Page 15 of When We Were Young

Emily

I’m drinking tea in the kitchen when Liv comes home from Chloe’s.

‘Hi honey,’ I say. ‘Did you have fun last night?’

‘Yeah.’

Talkative as ever.

She goes to her laptop where it’s charging on the counter, unplugs it, and heads out to the hall.

‘Where are you going?’ I ask.

‘Upstairs, I’ve got homework.’

‘Hang on, can we talk for a bit? I haven’t seen you in twenty-four hours.’

She sighs like it’s a terrible inconvenience and sits at the table opposite me. She looks tired, the remnants of what I guess is ‘tightliner’ clinging to her lashes. Perhaps they were putting make-up on each other? She fiddles with the laptop, avoiding my eyes.

‘What did you get up to at Chloe’s?’

‘Actually, we went to a friend’s house.’

‘Oh? Which friend?’

The fridge clunks and hums to life. ‘Jordan.’

‘I haven’t heard you mention Jordan. Does she go to your school?’

‘Yeah, he’s more of a friend of a friend.’

‘Jordan’s a boy?’

‘Yes,’ she sighs at my stupidity. ‘Jordan’s a boy.’

‘What were you doing at his house?’

‘He was having a few friends over for his birthday.’

The fridge falls silent. ‘Olivia, why didn’t you tell me you were going to a party?’

‘It wasn’t a party; it was more of a… gathering. I didn’t tell you because we didn’t decide to go till the last minute.’

She’s lying. She knew she was going five days ago when she googled hair and make-up tips.

‘We’ve discussed this, Liv. You need to tell me where you’re going!’ My voice is too loud.

‘We told Chloe’s mum – she was fine with it. She gave us a lift there and back. We were safe.’

‘Liv, I still need to know where you are.’

‘Why? You’re so controlling!’ Her voice is shrill.

‘I don’t even know this Jordan. I don’t know who his parents are. Or what’s going on at this party!’

She huffs. ‘It wasn’t a party…’

‘Was there alcohol there?’

‘Yes but––’

‘Jesus, you’ve been drinking? What was Chloe’s mum thinking?’

‘Mum, don’t say anything to Linda. She’ll kill Chloe if she finds out. Besides, Chloe didn’t even drink anything.’

‘But you did?’

She raises her chin. ‘A couple.’

‘A couple of what?’

‘I had two bottles of cider. Small ones,’ she says, without the slightest hint of apology.

‘Oh my God!’

‘Don’t worry Mum, I’m not stupid enough to get drunk and pregnant like you!’ Her chair scrapes behind her as she stands. ‘And have a baby I don’t even want!’

She picks up her laptop and storms out of the room.

I’m reeling.

‘It wasn’t like that!’ I call after her.

I follow her to the bottom of the stairs.

She stops halfway up and turns to me. ‘So, you weren’t drunk when you got pregnant?’

‘No, of course not!’

‘Don’t lie! Nobody accidentally gets pregnant when they’re sober!’

She turns and continues up the stairs.

I march up after her. ‘Actually, it happens all the time. Anyway, don’t turn this around – this isn’t about me. You’re the one who’s been lying.’

She stops on the narrow staircase leading to her loft room and whips around. ‘I haven’t lied.’

‘But if I hadn’t asked any questions, I wouldn’t even know you were at a party. Let alone drinking alcohol. Keeping secrets is the same as lying.’

‘And I suppose you never lie?’ She has the high ground a few steps above. ‘Or keep secrets?’

I grip the banister. ‘As I said, this is not about me…’

‘That’s not exactly fair, is it? One rule for you and another for me? You should practise what you preach!’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You keep secrets from me! You lie to me!’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about!’ But, of course, I do.

‘You told me you didn’t know Will Bailey!’

I wince. ‘That wasn’t really a lie. I just didn’t know him that well––’

‘Ha!’ Her laugh is pure ice. ‘Even that’s a lie!’

‘Well, it’s hardly important whether I knew––’

‘No, you’re right. Forget it. It’s not important!’

‘Liv…’

‘I want to live with Dad!’

I freeze. ‘What?’

‘I don’t want to live here anymore. I want to live with Dad.’ The words tumble out of her as though she has been holding them in for too long.

‘That’s not your decision.’ I meant to sound firm, authoritative, but I just sound hurt.

‘I can decide when I’m sixteen. I’ll wait a month if I have to, but I’ll be miserable.’

‘Miserable?’

‘Yes! You make my life miserable!’ With a toss of the head, she stamps up the last few steps to her room.

The door slams.

Teenagers say this to their parents. I probably even said it to mine.

But I am one big bruise, raw and tender, and her words dig into me like pointed fingers.