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Grace
Copyright © 2010 by Bill Shakespeare All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below. Imaginary Press 1233 Pennsylvania Avenue San Francisco, CA 94909 www.imaginarypress.com Ordering Information: Quantity sales. Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address above. Orders by U.S. trade bookstores and wholesalers. Please contact Big Distribution: Tel: (800) 800-8000; Fax: (800) 800-8001 or visit www. bigbooks.com. Printed in the United States of America Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data Shakespeare, William. A title of a book : a subtitle of the same book / Bill Shakespeare ; with Ben Johnson. p. cm. ISBN 978-0-9000000-0-0 1. The main category of the book —History —Other category. 2. Another subject category —From one perspective. 3. More categories —And their modifiers. I. Johnson, Ben. II. Title. HF0000.A0 A00 2010 299.000 00–dc22 2010999999 First Edition 14 13 12 11 10 / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Meg.
1 What would Meg do? That’s the question I ask the girl in the mirror. But she doesn’t respond. She never responds. How could she? I don’t know the answer, so why would she? She is me. Although, lately, it doesn’t seem so clear. Her hair is mine, her face is mine. But behind her eyes is something I can’t feel, can’t even name. What would Meg do? I shake the feeling of missing, that drop of dread that if I turn around, even just for a second, I’ll miss something important, and get back to the reason I’m in here: the girls’ bathroom on the first floor of the humanities building, strip lights flickering above me. On the other side of the door, the symphony of lunchtime floats down the corridor. My school mates are going about their lives, laughing as they’re finally released from the confines of classrooms. It’s a laughter I can’t share, too carefree for me to enjoy without the uneasiness of guilt snaking between my ribs. So here I am, asking my reflection: what would Meg do? Would she give in to the darkness, let the dying embers of a lost love drag her down? Would she keep moving, keep the walls up and carry on pretending? Would she stop trying to forget, stand up to life to really live again? Like every other time before, I don’t know. And so my reflection stays silent as I leave without an answer.
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2 “How was your day, honey?” Mum calls from the kitchen as soon as I close the front door behind me. “Fine,” I mumble, walking into the kitchen and throwing my bag on the table. “Were people talking about her?” She’s stood at the hob, stirring a huge pot of something that smells good. She always asks this, even six months on. “No. Just stared a lot. Kept their distance like I might implode at any second,” I say with the usual distaste. She doesn’t turn away from the hob. “What about Millie and Bella? How are they doing?” I run my fingers through my hair, sliding onto a chair. “They’re good.” “It’ll get easier. People will forget, they’ll move on,” she replies. I know that she means to be comforting, but it’s getting old; I’m fine. She turns the hob down and puts the lid on the pan, before sitting down opposite me. I watch her as she reaches out for my hands, smoothing her thumbs across their backs. It reminds me of the way Meg and I used to play absentmindedly with one another’s hair or hands, always sensing when we needed calming. I sigh, and let my head fall to the table, bored of the concern that keeps getting sent my way. I hear the front door open and close again, a bag dropping to the hall floor, followed by the two thuds: shoes being kicked off. “Are you okay, Gracey Baby?” Ross says in response to my forehead on the table. He puts his hands on my shoulders, leaning to plant a kiss on the back of my head. He smooths my hair down and takes a seat next to me. I look up at him. “Yeah, fine.” “Good, good. Moving on…” he says. He’s the only one that ever seems to believe me when I say that. 3
Still he rubs my back and begins chatting to Mum about his day. I envy him. He doesn’t have to deal with this all at school. He started college this year and most of the people in his year stayed on at Harrington Sixth Form instead. It’s not like the people at his college don’t know what happened, everyone knows, this town isn’t that big. But they don’t know anything other than her name, maybe her face; they don’t see her every time they look at him. Sometimes I feel jealous of that fact. “I’m going to nap,” I interrupt, getting up. “Okay, sweetie,” Mum says. “Dinner will be ready soon.” “Got it.” I walk slowly up the stairs. Our old room still radiates bad memories, something I mostly ignore. But my steps seem to get heavier as I walk past, towards the guest room where I’ve slept for the past six months. The light-hearted aura I’ve wrapped around myself begins to waver, like balloon strings being cut, one by one, but I grab hold of them and pull myself together.
