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I’m probably being pathetic and childish. But guess what? I don’t even care.

  10pm

  Watched TV again all night with K. Starting to get really worried about Mom – it’s been three nights now. K said if she’s not back by tomorrow we should phone Dad.

  Jeez. Talk about desperate.

  Sunday, 17 May

  7.33am

  Mom came back! She sneaked into her bedroom about an hour ago. Neither me nor K has been to check on her yet, but I heard her turning on the shower a few minutes ago, so maybe things will be okay . . .

  12.08pm

  Total drama this morning.

  Mom came back sober and clean. She and K had a long discussion with loads of tears and accusations and excuses. I could hear them talking in the kitchen, but I didn’t go down. I just couldn’t bear to listen to all that nonsense again.

  Anyway, Mom said all the things she usually says to make K feel guilty and upset, but this time it didn’t work. K remained icily calm, and for once she stuck to her guns. It was kind of impressive, actually.

  The whole thing ended with Mom in tears, as usual, saying how sorry she was and how much she hates herself and how she’ll never do this to us again. But this time K didn’t let her get away with it. Instead she told Mom that it was time to pull herself together, or else we’ll have to go to live with Dad. (Holy SMOKE!!!)

  Then she calmly offered to pay for Mom to go back to rehab again (with her modelling money – I know, I know, it all makes sense now!!!) and in the end Mom promised that she’ll book herself in tomorrow.

  So. That happened.

  2.21pm

  Mom finally remembered that she had another child and came to speak to me too. Nothing that I haven’t heard before, but you know: I live in hope.

  Anyway, I asked about our names, and she admitted that she named us after characters in Dynasty. She said it was her favourite TV show when she was a little girl, and that Krystle and Alexis were the strongest women and the best role models she ever had.

  I think that’s kind of sad, but in a way it also makes me kind of happy?

  It’s all very confusing.

  10.32pm

  Can’t sleep. Too much to take in, I guess.

  Plus, it’s First Aid again tomorrow!

  Monday, 18 May

  8.30am

  Mom actually did book into rehab this morning! It’s like that old Paul Simon song Dad used to play in the car – about these being days of miracles and wonders.

  Before we left there was a lot of crying (Mom) and a lot of hugging (K) and a lot of waving goodbye (me). In a week’s time we can go and see her for Family Day, and the doctor said we must bring a letter with us which explains our feelings about Mom’s addiction. I asked if I could bring the same one I wrote last time, because I still have it saved on our computer. I felt mean afterwards though. Maybe this time things will be different?

  Very late for school. Better run.

  5.21pm

  After First Aid, Ben walked home with me. At first I thought this was totes evidence that he just wanted to see K, but I was in such a good mood about Mom’s rehab that I decided what the heck. Anyway, turns out he’s not allowed to have a cellphone or to go on Facebook or anything because his stepfather is so super strict. So that’s why he walked me home: he can only talk to someone face-to-face, or not at all.

  (Soooo glad I didn’t say anything mean to him!!!)

  And guess what? When K came home he hardly even looked at her. And he wasn’t pretending not to look, he REALLY didn’t. (Believe me, I know the difference by now.)

  We talked for a long time, and we laughed a lot, and he said he couldn’t wait for Thursday’s First Aid. When he said goodbye it was like totally awkward, but in a good way, all exciting and nervous-making. He kissed me on my cheek, quickly, but I can still feel the spot where his lips touched my skin . . .

  5:30 pm

  OMG! I think I had my first kiss today!

  10.37pm

  Can’t fall asleep. Again.

  I don’t know what’s going on with me lately – I just feel so grateful and so happy.

  It’s crazy, it’s like I want to jump out of bed and just kind of run around thanking people. I want to thank Mrs Madikhize for making me take an extra-curricular, and I want to thank Krystle for finally growing a spine, and I want to thank Mom for trying to get sober, and I want to thank Ben’s stepdad for not allowing him to have a cell, and I want to thank God for making a world that is so wonderful and so exciting and so full of surprises.

