Postscripts (Chapter 3 Part 1: Tish)

“Oh, shit, sorry,” I sputter as my forehead bounces off the chin of whoever I just crashed into. I feel a hand brush against my elbow. For a moment, one of my arms is crushed between us, bent at an awkward angle. I stumble backwards so that I’m not talking to the collarbone of the person I collided with and roll my shoulder. The unexpectedness of the collision throws me off for a good few seconds, and I blink twice, trying to reorientate myself.

“No, you’re okay,” the boy in front of me says. He looks about my age, give or take a year, I guess. Wide eyes made wider by surprise and pointed features pulled into an apologetic expression. His brown hair is just long enough to look messy, and he runs his fingers through it as he adds, “My fault. Sorry.”

“Don’t stress it.” I shrug. Now that my pulse has slowed down enough to think properly, I start putting the pieces together. “You’re Chris’ friend, then?”

He nods. “Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Psychic powers.” I smirk and waggle my fingers at him. “Plus his sister was talking about you.”

“Makes sense,” he says, as he shuffles in place, tunnelling his high-tops into the cream-coloured carpet. A pause stretches out between us. Absently, I realise I’m still holding Louisa’s letter, and I unwrinkle one of the edges that got bent when I crashed into Chris’ friend.

“So, I’m Tish, by the way,” I say, after several slow seconds of silence.

He stops fidgeting and gives me a tight-lipped smile. “Alistair.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Alistair,” I reply. Automatic response.

“You too.” There’s something about the way he ends his reply, something that makes it feel less than finished. Like he was about to continue, but changed his mind at the last minute.

This time, I don’t let the conversation lull too long, and ask him, “Don’t wanna be rude, but what are you doing in the hallway?”

“Bathroom,” he says, with a self-conscious duck of his head. “Or, I was heading in that direction, at least.”

“Fair enough. Don’t let me get in your way.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he says, “It’s all right. I’m probably getting in yours, aren’t I?”

“Not at all,” I say, hopefully reassuringly. He’s started pulling at the hem of his t-shirt, and although it’s not as distracting as when he was shuffling his feet, I feel so bad for his discomfort that I add, “But I’ll leave you to it then.”

“Okay,” Alistair replies. “Nice meeting you.”

“You too,” I say, a hint of a laugh creeping its way into my voice. I step left to let him pass at the same second he steps to the right. I try the opposite side and he follows me, so then I stand still. When he doesn’t move either, I take a step, only for him to go the same direction.

“Oh, um,” he mumbles. The corners of him mouth turn up into an apologetic grimace. I sigh and take hold of his arms and rotate him one eighty degrees, so we’re still facing each other, but now I’m standing where he was. He says, “Right then.”

“Bathroom’s next door along,” I say. It sounds like a bit too much of a dismissal, so I add, “Don’t fall in.”

“I’ll try not to,” he says, then smiles and turns away.

The lock of the bathroom door clicks behind him, and I’m alone in the hallway. Midday light streams in through the windows beside me, and between the clicks of the cuckoo clock I think I hear the soft whisper of idiot come from behind the closed bathroom door.

I breathe out a silent chuckle.

So that was the guy from school Meg had been talking about.

***

“I met your friend,” I tell Christopher as I walk into the rumpus room.

Sprawled on the lumpy couch that’s wedged into the corner of the room in front of our boxy old TV, my cousin looks up at me. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I wiggle between the collection of beanbags that look more like potatoes than I’d them to and the overflowing shelf to reach the rocking chair beside the television cabinet. I put my feet up on the spotted ottoman and stare at Christopher.

“What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. He adjusts his position, stretching an arm along the back of the couch. For such a short guy, it’s kind of impressive how much room Christopher can take up. In the months he and Meg have been staying here, Christopher’s man-spreading has meant fitting everyone on the furniture’s been a lot squishier than the addition of two people would suggest.

I pretend to be offended, raising my hands in mock surrender. “Nothing.”

“Alistair’s a pretty cool guy, y’know,” Christopher says. There’s something calculating in his tone that’s concerning. “I reckon you two’ll get along really well.”

“He seemed nice.” It’s the best way I can think of describing him that wouldn’t come off as if I was insulting Christopher’s friend. “But a little… shy?”

Christopher nods, taking my words in. “He’s not the most outgoing dude ever, I’ll give you that.”

“Understatement, much,” I say. I want to bite the words back as soon I say them, because I’d been on the other side of this conversation before, about Louisa. Not that Louisa was ever as awkward as Alistair, though.

“Now, Tish,” Christopher says, a little too condescendingly, “We can’t all be blessed with being social butterflies like yourself, can we?”

“Chri-is,” I groan. “I thought that I was supposed to be the older and wiser one and lecture you. Besides, you’re way more of a social butterfly than me.”

“True, have you actually left the house these holidays?”

I glower at him. “Yes, of course I have.”

“Aside from walking Rufus or taking Phil and Alfie somewhere?”

I continue glowering, but don’t answer this time. Since Louisa left, things have been quiet, not that summer holidays in Fitzbury are ever all that exciting. But I have been home. A lot.

“Okay then.” Christopher claps his together and beams. “Better change that, hadn’t we?”

“What?”

He leaps off the couch and looks over at me. Under a head of unruly curls, a smile takes up his whole face. He’s Peter Pan, child-like and adventurous, with a dangerous glint in his eye. “Let’s get you out of this house, huh?”