A/N: This is just a ‘feeler’ I’m putting out, since I’m not quite sure where this story is going. Feedback would DEFINITELY be appreciated, as this is my first ‘published’ story on Fictionpress. I really do like the idea (of the story), but for some odd reason, my brain is refusing to turn out any more ‘witty’ musings. Argh! Writing is hard work, people…and I have barely started…props to every person out there who actually puts in the time and hard work to finish a story. All right, thought spewing is done, so I will let you get on with your actual purpose for clicking on my page…unless you just completely ignored my a/n by scrolling down, and are therefore unaware of what I have just typed-if that is the case, well…I will stop typing now, anyway. Thanks! wizkid08

Do you remember me?

I looked at you and wanted

Things never meant to be

A memory so elusive

You could hardly grasp the thought

What does love matter now

With the emptiness it bought?

You say, misery becomes me

When that’s hardly fair

To recognize the meaning

And not recognize your share

Pain brought my doom

Sprung from my resurrection

My pain consumed you

In your masochistic fashion

You always loved your pretty things

Even when they lied

And I lied best of all

In my overweening pride

If you remember me

Be glad for no reprise

I can’t forget you

You can see it in my eyes

Memory Lapse

Chapter One: A Day in the Life of…

Breepbreepbreep.Breepbreepbreep.Breepbreepbreep.

What…? Ugh, fuck. Mom’s alarm. Turn in off, turn it off, turn it off, turn it ahh…ff. Thank you.

Bliss. Mmmm…so nice and warm…

‘Emily, get out of bed!’ No. Oh no. My mom is crazy. It is too early to ‘get out of bed.’ I roll over and check my window. Nope, can’t see any light; it’s still pitch black outside.

Plus, I don’t have anywhere I have to be…I don’t think. Unless…wait, oh no. What day is it, again?

I spent most of last night, Sunday night, packing my backpack and going through my closet, so that would make today…hell. Monday is today. Today is Monday. School is on Monday.

My first day of school.

I roll back over and scrunch under the covers. Maybe if I pretend…

Agh! Why can’t I go back to those precious few seconds of semi-consciousness when the world was a nice cocoon of blankets and all I had to worry about was drying out the contacts that I slept in? whine

Those seconds were awesome, man.

But now I have to get up; leave my warm nest. O Cruel World, why is thou so vindictive?!

I am not ready for this. Thingy. I lay in hope that this day will be postponed indefinitely.

‘Emily! Are you up?!’ Apparently not.

God, she has such a shrill voice. Definitely not what you want to wake up to in the morning.

‘Yes,’ I mutter, fully planning to milk my last moments of rest. But even these I cannot enjoy, because my mind will not let up. It is telling me that I have school today and I should be excited. Anticipatory! Overjoyed! Nervous! Well, ‘Nervous!’ I can deal with, as that’s what I’m already feeling. And nervousness does not sleep induce.

Joy! I hear footsteps; quick ones. My mom has come to greet me.

‘Get up! UP! Out of bed!!’ I sit up half-way and look at her, scandalized. She is touching me. Her hands are on my exposed-from-the-blanket-feet and she looks ready to start pulling. I cannot let that happen.

‘Fine. Okay, I’m up.’

I make a big production out of kicking her hands away from my ankles and then I swing my lovely topper off and head off toward the bathroom, making sure to place my hands in front of my bum, because I know, I just know, that my mom will take this opportunity to try and smack it.

Not yet, though. Right now, my mom is standing in front of the door, blocking my passage. I fake left and cut her off but she catches on to the back of my shirt.

‘Hey! Hey! What happened to my morning hug?’

What? I didn’t give you a hug? I could have sworn…

She pats me on the back while I stand semi-stoically waiting for it to pass. It’s not that I don’t love the occasional hug now and then…in fact sometimes you just need one, but right now is not one of those times. I am not a big touchy-feely person.

My mom releases me and I step into the bathroom, thinking I am in the clear.

Smack. Oh, Ow. I give her back a dirty look as she makes her way across the hall to the stairs. I have been living with her physical abuse for nigh on fifteen years. My bum is a feeding ground for her hands, people. It is sick.

I check out my reflection in the mirror above the sink.

I look sick. Or I look like sick. Either one, that is me; the mirror does not lie, no matter how much I wish it would. Instead, I believe it is too honest. A girl can’t catch a break.

