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  I raised an eyebrow. “Wait. Are we talking about you or me?”

  “Cute.” She put down her binoculars; a smile flickered, almost.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “You should follow up on these admirers,” she advised, rolling her eyes. “Give back to the fangirls.”

  “I would,” I shrugged, “but they always want more.”

  “It’s tough at the top.”

  Then Angie’s mate, Vivienne Lee, swished past and paused. She turned back, frowned, and said, “You two being nice to each other or should I be concerned?”

  Angie raised her hands slowly, “Non-hazardous situation, promise.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Best behaviour, ma’am.”

  Vivienne narrowed her eyes, fixing them on me. The stare suggested that she possessed algorithms that could decipher key words in my character: liar, player, illusionist, trouble-maker.

  I held her stare until she looked away. “I’m going in,” she announced as though she expected us to follow.

  Angie nodded but didn’t immediately fall into step behind her. Instead, in quick succession, we were bumped nearer to each other as people jostled to get to class. The space between us was closing. I seized the chance to absorb the details: three piercings in one ear, two in the other; small freckles across the bridge of her nose; amber flecks scattered across those bonfire-brown eyes.

  I leaned forward. I breathed in deeply and whispered, “Tell me something about you that no one else knows?”

  I didn’t exhale, expecting nothing in return. We were running out of time. The bell was about to go.

  “Legally speaking,” she whispered, leaning forward until her cheek pressed against the side of my face, her mouth to my ear, “I don’t exist.”

  Someone like Angie Anderson should be accompanied by some form of Health Warning: too much consumption may cause irreparable damage to major internal organs such as the heart. Particularly the heart. Proceed with caution. She may well argue that the same warning could apply to me. Or, maybe, it takes one to know one.

  I was all over the place. I’d look over but she kept her head in a book raising it only when the tutor asked a question: hydrogen ions combine readily with haemoglobin to form a compound known as what?

  I was in an environment for learning more but it wasn’t ions that interested me. I could feel her breath in my ear, her cheek against mine; such a bold and intimate move from someone who always marked out a strict perimeter fence. She stood her ground that was trip-wired too: one false move and I’d blow it. I was feeding off scraps of information that she cared to share but it was so random that I was none the wiser. I pretended to combine readily with the hydrogen ions.

  I picked up a pencil and wrote down those three words: I don’t exist. I felt like Mrs Martel, who scratched scant notes during our conversations.

  I almost felt as though Angie had plagiarised me; she had stolen a line from my life. I’m here but I’m not. I’m Lennox Jones but the name doesn’t fit. I don’t sleep through the night. I haven’t felt right in a real long time. I disappear into flashbacks, I return none the wiser. I don’t exist. Where do I go?

  I started to feel hot under the collar, hot under my skin, six degrees of separation from a fever. Never far removed from the heat in Hell.

  “Lennox?” The teacher was talking to me. “The answer?”

  There was a pause. The class turned to me in a shuffle of pencil shavings and paper. Showtime.

  Lennox looked up but Jones replied. “Yes, please, if you don’t mind,” I drawled, pencil poised, sunshine smile. “Shoot.”

  Everyone but the teacher cracked up.

  “Sometimes the smartest answer is not the cleverest one,” he fired back in his clipped British accent. He persisted. “I would like you to give me the name of the compound, please. Now.”

  This time it wasn’t a question and the demand eliminated any margin for escape. No wriggle room.

  I spoke without thinking and the answer rolled out like a pair of dice. Lucky seven. No genius IQ, just impressive recall; I remember things, which is a curse and a blessing.

  The teacher raised his eyebrows. “Correct. Lennox, you give us a reliable impression that you’re not with us and then somehow manage to deliver just in time.”

  Tell me about it, I thought.

  I looked over at Angie and she faked a yawn. It would take more than a chemical reaction to impress her.