  BEST.WEEK. EVER!

  Third Link

  There are few things in life as disgusting as watching my stepfather eat. This is mainly because he resembles, to an astonishing degree, an English bulldog.

  You know how bulldogs have those massive heads, with cheeks that stretch all the way to the side of their eyes? And you know how food and spit become trapped in those sagging flaps of extra skin at the sides of their mouths, and then it kind of swims around in a semi-permanent vortex of frothy, sticky dribble?

  So you see my problem.

  Dinner at our house is a nightmare, especially since my stepfather also shares many of the personality traits of a bulldog (stubborn, aggressive when feeding, inflexible). But tonight I don’t care. Tonight, there is nothing in the whole world that can upset me.

  Because last week I finally met the girl of my dreams. And today I spent the afternoon with her, just laughing and talking and having fun, and it was perfect.

  Alexis.

  Alexis Thomas.

  Even her name makes me smile.

  “What are you smiling about, loser?” my stepfather interrupts, looking for a fight.

  I stop smiling. “Nothing,” I say.

  Then I glance at my mother. She looks tired and nervous and close to tears.

  My stepfather begins helping himself to the steak and mashed potatoes my mother has prepared. There’s more than enough food for the three of us, but I can feel the tension building in me as he keeps piling his plate higher and higher. And higher. Eventually there is only one small piece of meat left on the serving plate.

  I open my mouth to say something, but my mother shakes her head – quickly, almost imperceptibly. I take a deep breath to calm myself. There is no point in getting worked up about this. That’s exactly what he wants me to do, and I’m not falling into that trap again. Not today.

  Because today I kissed Alexis Thomas – very quickly, on her cheek. And it was epic.

  Who needs meat anyway?

  I cut the last piece of steak in half, pass the bigger piece to my mother. I notice that her nails are bitten down to raw, red half-moons around her fingers. I look closer, see that there’s another bruise on her arm. I swallow hard. Then I look away.

  Alexis Thomas.

  I say her name over and over in my head, like a spell to ward off evil.

  Alexis Thomas. Alexis Thomas. Alexis Thomas.

  When I got paired up with her in First Aid last week, I almost burst out laughing. It was like winning the lottery. In our school her sister is this really big deal, but from the very first moment I saw her, I immediately knew that I much preferred Alexis. Sure, her sister is beautiful, but she also reminds me of a greyhound: over-bred and oversensitive. Alexis, on the other hand, is like a Jack Russel: fun and fearless and cheerful and –

  “So.” My stepfather has a nasty sneer on his face. “Your mother tells me you’ve volunteered for the school’s First Aid team.”

  I nod, keeping my face carefully neutral.

  “In my time only the sissies who were too scared to play rugby did that kind of thing,” he continues, before stuffing his mouth with mashed potato, spit dribbling out the sides of his mouth. “What a bloody waste of time.”

  I feel the anger building up behind my eyelids, but one glance at my mom is enough to keep me quiet. She’s biting an already too short fingernail, her body tensed, waiting for the inevitable fight.

  But tonight I’m not getting draw
n into this. I have something better to focus on.

  As my stepfather goes on and on about how useless I am – what a dud, what a loser – I think back on the way Alexis’s skin smelt when I kissed her goodbye this afternoon. She smelt just like sunshine. Like freshness and like hope.

  He goes on about what a disappointment I am to my mother, what a sad excuse for a human being, before stuffing his mouth so full of meat that the juice runs down his chin. But I don’t care. Because I’m thinking about the way her eyes looked up at mine, like clear blue skies on a summer’s day, when she waited for me to kiss her.

  Did she wait for me to kiss her? How are you supposed to tell anyway? I think she did. It definitely felt like she did. I mean, she was standing so close to me, and she looked so adorable, and she put her hand on my arm so lightly. And when I leant closer to her, just a bit, she leant closer too, and her breathing became faster, as if she’d been running. I should have kissed her. On the mouth, I mean. Or maybe I did the right thing by taking it slow?

