‘OK.’ I shrug. I reach for a Dorito from the bowl still sitting on the table. We had Tex-Mex for supper tonight, which is the only time Mum buys crisps. It’s, like, if they’re Doritos and scooping up guacamole then they don’t count as junk food. ‘So . . .’ I try to speak casually. ‘I was wondering . . .’
My voice is letting me down. It doesn’t sound casual, it sounds over-alert. On the other hand, I don’t think Frank is in a noticing mood.
‘Is Linus coming over?’ It comes out in a hurry and I sound the opposite of casual, but there you go. I’ve asked.
Frank turns his head to give me a murderous glare. ‘Why would Linus come over?’
‘Well . . . because . . .’ I’m confused. ‘Have you had a fight?’
‘No, I haven’t had a fight.’ His eyes are so bleak and full of anger, I flinch. ‘I’ve been dropped from the team.’
‘Dropped from the team?’ I stare at him in shock. ‘But it was your team.’
‘Well, I can hardly play now, can I?’
His voice is all muffled and low. I have a horrible feeling he wants to cry. I haven’t seen Frank cry since he was about ten.
‘Frank.’ I feel a huge wave of sorrow for him. In fact I think I might cry for him instead. ‘Have you told Mum?’
‘Told Mum?’ he lashes out. ‘What, so she can stand there and cheer?’
‘She wouldn’t!’ I say. But actually I’m not sure.
The thing about Mum is, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just, no adults do. They’re totally ignorant, but they’re in control. It’s nuts. The parents are in charge of all the stuff like technology in the house and time on screens and hours on social media, but then their computer goes wrong and they’re like a baby, going, ‘What happened to my document?’ ‘I can’t get Facebook.’ ‘How do I load a picture? Double-click what? What does that mean?’
And we have to sort it out for them.
So Mum probably would cheer if she heard Frank wasn’t on the team any more. And then in the next breath she’d say, ‘Darling, why don’t you take up a hobby and join a team?’
‘I’m really sorry, Frank,’ I say, but he doesn’t react. The next minute he’s shuffled out of the kitchen and I’m left alone with the Doritos.
‘So things haven’t been good.’ Dr Sarah sounds as unruffled as ever.
‘They’re OK. But everyone’s stressy. I’ve been in bed a lot. It’s like I’m so tired all the time.’
‘When you’re tired, just rest. Don’t fight it. Your body’s mending itself.’
‘I know.’ I sigh, my legs hunched up on the chair. ‘But I don’t want to be tired. I don’t want to be overwhelmed. I want to kick this.’
The words come out before I’ve thought them and I feel a sudden little jab of adrenalin.
When I say things to Dr Sarah, it’s as if I’m hearing them for the first time and suddenly they become real. She’s a bit magic, I think. She’s like a fortune teller – only in the present, not the future. Things change in her room. I don’t know how, they just do.
‘Good!’ she says. ‘That’s good. But, Audrey, what you don’t seem to realize is, you are kicking it.’
‘No I’m not.’ I look at her resentfully. How can she say that?
‘You are.’
‘I’ve been in bed for, like, the last three days.’
‘No one said getting better would be a straightforward journey. Remember our graph?’
She gets up and heads for her whiteboard. She draws two axes and a jagged red line heading up.
‘You’ll go up and you’ll go down. But your progress will be in the right direction. It is in the right direction. You’ve come a long way, Audrey. Remember our first meeting?’
I shrug. Some of our sessions are a bit of a blur, to be honest.
‘Well, I do. And believe me, I’m pleased with what I see before me today.’
‘Oh.’ I feel a tiny glow of pride, which is pathetic. I mean, I didn’t do anything.
‘How’s the film going?’
‘It’s OK.’ I nod.
‘Have you interviewed anyone from out of the house?’
‘Well.’ I hesitate. ‘Not yet. Not exactly.’
Dr Sarah waits. This is what she does, like a cop waiting to catch out a criminal. And every time I say I won’t crack first, but I always do.
‘OK, there’s this boy, Linus,’ I hear myself saying.
‘Yes, you’ve mentioned him.’ She nods.
‘He used to come round to see Frank, and I was going to interview him. Only now he doesn’t come round any more. So I thought . . . I mean . . .’ I trail off, not sure what I do mean.
‘Maybe you should ask him,’ says Dr Sarah, like it’s no big deal.
‘I can’t,’ I say automatically.
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . .’ I lapse into silence. She knows why not. It doesn’t need saying.
‘Let’s visualize the worst that can happen,’ says Dr Sarah cheerfully. ‘You ask Linus to come over and he says no. How does that make you feel?’
Trickles of anxiety are running down my back. I don’t like this conversation any more. I should never have mentioned Linus.
‘How does that make you feel?’ persists Dr Sarah. ‘Audrey, work with me. Linus has just said, “No, I won’t come over.” What are you feeling?’
‘I’m totally embarrassed,’ I say miserably. ‘I’m dying. I’m, like, oh my God. Like, I’m so stupid . . .’ I screw up my face in agony.
‘Why stupid?’
‘Because – because!’ I look at her almost angrily. Sometimes Dr Sarah is deliberately obtuse.
‘Linus won’t come over.’ She gets up and writes it on the board:
Then she draws an arrow from it and writes Linus’s thoughts in a circle.
‘Why should these thoughts’ – she taps the board – ‘make you feel stupid?’
‘Because . . .’ I struggle with my own thought process. ‘Because I shouldn’t have asked him.’
‘Why not?’ she counters. ‘So he says no. All that means is, he didn’t feel like being interviewed, or he was busy, or he’s intending to say yes another time. Or any number of things. It doesn’t mean anything about you.’
‘Of course it does!’ I say before I can stop myself.
‘Of course?’ She instantly picks me up on it. ‘Of course?’
OK, I fell into that one. Of course is the kind of phrase that makes Dr Sarah’s nose twitch like a shark scenting blood. That and I have to.
‘Audrey, do you know what Linus is thinking?’
‘No,’ I say reluctantly.
‘You don’t sound sure about that. Audrey, can you see into people’s heads?’
‘No.’
‘Are you gifted with super-powers? Is this something I should know about you?’
‘No.’ I hold up my hands. ‘OK. I get it. I was mind-reading.’
‘You were mind-reading.’ She nods. ‘You have no idea what Linus is thinking. It could be good, it could be bad. Most likely, it’s nothing at all. He’s a boy. You’d better get used to that.’ Her face crinkles in humour.
‘Right.’ I know she’s trying to make me smile, but I’m too confused. ‘So . . . I should ask him?’
‘I think you should.’ She picks up the whiteboard cloth and rubs out Linus won’t come over. In its place, she writes:
‘OK?’ she says when I’ve had a chance to read it.
‘OK.’
‘Good. Then ask him. Let’s make that your homework. Asking Linus.’