“Apparently,” she says.
“That’s early, no?”
“Dunno. Haven’t seen him. Been in his room since he got back. If he’s home early, he must be broke.”
“I haven’t seen him for ages,” I say.
Cara cuts me a disapproving look on her way to her backstage-style dresser.
“Don’t worry, you can stare longingly into his eyes over dinner. That’s if he even comes down.”
“Shut up.”
I try to think of the last time I saw Morgan. Maybe the Christmas before last. He rarely comes home from university in London.
“Can’t we just hang out, Car?”
“We are hanging out.”
“Yeah, but I mean just do nothing. Exams are over. When was the last time we just did nothing?”
Cara looks at me like I’m speaking Swahili.
Through her bedroom window, the sky is going dark. I picture the view from across the street. Camera on tripod, one girl fluffing pillows, getting ready, another standing nervously next to the bed. Some girls make thousands of pounds on their own in their rooms with their laptops.
“What accents can you do?” she says, pulling two bottles of what look like shampoo out of a yellow Selfridges bag, one seaweed green, one milk-chocolate brown.
“Accents? What are you talking about? What are they?”
Her face lights up.
“I had an idea.”
What started as a simple Year Ten drama project quite quickly evolved into Cara’s performance-art YouTube channel Jumblemind.
Jumblemind is basically a space where all of Cara’s social-commentary ideas are sporadically filmed and uploaded to an audience of 316 subscribers made up mostly of younger girls from school. Any little nugget of performance gold that’s been rattling around her head gets dumped out on film for her cult following’s consumption and, over the years, a high percentage of these nuggets have involved yours truly.
October 3rd 2014: “Genderrorists” – The two of us stand back to back, reading extracts from The Vagina Monologues in balaclavas.
February 9th 2015: “Pressure to Make Up” – Cara uses the latest, top-of-the-range L’Oréal products to paint my face to look like Heath Ledger’s Joker.
My personal favourite though was this time last year, when Cara just sat in front of the camera for ten minutes, stuffing an entire Black Forest gateau into her mouth and crying.
OMG! Don’t know why but can’t stop watching! So dumb but SOOO good! LOL!!!
– YouTube comment on “Gateau Tragic” from Trixabell496
“You’ll need to put your hair up,” she says. “There’s bobbles in the bedside drawer.”
“Car, what are we doing?”
“It’s a goodbye to school.” She holds up the bottles like she just won them in a raffle.
“Face-pack Shakespeare!”
The car still smells like new trainers.
Cara’s humming along to Lana Del Rey, effortlessly driving down dark streets towards mine, like she’s had her own taxi for twenty years.
It’s probably testament to her charm that getting a brand-new black Mini Cooper for her eighteenth birthday didn’t make me want to punch her in the face. I had the grand total of three empty supermarket driving lessons with Coral before we both decided I might be more suited to the passenger seat, for now.
“I can hear you thinking, you know,” she says.
“Imagine.”
“He’s such a dick.”
“Who is?”
“My brother. Can’t even come down to dinner? Locking himself away in his room? You know, I probably won’t even see him before he goes back. He hasn’t asked about the exams once. Nothing.”
“Maybe he’s busy.”
“Oh, shut up. Stop defending your prince.”
Her arm goes up to protect herself as she laughs. I just give her the finger.
“We could drive up to Leeds?” she says. “For the day, start getting to know our new home before September.” Excitement radiates off her as she speaks. It’s hard not to be drawn to someone who’s completely sure of what they want. “I could maybe even get Dad to sort a hotel. He gets things on account sometimes.” She pulls into the petrol station forecourt and parks next to the pump. The stereo display goes black as she turns off the engine, then flickers back to life.
High halogen floodlights turn up the contrast of the colours through the glass of the kiosk and make me think of that Edward Hopper painting, Nighthawks.
“Mars? Are you listening?”
“Did you ever have an imaginary friend?” I ask.
“An imaginary friend?”
“Yeah.”
“Like when I was a kid?”
“Yeah.”
“No. Why?”
“No reason.”
“You did, blatantly, right?”
I shrug.
“Course you did,” she says.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I can see it: you in the park, talking to an empty swing.”
“Thanks a lot, Car.”
“No, it’s a compliment. I wanted one. Some super-badass flying ninja princess goddess. I just never did it. Too busy writing pretend newspaper reports on my family. I would’ve been so jealous if I’d known you back then. An imaginary friend would’ve been amazing!”
“You think?”
“Yeah! Someone who gets you? Who you don’t have to pretend with? What was her name, your one?”
I squeeze my thumb in my lap.
“I don’t remember.”
Cara takes her purse from the tray under the stereo.
“No matter, you’ve got me now, eh?”
She smiles, then gets out.
I lean over so I can see into the rear-view mirror. The empty back seat.
Where are you right now, Thor Baker?
How many times have I stood in this lift?
Stared up at these numbers?
Ten years. A decade. Decayed.
Think of my first day. The day you made me. Crossing over after you fell asleep. Waiting in line. Filling out forms like everyone else. The grand City Hall full of fresh immigrants to the not real. Standing in our rows, staring forward, hands raised, reciting the oath.
Less than two weeks to go, Marcie.
What do I do?
The fade is coming. I can’t fight it. Can I?