FOREWORD
There’s something of me in every character in this book, but there are key differences too: I have not been diagnosed with a chronic illness; I’ve never been Chinese and gay; my upbringing was firmly middle class.
I’ve listened to people who understand these characters’ lives better than me and I’ve tried to avoid anything too misleading or harmfully ignorant and just let the characters exist as (fictional) humans on the page.
However. A range of characters is no substitute for a range of storytellers. Readers deserve more stories from more people. Stories where disabled characters have the same adventures as abled ones and characters of colour aren’t viewed against a white default. Stories where poverty is understood, not leveraged for pity, where religious beliefs aren’t sensationalised for plot, where a character’s gender or sexuality doesn’t preclude a happy beginning, middle and end. Stories that spring from creative authenticity, where the writer felt free to write anything they wanted and the reward is an audience.
Please write those stories, please believe they’ll get published and please read those that exist. If you’re writing already and would like support, I’m on Twitter and Tumblr and have a website with a contact form. I’d like to elevate other people’s voices, not drown them out with my own.
SOPHIE
Sophie woke with her phone in her hand, pain screaming down her fingers, into her wrist, loud enough to echo in her elbow.
Every morning, pain came first – feeling it, locating it, processing it. Today’s was both sharp and dull, all the muscles and joints of her left hand objecting to the mistake of falling asleep still holding her phone. But that was the worst of it. Nothing else hurt any more than it had when she’d gone to sleep.
Hope came second.
Switching hands, Sophie pulled her phone free from the charging cable snaking across her pillow to check her messages.
There were a lot. Notifications from friends who’d stayed up beyond the time she’d dropped off, emails with discount codes, and alerts for new content from channels and accounts that she’d subscribed to.
Nothing important. Nothing from Freya.
Still, Sophie kept on checking – after she’d brushed her teeth, once she’d got dressed, before feeding the cat, after feeding the cat, while feeding herself…
“No phones at the breakfast table.”
Keeping her head down so Mum couldn’t see her eye roll, Sophie flipped her phone over and picked up her spoon to prod the contents of her bowl. Her Weetabix had already dissolved into mush, the cranberries and raisins swollen with milk. Breakfast was often a struggle, but eating wasn’t optional: Sophie needed meds. Meds needed food. Sophie needed food.
Doggedly, she spooned up the mush, eyes fixed on Friday’s compartment of the pill box next to her glass of water. Mum was in constant motion in the background, emptying the dishwasher, opening the back door to let the cat out, preparing coffee for the school run.
“I’ll make sure we’ve something nice in for breakfast tomorrow.” Mum talked as she breezed across the kitchen, every step fizzing with the energy of someone who’d woken with 100% charge and wasn’t permanently operating on low power mode. “What sort of thing do you fancy?”
The truthful answer was “a lie-in”, but it wasn’t the one Mum wanted to hear.
“I don’t have anything in mind.” It was all Sophie could do to finish what was in her bowl – thinking of eating anything more was beyond her.
“Hmm … something high in protein, get that GCSE revision off to a good start…”
“Don’t forget I’m going out tonight,” Sophie said. The way Mum was talking made it sound like she’d forgotten.
“We’ll see how you feel after school.”
“I’ll feel fine.”
“We’ve talked about this, Soph—”
“And we agreed that for one day I get to live the life I’m supposed to have.” Her spoon clattered on the side of her bowl as she stared across the table.
“It’s just you’ve been doing so well this week…”
For Mum, “doing well” meant behaving well and taking care of herself in a way that Sophie loathed. She’d eaten every breakfast without grumbling, promised to let her friends carry her school bag between lessons and stayed out of sun that she longed to be able to bask in. Every evening had been a quiet one – do very little and get very bored and go to bed at a parentally pleasing hour.
All of it so she’d be able to go out tonight.
Not that there were rewards for good behaviour. Being chronically ill meant only ever trusting what was happening now.
And right now, Sophie felt hopeful.
Mum wasn’t going to take that away.
“You don’t need to keep me sealed in a bubble. I’m not contagious.”
Mum sighed, her lower lip tucking itself away: a habit Sophie had inherited to stop herself from saying something she shouldn’t.
“I know, darling,” Mum said eventually. “It’s my daughter I’m worried about, not other people. But” – she stressed as Sophie took breath to object – “you’re right, we agreed.”
There was more to come, but then the doorbell went and, like a particularly thirsty Pavlov’s dog, Mum perked up and disappeared out into the hall. Nothing in the furthest reaches of heaven or hell could stop her mother from seizing a chance to flirt with the postman.
Sophie idly flipped her phone back over.
Instagram opened on a post she’d looked at more times than was healthy since 1 January.
Freya standing by a door, looking back over her shoulder as she pushed it open to reveal a sliver of dark beyond. Even in an outfit as unremarkable as the white shirt and black skirt she wore for work, Sophie’s best friend managed to look special. The gleam of golden light on her pale blonde hair and the tilt of her chin, the confidence in her smile because she knew someone was watching.
The caption below was classic Freya: January. Named for the god of doorways. Let’s see where this one leads…
A many-layered comment that multiplied in meaning when the teacher skipped over the name “Freya Newmarch” the first day back at school. An above-average amount of likes spiralled into hundreds, and the first flurry of compliments from the usual suspects turned into increasingly urgent demands to know where Freya was as speculation broke out in little sub-chats.
Are you OK? We’re worried!
Why aren’t you replying to any of the comments?!
Where u gone?
I saw her mum last night!!!
You saw someone you *thought* was her mum.
You calling me a liar?
Were you on the number 678 this morning? I waved but I’m not sure you saw me…
Duh. She was not on the bus.
The highlight came when someone typed the first line to “Rehab”, and the rest of the comments were people writing the lyrics line for line with a few pill and needle emojis thrown in for good measure – a bout of mild hysteria brought on by boredom and intrigue. Once the song reached its conclusion, Freya returned to her feed for an encore.
You guys are SO WEIRD. (I love it.) No rehab. No kidnapping. I moved to Manchester! Followed by a string of cry-laughing emojis.