At least my skin is clear. Thank you God, for that, because it didn’t used to be. Right around the time of major hormone development, you know, ages 12-14, my face and back and upper arms looked like one of those connect-the-dot thingies. Well, it wasn’t that bad, but let me tell you, concealer never ‘concealed.’

But apparently, I paid my dues and suffered enough for whatever crime I committed in my past life, because my face is back to looking how it should look…you know, the skin of a five-year-old. Except without the baby fat.

But even clear skin can’t redeem my other facial failings. My too big nose with its upward tilt and my too big cheeks with only the one dimple and my too small mouth with its uneven set of lips. I suppose I could qualify as ‘cute’ in an ‘oh-what-a-darling-boy’ sort of way, but the problem is that I am not a boy. Obviously, or why would my name be, ‘Emily?’

My hair is horrid. It is some nasty color between sandy brown, and red, and cannot seem to decide on whether it wants to be wavy, or straight. I call it ‘straivy.’ It is thick and shoulder-blade length and mostly unmanageable. Most of the time, I put it up in a high ponytail and am done with it.

My blue eyes look tired, as well they should be, I say. I subject them to countless nights of contact torture without reprieve, last night being no exception. I just find it very annoying to stumble almost blindly to the bathroom in the morning to slip them on and then stumble almost blindly to bed at night after I have slipped them off…it is much easier to just wear them all the time.

I think I need a shower. I sniff under my arms. I took one last night, but sometimes, it is the only way. I feel clean, but most of my brain is still back in Fiji, the land of dreams, soaking up some sun and chatting up some males.

So, shower it is. If I stand under the nozzle for, I don’t know, say seven minutes, I am assured to wake up a bit more.

…And maybe I will end up drowning my self. It is a known fact that babies can suffocate if their faces are shoved into four or more inches of water, after all.

I throw off my blue cotton nightshirt and shimmy out of my puffy-cloud girly boxers. All right so, inspection time. I have this routine, you see. Every morning-after stumbling out of bed like some half-raised zombie, of course-I check myself out in the mirror for any deformities that might have sprung up during the night.

…It was a habit I developed around the time my skin became a 24-hr. party zone for bacteria.

And of course, everyone knows that you are at your thinnest when you first wake up, so…

You get my point. I must check. If only to see that I am not completely irredeemable.

I am not rail thin, let me just start off by saying that. But also, I am by no means a, ‘fatty.’

You can see my hipbones, but then again, I have boy-type hips, so one would kind of expect to see contours. My stomach is kind of muscular in that oh-there-is-a-line-running-down-your-stomach way. I like that line, but I do wish that I had a six-pack. I think they are so cool, especially on girls, because come on, how many girls do you see with six-packs? Not many.

And my breasts…well, I will discuss my breasts later.

So, I have a semi-athletic body. I wouldn’t call it ‘hot,’ by any stretch of the mind, but well you see I am my own worst critic.

…But in my defense, I have spent the past three years being bullied and put down. I have been lonely, and that has left me feeling very much unwanted. So, I don’t think I will ever be confident enough in my own body to think of myself as, ‘pretty.’ It’s just not going to happen.

In fact, whenever someone compliments me, I get suspicious. They must be either insincere or making fun, because only my mom compliments me…and she mostly does that because it’s her job to make me feel special.

But of course, I don’t feel special. I have practically no friends, so I only get praise from her, so one starts to wonder…if I am so ‘special,’ why don’t other people see it and act accordingly?

I must not be that special, I think.

And I know I’m throwing myself a pity party, right now, but this is typical…only when I am alone, do I feel comfortable enough to feel sorry for myself.

…But I’m rarely alone alone, so my pity-parties don’t happen all that often. God, can you say, ‘loser?!’ I can, and very often do, in fact.

Anyway, it’s time to stop with the thinking and start with the singing.

Oh! You didn’t know that I like to sing in the shower? Well then, I must say that you are on crack, because everybody sings in the shower. It is the one place where you can be yourself…unless unlucky you is being videotaped for AFV or Candid Camera…

I mostly sing Mariah Carey songs, but I will also do some Jewel, or Christmas Carols. ‘Silent Night’ is my absolute favorite.

The shower is one of the only places I will sing, and I have heard this is true for many people. Of course, most of these people probably can’t carry a tune very well…or they could be very insecure. Lord knows, I am very insecure about my voice.

