Under Rose-Tainted Skies by Louise Gornall

Author:Louise Gornall
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Chicken House

It’s only 7.10 when my cruel mind forces my eyes open. The sun is firing lasers through my curtains. I duck under my duvet, make a blanket fort to shield myself from the scorching rays.

Despite what was probably one of the most restless sleeps in recorded history, I’m comfortable. My mattress is a giant marshmallow today, soft and squishy. I bear down and sink into it.

I’m contemplating pulling a sickie, blowing off studying, eating and talking to stay here all day when I hear clattering coming from the kitchen below. Mom is like a bird, up at the crack of dawn and always pottering around in the garden. She loves growing things. There are forty-eight different colours of flower in our garden. Eight of them are roses. She keeps them in a pattern that reminds me of a rainbow. I would like to be able to go over and smell them one summer.

With reluctant fingers I reach up, snatch my phone off the dresser, and drag it beneath the blankets. A streak of pain, like toothache, flashes across my chest when I illuminate the screen and discover there’s no text waiting for me. I close my eyes, try to convince my brain that, unlike me, Luke goes to sleep at night. He probably hasn’t even seen my message yet. But it’s like trying to convince a kid that Brussels sprouts taste better than fries. Pointless.

I’m mentally listing the benefits of being cryogenically frozen when I hear Mom talking and my eyes pop back open. It sounds like she’s conversing with a second someone. Maybe I’m mistaken. She likes to listen to the radio. Could be that. I narrow my eyes, because that’s what you do when you want a closer listen. There are definitely two voices, and one of them belongs to a guy. A burst of simultaneous laughter bounds up the stairs, confirming that it’s not the radio. She definitely has company.

I morph into Nancy Drew, slip out of bed, pull on a sweater, and carefully inch open my door. Mom is explaining the accident to someone. A cop or an insurance guy, probably.

‘Wow. It sounds scary. But you’re okay?’ Luke. Luke is in my kitchen. Talking to my mom.

I choke. My head turns into a tumble dryer, spinning fast and ferociously. Any upset over his first text message, and the preceding lack of, vanishes. I was expecting a little more time to prepare myself for his return. His return. Our chat. My explanation of why I can’t shake his hand.

I slip into a trance, stare at my feet as I walk across the hall to the bathroom and brush my teeth. The conversations that happen in my head are unbridled. There is no line of questioning left uncovered. I lose count of how many brushstrokes I make and have to start over six times. When I’m finally done, my pearly whites are so polished they squeak against my tongue.

I dab my mouth with a cucumber-fresh wet wipe –

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