Louder Than Words (13 page)

My mother opened her mouth to give her views on that.

Silas cut in before she could get started. ‘So I asked Rafi who she’d rather see, and she said the speech and language therapist because she hated the last psychologist she had.’

My mother ate another mouthful of spaghetti thoughtfully. ‘Yes, I recall that one. Positively demonic! And no understanding of the condition either.’ She looked at me as if I was an unusual variety of beetle found under a rock. ‘Not that it’s easy to understand at all. Heavens, nobody knows that better than we do. But one expects a professional to have some idea. I think this was the first case she’d ever come across in the flesh.’ She tutted. ‘And I doubt her textbook knowledge was up to much either.’

‘So can you arrange it then? For her to see a therapist?’

She took a sip of wine. ‘I suppose so. There may be a waiting list. There always seems to be a waiting list these days for any health issue, especially mental health. Margaret – you remember Margaret, did those sculptures with driftwood and steel that became fashionable a few years ago – told me she had to wait months to see someone to talk about her depression.’

Mental health. Thanks, Mum.

I hate that term ‘mental health’. Nearly as much as I hate ‘mentally ill’. Because everything mental comes from your brain or some other hormones acting on it. And your brain’s an organ, just like your heart or your kidneys. You don’t get people saying they are
cardiacally
ill and then have others make fun of it or shy away from them like it’s catching. It’s stupid! How is having something wrong with your brain different to having a broken leg or your pancreas not working properly?

‘Well, if there’s a long waiting list, can’t she go to see a therapist privately?’ Silas asked patiently.

My mother nodded. ‘I would imagine that’s possible. Though it may be a fearful waste of time and money if she behaves as she did last time and refuses to engage with them.’

‘She won’t. Because this time it’s her choice. Rafi wants to go for herself, not because she’s being made to or the school has said she has to. She wants to see if she can get better.’

The only word to describe the expression on my mother’s face was astonished. And I realised that for years now she had never seriously considered the possibility that one day I might talk again.

Nice.

‘Oh and there’s one more thing,’ Silas said.

‘What’s that?’

‘She wants me to go with her, not you.’

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long,

For sidelong would she bend, and sing

A faery’s song.

(John Keats – ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci’)

CHAPTER 22

Dad, I finally did it!

I’ll tell you the whole thing because I want you to see how amazing she is and, well, I’ll have to tell you all of it for you to see that. Here goes: it’s a bit like telling a story, I suppose, so I’ll try to make it interesting for you.

My heart was pounding in my chest. She had said she’d be here, at the café opposite the bus station, waiting for the last bus home, but I still exploded inside like a cascade of fireworks when I saw her sitting there in the window seat.

I stopped for a moment to look at her before she saw me so I could drink in the sight of her. She’d answered my text when I’d asked if we could catch up with each other to say yes, here was where she’d be so come and find her. And I’d run there like an eager little puppy, but I didn’t care. This could be risking everything because if she blew me out now I might never see her again. Or I’d see her only when she was hanging out with Rachel, Toby or the others, which would probably be worse.

She sipped her coffee, her small fingers curled round the cup, and it was unthinkable that I could lose her.

This had to work.

Her face didn’t light up at the sight of me, but I can wait for that if only it does one day. She isn’t like the other girls, I need to remember that. I have to work to deserve her. I said hi and went to the counter to get another coffee for her and one for me.

She won’t bring the kind of loving and being loved that my friend Sam describes, which sounds like sinking into a warm bath after a cold day with exhausted, aching muscles.

No, loving Lara . . .

. . . loving . . . I still can’t quite believe I’m saying that to myself . . .
me
. . .

. . . loving Lara will be like standing out in a thunderstorm and, even if she never loves me back, being allowed near her is compensation enough.

Just so long as she doesn’t already love someone else.

When I had that thought, I had a burst of jealousy so strong it made me take a step back from the counter.

She didn’t, did she?

But I hardly knew anything about her. I liked that, liked the mystery. She didn’t give everything away about herself in five minutes like some girls did, babbling on and on as if they couldn’t shut up.

But Lara’s more than a closed book; she’s padlocked.

Another challenge then, to learn more about her.

I took the coffees back to the table. She made no move to start a conversation, but thanked me and swapped her finished cup with the full one. Then she watched through the window as an old woman at the bus stop berated two teenage boys for queue jumping.

‘Our society has no respect for the old. It makes us poorer,’ she said and took a sip of the fresh coffee.

I just watched her. It wasn’t that I didn’t agree. In some ways I find myself agreeing with everything she says. She makes me think about things I’d never considered before, look at the world in a new way.

Suddenly she stood up, pushed her chair back in a rush and ran out. Outside events had taken a turn for the worse. The two boys were yelling at the old woman and one of them had stepped forward menacingly. I got up and ran after Lara.

When I got out there, she was up in the faces of the two boys – or as up in their faces as someone of her height could be – standing between them and the old woman and yelling her head off. They looked startled for a moment, then their expressions turned ugly. As I arrived by her side, they’d broken out into the usual torrent of abuse dumb boys use when faced with a smart girl they feel threatened by.

This was going to get messy. The old woman had retreated further back, looking around for help. She was scared, but she wasn’t giving way either.

I opened my mouth to intervene, fully expecting I could end up getting my head kicked in, but what else was there to do? The smaller boy brought his fist up and swung at Lara’s face. I went for him.

But I didn’t react as fast as Lara. She brought her arm up to block the punch and simultaneously raised her leg to kick him in the stomach. The kid dropped to the ground screaming – it was like something from a martial arts film.

