Everlong: (Book One of the Everlong Trilogy) (10 page)

I imagined her reading on her window seat, her legs tucked under her, her fingers delicately playing with the silver key on the chain around her neck, her ebony hair pulled up into a ponytail. I tried to conjure in my mind the strawberry scent of her hair, the soapy aroma of her skin and dreamed of what it would be like to kiss those dusky pink lips.

But Hyperion's word intruded on my thoughts, like the ghosts of those left unburied; 'the Fallen, your key to being with Evie.'

I should've stayed away.

But that would've been like trying to catch snow when it already had fallen into the ocean.

I had to see her.

I ran into the night with only that thought in my mind.

I reached the dis-robed oak tree at the edge of the park, opposite her house. I would've stayed there as long as it took just to see her again, maybe then I would know what to do, who to trust?

I looked up at the waning moon, barely visible beneath the thick veil of cloud. If only I was still an Angel of Death, then I'd have been able to drift in the window and see her.

The screech of a fox pierced the silence as it scampered across the road, oblivious to my suffering.

And yet, the whole world suffered but I couldn't see it.

I was losing my mind.

Evie

The Sandman's magic wasn't working very well; I woke up early (again), before the birds had even started their winter chorus. I pulled my duvet over my head trying to block out the the sounds of morning, but it was no good, my mind was too alert, so I gave up and got out of bed. I looked out the window hoping that the snow had turned to ice and another day off school, but it was now nothing more than slush, clinging onto life in small pockets where it hadn't melted.

My stomach turned over, my heart thumped against my chest. I didn't want to go to school, I didn't want to face the day, and yet, when I looked around my room and felt the empty space pushing down on me, the absence of company and of sound, I didn't want to stay at home either. I didn't know where I belonged anymore, I was stuck in some sort of No Man's land.

In the end, I left the house early, defeated by the noisy silence.

Before long I found myself at the Old Bridge that straddled the river Tame, the scene of the "accident". It was the first time I'd been back since, and I didn't really know why I had returned; it wasn't as if I'd made a conscious decision to go there, but my feet, by some compulsion of their own, had brought me back. I walked to the centre of the bridge, the scene of the crime, driven by something deep inside, an aching for something I'd lost, or maybe it was something I'd never had. I don't know, but the ache was there, right at the bottom of my ribcage.

I stopped at the point where I'd jumped and looked out over the river. The willow tree still sighed at its bank, its long drooping branches still skimming the glass-like surface of the water, the spire of St John's silhouetted against the sky as the morning's sun began to bloom.

Life was still happening, right there in front of me.

And whatever it was that I'd lost, wasn't to be found here.

I watched the world go by, me stuck in the centre, on some kind of eternal pause, as everyone around me whizzed by like they were on fast forward. Everything was out of my control and their wasn't a thing I could do about it.

At school, Sam watched me like all day, scrutinising my every move, waiting for me to do what exactly? He was putting me on edge.

I sat in the middle of the art room, a large blank canvas in front of me, planning my piece on Sabre, my kick-ass warrior girl, the final piece on this theme before we started a new topic. I could feel Sam's eyes burning on the back of my neck so I turned around and caught him looking at me, a strange expression on his face. I pulled a face back at him, and mouthed the word "what?" but he just shook his head and turned away.

The art room was set on the upper floor of the main school building, a converted Victorian Workhouse, which was totally unsuitable light for painting but I loved it anyway. It was dark but full of charm with its exposed beams and heavy wooden work benches, dented and plastered with paint. The white washed walls were covered with giant canvases smeared in every colour, every texture and every theme you could think of. I loved it here, in my world of colour and dreams; it was the one place where I didn't feel a freak, the only place that I felt like I belonged. And on the wall, looking down at me, like a Guardian Angel, was a portrait I'd done of my father in pencil.

Miss Powell, the art teacher, glided over to me, a small pile of sketches in her paint splattered hands, her blonde hair long and wild. She always reminded me of The Lady of Shalott in the John William Waterhouse painting we'd studied in year nine.

'Ah, Evelyn, got anything for me?'

'Er, yes,' I said, moving the canvas in front of me to reach my sketches, 'there you go.'

'Thank you,' she said, looking through them, 'these are really good, you should be proud of them.'

She took a sharp intake of breath, and my stomach tensed.

'Evelyn, you could be an A-star student, but you need to make sure you attend classes and get your work in on time.'

I nodded my head but didn't say a word.

'Are you feeling better now?' she asked, clutching the sketches to her chest.

'Yes, thanks,' I said, but my words were fake and hollow.

'Okay, keep your attendance up because you don't want to make it any harder on yourself, okay? Lower sixth form is really important to build up your portfolio.' She turned to walk away and then stopped, turning back to face me. 'Oh, I forgot, this was left on my desk for you,' she said, giving me a small white envelope with my name scribbled on it.

‘Thanks,’ I said, taking it from her.

I waited for her to go before I slid my thumb under the corner of the envelope. It came away easily, as the glue was still slightly damp. The crisp white paper smelt of perfume or after shave, it was a floral scent which seemed really familiar, although I couldn't place from where. I unfolded the paper and read the short printed note.

Evelyn,

Sorry about the other day, I just didn’t know what to do or what to say. The truth is, I’ve been thinking about you a lot since I found you at Christmas. If you feel the same way, meet me after school at the back of the basketball court,

Dex.

My heart seemed to jump into my throat as I read the words, then read them again. I folded the note up and dropped it in my bag.

The art lesson dragged. I tried not to think about meeting Dexter after school but my heart was racing, my mind imagining what could be.

What if, what if...

