We Are Not Okay - Natália Gomes

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my hand. I remember that because after my dad said what he did, I’d dropped the phone and it’d hit my foot.

      He’d wrapped his arm around me, his fingers lightly resting on my upper arm. His voice was different, gravelly like he had a cold. He asked me how my day at school had been, and I told him about our social studies assignment and how I’d practised for the dance society’s next performance at the arts centre on the high street, which of course I’d got the lead for. But when I asked him how his day had been, his face turned pale and he looked like he was going to cry. He didn’t respond to my question, instead he coughed gently and turned his gaze to the yellow shaggy rug that I often lay my belly on while I finished my homework for the evening. I don’t do that anymore. I don’t do a lot of things that I used to.

      He didn’t look at me once while he said nine simple words. ‘Everything is about to change. Please don’t be scared.’

      Change.

      I didn’t want anything to change. Why did it need to? We were doing just fine how we were. But it was no longer about us. There was suddenly someone new in this family. Another voice, one that hid from us in the shadows and slowly poisoned my dad’s thoughts. One day there were three of us. Then the next, there were four. And soon, just two remained. The two left behind. The unwanted two.

      That’s why I hate Trina so much. Not because of what she wears, how she acts, what she says. But because all of a sudden she was just there. She became my Amber. And when Rhys ended it with me, saying we’d ‘grown apart’, all I thought about was how my mum must have felt being dumped, being tossed to the side for someone else. And I became angry. Really angry. And I started thinking about what people would say if they knew I’d been rejected by my dad and then by my boyfriend.

      Before then I never had to think too much about what people thought of me. I didn’t care. I did well at school, I had best friends, I had a boyfriend who treated me well, I was invested in after-school activities like the dance society and Amnesty UK. I was doing a good job at being me. Then one day Dad left the family and in a way, Mum left too. And I suddenly became aware of other people, and more importantly what they might think of me, be saying about me behind my back. What if they pitied me like the other ‘children of divorces’? ‘Poor Lucy has no dad anymore’… ‘Aww, Lucy’s dad left them…’ Or worse, what if I became the topic of gossip? ‘Did you hear, Lucy’s dad walked out on her and her mum?…Did you know Lucy’s parents are getting a divorce?…Guess what I found out this weekend?…’

      I became consumed with what other people thought about me, terrified that they’d find out that my perfect life was all a lie, that my dad chose his new family over us, over me. That despite all the happy meals we shared together at that big oak table, all the movies we curled up on the sofa to watch with frozen banana chunks dipped in dark chocolate, that despite the holidays we went on every year where we took family selfies and posted them on social media, that fundamentally my dad was unhappy. That hurts me more. That he took into consideration all the years, all the memories, all the love, and still came to the conclusion that he’d be much happier with another wife and another child. That. Kills. Me.

      So I decided that I wouldn’t be the focus of hushed conversations, the words on scrunched up paper notes passed along in class under tables, the target of people’s pointed fingers. And the only way to ensure that was to always be putting other people in that position. If I pointed the spotlight at others, no one could turn it on me. I’m not proud of who I became after my dad left, after Rhys left. But for now, it works. For now, I’ll keep going and no one will find out my secrets. Never. But I’ll keep finding out theirs.

      My fingers are red raw from rubbing. My nails ache from the pressure of pushing down. I think I chipped the middle nail because something sharp just rubbed against my thumb.

      But I don’t stop.

      I get another paper towel from the girls’ room dispenser and dampen it under the warm tap. Then I return to the stall door and continue scrubbing.

      I know it’s not my name or my reputation, but it could be. And if it was then I would hope that some girl would do me the same favour, show me the same respect.

      Trina Davis is a SLUT

      I can’t leave it here, not that.

      Who would do this?

      Girls that have no idea. They trash reputation and then move on to the next victim. What if that said my name?

      Ulana Alami is a SLUT

      I can’t imagine. What would my parents think? What would my dad say? How would I ever be able to face them again?

      My fingers shake and the moist towel drops to the floor. My belly churns, a warm sensation moving upwards through my body, snaking its way up to my throat. I swallow it down, take a deep breath and tell myself: It’s not my name and it’s not happening to me. No one knows about us.

      I check my watch. I’m late. He’ll be wondering where I am. I have another go at the door then flush the paper towel down the toilet.

      Grabbing my book bag, I rush out and through the back door. Feet on dried brown leaves from the birch trees, hands on the trunks of pines, I reach the spot. It’s the perfect place, sheltered from the wind, and more importantly, from the school.

      He stands by the bench – our bench – then starts pacing in front of it. He checks his watch and runs his hand through his hair.

      ‘Aiden!’

      He spins round, a wide smile stretching across his face. That smile. My smile.

      I still remember the day I noticed Aiden for the first time. He’d been sitting in chemistry, one row in front of me, on the right. A PowerPoint presentation outlined the major components of atomic bonding and all around me people took frantic notes, our hands not able to keep up with the rapidly changing slides. My right hand was cramping and I rubbed, massaging into the muscle. It was at this time that I came to two realisations. Firstly, that I didn’t need to be taking this many notes because I already knew all this. And secondly, that the boy sitting in the row in front of me, to my right, wouldn’t stop turning around to look at me.

      At first, I thought he was just curious. I was in full dress, the fabrics bought with my parents in Morocco, but my Western-bought jeans and grey Converse trainers stuck out from the bottom. He was interested in me. That was it. So I entertained him. I turned my face to him to let him know that I knew that he was watching me. His cheeks reddened and he turned his head back to the projection screen quickly. I remember putting my hand up to my mouth to stifle the smile that suddenly and unexpectedly came. And when I regained my composure, I looked up and saw that he was staring again. But this time he was smiling too. Smiling at me. Tiny dimples in the corners of his smiles, eyes wide and even in the darkened room, they had a sparkle to them. I looked away. And when I looked back – and I told myself not to so many times – the smile had been replaced by a goofy face. Half the class turned to face me as a loud giggle escaped my throat. Sophia had observed the interaction and I couldn’t hide from the questions and playful elbows that followed in the days and weeks after. Every time he passed me in the hallway or smiled at me in class, she’d be there beaming from ear to ear, thrilled that for once in my life, I was doing something that wasn’t on my ‘Life Plan’. Instead I was doing something that should never be mixed with education and future life decisions – I was having fun.

      It was innocent at first. Smiles, nods, innocent facial exchanges. Then it moved to verbal interactions where he’d ask me the time even though I saw the watch sticking out from his sleeve. He asked me about Morocco and I asked him about, well, everything – music, films, books. I was interested in every word that came out of his mouth. I was curious about what he liked, what he did with his time, and about those dimples. He made me laugh. He was funny, smart. He stood out from the others. He sought to be different. It wasn’t an embarrassment for him but a requirement. He had an active desire to be so. And for the first time since we’d arrived in this country,

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