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- Herausgeber: Little Tiger Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017
A road-trip story about following your dreams and embracing the unexpected. Megan knows what she wants out of life and she intends to get it, whatever her parents say. Elliott has given up on all his plans for the future – but then Megan bursts into his life with a proposal that could change it forever. Together they embark on a road trip to escape their hometown and chase their dreams. But life is a journey and not even Megan can control where theirs will lead… Perfect for fans of Sarah Dessen, Rainbow Rowell and Non Pratt.
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For Mum and Dad
At least I never ran off to Gretna Green…
Contents
Chapter One
Megan
The day I lost my virginity was the day I lost my sister.
The guy – Dylan – doesn’t matter, not any more. He was a mistake from start to finish. But not nearly as much of a mistake as not being on the beach with Lizzie that night.
Lizzie was the golden girl of our family – always happy, always top of the class, always kind and thoughtful and hardly ever sulky. Mum used to say it was like she wasn’t a teenager at all. She had a few really close friends – the sort of friends our parents approved of. She took part in school activities, was set to be head girl for her final year and was applying to Oxbridge. She knew exactly what she wanted to be when she grew up – a lawyer, like Mum and Dad, but specializing in human rights. She was a dream daughter.
I was basically the opposite of all that.
My whole life, I’d been compared to Lizzie and found lacking. At least, by my parents. And my teachers. And anyone over the age of about twenty-two. I had no ambition, no focus, no self-discipline. I jumped from one idea, one hobby, one boyfriend, one dream to the next and never settled on anything.
And OK, they might have had a point. I would probably never excel academically but I knew how to make people like me and how to get them on my side. And that, I decided, was a skill in itself.
I figured I’d spend my whole life not being quite as good as Lizzie. Being the screw-up little sister, the one who always needed bailing out after her latest wild idea.
Until suddenly Lizzie wasn’t there for me to be compared to any more.
It was over a year since her death and I still hadn’t got used to it. Hadn’t accepted that our last-ever conversation was her telling me I was making another mistake – that Dylan wasn’t worth it, that I was too young. Hadn’t got over the fact that she was right. And that if I’d listened to her, just for once, Lizzie might still be here to tell me when I was screwing up.
But she wasn’t.
It sounds stupid but the whole thing started with a selfie. One spur-of-the-moment photo that made me realize I was now older than my big sister.
I held my phone out at arm’s length, camera screen facing me, and angled it to try and get both my face and the top I was trying on into the picture. Since I was standing in the cramped changing cubicle upstairs at Oracle, the New Age shop where my best friend Becca worked part-time, it wasn’t all that easy. Neither of us have lessons on a Friday afternoon so, as Year 13 students, we’re allowed to head home at lunchtime, supposedly to study in peace. Becca spends Friday afternoons covering for her boss, Lily-Ann, at Oracle. I usually spend them annoying Becca.
Eventually I had the shot framed and took the photo. The phone made its fake camera shutter noise, the screen went black for a second, then the photo popped up again, flipped from the mirror image I’d seen when I was composing it to show the real me, not my reflection.
I stared at it, my heart thumping too hard, until the camera screen returned.
I look like Lizzie.
My legs wobbled and I dropped down to sit on the floor, pressing the screen to bring up the photo again.
I’m usually the one behind the camera, not in front of it. I wouldn’t even have taken the selfie except that Becca wanted to see what the top looked like on and it seemed easier than traipsing all the way back downstairs to show her, and risking the wrath of Lily-Ann, who’d stopped in en route to the bank. (Lily-Ann usually stayed as far away from the shop as possible, which was why she’d hired Becca. But when she did pop in she always complained about me hanging around and messing up the stock.)
As I stared at the photo, I reached up to touch my face, running my fingers against the cheekbones that suddenly felt higher, more prominent. Even my hair was just like hers used to be – long and blond and a mess of waves and kinks.
Lizzie had been seventeen and seven weeks old when she died, a year and a bit older than me. I’d turned seventeen in August, three whole months ago. Last month, I’d officially become older than she ever would be – and I’d missed it. I’d missed that split second where things changed. I hadn’t even noticed that every day I grew more like her.
Was this what my parents saw when they looked at me? Did they see me, Megan, at all? Or was I just a Lizzie replacement failing to live up to the memory of the daughter they’d lost?
It would certainly explain a lot.
