We Are Not Okay. Natália Gomes

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      ‘I know. It’s getting colder. We have to find somewhere a little warmer to meet.’

      That wasn’t what I meant but I don’t bring it up again. Maybe I’m enjoying living in this bubble too much. I turn to him and find warmth in his lips, in his arms.

      Then I lean my head on his chest. I can’t feel his heart through his navy jumper, but I know it’s beating under there. He wriggles underneath me.

      ‘Are you uncomfortable?’ I shift my weight to one hip, away from him to give him a little space.

      ‘No, it’s not that. I’m just getting…’ He pulls a small wrapped gift from inside his pocket. It’s box-shaped but the corners are squashed, caving in slightly. He tries to pop out the edges then gives up and drops the box into my hand. ‘Happy six-month anniversary.’

      I quickly sit up. ‘Six months? It’s really been that long?’

      ‘You forgot?’

      ‘No, I didn’t forget…I just didn’t exactly remember.’ I smile, kissing him on the cheek.

      He laughs and gestures towards my flat palm. ‘Open it.’

      My fingers clumsily unfold the gold tissue paper away from the sellotape. Inside is a small black cardboard box. Tugging the top away, the lid pops open. I gently pull out a thin braided turquoise band with a small silver heart looped through. ‘Aiden…’ The heart dangles down, shimmering a little as the light trickles in through the birch trees and strikes the silver.

      He takes the bracelet and loops it over my wrist, struggling to fasten it. ‘I think my fingers are too big for this,’ he laughs. ‘There, got it.’

      My finger grazes my wrist, the braided ribbon soft under my touch, the heart pendant cold on my fingertip. ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you.’

      It is beautiful. But that wasn’t my first thought. I won’t tell him that I worry what my parents will say when they find this bracelet in my room, in my bag, or on my wrist. It’s just one more secret to hide, one more lie to tell.

      After we say goodbye, it’s the same routine as usual. I travel through the school, by the drama department, past the library. ‘Sophia?’

      She turns towards my direction and then a huge smile stretches up to her cheeks. ‘Oh, hey.’ She balances a pink-rimmed water bottle on top of a small stack of books, each with faded barcode labels facing out.

      ‘Need a hand?’ I say, reaching up and sliding off her glass water bottle.

      ‘Thanks. That’s my third one this year. I always seem to lose one in Steve’s car and he never gives them back,’ she giggles.

      ‘What’s all this for?’ I nod towards the books. Anatomy of the Human Body sits at the top, a very graphic image of the female reproductive system staring at me intensely. ‘Some light reading for biology?’

      She clears her throat and squints her eyes. ‘Oh, I just wanted to get a better understanding of…of, um…the human circulatory system.’ Her eyes skim the floor by the feet and I can’t help but smile. Her cheeks start to flush red and I put a hand to my mouth to stop myself laughing.

      ‘Yeah, sure,’ I grin. ‘Come on, do you want to get a coffee on the walk home?’

      She takes a deep breath and wrinkles up her nose like she’s in pain. I’ve embarrassed her, I think. She nods and turns with me.

      ‘What else are you working on?’

      ‘I have a history paper due next week and then my French practice exam the week after.’

      ‘I can help you with your French exam if you want?’

      ‘You’re so lucky. I wish I spoke it fluently.’

      ‘You’re good, really. You’ll be fluent in no time.’

      ‘Steve wants to take me to Paris after graduation.’ She beams, pushing the door open with her hip. A coolness washes over us. The fabrics of my hijab billow out around me in the wind, while strands of Sophia’s hair dance in the air, like she’s floating in water.

      ‘Jo’s?’

      ‘Hmm?’ I say, my eyes still fixed on her shimmering long hair that’s bobbing up and down on her back now.

      ‘Jo’s for coffee?’

      I nod and follow her down the path through the courtyard. At the end is Birchwood Road, the street that connects the high school to the primary school and to the main town centre. There’s not much to the centre itself: some shops, three hairdressers (why does a small town need more than one?), two florists, two bakeries, seven pubs (again, why does this town need that many?). But stationed in the middle of the town’s library car park is a large red double-decker bus. Inside, the seats have been lifted and replaced with wooden benches, with feet that curl up like the letter S. At the front, where the driver should be, is a large white counter with a chalkboard sign that lists every kind of coffee and dairy-free alternative that, I truly believe, has ever been created. Jo’s BusStop is our usual place, everyone’s really. It’s the only place to get ‘vegan coffee’ in town. I didn’t know that was a thing until this year. Apparently milk just isn’t ‘in’ anymore. Dairy-free, gluten-free, meat-free…basically any diet that’s free of one major food group is a trend over here.

      Sophia bounds up the stairs of the bus. ‘Hi Jo! A medium sugar-free extra-hot vanilla latte with coconut milk, please. To go. Please.’ She struggles with her books and her wallet, and looks up at me. ‘Why are you smiling?’

      ‘I’m just picturing my mum and dad’s face if I ever ordered that in front of them.’

      ‘What? You don’t get lattes in Morocco?’

      ‘Not like that!’

      Sophia hands over a fiver and wrestles with the change she gets in return.

      ‘You forgot your gluten-free raspberry and white chocolate loaf. Want me to order it with my coffee?’

      She shakes her head quickly and leans against the counter as the woman who we call Jo, who’s hopefully actually called Jo. ‘No, not today.’

      ‘Why not?’

      She shrugs and is handed a tall white takeaway cup with a brown cardboard sleeve to keep her hands cool. She shifts to the side and lets me order. ‘Coffee, please. Medium.’

      Maybe-Jo stares at me for a moment, waiting for me to speak again. Finally, she does it for me. ‘What kind of coffee?’

      ‘Normal. No fancy milks or sugar-free syrups. Just a regular black coffee, please.’

      Maybe-Jo rolls her eyes, as if my order is even more pretentious than Sophia’s and turns to slide a glass coffee pot off the heat base. She pours the scalding dark chocolate brown liquid into a cup and hands it to me. ‘Ninety pence, please.’

      ‘Wait, why is yours so much cheaper than mine?’ pouts Sophia, looking at her scattered silver coins in the palm of her hand.

      ‘Why СКАЧАТЬ