Page 18 of Composed
Mum blames Dad for uprooting our lives. Dad blames Mum for birthing me.
And I get the blame for everything in between.
More glass shatters.
I don’t need to go downstairs to know my mum is trashing the kitchen in a fit of rage. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.
I grab my backpack from where I dropped it after school. The contents fall onto my bed when I tip it upside down. I pocket my phone before wrapping a black hoodie around my waist and locking my bedroom door.
My skateboard in hand, I twist the latch on my window and shove it up. Poking my head over the ledge, I judge the distance to the ground.
Could be worse.
I toss the skateboard out first, aiming for one of the shrubs before sliding my legs out and jumping down.
My knees shake from the impact.
I pause a beat, letting my muscles loosen before I straighten and tiptoe around the front of the house.
My mum is still in the kitchen when I look through the window. Head in her hands, she sits at the breakfast bar with tears streaming down her cheeks. Maybe a better daughter would feel bad. But I’ve done the caring routine before. All it ever does is turn her anger on me.
Tucking my skateboard under my arm, I tug out my phone. I Google the park I heard some kids talking about in the dining room earlier, then set off in that direction.
If we were back home in London, I’d hide out in the garage with my acoustic guitar until my mum passes out. But she locked it away in the attic after a screaming match with my dad last week and hasn't put the key back in her bedroom since. Skating is the next best thing to take me away from the fallout of another fight.
It takes me a good twenty-minutes to cross the town and hit the park.
The rattle of wheels against concrete greets me when I make my way down the tree-shadowed path. Lights flicker, rock music plays from a speaker somewhere, and the clink of metal is a welcoming sound.
I take it all in, my gaze flitting over the huddles of people dotted around the space.
I’m about to head for the smallest, emptier ramp when a familiar voice sounds behind me.
“Hey, new girl.”
An arm wraps around my shoulders, and I tip my head back. “Hey, Saint.”
“Fancy seeing you here." He smiles as he brushes his hair out of his eyes and looks down at me. “I didn’t know you skated.”
“You didn’t ask,” I quip.
Since I started at Chesterton Grove, Saint has been on a mission to learn everything about me. Every day, he comes up with a new list of twenty questions. Who knew being the new kid in town was so interesting
“Is it just you here?” I ask him, my gaze darting over the park.
“Wow.” He laughs, dragging a cigarette from a half-crushed packet. “Don’t sound so disappointed at the thought.”
I tut and shake my head. “Give over.”
“Hey, it’s cool.” His blue eyes glitter as he flicks the wheel on a lighter, fire sparking beneath his mouth. “I get it. You wanna know if Cole's around.”
“Not what I was asking.”
“Sure it’s not.” He rocks my shoulder with his. “Then you also don’t want to know I saw him talking to Elaine the Pain a moment ago.”
I rock him back, maybe harder than needed. “Nope. Not my business.”
“Whatever you say. Wanna show me your skills?”
