but I just have to go, and slip it between the pages.
I don’t leave any letters for my family. I don’t know what I could say.
Afterwards, I place all the gifts in a shoebox and hide them under my bed. Somewhere that’s not too obvious, but where they’ll be able to find them.
For a second, scenes flash through my mind: my parents finding my bed empty; Christmases and birthdays without me; weddings or funerals I’ll never go to. The world spins. But then I close my eyes and remember why I’m leaving: Everland. And Nico. Nico. Nico.
Thursdays have dragged since last September, waiting for eleven o’clock to come around, but this one slips by far too fast. My last rushed breakfast. My last walk to school. My last lessons. My last disappointing lunch of bland sweet-and-sour chicken and a chocolate crispy cake. My last time walking through the school corridors, dodging the half-deflated basketball that some fourth-years are throwing between the lockers – even that leaves me feeling almost wistful.
After school, I watch the end of a show on killer whales with Dad, help Keira out with her English homework, and suddenly we’re all eating tea. Obviously I haven’t asked for a special last supper or anything, but as it happens, Mam’s made one of my favourites: oven chips, fried eggs and beans. It tastes even better than usual.
I hardly speak throughout the whole meal; I’m too busy trying to commit my family to memory. There are things I’ve hardly noticed before: how Mam tilts her head a tiny bit to the left when she’s listening; the fact Jake’s starting to get the same laughter lines around his eyes as Dad; the way Keira’s eyebrows shift up and down when she’s telling one of her stories . . . all the things you can’t get from a photo.
Too soon, our plates are empty, and everyone’s moving again. Jake goes back to the computer, Dad to the TV (there’s a programme on about the Russian Revolution at seven), and Keira upstairs to Amanda’s. Mam disappears to her room, then comes out a few minutes later wearing her work uniform.
My stomach drops. ‘You’ve got a shift?’
‘Rosie’s wee boy’s not well. I said I’d cover for her.’ She pulls her hair up into a ponytail. ‘It’s just until two o’clock, not too long.’
‘Right,’ I croak. ‘Bye, then, Mam.’
She kisses my forehead and tells Jake not to stay up too late. I stare at her as she puts her work shoes and her jacket on. My whole body feels numb. I thought we had more time than this. I want some more time. I want to say goodbye properly. I want to give her a hug, my last one ever. Before I can think of an excuse, she waves and leaves, closing the door behind her.
A lump swells in my throat. This is starting to feel . . . real.
The goodbyes keep slipping away from me. Keira goes straight to her room when she comes back from Amanda’s, and Dad falls asleep on the sofa in front of Newsnight. By the time eleven o’clock comes around, Jake’s the only one still up. He’s typing something out on the computer, his head swinging from a textbook to the screen and back again.
I pick up my bag, put on my shoes and my coat. I take one last look around the living room: the windowsill where Tink used to sit, Mam’s cold cup of tea on the table, their shoes scattered by the door. I feel a sudden stab of pain, some premature homesickness. I can’t just walk out of here without saying anything at all.
‘Well . . . bye, then.’
Jake turns around to look at me. As soon as he does, I realize I’ve made a mistake.
‘Where are you going?’ He stands up. ‘Are you leaving?’
‘I’m – I’m just going out for a walk.’
‘What’s with the bag, then?’
‘Nothing . . . I always take my bag.’ The sadness turns into panic in an instant. ‘Leave me alone, will you?’
I turn towards the door, but Jake leaps out of his chair and grabs my arm.
‘No. Not till you tell me what’s going on.’ He reaches to take my backpack, but I knock back his hand. ‘I knew you were planning something. You’ve been in a good mood all week.’
I stare at him. ‘So?’
‘So that’s a sign you’ve made up your mind about something. That something’s about to change.’
The sofa squeaks; Dad’s waking up. I grab the door handle and wrench it open, shoving Jake into the wall. Running down the corridor, I hear him swear and follow me out, then rapid footsteps chasing me down the stairs. He catches up with me no bother – damn his rugby training – but I shake him off and push the front door open. Leanne is on the swing yet again, watching something on her phone. The bus is already waiting at the pavement. I start to run, but Jake grabs my arm again.
‘Brody, will you just wait!’
Leanne stands up, the swing clattering behind her. ‘Woah, what’s going on? Where you off to, Fairy?’
Jake spins around. ‘Can you shut up for once in your life?’
While he’s distracted, I slip out of his grasp and run down the path. I’m too late: the bus is already pulling away from the stop. I sprint over the bridge and down Great Junction Street, Jake right behind me. If I cross diagonally, I can probably make it to the stop at the bottom of Leith Walk before the bus gets there. I run into the road, but a loud blast of a horn stops me in my tracks—
Suddenly, I’m falling back on to the pavement. Someone shouts about watching where I’m going; people are staring down at me, Jake included. His face is white.
