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“I thought you’d want to know.” She says the words as if they had been rehearsed. Amy wants to cry but she knows she shouldn’t. Now she reads it.Īmy’s mum sits doubled over, clutching the soft bag strap. Amy knows her fat, looped handwriting with its glamorous bubble dots from class. Musky, adult, just like those nasty girls when she was at school. She thinks of Jasmine laughing in there with her daughter.

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A warm yellow glow through the crack beneath the bedroom door.

Amy’s bedroom is just above her, at the top of the narrow staircase. Something is looped around her ankle-she pulls at it-a voluptuous soft strap, attached to a bag of very soft leather, a woven front panel. She’s tired and shaky, and she wants to get back inside her sleeping bag, but Jasmine is kneeling in her pyjamas so Amy does the same.Īmy’s mum starts to climb the second staircase, to Amy’s attic room. She passes it to Jasmine, opened on one of the many blank pages. “That diary? So it’s private?”Īmy picks up the diary and unlocks it. Amy fumbles through the piles of exercise books, keen to stop drawing attention to her childish furniture. Jasmine stands up too, and watches Amy bend over her tiny desk.

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She peels herself eagerly out of the second skin of her sleeping bag, limbs chilly and awkward. Amy can’t imagine him doing anything really bad. Her class laughed at his armpit stains and his embarrassing enthusiasm. Wallace for Maths last year, a quiet man. Amy strains in anticipation of the new pleasure. They are still lying next to each other, but Jasmine looks very far away.

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Jasmine is a shadowy movie star, with a cupid’s bow and liquid eyes and a low voice. The bedside lamp is on now, the embrace broken. From the floor, reaching up to her waist, dim piles of clothes and books and toys and ornaments, some boxed, some in sagging stacks, close in on her. Above her head, the people in the pictures are hiding in the dark, old laughter leaking from them. She stops on the first floor beneath the family photos and listens, leaning against the wall to steady herself. She imagines becoming Jasmine’s best friend, their casual arms around each other, everyone seeing them on the playing field in the sun, sharing secret jokes and laughing until they collapse on the grass.Īmy’s mum ascends, faster now, drawn upwards, away from the cold below, feet cushioned and reassured by the carpet on the stairs: this is home, the heart of the home, you’re going to put it in order. Amy and Jasmine barely ever speak, even though they both still live on the same street.Īmy breathes in the warm air, and feels the shared rhythm, fragile and new. Now, Jasmine is popular and lovely, and so are all of Jasmine’s friends. Jasmine was last in this house when they were both in Year Two, when they used to play together. But she knows she shouldn’t, that it would be too much. She can hear angry muttering, clipped from her own body, roaming around her in the darkness.Īmy wants to say how great it is to have Jasmine stay over. In this house, in this state, she walks without light. Treacherous splinters and nails she knows each one. The lights left off as she makes her way slowly to the stairs across the stripped and neglected floorboards. Her dressing gown is now tied tight at the waist, stiff as a uniform, holding her back straight. The thought hits her sharp in the chest and makes the laughter hurt. Delirious inside the embrace, wrapped in the velvet night, Amy wants to fill the whole house up with this beautiful gas, for it to knock her mum out in the cold kitchen below where she sits and drinks all night. When they roll towards each other, the heat escaping Jasmine’s mouth, and the smell of her, fills up Amy’s own mouth, and laughter spills back out, fizzy and rich.Įverything is funny. The laughter erupts again, even louder, and the ache and her numbing feet and the lonely night all merge into this fresh insult.

She shouldn’t have said yes to the sleepover. Her syrupy odour breaking down in the empty space around her.Ī burst of laughter from above. Drunk in a sagging flannel dressing gown, fingering endless roll-ups under a tilted lamp, she is unable to grasp motive. She is reciting crimes committed against the ache, and the culprits.

Two floors below, Amy’s mum is sat in the kitchen, bare feet on the cold tiles, body filled with ache. Amy and Jasmine’s joy is hissing out into the dark bedroom like a gas leak.