went off on one for no reason, because that’s the kind of self-centred prick he is. Carly thinks he’s OK, because about three months ago he told her she looked pretty, and she thinks that’s a sign that he’s a good person. I said at the time, she is pretty, so it just means Jono isn’t blind. I asked her how good he can be when he’s so obnoxious to me, and to basically everyone at Rankeillor except for Ricky and her. She said he’s misunderstood. By her, is what I wanted to say, but I didn’t.
Anyway, even she didn’t defend him today, after he started screaming at Alex. He’s always like that: completely fine one minute, bug-fuck mental the next. He was drinking with some other kids at lunchtime and he was fucking stocious by the time we had Alex’s lesson. Ricky was pished as well, but it doesn’t turn him nasty like it does Jono. It’s easy to see how he ended up at Rankeillor.
But here’s the worst thing about today: when Annika spat on him, and he went for her, Alex went completely white. I mean it, she looked like a statue. She just sat there, completely still, drained of colour. If Ricky hadn’t stepped in, I honestly don’t know what would have happened. Jono would have pasted Annika, I think. It only lasted a second – Alex disappearing, I mean – and then she was back asking everyone to calm down. But it was really, really strange.
And the fight fucked everything up. I was hoping we’d be able to ask her about why she moved here. And then she might have told us about her fiancé. We’d have that in common, you see – me and Alex – because my mum and I moved to Edinburgh after Jamie died. When we first moved here, my dad was going to be joining us in a few weeks, and then after a while he wasn’t meant to be joining us any more. So we stayed here, and he stayed in Leeds, and now I hardly ever see him.
My mum has always blamed him for what happened to me and Jamie. She told me she didn’t, but she did. And every time there’s another story on the news about how the MMR vaccine was safe all along, and how it was stupid not to get your kids inoculated, she blames him all over again. Now she thinks that even if the injection had been dangerous, she should have had it done anyway. An autistic kid would have been a lot better than a dead one.
This is why I like the play we’re reading. It’s about the things which can’t be forgiven, even if no-one meant to do the wrong thing.
My mother would ring, invariably, on Monday evenings, and this week was no different. After a day at Rankeillor, the last thing I felt like doing was talking to her.
‘You sound tired,’ she said, as I answered.
‘I’m sure you can’t deduce that from two syllables.’ I don’t know why I was always so tetchy with her, except that my mother is someone whose entire life philosophy could be summarised with the words ‘I was only trying to help’, and there are few things more irritating.
‘Well, you do,’ she replied, defensively.
‘I’m just trying to do two things at once.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making dinner.’ This was true. I had the phone sandwiched between my head and my shoulder, at an uncomfortable angle. Luke had been the keen cook, always trying to track down a place which sold tamarind paste or palm sugar. I just heated things up.
The kettle was boiling noisily, and I was about to pour water over half a packet of tortellini. I had no idea what they were filled with. They all tasted identical, orange, brown or green. I had half a jar of pesto open on the side.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I had mine already. Shall I call back when you’re done?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, as the pasta bubbled to the top of the pan.
‘I would have called yesterday,’ she said, ‘but we had a parish meeting and a fund-raising committee brainstorm and—’
‘It’s OK,’ I repeated. ‘I know Sunday is your busy day.’
‘And I couldn’t call on Saturday because I still had my
Anyway, even she didn’t defend him today, after he started screaming at Alex. He’s always like that: completely fine one minute, bug-fuck mental the next. He was drinking with some other kids at lunchtime and he was fucking stocious by the time we had Alex’s lesson. Ricky was pished as well, but it doesn’t turn him nasty like it does Jono. It’s easy to see how he ended up at Rankeillor.
But here’s the worst thing about today: when Annika spat on him, and he went for her, Alex went completely white. I mean it, she looked like a statue. She just sat there, completely still, drained of colour. If Ricky hadn’t stepped in, I honestly don’t know what would have happened. Jono would have pasted Annika, I think. It only lasted a second – Alex disappearing, I mean – and then she was back asking everyone to calm down. But it was really, really strange.
And the fight fucked everything up. I was hoping we’d be able to ask her about why she moved here. And then she might have told us about her fiancé. We’d have that in common, you see – me and Alex – because my mum and I moved to Edinburgh after Jamie died. When we first moved here, my dad was going to be joining us in a few weeks, and then after a while he wasn’t meant to be joining us any more. So we stayed here, and he stayed in Leeds, and now I hardly ever see him.
My mum has always blamed him for what happened to me and Jamie. She told me she didn’t, but she did. And every time there’s another story on the news about how the MMR vaccine was safe all along, and how it was stupid not to get your kids inoculated, she blames him all over again. Now she thinks that even if the injection had been dangerous, she should have had it done anyway. An autistic kid would have been a lot better than a dead one.
This is why I like the play we’re reading. It’s about the things which can’t be forgiven, even if no-one meant to do the wrong thing.
My mother would ring, invariably, on Monday evenings, and this week was no different. After a day at Rankeillor, the last thing I felt like doing was talking to her.
‘You sound tired,’ she said, as I answered.
‘I’m sure you can’t deduce that from two syllables.’ I don’t know why I was always so tetchy with her, except that my mother is someone whose entire life philosophy could be summarised with the words ‘I was only trying to help’, and there are few things more irritating.
‘Well, you do,’ she replied, defensively.
‘I’m just trying to do two things at once.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Making dinner.’ This was true. I had the phone sandwiched between my head and my shoulder, at an uncomfortable angle. Luke had been the keen cook, always trying to track down a place which sold tamarind paste or palm sugar. I just heated things up.
The kettle was boiling noisily, and I was about to pour water over half a packet of tortellini. I had no idea what they were filled with. They all tasted identical, orange, brown or green. I had half a jar of pesto open on the side.
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I had mine already. Shall I call back when you’re done?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ I said, as the pasta bubbled to the top of the pan.
‘I would have called yesterday,’ she said, ‘but we had a parish meeting and a fund-raising committee brainstorm and—’
‘It’s OK,’ I repeated. ‘I know Sunday is your busy day.’
‘And I couldn’t call on Saturday because I still had my
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