Footsteps thundered up the stairs and Becca pulled open the curtain and peered in. “Lily-Ann’s gone off to the bank. Come on, get up and let me see!”
“I don’t think I like it,” I said, standing. Actually I had no idea what the top looked like but there wasn’t a chance in hell of my buying it now.
Becca eyed me up and down. “Yeah, no. It’s not really you.”
What was me? I’d thought I knew exactly who I was – now I wasn’t sure at all.
“Right.” I stripped the top off and pulled my jumper back on, pushing past Becca and out into the shop. The top floor of Oracle was all clothes – mostly floaty ones with tie-dye patterns – and accessories, like woven hemp bags. Downstairs was where the tarot cards, dreamcatchers and angel figurines lived. Without waiting for Becca, I headed back down the stairs.
Lizzie would never have missed a single anniversary if I’d been the one who hadn’t come home from that boat ride. From now on, every moment I lived would be one she never got. Every day, every year, every birthday, every milestone…
It was like I had to live them for both of us, now. My skin felt too tight, all of a sudden, like there wasn’t room for me and Lizzie inside it. “You OK, Meg?” Becca frowned at me from the top of the stairs and I tried to shake off the feelings coursing through me. There was nothing Becca could do or say to make it better.
“I’m fine,” I lied. Maybe I’d talk to her about it, once I’d thought it through a bit more. Ask whether she saw Lizzie when she looked at me. What she thought Lizzie would say about my life. Whether she thought I’d spend my whole life trying to live up to someone who wasn’t even there any more.
But not yet.
“OK.” Becca still looked suspicious, but she let it go. “How was the gallery? Did Elodie like your portfolio?”
My portfolio. My photos. I’d almost forgotten about them.
When Lizzie died, her memory had consumed every moment. The therapist my parents sent me to had suggested I find something else to fill that space. A distraction, or a new focus, I guess. So I’d taken up photography and finally discovered the one thing I loved so much I couldn’t imagine doing anything else. The one thing I could commit to.
Which was why Elodie’s rejection stung so much. I’d decided to use my free afternoon productively for once, and taken my A level photography portfolio down to the Seashell Gallery as soon as classes finished to see if any of the photos might be good enough for Elodie, the owner, to display and sell.
“She said no.” I settled myself on to the stool beside the counter, while Becca stood behind it. It wasn’t like there’d be any customers in, but Becca took her job seriously. She’d be lucky if more than a handful of tourists even came into the shop between now and Easter, and most of the locals weren’t that interested in dreamcatchers.
“Just no?” Becca asked. “But your photos are great! I love your seaside ones.”
I shrugged. “Oh, she said some of them were OK. Just ‘not a fit for the Seashell Gallery’.” Which, since quite a few of them were still lifes of actual seashells, seemed like a very polite way of saying ‘Hell no, not in a million years, you suck’. “She liked this one, though.” I dug into my portfolio case, pulled out the photo in question and handed it to Becca.
It was taken at the beach, same as the others I’d shown Elodie, but this one included people. I’d taken it around the fire one Friday night during the summer, in the small, secret cove where all the local teenagers tended to gather – and which the police pretended they didn’t know about. It was far enough from the tourist beaches that we didn’t really bother anyone and we were probably better at clearing up after ourselves than a lot of the visitors anyway. After all, this was our beach.
In the photo, Becca is laughing in the fire’s glow, the sparks and heat warming up her skin, her tightly coiled black hair gleaming under the moonlight. Becca could be a model – like, she was actually approached by scouts when we were shopping in the city one day. But Becca wants to be a marine biologist. (I’ve suggested she could do both but she says that posing for me is enough of a job, thanks.)
Across from her sit Elliott and Sean Redwood. Sean’s mouth is half open – probably telling the joke that made Becca laugh. Behind them, you can see the movement of other bodies, all streaks in the starlight, dancing on the sand, waves rippling behind them. Everything is in motion except for Elliott, who sits still and steady beside Sean. Looking at the photo, it was harder than ever to imagine that Elliott and I had been best friends once. Especially since we’d barely spoken two words to each other since the day after Lizzie died.
But Becca wasn’t looking at the photo to see Elliott.
I watched, waiting for a reaction, as she ran her finger along the edge of the print, not quite touching the image of Sean’s face, but close. I’d never shown her this photo before but I was certain she’d remember the night it was taken.
