Chapter Eight
Quinn - Present Day
Yet another memory clouds my mind as I contemplate my life on the side of the bridge. So many things I’ve chosen to forget come back to me in this moment, yet none of it encourages me to stay.
“Quinn!” My mum shouts up the stairs as I’m getting ready for school. We only live around the corner, so I walk by myself every morning. It’s about a ten-minute walk, which is nice because there’s no rushing around.
“Yeahhhh?” My tone is bored. I know what she’s going to ask. It’s getting more and more often now that I’m picking Eric up from school and looking after him while she sleeps her life away in her bedroom. Might as well have given birth to him myself.
Yuck. Not an image I’d like in my brain.
“I need you to drop Eric off at school on your way and pick him up later. I have a doctor's appointment!” Another one? I roll my eyes into my head as I run a brush through my hair. We aren’t allowed to wear much makeup at school—actually, we aren’t allowed to wear any—but I always manage to get away with some mascara.
I’ve been spending lots of break time with Tommo lately, and I like to look cute for him.
I don’t know if he likes me, but he’s different.
I’m learning I don’t like the popular guys.
I like the ones who aren’t in demand, who can string a sentence together, and have other hobbies than just football and girls.
I swipe a couple of coats of mascara over my ginger lashes.
Without mascara, I look like a naked mole rat according to Millie.
She accidentally said that in front of one of the other girls at school once, and now that’s my nickname.
She’s the popular girl; I’m not. But it’s never been an issue with our friendship.
If I’m being hassled, she’s the first to step in.
We bonded when we were younger, when someone threw a toy car at my head and split my eyebrow open.
By the time she was finished, the kid had wet himself and was apologising profusely.
At the age of six, that was basically a death sentence for popularity, and his card was marked.
As we’ve gotten older, she’s gotten a bit more bitchy.
I don’t know if it’s because she’s started her period and I haven't, or because I have a sort-of-boyfriend and she doesn’t, but she doesn’t have a high opinion of Tommo.
Actually, she’s downright mean to him sometimes.
“Okay! I’m almost ready to leave!” What am I supposed to say? ‘No, take your own kid to school?’ You overestimate my ability to stand up to my mother.
I hear her rustling around as she gets his backpack together and puts his coat on, soothing him with the sweet words that aren’t available in her Quinn-approved vocabulary.
Dad is away for work, so needless to say she hasn’t needed to function because I’m here to do the cooking, cleaning, and looking after Eric.
I meander down the steps, determined to go in my own time and not on hers, to find Eric at the door waiting for me.
“Come on. I’m going to be late! You’re taking too long!”
Eric has always had a temper. At least with me anyway. I shove my shoes on, pick up my bag and shout, “Bye.”
“Bye, Eric. Have a good day!” I scoff and grab Eric’s hand, but he digs his nails in a little too deep as we walk out of the door. “Ow! That hurts.”
“Good.” His tone is off, and he looks at me, the pupils of his green eyes dilating until the iris is nowhere to be seen.
If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would say it was a figment of my imagination.
As if he remembers where he is, the pupils shrink back to normal size, he loosens his grip and continues to walk by my side.
There are three years between us. He’s eleven, but I’ve started to notice sinister things happening.
Like knives being left on my pillow or my underwear being cut up with scissors and left on my bed.
The other day I found a pair of my underwear rolled up in a ball and stuffed inside his pillowcase when I was changing his bedding.
And they were used. But he’s eleven; he’s practically a baby. What’s the worst that could happen?