We Are Not Okay

NATÁLIA GOMES has an MLitt in Scottish Literature & Creative Writing and an MEd in Education. Inspired by her experiences as a special education coordinator in a public school district in the US, Natália started writing fiction with a focus on mental health among young adults. Her debut novel Dear Charlie is endorsed by Amnesty International and was longlisted for the 2018 International Dublin Literary Award.

Natália currently lives in Scotland with her chocolate labrador Charlie, and is completing a PhD in English Studies.

If you want to get in touch, follow Natália on Twitter @nd_gomes and on Instagram @ndgomes

Copyright

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019

Copyright © Natália Gomes 2019

Natália Gomes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © May 2019 ISBN: 9780008291853

This book is dedicated to the numerous campaigns

and charities that challenge us on how we think

and speak about sexual violence and bullying.

#WeAreNotOkay Songlist

DAUGHTER–Youth

CIVIL WARS & TAYLOR SWIFT–Safe & Sound

JOY WILLIAMS–Don’t Let Me Down

GABRIELLE APLIN–Please Don’t Say You Love Me

PHOEBE BRIDGERS–Georgia

FOXES–Devil Side

CHVRCHES–The Mother We Share

STAVES–Make it Holy

BROODS–Worth the Fight

LANA DEL REY–Love

PHOEBE BRIDGERS–Smoke Signals

JAPANESE HOUSE–Face Like Thunder

LORDE–Yellow Flicker Beat

DAUGHTER–Home

BIRDY–Wild Horses

PHOEBE BRIDGERS–Motion Sickness

BROODS–Heartlines

THE WIND AND THE WAVE–It’s a Longer Road to California Than I Thought

SMITH & THELL–Statues

BIRDY–Wings

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

SOPHIA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

LUCY

ULANA

TRINA

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

SOPHIA

His fingers graze my lips. Inside I explode.

His hand reaches behind my neck and scoops a handful of my hair. Tipping my head back slightly, he kisses my neck.

I grip the edge of the bed, clutching a handful of the floral quilt cover. My other hand slides up his torso, over his navy T-shirt, and up to his head. I pull him in closer and feel a churning in my belly. When his lips find mine again, the butterflies disappear.

Everything about him is familiar but new at the same time.

He brushes a stray strand off my face and loops it between his fingers.

I don’t know where his other hand is until I feel it on the belt loop of my jeans, then it’s on my stomach.

My body lurches. I don’t like his hand there. He must feel that loose saggy skin around my middle, the curve of my belly after a big meal, the fat.

I scoot my body to the side, away from his hand.

‘Are you OK?’ he whispers.

If I draw attention to it then he’ll be thinking about it, like me. I’ll be unattractive to him. Disgusting. So I just nod and then pull him in again so he forgets what just happened.

He presses harder against my lips, then slides his hand back over my stomach but this time he moves it before I have a chance to. He’s moving it upwards though and now it’s at the edge of the cardigan around my shoulders. He shimmies it off my shoulder and I shift my weight slightly to let him bring it down around my elbows. My green vest with the lace scalloped trim is exposed. It’s really a PJ top – well, one half of a shorts set from Next that I got for my birthday one year. It’s not supposed to be a top. He’s not supposed to see it. But he is. And I’m letting him.

Outside, rain beats hard on the window pane, pushing its way into our space, our moment. The wind cries and howls. It wants in. And for a moment – a brief fleeting moment – I think I want out. But then that thought passes or is forced out of my mind because I don’t want out. I want to be here with Steve. With my boyfriend. I’m just scared. It’s moving too fast. I’m not ready. But he is.

I stretch out my hand awkwardly, my arm still caught in the fabric of my cardigan, to tap on the music on my phone. I’ve created a playlist for us with all of our favourite songs but also some new ones. I hope he likes it. I spent time working on it last night, probably when I should have been finishing my physics homework but this seemed more important to me.

It is important.

What we have is important.

I love Steve.

But I can’t reach my phone without moving my body out from under him and I don’t want to do that. Not just yet. But then his hand is suddenly under my vest, under my bra, and I have to.

Because that’s it. Right there. That’s my ceiling. He just hit it.

My hand cups his and I push it off my body back down to his side. He tries again. So I move the hand away, again.

And again.

And then again.

‘Steve,’ I finally say, sitting upright. I slide my body out from under him and press my spine against the headboard.

He sits up too and kneels on one leg. He sighs deeply and I wish I could give him exactly what he wants, be exactly what he needs. But I can’t. At least not now. Not tonight. My parents are going to be back any minute, I’m wearing jeans, I can’t remember the colour of my underwear let alone whether it matches my bra. Although I’m ninety per cent sure it doesn’t. Maybe even ninety-eight per cent.

