Alice Kuipers - The Worst Thing She Ever Did

I look at the words, black like inky spiders, and watch the webs they weave. Theres something enjoyable about filling a blank page, although Id never admit that to Lynda. She gave me this empty notebook when I went to see her on Thursday and said, Writing in here will help you remember.

What if I dont want to?

I think you should.

It wont change anything.

Perhaps you need to try this.

I rolled my eyes.

She said in her terribly patient way, Do you want to talk about what youre feeling right now?

Im fine, I said, wishing the hour were over.

I wonder what to write. I dont even know where to start, but I do like the act of writing. I suppose I could start with this morning.

After a horrible dream I woke tired. Most people I know would be dreading going back to school, but I was glad to get out of the house. Today was the first day back to St. Davids High after our Christmas holiday. Its ten minutes dreary walk and seven stops on the bus from my house in Islington, North London. Its a girls school. Im in my first year of sixth form, but because my birthdays in July, I wont be seventeen for ages.

I stood in my bra, knickers, and tights and tugged on my uniform. I buttoned the pale blue shirt (small), zipped up my navy skirt (medium), and rolled it at the waist to make it about two inches shorter. I tugged on my navy jumper and wrestled into my blazer, with its horrible shoulder pads, smoothing down the front lapels next to the insignia with the words Nil Ye Dread. I slipped on black ballet flats. Where my tongue dips toward my throat, I had a bitter, burned coffee taste, which even brushing my teeth couldnt remove. Was I nervous?

I picked up the brown bag Emily got me from Leeds, hurried along the corridor, passing Emilys room, Mums office, and clattering down the wooden stairs into the kitchen. Mum (shes an interior designerat least she used to be) chose the white walls and hardwood floors that we have in every room except the kitchen, which has red cork tile. The round oak table had no one sitting at it. Knowing there was no bread or milk, I didnt bother stopping for breakfast. I called upstairs to Mum, Ill be back later. She didnt answer. I wasnt even sure she was up there.

I went through the living room, past the shelves of books and the cool photographs that Emily took of plastic bags. I opened the front door and walked out into the chilly morning. The clouds were drenched with grey light like thick smoke. I tried not to think about anything, tried to empty my mind, but I couldnt help it, and for a moment the memories were too strong. I held out one trembling hand like I was an old woman with Parkinsons and watched it shake. My lungs were filling with smoky clouds; the air was too thick to breathe. I leaned against a neighbors fence. Took deep breaths. Reminded myself that everything was fine.

I got on the bus, concentrated on looking out the window, and arrived at St. Davids in one piece. As I walked under the stone arch to the main building, I kept telling myself I was okay; it was time I got over last summer. The autumn term passed by in a fog, but now its a new year, new term, new startfor real this time. I ducked past reception, waved to a couple of people, avoided answering any questions about Christmas, avoided looking at their silly bright smiles. I pushed down the corridor, squeezed past the crush of other girls walking arm in arm, speaking on their mobiles, being yelled at by Mrs. P to slow down.

Everything going on around methe others, the noise, the ring of the bell to get to classwas so loud, it gave me a headache. The strip lights along the ceiling fizzed neon yellow, the color too bright for my eyes. I took a slow breath. I remembered my New Years resolution: Im moving on from everything thats happened. Im not going to talk about it, think about it, let the memory pounce upon me like a waiting tiger, nothing.

I got to my form room and looked around for my best friend, Abigail, but she wasnt sitting at her seat at the desk by the window, the one close to the maps of the world that Ms. Bloxam insists on. Abi was late. Or I was early. I remember how Abi and I used to meet at the school gate and chat about the morning and the night before even though wed have spent all evening on the phone or IM together. Abi and I met on the very first day of school years ago, standing in the corridor waiting nervously to go into our first lesson. She came over and said hi, and I thought she was brave to do that, because I was too shy to go up to anyone. We quickly became close. We went through everything together. I was the calm, strong, supportive one, good at school, good at listening; she was fun, impulsive, lively. She made me laugh.

I sighed and went to sit down. A new girl sat at the desk next to mine. She made our uniform look good. (I thought it wasnt possible.) Her shirt was not too tight or too loose and the color suited her milky skin. Her short skirt showed the fishnet pattern in her black tights and her shoes had a small heel.

She sat, leaning over the desk, writing something, her crow-feather hair falling all over the place, long and shiny. Without looking up, she said, Are you going to keep staring at me or are you going to say something?

I didnt reply. She looked up then and narrowed her denim blue eyes. She said, What?

Nothing. I justIts just that Megan sits there.

Well, Megans gonna have to sit somewhere else today.

Id never think to say anything obvious like that. Im all apologies and flubbed words when people confront me. Which isnt often anymore. I wasnt sure how to reply. Are you American? I asked.

She folded the paper shed been writing on and pushed her hair back from her face. Im from Canada. But I live here now.

How come?

My mom died and I moved here two weeks ago to live with my dad. She paused. What? she said, again.

Im sorry about your mum.

She shrugged and said, Not your fault. Leaning back in her chair, she made the front two feet come off the floor.

What were you writing? I asked.

Nothing.

Im just curious.

A poem.

What sort of a poem? Id never met anyone who wrote poems.

A poem about death.

I couldnt tell if she was being serious. It wasnt the sort of thing Id joke about. Youre going to be in our class? I asked.

What do you think? She reached into her pocket and pulled out a packet of chewing gum. She offered me some with a quick smile, but I shook my head.

The bell rang and some of the others came into the classroom. The new girl stayed exactly where she was. The others looked at her like she was an animal at the zoo they couldnt quite believe inlike an okapi or a red panda. Abigail came over and gave me a big squealing hug.

Where were you all Christmas, Sophie? Howve you been?

She was only being nice, but I couldnt help but tense up, because everything has just been so weird between us. I immediately mentally kicked myself for being ridiculous; I wanted to start the new term with everything NORMAL. Abi looked at the new girl but didnt speak to her, not even to say hi or anything. SheAbi, not the new girlput her hand on my shoulder and talked to me about some party she wanted to have at her house. I half listened to Abi and half watched the Canadian, who unfolded her piece of paper, chewed her pen, then went back to writing her poem.