I have a nice voice, and I am not being arrogant, I am just stating fact. It is a nice voice, but it will never be a great voice…unless a record producer overhears me singing and decides that it is a great voice, because then, of course…

The hot water feels so nice. I am soaping and lathering and rinsing and then repeating. It is so very very nice.

I love showers; showering. Cleanliness is one of the only good things America offers; that and bald eagles…

But back to showers.

They are so great. And I know I sound a little high right now and am thinking a little too much, but I don’t think I can help it. I tried to sing, but the hot water pushed all rhythm out of my head.

The only part I dislike about showering is when you’re about ¾ of the way done with the most therapeutic shower you have had in like ever-like I am now-and you have globs of shampoo in your hair and running down your back and some idiot that you’re related to-my mom-turns on the hot water in a different part of the house causing the hot water you were currently showering under to turn to piss and go cold. That part I could do without.

I mean, it’s like 6:10 in the freakin’ morning! I think the dish-washing can wait at least until I’m out of the shower and no longer need the hot water.

But no; my mom must have a clean bowl and spoon to not eat her breakfast with.

It’s not like there aren’t any other clean dishes in the house…

Okay, maybe I have a few stacked up in my room. That is normal.

…But the washer won’t be done with its load in time for my mom to eat her breakfast, so I really do not see the point in it running while I am still in the midst of showering.

…Unless she meant to cut my shower short…

Which of course, would be just like my mom. She’s not really petty, but cutting off the hot water in order to get me to move fast is something she would do.

So all done, then! Even if I had to use grody tepid water to rinse off with. I am wrapped up from shoulder to thigh in a giant fluffy towel with my wet hair pinned up with a butterfly clip and am ready to venture out of my steamy bathroom and brave the unforgiving cold tiles of the hallway floor on the way to my room.

I decide to run for it.

Ah! AH! So cold! It is so-o-o-o ca-ca-cah-old-d-d!!

My poor toes will never be the same after this; they have retreated into my feet like the shy turtles they are and only three layers of quilty Christmas socks can make them come out again.

I open the second drawer of my dresser and take a look. All of my socks are color-coded to run like a rainbow, with the white socks entirely separate and sitting on the far distant right side.

Okay, I may be obsessive compulsive, but only when it comes to clothes storage. My mom has to stand over my shoulder in order for me to make my bed, and unless I inadvertently step on the house phone and hurt my foot, I pretend not to notice the pig-like state of my room.

…Excepting the fact that ‘dust’ is a foreign four-letter word to me. Dirt is not allowed in my room…well, not allowed to stay. I mean of course, dirt…germs will exist; how can they not? But I try to cut them off with a daily floor vacuuming and counter-top wipe down.

So, socks. My toes have started to warm up, so I think I can go without the three pairs of coverage…but no less than two. Seeing as how I usually wear two pairs anyway-yes, even in summer-this shouldn’t be a problem.

My book bag and gym bag were packed last night, so I don’t need to pull out any white socks; I just have to decide the top part, the showy part. It’s a toss off between the ‘Hello Kitty’ sparkly blue socks and the ‘Hello Kitty’ rainbow socks. Both fall under the ‘lucky pair of socks’ category…and they’re both very pretty, or I wouldn’t feel that they are half as lucky as they are. But I do like the sparkly blue pair better than the rainbow pair, so…sparkly blue it is!

I am so weird. I just spent like 7 minutes thinking about socks…

It is hard work bending down with a towel still wrapped around your upper half, but I do it and straighten up…causing the towel to unravel and pool at my feet.

Oh! Oh! My arms and breasts and thighs and stomach know now how my toes felt the moment they touched the cold tile of the hallway. I wriggle around a bit, get the blood moving…much better.

I still should probably get dressed as quickly as I can, though. My mom heard my thumping and yelled up the stairs to, ‘…stop dawdling!’

So I must stop dawdling, you see.

It is a rare and special day when I do not wear a sports bra…but seeing as how the first day of school is ‘rare’ and ‘special,’ I will subject my dangly bits to under-wire torture.

I am thinking blue. My socks are blue, I will be wearing blue jeans…I am in a ‘blue’ mood…and ‘blue’ moods deserve blue bras. It is my favorite color, so why not?

