Free Where the Moon Isn't by Nathan Filer Page B

curtains again. Turning to face me, planting her hands on her hips, ‘If you’re out of your deodorant, you know you can just put it on the list don’t you? I can’t keep track of what everyone needs all the time. It’s what the list is for.’
    ‘What are you talking about? Who said anything about—’
    ‘It’s just a bit stuffy in here. And I don’t mind getting you Lynx or whichever it is you want, but you need to put it on the list because—’
    ‘Jesus. I didn’t ask you to come in.’
    ‘No. But what if a friend came around?’
    ‘Like who?’
    ‘Like, like anyone. Like Jacob. It’s not the point. Now please, for me. Please Matt. Even if you don’t care how you’ve done, I still do.’
    In life there are milestones. Events that mark out certain days as being special from the other days.
    They begin before we’re old enough to know about them, like the day we uttered our first proper word, and the day we took our first steps. We made it through the night without a nappy. We learnt other people have feelings, and the stabilizers came off our bikes.
    If we’re lucky – and I am, I do know that – we get help along the way. Nobody swam my first width of the pool for me, but Dad drove me back and forth to swimming classes, even though he’d never learnt to swim himself, and when I got awarded my Tony the Tiger Five Metres badge, it was Mum who carefully sewed it onto my swimming trunks. So I reckon a lot of my early milestones were their milestones too.
    Mum’s hands slipped from her hips, then she folded her arms across her chest, then back to her hips.
    She was nervous – that was it.
    ‘Even if you don’t care how you’ve done, I still do.’
    She’d woken up first thing with my dad and driven him to work. In the car they’d listened to the radio. I can’t know this. I’m guessing. It’s what you might call an educated guess. On the local news a roaming reporter had based himself at one of the high schools. They didn’t catch which one, but maybe mine. The reporter talked about how average GCSE grades were up for the millionth year in a row; he talked about how boys were closing the gap on girls; he talked about a slight increase in home education, and Mum felt her tummy do a somersault. Then he took his regional accent to meet a group of squealing girls – prising one away for the obligatory interview. Um, four A stars, 3 As and two Bs, the girl says, breathless with excitement. Oh, and a C in Maths, she giggles. I hate Maths.
    Getting out of the car, Dad paused. ‘He’s a smart lad. He’ll have done okay.’
    Mum answered quietly. ‘Yes. I know.’
    I’m guessing. It’s an educated guess.
    Sitting in slow traffic, in slight drizzle – enough to use the windscreen wipers, but not enough to stop them squeaking – Mum would have allowed herself the small luxury of imagining the perfect morning.
    In this morning, this perfect morning, she’d get home and I’d be out of bed already – waiting for her in the kitchen. I’ve made myself some toast but hardly taken a bite. I’m too nervous. ‘Do you mind driving me Mum? It’s just— I want you to be there.’
    ‘Of course,’ she smiles. She sits beside me at the table, stealing a cheeky bite of toast. ‘Now listen,’ she says.
    Now listen.
     
          Listen.
     
    Listen.
    Sitting in traffic, she rehearsed.
    Her voice would be perfect. A soothing voice – tender and reassuring. Not her scratchy, knotted voice. Not the exasperated I’ll-count-to-ten-and-start-again voice, the voice I’d started mimicking to send her over the edge.
    ‘Now listen. You have nothing to be nervous about. You worked so hard. You tried your best. And really, Matt. That’s all that matters.’
    Then the doubts appeared. Or they were there all along, but now she noticed them. Like specks of rain on the windscreen. The way you can look right through them at first, focus into the distance, as if they’re not even there, but as soon as you see