  Ions later, the class finished, it was time to go home. I could feel the ache spreading across my nose, sinuses in distress, tapping out an S.O.S in Morse code. This usually signalled the start of one of those wipe-out headaches. It was like my motor-neurone skills took a major hit, I slowed down to pick up pencils, paper, books. Packing up to leave seemed a slow-motion ordeal.

  Then I was aware of Angie standing there, waiting at the edge of the desk. She might as well have been at the edge of the Solar System, light years away from me in distance and time. I was shifting, moving, falling through space.

  As with all memorable migraines, the world shrunk in size, blurring around the edges. Zigzag lines featured on a dashboard when I shut my eyes – sensitivity to light. Mind over matter, I was determined to fight off the numbness around the corners of my mouth.

  Then, without warning, I was looking at a crime scene, my crime scene. I’m standing at the edge of the road looking into a park. There’s a large expanse of grass enclosed by old, gnarled trees. I can see a playground with swings, a slide and a climbing frame. I see a blue-painted paddling pool and notice that it is filled with fallen leaves not water. There is an inhaled silence. Then gunshots. Gunshots that shatter the silence, scatter the birds. Then screaming.

  I resorted to free diving and took a life-saving breath, breathing from the stomach instead of a shallow gasp from the chest, relax, relax, relax. I repeated the procedure, breathing deep, deep down and only letting go at the top. I did this several times until I was back, above the surface. I opened my eyes. The classroom had emptied but Angie was still there. A single image standing out clearly from the blurred furniture.

  “Lennox?” she asked, almost as though to confirm it was me. “You disappeared again. Where do you go?”

  9

  Angie: trouble

  Lennox walked me home. Right to the front door. Not as impressive as his posh townhouse but not totally underwhelming either. As I said, penniless orphan I was not.

  We stood on the street and talked. Unlike Lennox, the meet-the-parents scenario was off the table. He didn’t push it; he wasn’t back to supercilious size after the migraine attack.

  “I don’t sleep through the night,” he said out of nowhere.

  I took this as the migraine explanation.

  “The trick is to get used to the darkness,” I offered. “Turn insomnia to an advantage; I live inside skateboard movies – project whatever is inside my head to find escapism.” I sounded authoritative: insomniac turned dream-maker.

  “Sounds neat. I end up inside horror movies.”

  “Sounds dark.”

  He abruptly dismissed his confession and said, “What can you do? Sink a beer, move on.”

  I changed the subject. “I haven’t seen you on a board. How come?”

  “No surf. No snow.”

  “No skateboard?”

  “Not in a while. Airwalk grab ain’t what it used to be.”

  “Board with me. I’ll even permit questions about my personal life.”

  He laughed. “How could I resist?”

  “I wouldn’t get too excited.”

  He didn’t look excited. He’d lost his spring. It was strange to see him standing still, no ballroom bounce and turns.

  “You’re tired. Want me to walk you home?” I was sort of serious.

  He laughed again. “Then I’d wanna walk you back here.”

  “We’d cover a lot of ground.”

  “Sweet.”

  I looked at my front door. “I’d better go.”

/>   “I suppose I could dig out my board,” he said casually.

  “I suppose you could.”

  He saluted. “See you tomorrow, Angie Anderson.”

  “If you’re lucky,” I replied, taking the steps two at time, disappearing through the door.

  Louise, aunt, indifferent. But not today. The instant I stepped inside the house, she appeared. “Boys will use you and lose you,” she warned.

  I suppose this was as close to a piece of parenting advice as I was ever going to get. Louise never usually took an interest in what I was up to; homework, hygiene, health, happiness. It all generally went unchecked. I just got on with it. I looked out for me. Louise cashed the guardianship cheques and child allowance and didn’t ask questions.

  On this occasion, however, she had obviously clocked Lennox outside talking to me. I was surprised I didn’t sense the curtains twitching.

  “Not if I lose them first,” I replied, flinging my school stuff onto a chair.

  “I’m serious, Angie.”