I’ve thought about it. Of course I’ve thought about it. I’m seventeen years old. What seventeen-year-old with a boyfriend hasn’t thought about their first time? But I haven’t prepared. I need time to prepare. I need my playlist. I need candles, the curtains closed, the dirty laundry basket out of that corner, the coffee mug from breakfast off my dresser, that bronzer stain by my mirror gone, half a stone vanished from my midriff, this spot on my chin completely obliterated, and preferably knickers that aren’t from Primark and that my mum didn’t buy me for Christmas last year.

But I can’t tell him that.

So instead I scrunch up my face and hope my cheeks aren’t burning as red as I think they are. Which they probably are.

He sighs even deeper, even louder. ‘Not tonight then?’ he finally asks, looking up at me.

I lightly touch his left cheek feeling the stubble sharp against my fingertips. ‘Not tonight.’

He takes another deep breath and again I wonder what he’s thinking inside. Is he getting sick of waiting? Is he getting bored with me? Does he still fancy me?

I lean in and wrap my arms around him, pulling him in again. When our lips part, his face has relaxed a little and the lines around his eyes are now almost completely faded from his skin. He looks less tense. He brushes another strand off my cheek and tucks it behind my ear. His fingers linger over the silver and pearl studs in my earlobe, before dropping heavily to the bed. ‘OK.’ He swings his legs off the bed and puts his face in his hands, leaning over. Away from me.

I’ve disappointed him.

I hate doing that, but I keep doing it. Why?

I swing a leg around him and lay my head gently on his back. ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper in his ear.

‘It’s fine, Soph, really. We’ve got plenty of time. And it’ll happen, right?’

Lifting my head, I wrap my arms around him and interlace my fingers at his stomach. I pull him in closer. ‘Of course it’ll happen.’ I playfully press against his belly until he squirms.

He laughs and wriggles away. He runs a hand through his hair and then turns to face me. He places a hand on my cheek. ‘Soon, yeah?’

I push my cheek further into his palm and press a smile onto my face even though I don’t feel it inside. ‘Yes, soon. I promise.’

He kisses me again, quickly and briefly this time. Then leans back over the bed.

‘You’re leaving?’ I ask, watching him shove his feet into his trainers.

‘Yeah, your mum and dad will be home soon anyway. And I promised Lee I’d catch up with him tonight.’

‘Oh.’ I turn and look at the chrome-rimmed clock on my wall, where the hands extend out from the Eiffel Tower and slowly circle around an outline of Paris by day. ‘Now? It’s kinda late?’

He fixes his laces then turns to me. ‘I’ll text you.’

He tries to move but I grab his torso and pull him into me. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him again. When I pull away, his eyes are already open. ‘Don’t forget to text me.’

He smiles, playfully nuzzles against my nose then walks out of the bedroom, leaving the door open. A cold draught seeps in from the hallway and snakes up to my bed, to my bare shoulders and exposed arms. I fling my body back onto the quilt and listen to his footsteps. His feet get quieter as he moves through to the back of the house and out the rear door.

And then he’s gone.

The cold air lingers in the room, encasing me, squeezing me. My fingers scroll through my iPhone until our last conversation.

Can’t wait to see you tonight x

He’d sent that to me only an hour before he’d arrived. It was enough to send warmth to my cheeks and whole body. I’d waited for him.

Steve and I have been together for a year now, although I can’t believe it’s been a whole year. I guess time really does fly by when you’re this happy. I still remember when I first noticed him. It feels like it was last night. I didn’t even like him at first. He was overconfident, brash, even a little rude at times. We didn’t fall into the same social circle, not that I run in a particular ‘social circle’. I’ve always struggled in social situations. I get nervous when people talk to me, wondering what they’re expecting me to say back and what happens if my response doesn’t meet their expectations. What if I’m not funny enough? Or not interesting enough? What if they’re not even talking to me and instead they’re actually talking to the person behind me?

All these scenarios play out in my head to the point where going out is no longer an option. All I want to do is go to school, finish my homework, and spend all my free time with Steve. I have friends of course. Well, maybe just one. I hang out with Ulana a lot. Her boyfriend plays football with Steve on Thursday nights and Saturday mornings. She can’t ever watch him play though. She’s not supposed to have a boyfriend. Her parents are crazy strict.