I couldn’t quite get the composition right on my board and now it was just a mish-mash of pencil lines and rubbed out smudges. I’d have to white it over with paint and start again. My heart just wasn't in it. My heart nor my head. The lines just seemed to move on their own, to almost get up and move themselves across the canvas.

Waiting for home-time was like crawling down a very long, painfully rough road on my hands and knees. The bell went for lunch and I ran from the art room as fast as I could, deliberately avoiding Sam. I felt awful, he was my best friend but I couldn't talk. So many things were rolling around in my mind that I might just let it all spew out if I started speaking. But some things were only for me, and I didn't know if I could hold everything in my head.

I sat in the corner of the cafeteria picking at my egg mayo sandwich when Sam slipped into the red plastic chair in front of me.

‘You okay?’ he said, his eyebrow raised so far that I thought it might take off at any moment.

‘Yeah,’ I replied, not taking my eyes off the drying crust of the sandwich.

‘Are you sure?’ he said, putting his cold hand over mine to stop me picking.

‘I said so, didn’t I?’ I didn't want to do this. Not now. Not today.

‘You would tell me if there was anything wrong-‘

‘You know I would,’ I said, looking into his eyes really hard without blinking. I tried sending him telepathic messages that I was telling the truth.

‘We’ve been friends for so long Ev, I thought you could trust me-‘

‘What are you on about?’ I said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, acting like I hadn’t got the foggiest idea what he was talking about, whilst trying to contain the tide of my thoughts, like King Canute.

He sighed, looking at me like I was a naughty two year-old. ‘The photo?’

‘Oh,’ I said, trying to sound as casual as possible, 'that.’

‘Yeah, that. Care to explain?’

‘Why?’ Suddenly my hackles raised and my defences went up.

‘Why? What do you mean, why? You try and kill yourself and you just sit there and say why?’

‘What are you talking about, I have not tried to kill myself! If I had I would’ve made sure I’d finished the job properly,' I said, hating myself as the lies fell easily from my mouth. How had this chasm opened up in our friendship? 'That photo you’re talking about is part of an art project thing I’m doing-‘

‘An art project? What art project? You really expect me to believe that?’

‘Believe what you want,’ I said, rising from my chair, ‘people usually do anyway.’ I dropped the sandwich on the plate, grabbed my bag and bounded to the toilets, trying to look as hurt as possible.

I stayed, locked in that toilet through all of lunchtime, listening to the traffic of girls coming and going, laughing, crying, vomiting. I suppose we all had our own issues to deal with. I used to be friends with a lot of those girls - Danni, Max and Sara - before all this happened, before I lost myself.

The bell went for Registration. I picked myself off the toilet lid, took a deep breath and strode out into the crowds with their painted faces and fake smiles.

‘Hey,’ said Sam as I emerged. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, standing up from where he'd been leaning against the wall which was covered in careers posters. One was for the army. That sounded like a great idea, running away to join the army, to leave all this crap behind. Even better, I could've run away to the Foreign Legion.

God, he hadn't been waiting there all that time had he? ‘It’s okay,’ I replied, the hate I felt for myself deepening with every word that came out of my mouth. ‘There’s no need to worry,’ I said, looking intently into his eyes, ‘I’m fine. Promise.’ And when I said it like that, I almost believed it myself.

‘Come on,’ he said smiling, although the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes as it usually did, ‘We better get to Registration.’

After the register and class notices, Sam escorted me to history and I thought he might just haunt me until I told him the truth.

But that could never happen.

Like I said, that stuff was mine, and mine to keep.

The history room was bigger than the art room but just as dark, being on the floor below, and lit only by a few lights hanging from the ceiling and a large arched window cut in half by the floor, the point of which belonged to art. Replica suits of armour, a wooden guillotine, several polystyrene angels and stage props were scattered around the room, donated to the school by an old pupil, some famous actor or something. Today the screens that usually divided the room into three, had been pulled back so that a lecture could be given to us all. On the white board at the back of the class the words “Spain in the Reigns of Ferdinand and Isabella, 1474 -1516”.

Amber was huddled next to Dexter, stroking his hair like he was a pet dog. I couldn't help thinking how tragic she looked, like she was trying to keep him on a leash; if he were mine, I wouldn't be doing that.

I pulled out my pad and biro, and began doodling whilst I waited for the lecture to begin.

Soon the page was covered in lots and lots of eyes; some big, some tiny, ones with huge eyelashes, other with none, some were just the irises, and they were all staring back at me.

‘Evelyn,’ someone said, a cold sneering voice trying to break into my consciousness. ‘Evelyn? Earth to Evelyn!’

I suddenly realised I was still in class and the voice was talking to me. I looked up to see the whole of the class staring back at me. Mr Partridge was standing right in front of my desk and he looked like he'd just swallowed a wasp. ‘Sorry Sir, I-‘

‘Back with us now?’ he said, his big black eyes scrutinising the paper in front of me. ‘So what is more important than your A-levels? Let's share it with the class, shall we?’ Mr Partridge picked up the paper and began to flap it in the air like he was having a fit. ‘Whilst Evelyn Anderson is, as we all can see, accomplished at drawing eyes on scrap pieces of paper, I don’t think that skill is going to get her very far in life is it?

'It is interesting, is it not, Ms Anderson, that the symbol that you have chosen to draw represents a person’s inner vision, their spiritual sight and higher knowledge. Sadly, I think this is lacking in you, is it not? That‘s why there's a “der” in Anderson, after all.’ The class erupted with laughter.

Although my head was telling me not to, my eyes instinctively sought out those of Dexter and Amber. Dexter was staring straight ahead, Amber draped over him like some grotesque fur collar, her eyes alight with laughter, her brown hair swaying as she shook her head.