  “I’m not,” I answered, “he’s just a friend.”

  I went to the fridge and grabbed a milkshake. We had a part-time housekeeper who saved me from starvation and malnutrition. Louise was a secret eater. Boxes of chocolates stashed under the bed. Biscuits not books by the bedside. Fresh fruit and vegetables got short shrift in this house.

  Drinking straight from the bottle, I looked around the place as though I was seeing it through Lennox’s eyes. It lacked the personal touch. Real families had photographs in frames while we had designer handbags and shoes taking up space. On a plus, I was spared ornaments and an excess of furniture because Louise liked to splash out on herself. Cursed with a wildly fluctuating weight problem, she eschewed excesses of womenswear and stuck to accessories such as strings of pearls, bracelets, scarves and, of course, footwear – stuff that she could hang off or drape around herself, or that she could try to force her swollen feet into, whatever she tipped the scales at.

  The absence of a warm and loving family environment was so obvious. Lennox Jones was brought up, I wasn’t even dragged up, I simply grew up according to my own devices. I was aware of drawing life experiences from Viv. She had parents who loved her and her brother, Rob. I watched, I soaked it all up, learning along the way how normal people interact with each other – teasing, tickling, hugging, fighting: keen observation can sometimes save a lost soul.

  “Just a friend?” Aunt Louise looked unconvinced. “I don’t think so.”

  I sighed and said, “Chill, Lou. I’m a big girl now. Sixteen soon.”

  “You’re just a kid,” she snapped.

  I stared hard at her over the top of my milkshake bottle. Our shared gene pool was definitely diluted: she was short with curves, I was long with corners. Physical disparities aside, it was definitely her; not someone else, pretending to be someone who actually gave a shit about me.

  “I want to meet him,” she announced.

  I almost choked on my chocolate milk. “You what?” The “what” was a squawk.

  “You heard what I said.”

  “You want to meet him?” I looked around, an exaggerated move, suggesting that someone was going to jump and shout, “Wake up, loser, she’s just kidding.”

  Louise sighed and brushed past me to the fridge, the scent of her treacly sweet designer perfume, coconut and musk, putting me off my milk. I almost gagged. She grabbed a Diet Coke and popped the ring pull, swigging hard. I heard the fizz from the bubbles slosh around inside her mouth.

  “Is it so hard to believe that I want to meet someone you are hanging out with?”

  “Well, yeah,” I replied with attitude. This was getting weird. I wondered if it could be a caffeine high, sugar low, glucose imbalance affecting her immune system, her mindset.

  “What’s his name?” Louise sat down heavily at the kitchen table – an immaculate piece of polished oak that had barely been used. We liked to eat in our respective rooms.

  I leaned back against one of the work surfaces, knowing I should escape to my room but curiosity had kicked in and I wondered what she was getting at. Was she suddenly taking an interest in me, after all these years? Desperately trying to make up for lost time? Up until now, mud and money had always run thicker than blood in this household. Friends over family was the way to go.

  “His name is Lennox Jones,” I said. “He is from San Francisco.”

  “I don’t like him,” replied Louise abruptly, draining the remaining drink from the can and banging it down on the table. “Keep away from him.”

  In a cartoon world, my jaw would have hit the floor. “You don’t even know him,” I squeaked incredulously.

  “There’s something about him.”

  I blinked. “Something about him?” This took me off guard but I recovered, super quick.

  “I’ve seen everything I need to know,” she snapped.

  I quizzed her, part curious, part challenge. “You’ve worked out…” I made speech marks with my fingers, “‘all you need to know’ about someone by looking through a window, which happens to be a good ten metres from the street?”

  Louise sighed, world weariness blowing through the room. “I’ve been around a lot longer than you, Angie. Been there, seen it all before.”

  “If there is something about him,” I questioned carefully, “then why would you want to meet him?”

  “I want to see,” she answered, “what he’s like. As I said, I’ve been around a lot longer than you.”

