The Edge of Me Read Online Free

God.’
    ‘What?’ I say.
    She’s serious now. ‘Look, this is going to sound really bad and you know you’re my friend and all but the thing is you won’t exist if you can’t actually say things . Why can’t you be like you are with me with other people?’
    I just look at her and we walk on and suddenly the photograph of the little girl pops into my head and I feel that tightening around my chest.
    ‘I’m going to try. I am going to try.’
    ‘When are you going out?’
    ‘Tomorrow night, Friday,’ I say and my teeth start buzzing again. I bite down on my lip.
    ‘Tomorrow?’
    I look at her. ‘Lauren, I can’t believe he meant it. Why would he be into me? He went out with Camille for Christ’s sake.’
    ‘So?’
    ‘She’s so … so …’ I want to say “French” but I end up saying miserably, ‘Cool.’
    ‘You’re an idiot sometimes, Sand. You’re cool too.’
    We’re at the gates now and there’s that familiar smell of cheap deodorant, and the thronging of coats and bags.
    ‘Cool? What are you talking about?’
    She takes a breath and says, ‘You’ve got potential, that’s all. I mean I know you feel like you’re on the outside but that doesn’t always have to be like a bad thing. You’re out there. You know, people do see you, they think you’re cool, I don’t know … independent. You just have to stop apologising.’ She’s going but then turns and shouts, ‘Oh … and you’re thin. You eat what you like and you’re still thin.’
    I stand there trying to take this in while Lauren’s absorbed into the crowd. I’m heading off towards the music block for first period when I see him. He hasn’t seen me. He’s standing near Reception with his ex, Camille, and witchy tart Zoe Palmer.
    He’s laughing.
    I stare at them and all my clever, quiet bedroom resolutions burst and dissolve.
    I walk into the music block where Baroque orchestral music is on the agenda for this morning. From my place at the back, I can crane over heads and see them through the window.
    When I get home, the house smells different. I walk into a sort of citrus fug that hangs over the hall. In the sitting room, Mum’s standing by the window smoking. She’s wearing a sheer black top with a high neck and she’s scraped her hair back into a thick knot. My father’s in his chair as usual but he’s wearing clothes. He doesn’t look up when I come in but keeps his eyes fixed on the floor. And opposite him, on the sofa, is another man. Which is weird in itself because apart from the guy who comes to read the meter, we never have visitors. He’s wearing a dark suit buttoned across his chest, and when he moves the little buttons tug at their holes. He’s almost as wide as the sofa but when he gets up, he’s shorter than me. Under his suit, he wears a thin grey turtle neck sweater, so tight that you can see the hairs on his chest curled and flat like tiny springs. His cheekbones jut like shelves under careful blue eyes.
    He waves a fat hand at me. Mum says, ‘This is Andrija.’
    ‘Er hi. Hi. I’m …’
    ‘Sanda. This is Sanda,’ she says.
    I give them all a cheesy smirk and begin to edge towards the door. Andrija settles himself back on thesofa and the buttons on his jacket squeak and pull at their threads.
    Everybody looks at me.
    Nobody says a word. Mum bends to flick her ash into a saucer and I see the outline of her backbone like tiny pebbles under her top.
    As I back out of the room, I see her look at Andrija and he nods and says, ‘ Cytpa, ’ which means ‘ tomorrow, ’ and then I hear Dad yell at her like I’ve never heard him before.
    He’s saying, ‘No! You can’t do this! You have to stop! It’s enough! Just let it go! You knew this would happen one day.’
    Then Mum’s throaty bark cuts across him: ‘You listen to me! You do what I tell you when I tell you! You will do exactly as you are told!’
    Then come Dad’s low growls and his mumbled responses. She always wins. I think it’s