The Edge of Me Read Online Free Page B

me, raises his hand and I get a choice whiff of sweat from his armpit.
    I blank out.
    The photograph I found comes into my head. Blurred and faded, washed out. It’s funny – when I think about my childhood – about me in it – it’s always like that: worn and bleached. It shifts and slips away from me when I try to reach it. A car journey; a doll with its hair cut off; picking blackberries on a railway line. The images are strung out in my brain like a bone necklace, joined by fraying threads. And the bones clatter and sing against each other but they never connect.
    I’m breaking. Sometimes I think I’m breaking.
    After a while, I’m aware of Miss O’Brien watching me.
    ‘Are you with us, Sanda?’
    I look up at that and so does everyone else. Zoe laughs, then everyone starts. Joe turns in his seat and I can’t readhim but at least he’s not laughing. Not yet anyway.
    Miss says, ‘Get on with your work everybody.’
    She comes over, puts a veiny hand on my paper, and I can see the rub of a wedding ring long gone on her left hand. She says gently, ‘Are you all right, Sanda?’
    I will myself not to, but as usual I don’t do what I’m told, and my eyes start to prickle and fill.
    ‘Um … I just … Can I …? Sorry.’
    I push my table forward, haul myself out of my seat and leave the room and all the gushing and the gasping and the looks, and I walk. Long strides and I’m breathing hard and swallowing air. The corridor’s empty and at every step I can hear the rise and fall of voices from the other sides of the doors.
    The girls’ toilets are on the floor above, and I’m at the stairs when I hear the sound of running behind me, and a voice: ‘Hey! Sanda! Wait!’
    I don’t wait. I run up the stairs into the toilets, slam the door and head straight for the mirror. I turn on the tap, scoop a run of cold water into cupped hands and hold it against my face. And when I stop and look up at my reflection, Joe’s standing right behind me.
    ‘What are you doing in here?’ I sniff.
    He backs away to the door and stands against it.
    ‘What is it?’ he says, ‘what’s wrong? Is it me? If I’m anything to do with this … I’m …’
    There’s a clatter and a sudden push at the door from the other side and he braces his weight against it. ‘Occupied! Sorry.’ He turns back, swallows, says: ‘I just wanted to …you know – if it was me, something I’ve done …’
    I turn around. ‘I guess I thought … I don’t know. When you asked me out, I just couldn’t believe you really wanted … that it wasn’t a joke … I know that sounds … anyway, thanks for …’ I trail off.
    ‘A joke ? You thought I was joking? Why would I do that?’
    I look at him. Water’s dripping off my chin onto my collar. ‘I don’t know… I’m sorry.’
    ‘Is that what you think of me?’
    ‘No, God, no. I … I like you. I’ve always …’ I stop myself, ‘I was just so surprised you …’
    A faint smile on his lips.
    I think.
    I fumble up my sleeve for a tissue and I smile back, ‘Sorry.’
    ‘Do you ever stop apologising?’
    I shake my head. I’m aware that he’s a little closer. His feet scrape on the damp floor.
    My face is blotchy and my hair is wet. I push it back away from my face and I breathe. And I see him watching me. I know him watching me.
    But there’s that line again – that great big equator: clear as light and hard as coal and I don’t know if I’m brave enough to cross it.
    ‘So … you OK for tonight?’ he says and I nod.
    ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Yes. Please.’
    ‘Cool. Seven OK?’
    ‘Yes,’ I breathe.
    He smiles. ‘I’ll text you. See you later.’
    I’m left staring at the Joe-shaped hole in the room as the door whispers to a close. I wipe my face for the last time and I go. I walk out of the door and along the corridor and down two flights of stairs and out through the entrance and into the open. Past the science blocks, up the steps and out onto the field. It’s windy