All the Little Things

the kitchen. The bread was open, a dirty plate abandoned by the sink. I spotted a tin of beans by the cooker and picked it up. She hadn’t eaten them all and I decided that I would, cold, with a spoon. The savoury-sweet taste reminded me that the last time I had done this was as a first year art student, getting back to my room at dawn, heavy lidded and ravenous after a night of drinking, smoking, laughing. The flavour curdled on my tongue, saccharine, and I tore off a chunk of bread to clean it away, then twisted the packet closed and put it back in its place.
Feeling a little better for the carbs I crept up the stairs as quietly as I could, and paused outside Vivian’s room. I couldn’t hear anything and no light shone around the door which, as always, was ajar. I pushed it open and carefully poked my head in. She was lying on the bed with her arms raised above her head, a ballerina pose that made her collarbones look delicate and finely drawn, shadows like spilt ink across her body. She was tiny, bird-like, and her hair shone on the pillow like silk in the moonlight. I slipped into the room to tuck her in – even though she was fifteen, I still wanted to do that, keep her safe, always – and I dropped a light kiss on her forehead, promising her silently that I would spend some quality time with her over the weekend to make up for missing her tonight.
She was the most beautiful thing I ever made.

Vivian
When I hear the door close I open my eyes and wipe away the kiss.
Mum is so weird. I hardly need tucking in when I’m nearly sixteen, and it’s boiling. At least she didn’t wake me up this time, all drunk and miserable and wanting to talk about the hospital and remembering to express our feelings, thinking I didn’t realise that her hands smoothing along my arms were looking for razor slices. Like I’d ever do that to myself. She’s the one with scars she won’t tell me about.
My phone buzzes from under the pillow. It’s Molly. She’s wittering on about this new boy she’s seen at the six-form college that’s attached to our school, and how hot he is. I suppose he’s okay-looking. I can’t say I’m particularly interested. She wants to know if I think he would like her. Who doesn’t like Molly? She could have anyone she wanted. Sounds like he’s going to be getting some random messages from her anyway: she’s managed to weasel his number off someone or other.
I lie awake for a while and listen to Mum stumbling around before collapsing into her creaky old bed. Then it all goes quiet, but I keep listening. Everyone says the countryside is so quiet compared to cities, especially to London, and I thought that too when we first moved here, but I wasn’t right. The countryside night is full of all sorts of interesting sounds, my favourite being the owl who hunts the mice who rustle in our garden. I wonder what mice taste like. I don’t hear him tonight. Instead I fall into dreams, red hands and white rooms, and I wake up late.
‘Mum!’ I yell, when I realise that it’s already gone eight o’clock. ‘Mum! You need to give me a lift!’ I rush into the bathroom and jump in the shower.
‘Mum!’ I shout again on the way back into my room to dry my hair and get my uniform on. ‘Mum, are you dead?’
‘No,’ comes a muffled voice. ‘But I might be soon.’
She’s obviously hungover after her boozeathon. Probably shouldn’t drive me, now I think about it – I don’t particularly want to die today.
‘Okay, don’t worry about the lift… I’ll call Tilly and get her brother to swing by and pick me up!’
Tilly is lazy and pays her brother to take her to school from the money she gets doing shifts at her dad’s chippy in the village. I wouldn’t usually ask because her brother is creepy and stares at me in the car mirror, like he wants to lick me. He makes me feel sick. I’d rather walk, but I hate being late.
I quickly get my uniform on and stuff my homework in my rucksack. I haven’t got time to make any lunch so I shout to Mum that I’m taking a fiver from the pot and I hear a muffled ‘bleurgh’ in reply, which is either a yes or a yakking up; either way, it’s in my pocket as I hear Tristan’s old banger pull up outside. I open the door before he beeps and run and jump in, pulling my skirt down so he can’t ogle my legs. His piggy eyes watch me in the mirror all the way to school.
Tris drops me and Tilly off on his way to work and we stroll in chatting, eyes out for who is around. It’s nearly time for registration and we’re making our way to our classroom when Tilly nudges me and whispers, ‘Look, there’s Newboy.’
Sure enough there he is, waiting outside the entrance to his part of the building, staring at his phone. He’s doing a good job of being mysterious – he looks a bit like an eternally teenaged vampire from one of the young adult books my mum does the covers for, with thick black hair and cheekbones that Tilly would die for. His eyelashes are so long they cast a shadow.
‘Don’t stare!’ I tell her, even though I am the one doing that. ‘Molly will go mad, she’s already bagsied him.’
Molly is the prettiest one in our group, which puts her in charge. Her hair is thick and sunny coloured, and nearly down to her arse. Boys all go mad over it, because they are disgusting, and she’s always flicking it or pulling at it, or chewing on a bit, which is so gross, or twisting it