But I don’t freeze up so much when I’m around her, and never with Steve. I can be myself completely with him. I never have to worry if I’m funny enough or interesting enough. I never have to look over my shoulder when he talks because he’s always talking to me. Steve doesn’t care about my social skills or my ability – or inability – to work a room full of people. He does all that for me. He speaks for me when we go out so I never have to think too much about what to say. Honestly, it’s not the social expectations of dating that terrify me. It’s not even the anxiety-producing process of getting prepared to sleep with your boyfriend for the first time. It’s the simple truth – that was revealed to me only recently – that for him, this isn’t his first time. He’s done this before. Probably many times before based on what Ulana told me last week. Steve is experienced in this sort of stuff.

And me?

Well, I am clearly not.

I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m so lost when it comes to relationships. I’m not like the other girls at school, and definitely nothing like the girls he’s dated. I’m not social and fun like Trina Davis. She’s the life of the party. Yes, she’s usually throwing up in someone’s garden by the end of the night, but she still tops me. And Lucy McNeil?

No one is like Lucy McNeil.

I’ll never be as confident, or as pretty, and certainly never as popular, as Lucy McNeil.

LUCY

‘I had an amazing summer,’ I start. Immediately all three girls lean in to give me their complete attention. I would be a little mad if they didn’t. It’s a good story. Mine usually are. ‘I went to Italy with my mum and dad in July for three weeks then Mallorca in August.’

(The Mallorca part is true).

‘You look so tanned. I’m so jealous!’ cried Mollie, raising her sandwich to her pink-stained lips.

‘I know. I’m so scared it’s already fading though,’ I say, puckering my mouth into a sulk. I hold out my arm, still golden brown as if I only came back yesterday. No one needs to know I spent most of last week on the sunbed. It has to look like I spent most of July in Italy. It has to look like I’m telling the truth. Otherwise, they’ll know.

‘You should use Boots’ Extender Tan. I slathered that on after I went to Florida last summer and it really worked,’ Cara said, stretching out her arm to meet mine.

‘Have you seen Rhys since you got back?’ Lily suddenly asks.

Cara nudges her in the side of her stomach.

‘I didn’t mean to bring him up. I was just wondering if you were getting back together?’

I take a deep breath and look back over my shoulder to make sure he’s not nearby. ‘Well, we did see each other a bit over the summer—’

‘Really? Because I heard he saw Trina Davis quite a bit over the summer too?’

I give Mollie a stare so hard that her eyes water slightly. She swallows hard and I can tell by her expression that a piece of bread went down a little too rough. But she can’t reach for her SmartWater yet. Not until I’m finished with my staredown.

OK, now I’m done.

‘I don’t even want to hear her name,’ I say. ‘Whatever happened over the summer was clearly because Rhys was heartbroken over me. That girl is walking around like they were dating or something.’

‘But they are, aren’t they? That’s what Rhys told Steve.’

My insides start to burn. ‘Steve’s a liar. Besides, if they were they’re not now. And he was probably not the only boy she was seeing—’

‘Wait, so they were dating? Like, dating dating?’ Mollie edges in closer. Her lip gloss is a shade too light for her skin tone. And she has an ugly pimple on her forehead. But I don’t tell her that.

‘No, Mollie. But she clearly thinks they were. What she doesn’t know is that Rhys has been texting me.’

‘I knew it! Tell us more,’ urges Lily.

‘Well, it’s not official yet but we’re talking again and that’s a good sign.’ I push the cucumber around in my salad bowl, wondering whether I should tell them about the other guy in July. But when I look up I see their little eager faces desperate for more information, more gossip, so I bite my lip. They wouldn’t understand. They might judge me. They might not even believe me. ‘I was the one who broke up with him, remember?’ That’s another lie. ‘But he’s enjoying playing a little hard to get, which is fine for now.’

‘Boys,’ Cara shrugs. Apparently her only contribution to the conversation.

‘Boys,’ Lily seconds.

Mollie is too busy fishing for the piece of arugula in her molar.

I glance around the lunchroom at Birchwood High School. It seems different this year. We all seem different this year. Maybe it’s not them. Maybe it’s only me that’s changed.

This is going to be a good year.

This is going to be a good year.

If I keep saying it, it will make it true. Isn’t that how it works? Positive thinking, blah, blah.

Then I see her.

Throwing her head back, laughing, mouth wide. She’s walking with another girl in our year, whose name I either always forget or never knew to begin with.

‘Did you see who just walked in?’ Mollie asks.

‘She’s walking our way, Luce,’ Cara adds.

She edges closer to our table.

‘Do something,’ Lily urges me.

‘Slut,’ I cough out, throwing my hand up to my mouth. The word feels funny on my tongue, tastes bitter. But the girls giggle and I smile with them.

Trina stops and turns around, her limp mousy blonde hair sliding greasily over a shoulder. ‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing. I just had a tickle in my throat,’ I say.