  My stepfather is still talking to me, angrily, almost screaming, food flying everywhere, just aching for a fight. But I simply nod, and pretend to listen while I think of Alexis Thomas.

  The most amazing girl in the whole wide world.

  I watch absentmindedly as my stepfather cuts another enormous piece of steak and stuffs it into his bulldog mouth. Why would anyone be so greedy? I find myself wondering. He must be miserable: after all, who needs food when you have love?

  There are a few moments of blessed silence in which I almost manage to believe that our family dinner will end peacefully.

  But then I notice that something’s wrong.

  Looking up from my plate, I see my stepfather’s eyes widen as he clutches the table in front of him. Then he begins wheezing, and sweating, and his face gradually turns purple, and then blue.

  My stepfather is choking.

  He’s clawing at the air like a person without a parachute. That massive piece of meat must be lodged in his throat, blocking his windpipe and preventing any air from reaching his lungs.

  A person can go without oxygen for about four minutes. After that brain damage sets in, and after that, death. These are the kind of stupid, worthless things us sissies learn in First Aid.

  In that same useless group we also learnt how to do the Heimlich manoeuvre: a surprisingly simple way to save the life of a person who’s choking.

  I know exactly how to save my stepfather. We practised that movement over and over just last week. But some terrible, dark thing inside me keeps me rooted to the spot. I don’t move. I look at him.

  I look at the man responsible for the bruises on my mother’s arms, for the terrible tension in her body and the fear in her eyes.

  I look at my stepfather coldly. I look at him as the seconds tick by, trying to make a decision. Then I look at my mother.

  She looks right back at me.

  Fourth Link

  Nobody knows what it’s like to live my life. To live with Stephanie as my sister, every single day. Nobody knows, and what’s worse, nobody wants to know.

  Like, we once had this anti-bullying week at school, right, and all they basically said was that it’s your own fault if you get bullied. (They didn’t use those exact words, but that’s basically what it came down to.) Bullies, they said, were “problem kids” who “need help”. And it was up to us to stand up to them, to show them that they are “acting inappropriately” and to “establish clear boundaries”.

  I mean, HAVE YOU EVER HEARD ANYTHING MORE RIDICULOUS IN YOUR WHOLE LIFE?

  Sometimes I honestly think grown-ups don’t understand anything. The whole point of being bullied is that it happens because someone is more powerful than you. If you could stand up to a bully, if you could “establish boundaries” and “rob them of their power”, then you wouldn’t be bullied IN THE FIRST PLACE. Bullies don’t pick on strong and powerful kids who can stand up to them, because then it WOULDN’T BE BULLYING. It would simply be conflict. Some kind of fight.

  The point of being bullied is that you can’t fight back. For some or other reason the bully is not your equal. They either run in packs like wolves, or they are stronger than you, or meaner, or older, or just crazier and more aggressive. They attack you because there’s nothing you can do about it. So yes, of course a bully will back off once you’ve shown them that you’re stronger than they are.

  But really, how are you supposed to do that, when you’re just not?

  About two months ago, for example, there was this grade 9 girl in Stephanie’s school who stood up to her. I wasn’t there, obviously, but I heard about it later: there was some talk of a taped conversation, and Facebook, and ultimatums to all her friends. Now from what I can tell, this incident has made the world a much nicer place for Stephanie’s classmates – her reign of terror has ended, and she’s been forced to behave herself or risk being exposed.

  But it sure as sugar hasn’t stopped Stephanie from being a bully. A leopard doesn’t change its spots, and a girl who has something missing in her eyes – something warm and human – doesn’t suddenly change her spots either, if you know what I mean. (I mean that she’s a MONSTER.)

  When Stephanie had to start behaving better at school, it only meant that she began to behave even worse at home. Which meant that within days of that incident my life became a living hell. A nightmare I had to survive simply because I had no other choice.