Before, when I was doing my routine inspection in front of the bathroom mirror, I said that I would discuss my breasts later. Well, ‘later’ means ‘now.’

I am a top-heavy girl; big boobed, large breasted, fortunate, however you want to put it. The important part is that most of the time, I hate them. I wish they would shrivel up and die leaving me with nice and respectable B-size breasts.

But they refuse to stop growing! Everyday I wake up and they seem bigger than the day before. This may have to do with the fact that I have only been ‘growing’ for six months; a year ago, I didn’t even have my period…

Oh! …To go back to not having my period…I think every girl will agree with me, when I say it is a very big pain in the ass-it is disgusting and makes me feel more awkward than I should have a right to feel.

It is so unfair! Boys get wet dreams, while girls-the smarter sex-have to deal with blood-spotted panties.

Also…also…whenever we (the girls) feel just the slightest bit fed up with the world and everything in it; it is automatically assumed that we are PMS-ing. Which okay, sometimes is the case, but even during those seven days on and before my period, I don’t get mad just because I am on my period or PMS-ing. Being on your period is not an excuse for you to act bitchy-you act bitchy because someone pissed you off.

…And if your anger-level is a little lower than usual because you’re on your period then well, so be it.

But back to my breasts…like I said, I hate them. And I know you’re probably all wondering, ‘hey what’s the big deal, you have big ta-tas, live with it’…but I think only girls with ‘big ta-tas’ can truly understand the major problem of having big ta-tas…they get noticed. A lot.

And for someone who would be perfectly content going through life being ignored, getting noticed is not a good thing.

Sure, I like to rant and complain about getting picked on and shunned, because of the way I used to look. And sure, I would appreciate the occasional person my age to talk to and get along with; but that doesn’t mean I go looking for attention.

My mom says that people can’t help it; I am just a beautiful girl.

But I don’t see it. Maybe I’m being delusional, but I don’t see it.

I dress in baggy clothes. I always have my hair up. I look disinterested and tired half the time I go anywhere. I am not a pretty person; literally, and if you want to get technical, figuratively as well.

…I depress myself so much, sometimes…

Sigh

I slip into my stretchy boy panty shorts and then into my baggy drawstring jean pants. After that, I tug the semi-snug white t-shirt I set out over my ginormous breasts, and then slip on the equally white, yet not-so-equally-snug long-sleeved cotton shirt, because come on; I need a second layer to hide the color of my bra.

…I slip my sparkly-blue-sock-clad feet into my Adidas sandals; and I am done!

…Except for the whole hair/make-up thing, but that takes less than 5 minutes, and on most days-even less, because let’s face it: I am not a ‘look nice’ kind of girl.

I walk in the bathroom and head straight towards the mirror. Seeing as how it’s the first day of school, I figure I need to make some kind of effort; even if my shaky nervous hands keep on pushing the mascara brush in my eye.

I don’t wear foundation, as it’s really just a cover, and what do I need to cover? Besides somewhat flaky skin and under-eye dark sleepy circles, I mean. Anyway, my pores were always clogged, and I could never wear the stuff right-always too much or too little or not the right kind…Good riddance, I say. Foundation is bad news.

…So, no bothering with it now…unless I’m going somewhere special…but come on, I think I would need a social life first.

I do like eye make-up, though; as my tiny monologue about mascara sticks can attest to. Black, dark green, dark brown, dark purple, dark blue…anything dark, I think it all looks very sexy. Well, sexy on anyone but me, even if I’ve done it up right and not at all raccoon-girl.

But I must say that it looks better on models and/or girls with nice facial structure, oh! And on punk-rockers…and pirates.

Mmmmm…Johnny Depp…most beautiful man in the whole freakin’ world.

Back to me, though. Like I said, I wear eye make-up. And chapstick. I can’t do bronzer or blusher or any kind of face powder…thing, because I am petrified of messing up, so I look really pale most of the time.

Especially right now, because not only is it the wonderful winter season where the sun only makes weekly appearances through its hide-out in the clouds, but it is my first day of school in a completely new school, so I am very much the scared kitten…I look like I have seen a ghost, and I could be right, my skin is that pale.

Eyes all made up, I could pass for a druggie, if that was the look I was going for; which it is not.

Hmmmm.