“Did you hear, by the way?” Becca handed the photo back to me, her hands moving immediately to straighten a stack of tarot card boxes on the counter. “Someone is back in town.”
“Would this someone be tall, dark and wearing a Navy uniform?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“He doesn’t actually wear the uniform yet, but in principle … yeah.”
Sean Redwood. Becca’s first and only one-night stand, over the summer. Shortly afterwards he’d left town, but given how much Becca had talked about him over the last few months, it was like he’d never gone away.
Sean was a couple of years ahead of us at school and his younger brother Elliott was in our year. I’d known them my whole life, more or less. Ever since we moved in next door to them when I was three, anyway. They’d moved across town when I was eleven, but St Evaline wasn’t that big and us locals all knew the ins and outs of everyone’s lives.
To be honest, I was getting a bit bored of Becca going on about Sean. I couldn’t remember him ever sticking with one girl for more than a fortnight.
Becca knew this as well as I did, even though her family had only moved to town when she was twelve. But still, she hoped. Becca was incurably optimistic about life in general. Normally, I felt obliged to point out the reality of the situation.
But I’d had enough reality for one day. Encouraging Becca to actually do something about her crush sounded like the perfect distraction.
“He’s on leave?” I asked, digging for the details.
“Just home for the weekend.” Becca rolled her eyes. “He’s not actually in the Navy yet, Meg. He’s at uni on a Navy scholarship. It’s a different thing.”
“Yeah, well, I haven’t exactly kept up on the particulars of his career the way you have, you know…” I leaned over and bumped her shoulder with my own. “So? He’s back. What are you going to do about it?” Optimism without action got you nowhere at all and I couldn’t stand the thought of Becca moping over him until he came home for Christmas.
“Do?” Becca’s eyes grew comically big.
“Yeah,” I said. “Like, text him or call him.” I jumped up as a flash of genius struck me. “In fact, you need to text Sean right now and ask him if he’s going to be at the beach tonight!” It was Friday night and the opportunities for fun were kind of limited in St Evaline. If Sean was home, chances were good he’d be down the beach, along with everyone else we knew. “I already told Tyler and Ewan we’d be there, and Rosie, Sophia and Emily are meeting us, too. Sean has to come.”
“I’m not sure…” Becca started.
“I am.” I reached across and grabbed her phone from her back pocket. A few keystrokes later and it was mission accomplished. “Done!” I said, handing it back. “Now, I need to go home and figure out what to wear tonight.” There was a fine line between warmth and hotness when dressing for parties on the beach in winter. “Meet you there at eight?”
Becca nodded, still staring at the phone in her hand. I grinned at her, then pushed away from the counter and headed out.
Distraction achieved. Now I just needed to focus on having fun, without dwelling on the fact that my sister wasn’t there to share it with me.
Chapter Two
Elliott
November in St Evaline is grim. Icy winds gusting in across the Irish Sea, constant rain, and it’s too cold to even go surfing. Basically, by the time we hit November, I’m just holding out for spring again.
There are some good things about living here – my mates, my girlfriend Amy, Mum, the sea, the boats … and that’s about it.
The list of bad things is masses longer – the fact that the whole town hates my dad, the fact that I hate my dad, the fact that the whole town hates me … and that’s just for starters. But it doesn’t make any difference. St Evaline is home and it’s likely where I’ll be stuck for the rest of my life, so I have to make the best of it.
But as I watched the four lads crossing the sand, I knew this was one of those days where the bad things eclipsed the good completely. It seemed that a timetabling quirk meant that most Year 13s had free periods on Friday afternoons – probably because the teachers knew there was a solid chance we wouldn’t show up anyway. But I really wished these four, in particular, were stuck in some boring lesson right now, instead of being here on my beach.
Ducking my head, I went back to scrubbing down the boat I was working on – one of the smaller boats, which we use for the seal safaris and smugglers’ cave trips. Although the weather was getting worse and half-term was over, we still had the occasional tourist stopping by at the weekends. And even if we didn’t, Iestyn, who owned the boats, would make me spend my free Friday afternoons cleaning them anyway. Just in case.
Right now, I was glad of the work. Focusing on the boat meant I could ignore the company headed my way. If I got really lucky, they might not notice me at all. Unlikely.
“Look who it is, boys.” I recognized the voice without even looking up. Dylan Roberts, the younger brother of Evan Roberts. Good Welsh boys from a good local family. At least, that’s what they’d have people believe. The Roberts family were as beloved in town as the Redwoods were hated.