‘What’s the hell are you doing?’ he shouts. ‘You almost got yourself killed!’
My knees shake as I stand up. ‘I have to go – I have to go.’
My ankle starts to throb as I break into a run; I must have twisted it when I fell. Despite the late hour, there’s a steady stream of traffic pouring on to Leith Walk. The number 22 glides past and around the corner, stopping outside Greggs. Ignoring the pain, I tear down the road, waving manically at the driver to wait. I leap onboard and slam my money down. Upstairs, I sit on the left side, trying to find my brother on the pavement below. He’s not there.
I let out a long, shaky breath. That isn’t the way I wanted to leave things. This is not how I wanted my last night to be.
Traffic is slow – by the time we reach Princes Street, it’s already 11.16 p.m. I hit the buzzer and hurry downstairs ready to get off. The doors open, and my heart sinks. Jake is standing there, his arms crossed, waiting for me.
‘You’re following me now?’ I snap. ‘I told you, just leave it.’
‘No. Not until you tell me where you’re going.’
I push past him and head for the pedestrian crossing. Jake follows me, peppering me with questions as I wait impatiently for the light to change. It’s 11.18 p.m. I’ve got three minutes, but my ankle is agony. I race across the road and hobble up the steps, ignoring Jake’s never-ending questions. When I get to the top, I grit my teeth and start to run. The green door comes into view as I near the monument, but it’s hazy, the stained-glass windows almost translucent. After another second, it disappears entirely.
I check my phone: 11.22 p.m. I’ve missed it.
‘Shit. Shit.’
I throw my bag down on the ground. Jake picks it up and pushes it back into my hands.
‘Is this where you come every week?’ he asks, looking around. For a moment, I think he’s asking about Everland, but he was too far away to see the door. ‘Who are you waiting for?’
I look at the Balmoral clock: 11.23 p.m. Kasia should have reappeared by now, but there’s no one here but us. I ignore Jake and head back down the steps. I don’t want to go back home. My ankle’s hurting like hell, but I walk past the bus stop and along Princes Street, past the train station and the glowing block of the Apple store. I try calling Nico, but his phone doesn’t even ring. Jake follows me the whole way, sometimes in silence, sometimes yapping at my heels like a persistent puppy. By the time I get to the front door of Jenners, my patience has run out. I spin around to face him, my cheeks hot with anger.
‘All right, fine! I was leaving! I was gonnae leave – I was gonnae get the hell out of here, away from you, away from all of this.’
I slump down on the steps of the department store and rub my sore ankle. It’s all right. It’s not over. The door was still there. It hasn’t disappeared altogether – I can go next week. But it doesn’t feel OK. My plan is unravelling fast, and I don’t know how to stop it.
After a moment, Jake kicks an empty fag packet out of the way and sits down beside me. I’m surprised he’s still here; this must be the longest he’s gone without studying in months.
‘And where were you planning on going, exactly?’ he asks, for the hundredth time.
I don’t have the energy to lie any more. ‘This guy . . . Nico.’ His name gets knotted in my throat. ‘He’s leaving Edinburgh. I was going to go with him.’
‘So you were just going to disappear. Without saying anything.’ Jake nods slowly. ‘And when exactly were you going to come back?’
I don’t answer. I stare straight ahead, my eyes fixed on the glowing buses sliding down the street. Jake looks at me for a long moment. He can’t possibly know how final this could have been – and still could be – but he understands enough to know I wasn’t planning on coming home.
‘Right,’ he says quietly. ‘Do you know what that would do to Mam and Dad?’
My phone buzzes. I snatch it up, hoping to see Nico’s name on the screen, though I know that’s impossible. It’s Dad calling me. There are another three missed calls I hadn’t noticed, all from him. I swipe them away and drop it back into my pocket.
‘They’d be fine,’ I mutter.
‘No, they wouldn’t, you idiot. You think you could take off and – what? They’d just get on with their lives?’
The thought jabs at my conscience, just like it has every day for the past week. ‘You don’t get it. Being there, with him . . . it’s the only time I feel like myself.’
For once, Jake doesn’t argue. He stares at his hands, picks at a scab beneath his thumb.
‘Brody, this is mad,’ he says. ‘What about school, and your friends? You can’t give up your whole life for some boy.’
That’s not what I’m doing, I want to say. It’s never been about Nico. Well, not only about Nico.
‘Maybe you should tell Mam and Dad about him,’ Jake says. He cracks his knuckles, a nervous tic. ‘Maybe you’ll feel less distant from them if you don’t have to hide that part of your life any more.’
My insides flip at the thought of that. ‘What do you think they’d say?’
‘Well, uh . . .’ Jake gives an awkward laugh. ‘If it’s anything like when I told them about me and Amir, Dad’ll start rambling about these gay penguins he saw in a documentary once, and Mam’ll just go on about condoms for ages.’
