Every Seven Years by Denise Mina Page A

not because
the cats are hurt; they’re not hurt. It’s
funny because of that moment afterward
when the cat sits up. They look at the
glass, variously astonished or angry or
embarrassed. It’s funny because it is so
recognizably human, that reaction. The
WTF reaction.
    Hitting the glass is where I am with the
fact that my mum has died. I keep forgetting,
thinking other things—I need a
wee—that woman has got a spot on her
neck—I want to sit down—and then
BOOM I hit the glass.
    But actors are special. We just keep
going. If we forget our lines, or the scenery
falls, or a colleague has died on stage, we
just keep going. So I just keep going.
    I’m standing on the rostrum with
Karen Little. Karen and I grew up together.
She made my life a misery at school and
we haven’t seen each other for seven years.
I can see her eyes narrow when she looks
at me. I can see her shoulders rise, her lips
tighten. Maybe she hates me even more
now. I don’t have a system of quantification
for hate. I’ve forgotten what it is to be
the recipient of this, so maybe that’s why
it feels heightened. Life has been kind to
me since I left.
    My mum died and, frankly, I’m not really
giving too much of a shit. I want to tell
her that: hey, Karen, d’you know what?
The human body renews itself every seven
years. Each individual cell and atom is replaced
on a seven-year cycle. It’s been
seven years since we met and I’m different
now. You’re different now. All that stuff
from before? We could just let that go.
    But that’s not how we do things on the
island. Aggression is unspoken here. We’re
too dependent on one another to have
outright fights.
    Karen Little, just to fill you in on the
background, was in my class. There were
thirteen in our year. Eight girls, five boys.
Karen was good at everything. Head girl
material from the age of twelve, she was
bossy, sporty, and academic. She was like
all of the Spice Girls in one person. Except
Baby Spice. Karen was never soft. Growing
up on a farm will do that to you.
    She has gray eyes and blond hair, Viking
coloring. She looks like a Viking, too. Big,
busty, kind of fertile-looking hips. She
stands on both feet at the same time, always
looks as if she is standing on the
prow of a boat.
    I’m a sloucher. An academic nothing. A
dark-haired incomer. My mother moved
here to teach but gave it up before I was
born. After the accident, they made it clear
they didn’t want her. Even the children
shunned her.
    Karen’s a full head taller than me. So it
was odd that she had this thing about me.
I never understood why she hated me so
much. Everyone hated Mum because of
the accident, but Karen hated me. It wasn’t
reciprocated and it was scary.
    No one there liked my mother or me
but Karen took it to extremes. I saw her
looking at me sometimes, as if she’d like
to hit me. She didn’t do anything. I should
emphasis that. But I often saw her staring
at me, at parties, across roads, in class. I
was scared of her. I think she had a lot
going on at home and I became a focus for
her ire.
    Now, Karen is the librarian in the
school library.
    My face hits the glass.
    There is no one here I can confide in.
My. Mum. Died. Three words. I haven’t
said them to anyone yet. If I don’t say it
maybe the universe will realize its mistake.
It will get sorted out. The governor will
call at the last minute and stop her dying
of lung cancer. Maybe, if I don’t say it.
    Or maybe I’m worried that if I say it I
will start crying, I’ll cry and cry and
maybe I will die of it.
    No one in the school library knows yet.
They will as soon as they leave. Mum is
headline news around here. Everyone
knows that she isn’t well, in the local hospital
with lung cancer. Since I got back
several people have told me that she will
get better because the treatment is better
than it was. People tell me happy stories
about other people who