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I come back downstairs half an hour later to find the rest of my family milling about the kitchen. Mum’s putting the final ingredients in the stew while Dad sets the twins up in their high chairs. Darcy rushes up to me, twirling in a new dress. “I got given my new competition dress today,” she says, spinning to show off the coloured underside of the black circle skirt. “It looks beautiful, Darce,” I say, pulling her in for a hug. “Grace, help me set up the table, would you?” Ross asks from the other side of the kitchen. While he grabs plates, I count out the cutlery, including two plastic spoons for Noah and Jacob. Dad puts a small ladleful of stew on two plastic plates along with some veg, and I cut up the biggest pieces before placing them within the twins’ reach, handing them their spoons. “Thanks,” I say, turning around to take my own plate from Ross. Dinner is far from a quiet affair. Cutlery scrapes on plates, and the twins require persuasion of the aeroplane noise variety. Darcy chats away about her day, eager to tell us every detail, while Ross and I reminisce about being her age. We leave Meg tangled up in all the memories, but artfully, carefully, barely touched upon. “So,” Mum starts, loud enough to capture our attention. “We’re going to go up to Grandma and Gramps’ for the weekend and your Dad and I have agreed to let you stay behind” — she looks purposefully at Ross — “if you still want that party?” “Seriously?” Ross asks, in shock. Finally, a topic that doesn’t 4
make me want to scream in frustration. “Yes,” she replies. “There will be rules we expect you to follow, no questions, negotiations, or exceptions, but yes, seriously.” She smiles. “Okay, okay,” he replies, hurriedly jumping up to clear dishes as if that’s one of the conditions. “What…what are the rules?” he asks sitting back down. I snort. He glares at me but I don’t care. He’s so excited he doesn’t know what to do with himself, which is funny on Ross, the calm, collected, cool one. Dad clears his throat. “No more than 10 guests. They all get picked up by parents or they stay over. No drugs. We’re not stupid enough to expect no alcohol but we will be buying it and that’s all that you will have and it will stay inside. No disturbing the neighbours. When we get back, the house will be spotless, just as we are intending to leave it.” Ross has been nodding enthusiastically through Dad’s entire speech and is clearly still taking it in as his head continues bobbing. “Is Grace staying too?” he asks. “That’s what we were thinking,” Dad says. Ross and I grin at each other. “As long as you’re up for it Grace,” Mum adds. “Yes, Mum, I’m fine.” I say. “Put Millie and Bella on the guest list,” I tell Ross. “Who’s party is this again?” Ross asks. “Oh, lighten up,” I say, throwing my napkin at him. “Like you really have ten people to invite.” “Well, not anymore,” he retorts. I grin and he can’t help but grin back. Being the younger sister by only a year has a whole load of advantages. One being that I’m an eligible recipient of Ross’s must-protect-and-love-my-baby-sister-evenwhen-she-annoys-me syndrome, as well as being a viable contestant for the position of Best Friend. We bounce between the two so quickly, people blink and they miss it.
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“So, who made the cut?” I ask, when Ross sticks his head round my door later that evening. “Stop rubbing it in, or I will lock you and your friends in here,” he replies, charming as ever, collapsing beside me. I shuffle quickly to avoid him landing on me. I close my book and stare at him, silently asking why he is here. “Hey, I thought we were a gang, you, me, Bella, Millie, Wilbur,” I say. Neither of us mention the final two members. “Yeah,” he says quietly. The room fills with an uneasiness I am 5
more than familiar with now. It’s that of something missing, something unsaid. Ross brushes it aside when he tells me, “I wrote a list.” He pulls a bit of paper from his shirt pocket and hands it to me. “And you kept it in your shirt pocket? I didn’t think anyone actually used those.” “Only for super important things. Must be kinda hard to pickpocket a shirt pocket, don’t you think?” “I guess,” I say, unfolding the paper. There’s a list, exactly eight people long, not a single name crossed out. “I see you had lots of trouble cutting it down,” I tease. “I will barricade your door, Grace.” He snatches the list back. “I believe you, I believe you, let me have it?” He hands it back. “So, do I actually know any of these people? Or are you trying to force me away by making me uncomfortable with people I don’t know?” “You know most of them.” He points to the top. “Wilbur, obviously, one of the gang,” he admits. “And I’ve known these guys for ages.” “What about these?” I point to the bottom half of the list. “You’ve met Grant briefly, and Hallie’s the one who came to Aunt Julie’s wedding, and Luke you haven’t met yet, but he’s cool.” “Sounds good,” I say, handing the list over. Ross takes it and I expect him to leave, but he doesn’t. We lie in silence for a while before he inhales and speaks. “Do you think she’s okay?” I flip onto my back and stare at the empty ceiling. My heartbeat quickens with the mention of her, no name necessary; we both know exactly who ‘she’ is. “I don’t know. I hope so.” I know I am, I add in my head. He doesn’t respond for a minute. “I love you Gracey Baby,” he says finally. He leans over, kissing my head, before rolling off the bed and leaving, closing the door behind him.
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“It’ll get easier. People will forget. They’ll move on,” I know she means to be comforting, but it’s getting old.
I'm fine. Six months ago, Grace’s twin sister Meg died. Grace is dealing with it just fine, despite what her family and friends think. But when she meets Luke, moving on without Meg becomes a reality — and Grace discovers she isn’t as ready for it as she thinks. Then Grace starts having dreams about Meg. It seems to be a sign that Meg doesn’t want to let go of her life — or her sister.