Page 6 of Sad Girl Hours
My proposal is readily accepted. They clamber up and let me squeeze them tight enough to make up for the fact that I’ve not seen them for two (very long) months. “Ugh. I missed you guys, I’m so glad you’re here! Although … why are you here?”
“I live here,” Casper says proudly.
“In my room?”
“Well, downstairs. Vivvie’s running late, by the way. She messaged earlier to say that the traffic from Sheffield was making her want to transfer to whichever uni is nearest to the M67 so that she didn’t have to listen to her parents singing along to the one Gloria Estefan CD they own any longer. And also to say she’s come up with a chore rota that we will be adhering to upon punishment of death.”
I laugh. “Great. And what about you two?”
“We’ll just be living in squalor,” Nell says. “We’re not cleaning-rota people.”
“We most certainly will not,” Jenna retorts. “You can clutter your room up with all your witchy shit to your heart’s content, but I will chase you around with a broom if you leave wax drips on anything in the common areas. But in actual answer to your question—” Jenna turns to me.
“We were just excited to see you,” Nell finishes. “When Vivvie gets here, all the boys will be back in town and all will be right with the world again.”
“Apart from the climate crisis. And a bunch of other stuff,” Casper says.
“Thanks for that, Casp.” Nell pats him on the arm. “Killed the vibe a bit.”
“You know whose vibe we killed?” Casper says earnestly, blue eyes unblinking. “The polar bears. They’re drowning, Nell. Drowning.”
“Who’s drowning?”
The voice comes from the doorway and I turn round, my chest tightening. Enter the two reasons why I missed my friends quite so acutely all of July and August: my mum and dad.
“The polar bears,” I say airily. I note my dad’s melodramatic grunting in response to the heaviness of the box he’s holding and take it off him. It contains my throw cushions.
“There are still a lot more boxes, darling,” my mum says, frowning that strange little half frown she always does. Climate disaster may be Casper’s (and most of our generation’s) worst fear – brow wrinkles are my mother’s.
“Hi, Mr and Mrs Lawrence,” Nell says brightly. “How was the drive?”
I turn away to pretend to examine the cushions in the box while I listen to my dad complain about having to get up at sevenin order to drive from Exeter to Lancaster on his only day off. I feel the familiar tightening of guilt working its way round my body like poison ivy constricting the old bricks of the kind of period houses my parents loathe. It’s all glass and right angles back home. No softness of any kind is allowed in the Lawrence household. That sort of thing is for other people’s families.
“I’ll come and help with the rest of the boxes now,” I say breezily. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you to it.”
Neither of them say anything, instead silently leaving the room to go back down to the car.
“I’ll be back soon, guys,” I say. “Excuse me.”
“You are excused.” Nell gestures to the boxes. “We can start unpacking some stuff if you want?”
“No,” I say instinctually. “It’s OK. I can do it. You guys must have so much to do for yourselves. Don’t tire yourselves out helping me.” And, with that, I leave the room and scurry back down after my parents.
“It would be nice if you’d help us out and think about all the effort we’re putting in moving you back up here instead of going straight to ‘hanging’ with your friends,” my dad says the second I’m in earshot. “You’re going to have all year to spend time with them.”
I’m about to apologise, as is my go-to response to anything my parents say to me, when my mum cuts in. “Well. Wehopeyou’ll have all of this year anyway.”
I feel the swell of anxiety and dread that lurks inside me brush up against the shoreline, high tide in my chest.
“I will do,” I say quietly. I know my words mean very little to them, but I say them anyway like a spell for myself, trying to twist the apprehension in my body into crosses for good luck.
“She better had after we’ve carted all of this crap back up here,” my dad continues, lugging a suitcase out of the car boot. He turns to address me, thunking the case down on the groundwith no regard for its contents. “I don’t want to be doing this again at Christmas, all right, Saffron? They’ll kick you out this year if you have more time off. You need to keep it together for your studies as well as for us. Got it?”
His dark eyes pierce into me, demanding a response.
I nod, hating myself as I do so.
He gives a grunt, picking the case back up and heading into the house, my mother’s heels clacking after him, leaving me alone on the pavement, feeling very, very small.