…I don’t think I am going for any particular ‘look,’ except maybe ‘comfort-chic,’ perhaps. Okay so, maybe just ‘comfort,’ as I don’t think I could ever pass off as any kind of ‘chic.’

Chic chicks have a certain attitude, which I…lack.

Even with just saying that, I think this is one of those mornings-very few mornings-where I am actually pretty happy with my appearance.

…In a completely non-sarcastic way, of course. Well, almost.

My hair is up in a high pony-tail (as per usual), making what cheekbones I do have stand out a little. And my blue-grayish eyes are no longer looking as tired, as worked upon, no longer broadcasting the time of day-6:50 a.m. if you were wondering.

…I checked the wall clock. Yes, there’s a clock in my bathroom…I need it; otherwise I would be staring at my reflection for the next half hour…which is not a bad idea, I think. Spending gondo amounts of time locked in the bathroom seems like a rather nice plan-much more pleasant and palatable than say, going to school.

And all right so what, if I like looking in the mirror? I only do it occasionally…once in a while, when I have the time…so I am not vain, because I know I am not ‘super-model’ pretty (whatever my mom likes to think).

…But for the longest time, I couldn’t even be classified as ‘pretty.’

‘Pretty awkward,’ sure; but never really ‘pretty.’

So, I am allowed to stare a bit. As long as I don’t fill up my room and locker with mirrors, I don’t see a problem.

I turn around and partly open the medicine-cabinet mirror so I can get a good look at my back-side. You can’t really tell in these pants, but I have really very nice legs; they are one of the only things about my body I would not change. They are so long and muscular that even when I stand so my feet are touching, my thighs don’t meet in the middle; there is a pinch of space between them.

I think they are a fat-free zone, because even when I pig out and consume an entire box of chocolate-crème Oreos, it only looks like my stomach took the hit.

…I just heard my mom call up for a second time. She needs to stop that; each consecutive yell gets louder and reaches a higher decibel…sometimes hitting notes only Renee Fleming-Opera-Woman-Extraordinaire-can reach.

It might be time to head downstairs; before she breaks my eardrums.

Since I know you love hearing my thoughts, I am going to make something clear: I cannot eat breakfast at 7:00 a.m. in the morning. My stomach just does not find it probable to take in food this early and be happy about it.

I’m sure if I woke-up hungry, my stomach would welcome food at 7:00 a.m., but I did not wake-up hungry this morning. In fact, I think I left most of my stomach back in bed, because I am feeling particularly queasy right now.

Class starts in less than a half-hour, and my stomach is not ready.

I am downstairs and in the breakfast room-cum-kitchen and nervously sitting at our lovely pine red table. I don’t see my mom anywhere, but that doesn’t mean she is not lurking behind a cabinet or door, anticipating my demise.

‘Have you eaten breakfast, yet?’ I jump; ah, Mommy.

…A little insight into the mentality of my lovely mother; on Saturday mornings, she wakes up early, just to eat breakfast, and then goes back to bed.

Crazy, no?

A day doesn’t start for my mom, until one has her had food. It is like a requirement; if I want to leave the house, I have to have some cereal and milk.

I look up at her. Her thin body is half-obscured by the open fridge door; she is most likely searching for the milk that is already sitting on the counter by her bowl of cereal.

‘I have not,’ I tell her; thinking that it’s better to be honest. I can’t prove that I have eaten, because she knows that the dishes in my room are days old.

She closes the fridge to look at me and spots the milk sitting on the counter. Does a look of chagrin pass her face? No. My mom does not do ‘chagrin.’ Or ‘bemusement,’ or ‘awe,’ or ‘fear.’

…She sometimes does ‘amusement,’ but only if I have said or done something incredibly witty to make her laugh…but she doesn’t laugh-she just looks amused.

After pouring her milk she looks back up at me. Uh-oh. It is not the ‘evil-eye’ per-say…more like a very intent look…like she is trying some fancy Jedi-mind trick on me, scary in the fact that my mom hasn’t seen ‘Star Wars’ since it first came out in the ‘70’s…so any ‘tricks’ completely belong to her.

I fidget in my seat. Please look somewhere else, I silently plead at her…we have a lovely aromatic trash can by the pantry; look at that.

‘You will eat,’ she tells me, still staring, somewhat evilly, I think.