“Elliott Redwood,” Dylan said, leaning in closer until it was impossible to ignore him. “The boy who ruined my brother’s life.”
I knew I should just ignore him but I couldn’t help it.
“At least he still has a life,” I muttered.
Because Lizzie didn’t. And that was at least partly Evan’s fault, as far as I was concerned.
Of course, it was also partly mine. But I was paying my penance, too, wasn’t I?
Dylan’s friends made the sort of noises that suggested I’d started something, egging him on to retaliate. Great. Just what I didn’t want.
The thing was, it was over a year since Lizzie died, and six months since the trial ended, but nobody in St Evaline was moving on. Just like they’d never moved on from what my dad did, even once he was tried, convicted and locked up. It didn’t matter that I hadn’t spoken to him since he got put away or that I was just as mad at him as the rest of the town. Dad had stolen the town’s money, embezzling the funds his construction company should have been using to improve St Evaline and make it more attractive to tourists. That was his legacy. And I was his son – so with him gone, all the hatred the people felt towards him was heaped on me instead.
At least I’d actually done the things Dylan and Evan hated me for.
“I bet you got just what you wanted, didn’t you?” Dylan’s cheeks were flushed and I couldn’t tell if it was from the wind or his anger. I straightened up, ready to take whatever he wanted to throw at me this time. “You were so jealous of Evan and the rest of us, you had to screw up his life until it was as crap as yours.”
Evan had got a two-year Youth Rehabilitation Order for stealing the boat – he didn’t even get locked up. His solicitor had argued that he was a valued member of the school community with a bright future ahead of him, that he’d never stepped out of line before and had shown genuine distress and remorse for what happened that night. Besides, Lizzie had been drunk and the other guys on the boat swore she jumped off. It was just bad luck that she hit her head.
Bad luck. Bad luck and two years of best behaviour for Evan.
It made me sick to think about it.
One of Dylan’s mates, Freddie, laughed. “Come on, Dyl. Redwood’s life is still crapper. Right?”
“True.” Dylan leaned in closer, until I could almost smell his breath. “But if this tosser hadn’t stuck his nose into stuff that wasn’t his business, Evan wouldn’t have had to go to court. He wouldn’t have a record. It’s his fault Ev didn’t get into uni.”
“Or it could just be because he’s thick,” I said, staring Dylan down.
I wasn’t going to let them think they could drive me out. Whatever I’d done, whatever Dad had done, this was my home. And you know what? I’d done the right thing, whatever Dylan thought. And if I were in the same situation, I’d do it again.
I’d spent the last year avoiding the Roberts family as best I could. But I couldn’t avoid them forever. It was time to stand up and own my actions.
Of course, I was pretty sure standing up was about to get me thrashed.
Just another part of my penance for not saving Lizzie.
Chapter Three
Megan
The string of tiny golden bells hanging from the doorframe jingled as I left Oracle. Outside the autumn air blew in cold off the sea and I wrapped my jacket tighter around me as I crossed back through the small town centre. The place was pretty much empty; during term times the only people left were the locals, and there were less of us every year. Most of the pretty coloured cottages on the seafront were holiday homes now. Even my parents and I lived out past the train station, in a normal red-brick house.
The wind whipped past me, blowing me towards home, but I couldn’t make myself hurry. I walked slowly along the seafront, pausing by the metal railing separating the pavement from the rocky bank that led down to the sand below. The metal was cold through my jacket as I rested my arms against it, taking out my phone and pulling up the photo I’d taken in the changing room.
This time, I just saw a picture of me. Same old face, same old hair. Chewing on my bottom lip, I scrolled through to my favourites folder and pulled up an older shot – one that I’d transferred when I upgraded my phone at the start of the year. The one photo I always wanted to have with me.
In it, Lizzie and I are leaning against the same railing I was at now, the sea behind us and the sun in front, turning our hair golden and our skin bright. She stands a few of centimetres taller than me, just-turned-seventeen to my almost sixteen. It was the last photo I had of my sister.
I pressed the button on the side of my phone and made the screen go black, staring out at the waves crashing against the harbour. The boats further out were just starting to bob on the incoming tide while those higher up the beach were still grounded. I frowned as I spotted a small group of boys around one of the boats.
Dylan. Freddie. Harry and Rob. And behind them … Elliott.
