Bluebird

Chapter 10

"I have these thoughts So often I ought To replace that slot With what I once bought 'Cause somebody stole My car radio And now I just sit in silence"- Car Radio, Twenty One Pilots

Stevie was sitting on her bed as she came in with two steaming mugs of Earl Grey. He looked up at her and at the sight of her his half-grin fell from his face.

He scrambled towards her as she sat down on her carpet beside him and he took the cup from her before slinging his arms around her shoulders and whispering: "Clara what's wrong? You are pale as a ghost."

She started shaking her head and soon she was frantically shaking her head back and forth. She felt him pass a comforting hand over her shoulder blade and he kept asking her what happened.

She looked down at the milky brown substance in her cup and whispered: "Just don't ask. Please don't ask. If you are my friend please don't ask."

He was quiet after that.

——

Clara steeled herself as the kettle began to whistle.

Taking the warm water off the stove, she proceeded to pour the steaming liquid into two cups. Then she put the kettle away and, grabbing both cups, moved to the kitchen table.

She nodded her head as her mother thanked her after Clara had put down the steaming mug before her and took a seat on the chair beside the older woman, who had just arrived back from Glasgow where she had been for work.

She prodded at the teabag which was swimming at the water surface and furrowed her brow as she thought about how to approach her mother with what she wanted to say. Yet before she could arrange her words and prepare herself for the discussion that was undoubtedly about to ensue, her mother preceeded her: "What is it, Clara?"

Clara looked up to see her mother shrewdly studying her and the woman must have seen the confussion in her eyes because she elaborated: "I can see that you want to talk to me about something."

Clara pushed the cup away from her and straightened herself. There was no going back now. She had still been in doubt whether or not she should talk to her mother about this. But the woman had effectively eliminated any possibility that Clara had to go back on this.

"I'm... I'm wondering if perhaps changing schools wouldn't be beneficial for me, mother," she didn't look up at her mother. But she could feel her icy-grey eye studying her intensely.

Her mother broke the silence with an impassive: "Why?" It was infuriating, because she couldn't tell what she was thinking. Her mother was able to do the most neutral voice. She had always been able to do this: When her mother had announced to her that her great-aunt, who had always made Clara sweet scones when they had visited her on Sundays, had passed away as five-year-old Clara had asked why they weren't visiting their aunt one sunday. When she had announced to Clara that her father had left them. When she had told Clara that they would be moving to Leeds. And now.

"It's just a feeling, mother," Clara whispered. She could have told her mother about Mr. Wilson. About how her relationship with her teacher had veered from professional and detached into a territory that was dangerous and frightening and made her heart beat at a furious pace. About how she suspected that he has begun to care for her in a way that was entirely inappropriate. About how she cared for him- much more than she should.