She steps closer to the table and looks down at me. Eyes too big for her small face, her slim frame squeezed uncomfortably into a too-short skirt and a too-low top. If it weren’t for her clothes and that ugly silver stud through her bottom lip, she could be pretty. But all I see in front of me is the girl who’s dating my boyfriend, the ‘distraction’ who’s stopping him from getting back together with me.

I was lying to everyone when I said I didn’t care. Of course I care. Rhys was the only good thing in my life and now that’s gone. He didn’t care about the small petty things that I used to torture myself about – how much I had to eat that day, how dull my skin looked, that stain on my favourite pink skirt. He didn’t even care if I had make-up on. He said he liked me better without ‘that gunk’ on my face. He liked me for me, and that wasn’t something that I was used to.

We got together purely out of convenience at first. We shared the same friends, went to the same parties, we were even in the same house at school. We participated in the same sports, of course Keith House always won at the school games. We were a team. And it was a team that I grew to love, and to need.

I don’t even know when it started to go wrong, when he started to get bored. Because that’s what happens, right? All boys get bored eventually. Or maybe they just get bored of me.

I called him so many times after but all he said was, ‘You’ve changed, Luce.’ Of course I’ve changed. I’m supposed to change. We all are. It’s more that I’ve changed into someone he’s no longer interested in.

It’s funny really, because that’s what my dad said to my mum before he left: ‘You’ve changed, Julia.’ I don’t know if I ever told Rhys that.

Maybe we haven’t changed. Maybe they have.

Now, I hardly ever see Dad.

He has a new family – young pretty blonde wife who used to work at the doctor’s surgery, with a one-year-old on her hip. One year old. He left us fifteen months ago. The maths doesn’t fit. He knows that. So when that woman walked around with a swollen belly, my dad sat at the dining table with us eating his Sunday roasts and reading his newspapers.

Not anymore. Now Mum rarely cooks or leaves the house. I don’t know when she last showered. She completely crumbled the moment Dad walked out. And I have to deal with it every day. But back then I had Rhys to help me deal. Now, I don’t. Now, I’m all alone in this.

He understood. He knew both my parents. He’d seen them when they were together, when Dad was faking the love and pretending he was in his forever family. Rhys used to come over for Sunday lunch sometimes when his mum and dad went out to the golf club to meet their friends. He sat with us, laughed with us.

Sometimes when I’m alone in my bedroom, I think about just how much I’ve lost in the past year, how much I’m still losing. All that time, all that precious time I could be spending with my dad, with Rhys.

Amber.

That’s her name. My soon-to-be stepmum. Who leaves their family for a woman called Amber? That’s who’s standing in front me now. Amber. Trina. They’re both the same. Both want what isn’t theirs.

She’s standing here at my table in the cafeteria. Mollie, Lily and Cara are watching me, anticipating what I’m going to do next. Honestly, I don’t know. I never know. I just keep pushing the boundaries until someone says something, until someone finally loves me enough to notice. I can feel the anger, the frustration, bubbling so close to the surface. I uncross my legs and lean into the table further and stare back at her, tempting her to push my buttons.

Go on, Trina. Start it.

She eventually rolls her eyes and walks away, wildly swinging her bag over her shoulder, her skirt slightly hitching up at the back.

See?

Amber.

They’re all Ambers.

ULANA

Those girls.

With their short skirts and heels. Crisp white shirts with the first two buttons undone. Flickers of lace bras during Gym. Edges of pink thongs peeking out from freshly ironed black school trousers.

Those girls.

I feel bad for those girls. They don’t know any different. They see images on TV and in magazines and aspire to be just that, not casting any doubt on the images they’re being sold. They want their hair longer – not creepy long though – shinier, straighter, curlier, blonder but not too blonde. They want to be taller but, of course, not taller than any boy, thinner but…actually, there’s never too thin. They open a magazine and all they see are skinny girls becoming skinnier, and getting praise for it. I see those girls at lunch, conflicted with the daunting choices of calories. Some don’t even eat. Some have just a piece of fruit then say they had a big breakfast. They sip on water. Too much sugar in juice. Too many calories in a smoothie. Too much fat in a hot chocolate. Black coffee works too.

Then they go to the girls’ toilets straight after. Some throw up, others readjust their short skirts and unbuttoned shirts. Most reapply their make-up for the afternoon. Glossy pink pouts. Thick dark eyebrows. Rosy cheeks. Matte noses. Black spider leg eyelashes. Contoured facial bones shimmering in highlighter. They dot concealer under their eyes, hiding the wrinkles they don’t have but always see when they look in the mirror.