I tensed as I watched, fairly sure that any gathering that involved Dylan and Elliott being in the same place at the same time couldn’t be a good idea.
In a town as small as St Evaline, it was impossible not to know what had happened to Elliott since the trial. He’d been enough of an outcast before Lizzie’s death, thanks to his father’s screw-ups. But since he spoke out against Evan and the others at the trial, he’d basically been shunned by the whole town: even those who hadn’t been willing to condemn him for his dad’s actions couldn’t forgive him for bringing down Evan Roberts. St Evaline looks after its own.
Except Elliott was the only person who’d been looking after Lizzie that night. Even if he hadn’t been able to save her.
I owed Elliott an apology. I’d owed it to him for six months already but admitting I was wrong wasn’t very me, and since Elliott and I didn’t really talk any more anyway … it had been so much easier to say nothing.
But today Lizzie seemed to be all around me. So maybe this was the day to make my apologies to Elliott and move on. Accept that I was older now than Lizzie would ever be, that I didn’t have the memory of her at my age to fail to live up to any more. Begin living in a post-Lizzie world.
Starting with Elliott.
I glanced down again and saw Dylan looming over Elliott as he was backed up against the boat. God, and I’d let that idiot actually touch me once. What the hell had I been thinking?
Dylan pulled back his fist.
Definitely time to interrupt.
Leaning out over the railings, I put my fingers in my mouth and whistled, the way Elliott had taught me to when we were seven.
The sound cut through the air, sharp and shrill, just as I’d intended, and I waited for them to turn round and notice me.
Chapter Four
Elliott
Dylan grabbed my shoulders and threw me back against the boat, sending the air flying from my body. I gasped, desperately trying to catch my breath before Dylan’s raised fist hit, when suddenly I heard a high-pitched whistle.
I knew that sound. I looked up and saw Megan Hughes leaning over the railings above the beach, her hair blowing everywhere in the wind.
Dylan and his mates spun round, obviously expecting to find someone official approaching. Instead they saw Megan sauntering down the steps on to the sand.
“That got your attention, huh?” She was smiling – a wide, friendly smile although it seemed like there might be something else behind it. Six years ago I’d have known for sure. But ever since I’d moved house at the age of eleven, Megan and I had drifted further and further apart.
The morning the coastguard brought Lizzie’s body in, any connection we’d had left was severed for good.
“What do you want, Megan?” Dylan snapped, his face still red.
He and Megan had gone out, once. I had no idea what ended it, though, or what sort of terms they were on now. To be honest, it used to be hard to keep up with Megan’s boyfriends. But she and Dylan had dated for months, up until Lizzie’s death. They must have broken up somewhere in the aftermath. And since then… Well, I hadn’t seen her with any guys at all, really.
Megan kept her tone light as she answered. “I was just checking you were planning on being down the cove tonight.”
“Course. Where else would we be?” Freddie asked.
“Great. In that case, maybe you could get me something to drink later?” She pulled her purse out of her school bag and extracted a ten-pound note, holding it out with a smile.
Dylan’s answering smile was slow, like he was just realizing something important. Dylan was still only seventeen, same as Megan. Freddie, on the other hand, had turned eighteen last month and the supermarket tended to turn a blind eye to how much booze he bought on a Friday night.
Except it wasn’t Freddie who took the money. It was Dylan. “Course. The usual?” My skin crawled at the idea of Dylan knowing Megan’s favourite drink when I no longer did. It used to be a forbidden lemonade at the ice-cream parlour, because she wasn’t allowed fizzy drinks at home.
“Yes, please.” She rested a hand on his arm, briefly. “See you there.”
And then she waited.
It took Dylan a moment to catch on, possibly still blinded by Megan’s smile. But eventually he said, “Come on then, lads. Not wasting any more time here.” He shot me a filthy look. I smiled back blandly.
Megan held off until they’d disappeared up the stone steps to the town above and then she shuddered.
“Urgh. Now I’m going to have to be nice to him for at least five minutes tonight to get my drink.” She turned and pointed a finger at me. “You owe me, Redwood.”
“You didn’t have to interfere,” I observed. “Wait, so you weren’t actually flirting with Dylan?”
“God, no.” She rolled her eyes. “He was about to beat you up, Elliott.”
“So?” There were plenty who would say I deserved it. Until that moment, I hadn’t been sure whether Megan was one of them.
