We Are Not Okay. Natália Gomes

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ me.

      I look down at my empty tray that perches lightly on the cold metal racks of the cafeteria island. Round white plates line the silver shelves in the middle. There are no healthy choices at Birchwood High School, except if you count the salads, which most people do. I don’t. Most swim in a sea of oily dressings. ‘No, I don’t really see anything that looks good today. I guess I’m not really hungry.’

      She’s looking at me in a weird way.

      ‘I had a big breakfast,’ I quickly add.

      She eventually nods and gets back to choosing between tomato pasta or a ham and cheese roll for lunch. She’s the only girl at school that I know who doesn’t talk about her weight, or know the number of calories in a KitKat, or even read those magazines that claim to have ‘the secret for losing a dress size in a week’. Which they don’t because no magazine can tell the public that if they actually want to lose a dress size in one week then they’d basically have to starve themselves for that whole week.

      I would give anything to have Ulana’s confidence, her self-assurance.

      But maybe not her parents. Gone would be my quiet evenings with Steve alone in the house if I had her parents. No, I’d be sneaking out back to meet my boyfriend too.

      She struggles to lift up her full tray, while mine rests lightly on my forearms. ‘Where do you want to sit?’

      My eyes skim the crowd, quickly locking onto Lucy McNeil and her friends in the centre of the cafeteria. ‘Maybe not there.’

      We shuffle to a table at the side, in the back, and plop our trays down. Streaks of ketchup and mustard left behind from the last occupants make my tummy flip.

      ‘You’re really not hungry?’

      I shake my head and poke at the bruised apple on my tray. ‘Told you. Big breakfast.’ I glance over to Lucy’s table, her tanned brown skin, shiny dark hair falling around her shoulders. Girls like that are just born that way, while we have to claw our way up or risk being mediocre and forgettable our whole lives. ‘Looks like someone’s enjoyed a holiday abroad.’

      ‘Who?’ asks Ulana as she digs into her plate with a fork a little too small for her fingers.

      ‘Lucy McNeil. Look how tanned she is. So jealous.’

      ‘Burned you mean,’ she says. ‘Anyone who intentionally sits out in the sun is just burning their skin.’

      I take a bite of my apple. The waxy skin tastes like shards of plastic in my mouth. I gaze down at Ulana’s pasta. ‘How is it?’

      She shrugs and takes another mouthful, some flakes of Parmesan falling from her fork. ‘It’s not Italia Nostra, but it’ll do.’

      ‘I love that place.’ Freshly ground garlic and rosemary seep out from under the kitchen door and float through the restaurant, occasionally out onto the street. Beautiful circles of brick-oven pizzas loaded with fresh basil and mozzarella that stretches for yards. Tubes of red pasta dotted with black pepper served in bowls that have yellow and blue swirls looping around the edges. I clutch my belly as a low gurgle moves through my body. ‘Have you ever thought about sex?’ I suddenly blurt out.

      Ulana coughs on a piece of pasta and sets her fork down.

      I slap her on the back. ‘Sorry.’

      She rubs her eyes, a few drops trickling down, and coughs up again. She clears her throat and turns her chair towards me a little. ‘I wasn’t expecting that.’

      ‘I was just wondering, you know, you…Aiden…?’

      ‘Sophia, have you met my parents?’ she laughs. The smile suddenly fades from her face as she edges in closer to the table and leans on her tray with an elbow. ‘It’s hard enough for me to get my head around the fact I’m dating a boy outside of my religion, but that…’ She shakes her head.

      ‘That’s a no, then?’

      ‘No. Definitely not.’ She slides her tray away from her body and drops her fork down onto the plastic bowl.

      ‘But you’ve thought about it?’

      She shrugs and turns away, looking out beyond our little circular table.

      ‘You have thought about it, haven’t you?’

      She leans in, her mouth close to my ear. ‘Of course. I’m seventeen.’

      I smile and sit back in the chair.

      ‘But thinking about it is much different to actually doing it,’ she adds.

      I open my mouth to say something but an arm pulls me backwards. ‘Steve!’ He laughs and drops to his knees beside my chair. Leaning in, his lips meet mine.

      ‘Still here,’ Ulana loudly states, tapping my arm.

      ‘Sorry.’ I take his hand in mine and squeeze it gently. ‘Will you call me tonight?’

      ‘Yep, I will.’ He winks at me then rushes off to catch up with his friends who stand at the back, pointing at us, teasing us. He playfully nudges the tall one in the back, Rhys, as he passes him. I can’t help it; I turn to watch Rhys’ ex-girlfriend’s expression. Lucy McNeil watches him pass then flicks her hair in that Lucy way, before turning back to her friends, her posse. Those who I’ll never sit with, never talk to at a party, never text with. But that’s OK. Because I have Steve and that’s all that matters to me now.

      Ulana takes a big gulp of her water bottle and watches him walk away, eyeing his every step. She quickly puts the bottle down, turning into me again. ‘Just make sure you’re not getting pressured into anything, OK? It’s your body. Your choice. Don’t let anyone make you feel like you can’t say no.’

      I fiddle with the stem of my apple core, pushing it back and forth until it eventually snaps and breaks free from the fruit. ‘I know,’ I shrug, tossing it into the empty tray. I momentarily shake the idea from my mind, then commence a conversation on tonight’s biology assignment.

      But by the time I get home from school, I’m still thinking about it.

      IT.

      And before I’ve even changed out of my uniform for the evening, I’m upstairs, on my bed, at my laptop. Fingers quickly tapping at the black keys, and suddenly perfectly thin models with big bouncy hair and pouty lips stare back at me, all swathed in lace, chiffon and silk. My temples start to throb as dilemmas between ‘Brazilians’ and ‘cheekies’ and ‘babydolls’ and ‘chemises’ fill and overload my brain. Padded or push-up? Plunge or demi? And what’s a ‘merrywidow’? It sounds like a character from a Marvel movie.

      The bedroom swings open and my mum stands in the doorway, cleaning her hands with a mint-green tea towel. ‘I didn’t even hear you come in. Why didn’t you say hi?’

      ‘I thought you were at Aunt Bridget’s this afternoon?’ My swallow burns my throat.

      ‘I was but I wanted to get a start on dinner. Your dad’s finishing work early today. Quiet day at the office, I guess. I’m making a roast tonight. That OK?’

      ‘But СКАЧАТЬ