Natália Gomes - We Are Not Okay

My fingers clumsily unfold the gold tissue paper away from the sellotape. Inside is a small black cardboard box. Tugging the top away, the lid pops open. I gently pull out a thin braided turquoise band with a small silver heart looped through. ‘Aiden…’ The heart dangles down, shimmering a little as the light trickles in through the birch trees and strikes the silver.

He takes the bracelet and loops it over my wrist, struggling to fasten it. ‘I think my fingers are too big for this,’ he laughs. ‘There, got it.’

My finger grazes my wrist, the braided ribbon soft under my touch, the heart pendant cold on my fingertip. ‘It’s beautiful. Thank you.’

It is beautiful. But that wasn’t my first thought. I won’t tell him that I worry what my parents will say when they find this bracelet in my room, in my bag, or on my wrist. It’s just one more secret to hide, one more lie to tell.

After we say goodbye, it’s the same routine as usual. I travel through the school, by the drama department, past the library. ‘Sophia?’

She turns towards my direction and then a huge smile stretches up to her cheeks. ‘Oh, hey.’ She balances a pink-rimmed water bottle on top of a small stack of books, each with faded barcode labels facing out.

‘Need a hand?’ I say, reaching up and sliding off her glass water bottle.

‘Thanks. That’s my third one this year. I always seem to lose one in Steve’s car and he never gives them back,’ she giggles.

‘What’s all this for?’ I nod towards the books. Anatomy of the Human Body sits at the top, a very graphic image of the female reproductive system staring at me intensely. ‘Some light reading for biology?’

She clears her throat and squints her eyes. ‘Oh, I just wanted to get a better understanding of…of, um…the human circulatory system.’ Her eyes skim the floor by the feet and I can’t help but smile. Her cheeks start to flush red and I put a hand to my mouth to stop myself laughing.

‘Yeah, sure,’ I grin. ‘Come on, do you want to get a coffee on the walk home?’

She takes a deep breath and wrinkles up her nose like she’s in pain. I’ve embarrassed her, I think. She nods and turns with me.

‘What else are you working on?’

‘I have a history paper due next week and then my French practice exam the week after.’

‘I can help you with your French exam if you want?’

‘You’re so lucky. I wish I spoke it fluently.’

‘You’re good, really. You’ll be fluent in no time.’

‘Steve wants to take me to Paris after graduation.’ She beams, pushing the door open with her hip. A coolness washes over us. The fabrics of my hijab billow out around me in the wind, while strands of Sophia’s hair dance in the air, like she’s floating in water.

‘Jo’s?’

‘Hmm?’ I say, my eyes still fixed on her shimmering long hair that’s bobbing up and down on her back now.

‘Jo’s for coffee?’

I nod and follow her down the path through the courtyard. At the end is Birchwood Road, the street that connects the high school to the primary school and to the main town centre. There’s not much to the centre itself: some shops, three hairdressers (why does a small town need more than one?), two florists, two bakeries, seven pubs (again, why does this town need that many?). But stationed in the middle of the town’s library car park is a large red double-decker bus. Inside, the seats have been lifted and replaced with wooden benches, with feet that curl up like the letter S. At the front, where the driver should be, is a large white counter with a chalkboard sign that lists every kind of coffee and dairy-free alternative that, I truly believe, has ever been created. Jo’s BusStop is our usual place, everyone’s really. It’s the only place to get ‘vegan coffee’ in town. I didn’t know that was a thing until this year. Apparently milk just isn’t ‘in’ anymore. Dairy-free, gluten-free, meat-free…basically any diet that’s free of one major food group is a trend over here.

Sophia bounds up the stairs of the bus. ‘Hi Jo! A medium sugar-free extra-hot vanilla latte with coconut milk, please. To go. Please.’ She struggles with her books and her wallet, and looks up at me. ‘Why are you smiling?’

‘I’m just picturing my mum and dad’s face if I ever ordered that in front of them.’

‘What? You don’t get lattes in Morocco?’

‘Not like that!’

Sophia hands over a fiver and wrestles with the change she gets in return.

‘You forgot your gluten-free raspberry and white chocolate loaf. Want me to order it with my coffee?’

She shakes her head quickly and leans against the counter as the woman who we call Jo, who’s hopefully actually called Jo. ‘No, not today.’

‘Why not?’

She shrugs and is handed a tall white takeaway cup with a brown cardboard sleeve to keep her hands cool. She shifts to the side and lets me order. ‘Coffee, please. Medium.’

Maybe-Jo stares at me for a moment, waiting for me to speak again. Finally, she does it for me. ‘What kind of coffee?’

‘Normal. No fancy milks or sugar-free syrups. Just a regular black coffee, please.’

Maybe-Jo rolls her eyes, as if my order is even more pretentious than Sophia’s and turns to slide a glass coffee pot off the heat base. She pours the scalding dark chocolate brown liquid into a cup and hands it to me. ‘Ninety pence, please.’

‘Wait, why is yours so much cheaper than mine?’ pouts Sophia, looking at her scattered silver coins in the palm of her hand.

‘Why do you think?’ I laugh, gesturing to her cup. ‘You sure you don’t want that raspberry loaf? I’ll split it with you if you don’t want to eat the whole thing?’

‘Nah, thanks though.’ She bounces off the step and stands outside the bus while I sprinkle some white sugar into my black coffee.

My feet land beside hers soon after and we start walking back through town. Instead of going straight up the street, back to school, we turn left down Abbot’s Alley and spill out onto the car park at Aldi’s. Then we cross over and take the river path back towards Golfview Road. Sophia lives in a slightly nicer neighbourhood than me. Her dad’s a doctor like mine, but when we moved my dad’s medical qualifications didn’t meet British standards so he’s the manager at Waitrose now. I know he misses medicine. A lot. But he’d never say it. For him, his sacrifices have granted me the kinds of opportunities I’d never have got back in Morocco. After Birchwood High School, a degree from a British university will get me a job anywhere. I’ll never have to make the sacrifices that my dad made.

‘I think I might switch to skimmed milk next time,’ Sophia says, pulling my thoughts back to her, back to the river we walk beside, back to the life I’ve been afforded here.

‘Oh, why? I thought you were vegan?’

‘Skimmed milk has less calories than coconut milk.’

‘Sophia, you don’t need to be worrying about that. Ever. You’re beautiful just the way you are.’

She scoffs and takes a sip of her coffee. She doesn’t hear me. She’s not listening. She’s not seeing what I’m seeing. And I see skinny. I see skinny everywhere here.

I shake my head. One day she’ll listen, she’ll see. I just need to keep telling her until she does. A deep sigh escapes my lips. ‘Just don’t be one of “those girls”, OK?’

‘OK.’ She laughs and takes another sip of her sugar-free, extra-hot, vegan…whatever.

***

Beyond the woods behind the school, up the dog-walkers’ path, past the cyclists’ trail, is a large open meadow surrounded by the trees that cocoon Birchwood High School. Around the end of April, buttercups the colour of an afternoon sun bloom and cover the entire meadow like a soft yellow blanket. It’s around this time that I watch my school friends carry up a blanket and textbooks and spend their free study period basking in the mild sunshine. Outside of this time, the meadow is peaceful, empty of anyone else, like today. The only dents on the meadow ground are those made by Aiden and I as we lie on our backs, our heads touching.