How could you, Elliott? How could you let her go with them? Her words the morning after Lizzie’s death still echoed around my brain sometimes, late at night. A reminder of all the things I’d got wrong.
“So, if I’d had to drag you to the hospital to have your face put back together, I might have forgotten to apologize,” she said.
I blinked, trying to follow her train of thought. I was out of practice at Megan-speak and the way she jumped topics faster than shoals of fish changed direction.
“Apologize for what?” I asked.
Megan pulled the cuffs of her jumper over her hands, curling her fingers up into woolly fists. “For what I said that morning. After they found Lizzie.” She looked up, met my gaze, and there, behind the make-up, was the ten-year-old girl who’d been my best friend in the world. “I shouldn’t have blamed you. It wasn’t your fault.”
“What changed your mind?” I didn’t know what else to say. Because she was wrong – in lots of ways it was my fault. I should have stopped Evan from taking the boat out that night. Trying wasn’t enough. I’d failed and Lizzie had died.
“Hearing your testimony at the trial.”
“Six months ago.”
Megan shrugged.
“Right.” What had happened, I wondered, to make her come and talk to me today? Was it seeing Dylan and the others about to beat me up? Or was there something else going on?
“I’ll see you at the cove tonight?” she asked.
“Maybe. It might be a good night to steer clear.” I wasn’t sure I could face it. Sure, my friends would be there. But everyone else would be, too. Including Dylan, with Megan’s drinks, and maybe even his brother.
“You should come,” Megan said fiercely. “Don’t let them— You did the right thing, Elliott. Don’t let them pretend otherwise.”
I knew I’d done the right thing. But hearing Megan say it… “OK. Maybe.”
“Good.” She bounced a little on her toes, always too wired with energy to stay still for long. “I’ll save you a drink.”
She turned and took a few steps up the beach, away from the harbour. Then she stopped and spun back again, a frown creasing her forehead, only just visible in the gloomy afternoon light. “Elliott?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think I look like her? Like Lizzie, I mean?”
My breath caught, as I remembered her sister asking me almost the same question, that last night. Don’t youthink I look like her, Elliott? I’m as pretty as Megan, right?
I’d never told Megan that part of the story. Never told anyone.
And half an hour later, Lizzie had climbed into that boat with Evan Roberts.
I swallowed and tried to find the right words to answer her.
“I think you look like you,” I called out finally, as she walked away.
Exactly like I’d said to Lizzie.
Chapter Five
Megan
Both my parents’ cars were in the driveway when I reached the house. That in itself was weird; it was only just four, although the daylight was almost gone. Normally Mum and/or Dad would be working late, or at a client dinner, or travelling. They’d got shift-parenting down to a fine art when Lizzie and I were kids and it was worse now there was only one child to come home to. To have them both back so early was definitely not normal.
To walk into the house and find them sitting on the sofa together in the lounge was downright unnerving. The last time I remembered that happening was the day we got the call from the coastguard.
I’m so sorry, Mr and Mrs Hughes. It’s your daughter. It’s Lizzie.
The hardest thing in a town this size is that everyone knows everyone else’s business. Over a year on, I could see Lizzie’s death in every set of eyes that met mine. Oh yes, Megan, the girl whose sister died. Today she seemed closer than ever – especially after my conversation with Elliott on the beach.
Pushing the memories aside, I tossed my bag at the bottom of the stairs and headed in to find out what was going on. No point putting off the inevitable.
Maybe they were getting a divorce. Except since this was the first time I’d seen them in the same room for about a month, I had no idea when they’d have had time to decide that.
I threw myself on to the opposite sofa, displacing the cat, and tried not to stare at the framed photo on the side table – the one showing Lizzie in her school blazer and tie, smiling sweetly for the class photographer. “What’s up?”
They looked at each other, communicating silently in that way couples seem to learn. Then Dad spoke. “I had a call from your college today.”
Ah. That. Considerably less of a tragedy than last time, then. But still enough to get my parents in the same room.
“Really? What did they say?” No point giving away everything if the stupid college secretary hadn’t.
“That you missed the Oxbridge application deadline and now you’re saying that you don’t plan to apply to university at all. That you’ve asked to drop your law A level.”
