Asking for It by Louise O'Neill Page B

it is.’ Sheila Heffernan is sitting at the kitchen counter, her short, bright red hair gelled into solid spikes. The two of them are sipping tea out of china cups, a half-eaten loaf of Mam’s Madeira cake between them. Sheila holds her powdered cheek out for me to kiss, but I can’t move any closer to her, the smell of her perfume ramming into my nostrils.
    ‘Why are you still in your pyjamas?’ Mam asks.
    ‘I don’t feel well.’
    ‘Yes, your mother was just telling me about your trip to SouthDoc.’ Sheila shakes her head, the misshapen beaded earrings she made in her jewellery design class banging against her neck. ‘What on earth were you doing?’
    ‘I told you, Sheila,’ Mam says. ‘She was doing a bit of sunbathing and fell asleep outside.’ She gestures at the cake. ‘Have some, Emma. Freshly baked this morning.’
    I turn away, breathing deeply. Mam will never speak to me again if I vomit on the kitchen floor in front of Sheila. ‘Or there’s your granola in the Cath Kidston tin.’ She smiles at Sheila. ‘Home-made, of course.’
    ‘I’m not hungry.’
    ‘Now, now, Emma.’ Sheila wags a finger at me. ‘Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. I know all you young girls are watching your figures, although thankfully I don’t have that problem with my Caroline, she has always been as thin as a whippet, takes after—’
    ‘Oh, Emma has never had any problems with her weight,’ Mam interrupts, looking in my direction, although her gaze seems to be focused an inch above my head. ‘She’s naturally slim, like the rest of us, thank God.’ Sheila, another forkful of cake halfway to her mouth, pauses, and slowly drops it back on the plate.
    ‘We should be leaving, Nora,’ she says pulling at her turquoise tunic. ‘The class starts in twenty minutes, and I’m so sick of Bernadette Quirke hogging the front row. And – did I tell you? – when I rang her last week to say I didn’t have time to do the church flowers, she was very sour with me. And after me explaining about Aidan’s flu. I was run off my feet.’
    ‘I know, Sheila, you’ve been so busy.’
    ‘I don’t think I can go to school,’ I say. ‘I really don’t feel well.’
    ‘You’re going to school,’ Mam says, her left eye starting to quiver almost imperceptibly. ‘Where’s Maggie? She should be here by now.’
    I check my phone again, but there’s nothing. I step away, standing in the kitchen doorway with my back to the room. I try Maggie, then Ali, then, as a last resort, Jamie. I try Maggie again, Ali, and then Maggie again, and again, and again, but there is still no answer.
    ‘Is there a problem?’ Sheila has crept up right behind me.
    ‘I think there’s something wrong with the phone network,’ I lie, taking a step back from her.
    ‘Oh.’ She peers at her ancient Nokia. ‘I have all five bars.’
    ‘Mam –’ I turn to her – ‘please. I don’t feel well. Can I stay at home?’
    ‘Why are we still having this conversation?’ Her lips have gotten so thin it looks like she’s swallowed them. She forces a smile at Sheila, gesturing at her to walk ahead of us into the corridor. ‘The car door should be open, we’ll be there in a second.’ Mam waits until she’s out of sight before hissing at me, ‘And where is Maggie, I’d like to know?’
    ‘She’s not answering her phone.’
    ‘She’s probably disgusted with you for your behaviour on Saturday night, and I wouldn’t blame her.’
    ‘Please, Mam, I’m begging you, I really don’t feel—’
    ‘You have two minutes to change into your school uniform and get in the car. Now, Emma.’
    *
    There’s a collective intake of breath when I open the door into my Irish class. There are three rows of tables on each side of the room, a narrow gap in between so the teacher can walk around and keep an eye on us, and every girl on every row is staring at me. I put my hands out, laughing, and say, ‘Hey, third-degree burns are so hot right