  I turned to go to my room, there was unfinished business but I wasn’t in the mood to be around Louise one minute more.

  However, I just couldn’t resist a parting shot. “This is about the money, isn’t it?” I said from the doorway. “My money.” I loaded emphasis on the possessive noun just so we were clear about ownership.

  "He knows about the money?" Louise screeched the words, hitting the high notes.

  I laughed out loud. "Jeez, Louise. He's not a hustler for Chrissake. He's a surfer."

  “He doesn’t need to know about the trust fund. It doesn’t concern him,” said Louise agitatedly, abruptly standing up. “We don’t over-share about the past, right?”

  Lightbulb moment. I could now see into the dark corners of this conversation. “It concerns you though, doesn’t it? Worried he might spend your allowance?” I asked, sharpening a smile. “This meal ticket isn’t as stupid as she looks.”

  “That’s exactly it, Angie. You think you know it all but you haven’t got a bloody clue.”

  “I know enough,” I growled ferociously, anger frothing under the words. I was close to boiling over. “I know that you don’t care about me. I know that you’re just stuck with me. Landed with your sister’s leftovers. But we both know that I was named the sole benefactor in my parent’s will. I’m the one with the money, you get the occasional bonus, and it is enough to make you stick around, right?”

  “It’s not about the money,” sighed Louise sitting down again.

  I looked her up and down, Gucci shoes to the De Beers in her ears. “Is that so?”

  She lowered her gaze and I felt a triumphant high. I was in no mood to spare her feelings when she was hell bent on hurting mine: questioning my judgement and driving a wedge between me and someone who wanted to hang out with me; someone who found me interesting enough to want to know more about me; admired me enough to want to compliment me.

  She eventually spoke, embarrassed perhaps. “I just got a feeling, that’s all. First impressions, right?”

  I noticed that she didn’t bother to correct me on an earlier comment and insist that, actually, yes, she did care about me.

  “For the record, Lennox Jones is loaded,” I informed her, running out of patience. “His parents are not strapped for cash, which blows motive out the water.” I paused for effect. “Seriously, I don’t think he’s after the combination to the safe.”

  “I want you to be smart, be cautious. I don’t want you to get in over your head.”

  I sud
denly had the horror that we were going to have the birds and the bees conversation next. Let’s talk about sex. No, seriously, let’s not.

  She backed down. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  I bristled further, wouldn’t let it go. “We never had this conversation when I started hanging out with Viv. Not too concerned that she would fleece me; leave me broke?”

  “Vivienne is different.”

  “Different how?”

  “I trust her.”

  I was all out of patience now. I snapped, “You know what, you’re right. You want to meet him? I’ll make it happen.”

  “That’s all I asked.”

  “You could fingerprint him while he’s here?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then back off,” I warned. “Let something good happen to me. Just this once.”

  I’d arranged to meet Viv before school. I was there first, leaning against the park railings, skateboard tucked under one arm. She sashayed down the pavement to meet me in peculiar high-vamp shoes, harlequin-patterned platforms to be precise, not school ones. Viv was the only person I knew who practically wheeled a suitcase into school with her each day stuffed with scarves, gloves, extra shoes. She was never far from a quick costume change when the headmaster demanded it. The girl was a walking tribute to the Golden Era. She would have been more at home in the V&A museum, something to be seen and admired rather than just another number in school, having to deal with the muddier, practical side of life such as algebra, homework and hormonal peers.

  “Phone’s not working, darling,” she announced as she approached. “I didn’t get your text messages yesterday.”

  I hugged her. “Ah, about that.”

  “You didn’t send me messages – not even a single, little, loveable one?” Viv responded theatrically, giving me a pouty look.

  “It was a weird one, yesterday.”

  “You know it’s not cool to drop one’s best friend for a boyfriend, right?”

  “What?” I screeched, jumping back in faux horror. “Lennox Jones is so not my boyfriend.”