The Fragile Ordinary
Page 3“Yeah, I didn’t think I’d seen you in uniform before now. Jesus, that was a quick summer, eh?” He turned back to his coffee and scratched his neck. “Did you do anything fun with your friends?” I barely made the question out through his giant yawn.
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“Aye?” He gave me a quick smile. “Good.” Grabbing his coffee, he moved past me and patted me on the head. “When did you get so tall?” he asked as he stopped to pour himself out some cereal.
I held in an exasperated sigh. “I’ve been the same height for the last year.”
“Really?” Dad seemed confused. “Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.” I was one of the tallest girls in my class.
“Well, you don’t get that height from Carrie.” He grinned.
I stared at my dad. All six foot three of him. My mum was five foot three. At five foot nine I certainly hadn’t gotten my height from her. Or anything really. In fact, if I didn’t already know my parents hadn’t meant to have a child at all, I’d have suspected I was adopted.
To prove my point, Carrie shuffled into the kitchen, her lids lowered over her eyes so far that they were almost shut. Paint streaked one of her cheeks and her hair. While she was petite, compact, with olive skin, and had light brown hair and dark brown eyes, I was tall, slender, ivory-skinned with pale blond hair and light blue eyes. I’d inherited my dad’s eyes, but otherwise we looked nothing alike. He was nowhere near as pale as I was and had dark brown hair. Apparently, I’d skipped back a generation, taking after my Swedish paternal grandmother in looks.
Carrie aimed for Dad, and he had just enough forethought to dump his bowl out of the way before she collapsed against his chest. “How long have I been in there?” she mumbled.
Dad chuckled and wrapped an arm around her, kissing her on the top of the head.
Painful envy stabbed my chest at the display of affection and I looked away so I didn’t have to see it.
“A few days, love.”
I sometimes wondered if Carrie really did get so lost in the art she was creating that the days just slipped away from her. Or if she only pretended to lose days because she thought it made her sound even more artistic. Dad was the only one of us allowed in her studio, and he’d creep in quietly to leave her food and beverages throughout the day.
“Wow.” Carrie pulled out of his arms and went straight for the coffee machine. She didn’t even look at me. “Diana better bloody love it, then. It’s been a while since I did the hermit thing.”
“Are you happy with it?” Dad asked.
Carrie gave him a sleepy grin over her shoulder. “You know I’m never a hundred percent happy with it. But it’ll do.”
Meaning she thought it was bloody fantastic. Her best work ever!
I grabbed up my book bag. “I better get to school.”
“Oh, Comet.” Carrie flicked a look at me as if she’d just realized I was there. “How is school going?”
The question was asked so she’d feel like she was attempting to care about her child’s life. “It’s the first day of term.”
She shot an amused oops look at Dad. “Really?”
Dad nodded. “Comet’s starting fifth year. Can you believe it?”
If it wasn’t already apparent, Dad was the more involved parent of the two. If you could call his vague interest in my life involved.
“Fifth year?” She yawned. “What age is that again?”
“It’s sixteen, love,” Dad said gently.
“No.” Carrie frowned at me. “Did you have a sweet sixteenth?”
Wow. Okay. She was in fine form this morning. “Yeah.” I grabbed my house keys and headed for the exit. “I spent it with a biker called Vicious and we made sweet sixteenth love all night.”
I heard my dad’s laughter and Carrie’s confused murmurings as I wandered down the narrow hall to the front door. Outside, the cool morning breeze from the sea blew strands of hair free from my ponytail and I sauntered out of the garden gate onto the esplanade.
“Not saying hello this morning, Comet?” a familiar voice called out.
I stopped and looked over my shoulder into our neighbor’s garden. Only a shallow wall separated our paved, no-fuss outside space from Mrs. Cruickshank’s well-tended front garden with its rows of flowerbeds and tiny stretch of lawn.
Mrs. Cruickshank was on her knees by one of her flowerbeds, wearing her usual uniform of baggy jeans, holey knitted sweater and garden gloves. Her long gray hair was twisted up on top of her head in an old-fashioned bun that I was certain wasn’t even in fashion when she was my age an unknown number of years ago. Thick, bright turquoise glasses were perched on her nose as she peered at me in amusement.
“Lost in your thoughts again, Comet?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Cruickshank. First day of school. I’m daydreaming,” I gave her an apologetic smile.
“First day, eh? Ready for it? Those imbeciles you call parents feed you properly so you have brain energy for the classroom?” she asked, frowning.
I stifled a smile. Not much got past Mrs. Cruickshank. While she would speak to me all day if I had the time, she barely even managed a smile for Kyle and Carrie. Not that they really noticed.
Instead of answering her question, I deflected, “How are the daylilies coming along?” Over the years, despite my disinterest in gardening, I’d learned much from my neighbor about the plants that could survive in a coastal garden. Mrs. Cruickshank had been having trouble with her pink-and-yellow-gold daylilies the last we spoke. It puzzled her, because it was apparently a plant that thrived in most places, and she’d never had problems with them before.
“They look wonderful, Mrs. Cruickshank,” I spoke truthfully.
She turned that smile on me. “Have a cracking day at school, Comet. I’m baking today. Be sure to nip around before tea and I’ll give you some of whatever I cook up. Just for you, mind.”
This time I did smile. My neighbor was a fantastic baker and generous, too. However, she wasn’t that sold on me sharing her treats with my dad and Carrie. I reckoned it was to do with the fact that Mrs. Cruickshank and her husband hadn’t been able to have children. She’d told me about it a few years ago, and it was the only time I’d seen her get emotional.
“Thanks.” I waved. “See you later.” I walked away, down the esplanade.
The beach always calmed me. The best thing my dad ever did was buy this house. Between the beach and my bedroom, I had a sanctuary here. I could spend longs hour on the sand, watching people pass by as I wrote my poetry. Houses, flats, bed-and-breakfasts, the Swim Centre, the Espy—a pub and my favorite place to get breakfast—sat along the sand-covered concrete esplanade.
I left early for school so I could stroll along it and enjoy the pleasant breeze of a mid-August morning. The sun was low in the sky, casting light over the sea so that it sparkled and danced as I walked along beside it in companionable silence. The salt air made me feel more at home than my own mother did.
What was new though, right?
There was no point in getting upset about it, because in five months I’d be seventeen, which meant in less than two years I’d leave for a university an ocean away. Upon which I had no intention of ever returning to my parents’ home.
It was a twenty-minute walk to school, and the closer I got to it, the more I fell into step with pupils wearing the same uniform. It was here I became truly anonymous, the bright glitter of gold from my shoes the only spot of difference between me and the girls in front of me.
Suddenly I was at the school gates, staring beyond them at Blair Lochrie High School. It was built a year before my first year at the school, and there were strict rules and regulations about litter and maintenance to keep it looking its best. It was a modern building, all white and gray and glass.