Damn. In my head, I’d sort of figured on having time to convince my parents that it was a good idea before it became a thing. Guess the college didn’t get that memo. “Yeah. Well, I just thought—”
“Seems to me you didn’t think at all,” Mum interrupted, and Dad shot her a look. Her lips pursed up into a knot. I knew that expression and it was rarely good. “Look, we agreed at the beginning of the last school year that if you wanted to take photography, you’d have to study academic A levels and general studies, too. History, English and law.”
“I do know which courses I’m taking, Mum,” I snarked back. Dad sighed. When I first took up photography, they thought it was a great idea – as a hobby. They’d even bought me some glossy oversized books filled with photos of places I’d never heard of. But once it became clear that photography was a bigger priority for me than school or university, they’d gone off the whole thing. “Besides, we didn’t decide anything. I said I wanted to take the full-time photography two-year diploma and you said no.” And since the college agreed with them, I was somehow enrolled on the A level courses they wanted before I could even argue back. It was a miracle I’d been able to sneak in photography A level along with the ones my parents chose.
“We all agreed that academic A levels would stand you in better stead for your long-term career options than a limited vocational course,” Dad said, mediating as usual. “But your marks aren’t great, either, your tutor says. If you want to get into a good university—”
“And what if I don’t?” It seemed like we’d been having this argument all year and they still weren’t listening to me. “What if all I want is to get out of this town and start my career as a photographer? How is a law A level going to help me then?” Apart from anything else, I was failing it. I hadn’t applied to Oxford or Cambridge because I knew I didn’t stand a chance, even if I wanted it. But my parents wanted to believe I did … and suddenly I thought I knew why.
They’d never talked about my future – about university, about Oxbridge – before Lizzie died. It had been expected that Lizzie would be the family success story and I’d follow along doing whatever I liked.
But this last year, my future was all they’d seemed to think about. What I was going to do next, now Lizzie wasn’t here to do it first. Maybe none of us had moved on from Lizzie’s death at all. Maybe my parents had just transferred all the hopes and dreams they’d had for their perfect elder daughter on to me, the imperfect one. They wanted me to go to Oxbridge because that’s where Lizzie had planned to go. How had I not seen that before?
“You’re seventeen,” Mum said, using the extraordinarily patronizing tone she saved for conversations about my future. “How can you possibly know now what you want for the rest of your life?”
“A degree opens doors,” Dad added. “We’re just trying to encourage you to keep your options open.” He made it sound like he was the good cop to Mum’s bad cop but, actually, they were both saying exactly the same thing: We know better than you do.
I shook my head. This wasn’t their choice to make.
“When are you going to accept that I’m not the academic type?” That I’m not Lizzie. “University isn’t for everyone, you know.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Mum snapped. “Of course you’re going to university. Your sister—”
“I’m not my sister.” The words came out like whiplash. “I know Lizzie wanted to go. I know Lizzie had top marks and universities would have been fighting over her. But I’m not Lizzie.”
Even Lizzie wasn’t Lizzie any more. She was gone. And she’d taken all that brightness with her. All that talent, all those brains. The future she might have had.
Except my parents were trying to cram all those things into my future instead. It wasn’t enough for them that I looked like her. Now I had to be her, too. That feeling I’d had in Oracle smothered me again – the sense of trying to be everything all at once, Lizzie and Megan. I couldn’t do it.
“Of course you’re not,” Dad said, his voice calm. “Nobody thinks you are.”
“All I was going to say was that Lizzie would have jumped at the chances we’re giving you,” Mum said, making it clear that not only was Lizzie smarter, more talented and generally better than me, she was also more appreciative.
“If I’m so ungrateful anyway, maybe I should just drop out completely.” I felt too hot, like something was burning inside me, fighting to get out. “Move to London and find a college that will actually let me study what I want, while I start building up my portfolio.”
I wanted to be a photographer, travelling to places I hadn’t even heard of yet, taking photos of the scenery and sending them home. London was the perfect base for being a creative – and most importantly, it was miles and miles away from Pembrokeshire, my parents and even Lizzie’s memory.
“And live where?” Mum asked, her voice approaching a yell. “And on what? Don’t imagine for a moment that we’ll be supporting you.”
I shrugged. I could find a job and work on my photography at night and on weekends. London was a photogenic city – I could build a great portfolio there. Better than seascapes, anyway. Something that would get me an in somewhere, persuade someone to give me a chance.
It would be a hell of a lot harder without my parents’ money and support, but still. I might not have a plan, yet, but I had options.