…Maybe if I try reason…

‘But I am not hungry. It’s too early to eat.’ I really don’t want food in me right now. My stomach is making weird gurgly noises, and they have nothing to do with hunger pangs.

‘You need to eat,’ she brandishes her dripping spoon at me, sloshing milk-droplets around. ‘You need food or you’ll get sick.’

‘Well yes, I need food eventually, or I’ll get sick, but I feel sick right now, so I don’t see the point in food.’ I am not scared of her, I tell myself. As long as she stays fifteen feet away, by the sink, I can take her on.

‘It is your first day of school, you need sustenance.’ She reminds me, still holding her spoon in the air.

‘I am not eating,’ I tell her. I will not back down, I will not back down. ‘I’ll get something later.’

‘When,’ she demands. Lovely how she doesn’t phrase it as a question. I think quickly; the next time I’ll be eating is lunch, so…

‘Lunch.’

‘That’s too late, you need food before then.’ She sets down her spoon and stalks toward me, emanating this kind of ‘human-you-will-listen-to-me-or-pay’ aura.

Well then, breakfast it is!

‘Fine,’ I grumble, getting out of my seat and walking the long way around the breakfast table in order to avoid her.

She looks annoyingly triumphant; my mom carries that look well.

‘You need some milk,’ she informs me, retracing her footsteps back to her bowl of cereal.

‘I’m pouring some in my cereal, right now.’

I hear a pause in her slurping, so I look back and find that she has stopped her eating to give me her hard look again.

‘No,’ my mom enunciates slowly, like I am some poor child who can’t even make her breakfast cereal the right way, ‘you need milk to drink.’

‘Yes,’ I enunciate slowly, because my mom doesn’t seem to get the purpose of milk in cereal, ‘I’m going to drink the milk in my cereal.’

‘I meant milk in a glass!’ Okay, now she’s getting kind of scary.

…Not that she wasn’t at all scary before, because she was, but at least she looked amused during the whole ‘look-at-me-I-am-talking-to-you’ thing; but now, she looks slightly pissed…which isn’t exactly fair.

I am the one who is being manipulated. I am the one who is about to suffer severe stomach torture; I am the one who should be slightly pissed, me, me, me!

…Even so…if my mom is going into a half-tantrum just because I’m not drinking a full glass of milk, well…I might want to appease her and drink the milk.

Karen Fawcett Bennett, a.k.a. ‘My Mom,’ is formidable in half-tantrum mode; in full-tantrum-all-out-mad-at-the-world mode she is more or less the take-no-prisoners type of sadistic.

‘There is milk in my cereal; that is enough. You should be happy that I’m eating breakfast in the first place.’ Even I know not to look at her when I say this.

I keep my eyes firmly on the bowl of cereal in my arms as I quickly shuffle back to my seat, again taking the path that leads furthest from the fury that is my mother.

I sit down and concentrate on taking small bites of soggy mess. At least I am eating some marshmallows. Sure, they are processed and a bit too crunchy and not at all fluffy and white, and let’s face it, appallingly bad for my teeth, but at least they are chock full of sugary-goodness…I firmly tell my stomach that we need the sugary-goodness.

‘Well do you have to eat that cereal?’

Holy Shit! DON’T DO THAT!! YOU SCARED THE CRAP OUTTA’ ME!

My mom took advantage of my slight inattention, while I was thinking about my marshmallows, to walk-or in her case, sneak-up behind me. I swear a marshmallow bit is now lodged in my nose passage, somewhere. Vindictive Harpy.

‘Yes, I have to eat this cereal,’ I tell her, after my bout of surprised coughing and choking is done. I glare at my cereal…stupid evil marshmallows.

I hear her sigh and stalk away; she doesn’t really care all that much anymore. Her greater purpose has been reached: I am consuming breakfast cereal and milk simultaneously.

Besides, she knows from past experience that I will just continue to ignore her. I have learned that that is the only way. I must be calm, like a nicely flowing river, like a clear blue sky; I must let her words wash over me and be one with nature and my one-ness.

…So yes. I can handle her.

I look up from my staring match with my cereal to watch as she leaves the room and heads for the stairs; it is time to brush her teeth. She turns her head to meet my gaze.

‘I’m going upstairs to brush my teeth, and when I come back down, we will leave.’

‘Joy,’ I mutter.

‘What’s that?’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Oh,’ she says, and goes upstairs.