‘It’ll be your teeth next time,’ Lara yelled. ‘Weren’t expecting that, were you? Think women can’t look after themselves? Well, think again!’

We were attracting quite a lot of attention now. A group of men wearing the uniforms of the timber yard across the road came over to help.

‘I’d get out of here if I were you,’ I said to the boys. ‘You’re in way over your heads now.’

One of the men put his arm round the old woman, who he’d seen was upset even from where he’d been standing, and the others stood staring the boys out. The one on the ground hauled himself to his feet and his friend pulled him off into the road. They hobbled off together without another word.

Lara dropped her fighting stance and turned to me. ‘Do you think the coffee’s still hot?’

Back in the café, the coffee had not yet gone cold, so Lara sat down to finish it.

‘Where did you learn to do that?’ I asked her.

‘The kick-boxing? I started doing it a few years ago. I got fed up with people like them trying to throw their weight about because I’m a girl and because I’m small.’ She narrowed her eyes at me. ‘In a world that’s so violent towards women, we need to be able to protect ourselves.’

I would have protected you
, I said silently to myself, but had to face facts that she’d probably done a better job than I could have. But this was a chance to dig for some information. ‘So do you still take classes?’

‘Occasionally, when I have time.’ She’d thrown up a guarded expression as soon as I asked the question.

‘What else do you do with your time? Do you go to college?’

‘What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?’

‘No, I just find you interesting, that’s all.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘No, I don’t go to college. I work full time in Toby’s mum’s shop. I used to go, but I dropped out a few months ago. Didn’t like the course.’

‘Don’t you want to go to uni?’

‘No.’

‘So what will you do?’

‘I want to spend a few years campaigning and travelling. Right now I’m working and saving money so I can go to Africa and do some volunteer work in the villages, building wells and helping improve the water supplies.’

I thought of how I want to go to Oxford to read computer science, but what’s faffing around with code compared to getting out in the world and saving lives hands on by providing clean water? How many lives are lost each year according to that guy, Dillon, because people don’t have access to it? I can’t remember the exact figure, but it’s a staggering amount.

‘What do your parents think of that?’ I asked. ‘Will they be worried about you?’

She shook her head and shifted her eyes away from mine. ‘We don’t get on. They lead their lives and I lead mine. They give me an allowance and I accept it for now because it enables me to pay the rent on my flat and buy food, and that means everything I earn I can put towards travelling.’ She looked back at me again. ‘It’s important to see what you’re fighting for and really be part of that, otherwise you risk being nothing more than a sound bite.’

‘Yeah, I guess.’

It scared me a little, just how far I’d have to shift my expectations to be with this girl, but to give up now would be unimaginable. I would, I realised, do anything.

Her lip curled. ‘You guess?’

I shook my head at her. ‘I know you think it sounds lame, but sometimes you . . . you rob me of words. I don’t know what to say to you because my brain’s frantically trying to process some new stuff you’ve thrown at me and my mouth can’t keep up.’

She looked intrigued despite herself. ‘What
do
you mean?’

‘I mean you’re not like anyone else I know and you make me think differently about stuff and that’s great. Really great. More than great, it’s amazing. But I want to pause and think about what you say. And you throw a grenade right out at me the second I don’t give an answer exactly the way you think I should.’

‘So what you mean is “shut up, Lara, sometimes, and let me just think”, yes?’ She laughed. ‘OK, I’ll concede that point – for now.’

She must have believed I was going to be around her or she wouldn’t have said it. I whooped inside. But I had to keep it cool. She expected that and I had to deliver no matter how excited I secretly felt. ‘That would be good, yeah.’

She laughed again. ‘I can be full-on, I know that and I make no apologies for it. Without passion, life is grey and you may as well be one of the sheeple.’

Life would never be grey around her.

I’d ducked the issue long enough. ‘So are you seeing anyone at the moment?’

She stared at me. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m not seeing anyone at the moment.’

‘Are you completely opposed to the idea of seeing someone?’

Her eyes laughed. ‘Not in principle. But it would take a lot to persuade me. I don’t
need
a boyfriend.’

‘I never for a second imagined you did.’ Isn’t that the truth! As if someone like her needs a guy. But I’d walk over hot coals to get her to see it could be good to have one around. As long as that one is me.

‘Good,’ she said. And added nothing more.

Either she’d just shut the conversation down or this was my opening. I had no idea which but I was going to win nothing by sitting there staring at her and not taking the biggest gamble of my life. ‘So would you let me try to persuade you please?’ I asked.

‘Yes, you can try to persuade me.’ She laughed. ‘But I make you no guarantees.’

It’s 2 a.m. now and I need to sleep, Dad. I was too excited to sleep before I wrote this, but I guess talking to you worked and I’m going to crash now.

Silas

CHAPTER 23

We sat in the waiting room, me trying to read a book and failing hopelessly as I stressed about what was through that door labelled Room 2, and Silas texting constantly.

This was my first appointment to tackle my problem in four years and I had no idea what was going to happen. Mum had made the appointment for me and she hadn’t even attempted to get a regular one, but had paid for me to see this therapist for a full course of treatment, no matter how long it took. There had been a muttered late-night phone call to my father, which I clearly wasn’t supposed to hear, where she told him he needed to pay half. ‘After all, you probably caused this by what you did. She was fine before you walked out,’ she said, quietly furious, into the phone. ‘Some children stop talking because of trauma. They’ve never ruled it out as a possibility for her.’