  I mean, what are my options, really?

  Sure, I’ve thought about running away, many times. I’ve also thought about killing myself, but there’s something inside me that just couldn’t do that.

  It’s funny, but in a way it’s like there are two parts of me: two personalities sharing the same body. One part is constantly scared and miserable. It’s the part that believes the terrible things Stephanie tells me, the part that hates the world, the part that cannot imagine ever growing up, and moving away, and being happy.

  But there’s another part of me too. This part is buried away, deep inside, where nothing or nobody can touch it. It is stubborn and solid and very strong. It’s the part of me that refuses to die, refuses to give up, refuses to give Stephanie the satisfaction of destroying me.

  And she would destroy me, you know. If she could. You only have to look into her eyes to know this. Looking into Stephanie’s eyes – when you really look – is like looking into the eyes of a predator: the eyes of something that would kill you and not feel a drop of remorse. There’s no trace of love, or morals, or conscience.

  And she has actually tried to kill me– more than once. When I was four years old she forced me into the tumble dryer, locked the door, and turned on the switch. It was a Code Red Punishment (Stephanie’s punishments are coded in the same colours as a traffic light: red, green and yellow) and I was lucky to survive it.

  I was just as lucky to survive the time she shoved me off the balcony at my grandparents’ home. I was eight years old then, and because my fall was broken by the washing line, I escaped with only a broken finger and a bad case of concussion. (That wasn’t even a real Punishment. I think she did it on the spur of the moment, just for fun.)

  And then, about two months ago, she tried again.

  See, for a while after that incident with the grade 9 girl, Stephanie went kind of crazy: as if she had to prove to herself that she was still strong, still powerful, still better than “all the pathetic idiots around her” (her words, not mine). And one of the things she did to show that she still “had it” (her words) was try to kill me. Just like that.

  What happened is that we were walking home after church one Sunday, just the two of us, and the next thing I knew she was pushing me, hard, off the pavement and onto the road, right into the path of an oncoming car. It happened so quickly and so unexpectedly that I couldn’t do anything to protect myself – one moment I was just walking innocently along, and the next there was the shock, the pain, the fear and the sound of screeching tires.

  The car braked in tim
e, thank goodness, so I didn’t get seriously hurt. I only had a few scrapes because I fell so hard on the tar.

  But I survived simply because I got lucky. Not because she didn’t try.

  The worst thing about it all is that my dad has never believed me. In fact, there are times when I think that my dad’s attitude has hurt me more than Stephanie ever could. He always makes excuses for her: it was a game that got out of control (the tumble dryer), I must have been clumsy (the balcony), it was an accident (the car).Or else he says I’m imagining things, or that I’m oversensitive, or that I must “expect some ribbing from an older sibling”.

  After a while I stopped trying.

  My dad is the only person who can really help me, the only person who can protect me. And he loves me, and he tries his best, but he won’t see Stephanie for the person she really is. He won’t look at her.

  Or rather: he looks but he refuses to see.

  * * *

  I came up with my plan about two months ago.

  It was after that incident with the grade 9 girl, when Stephanie went so crazy and I actively feared for my life. After she pushed me into the road, I knew I would have to make a plan if I was going to survive. My sister was out of control.

  At first I packed my bags and got all my savings from the bank. I planned to run away: to get on a bus or a train and maybe go live in the countryside, in an abandoned farmhouse or something.

  But then I had another idea.

  It began slowly, a little voice at the back of my mind. A whisper.

  In the beginning I tried not to listen, terrified of my own thoughts, but the whisper just got louder. And then louder still.

  If that girl at Stephanie’s school can do it, why can’t I?

  Why can’t I get my own evidence? That quiet little voice asked. A taped conversation, or a secretly filmed video – something to use against her? After all, I live with her every day, and I know how much she likes to brag about her clever schemes. I could do it. I could trap her.