Being Lara Read Free Page A

Lara chose that particular question was during the family’s dinnertime, at the table with a plate of mashed potatoes, sausage, and beans and an episode of Mum’s favorite show, Dallas, in the background. Just before the evening ritual of playfully kicking her feet under the dining table, as Mum fetched drinks and Dad sat in “Dad’s armchair” facing the telly with a hot plate resting on his lap on top of a TV Times, Lara asked:
    â€œWhy am I different?”
    The mashed potato in Dad’s mouth suddenly lodged in his throat, and Mum dropped the jug of “healthy and nutritious water” she was about to force them all to drink.
    Silence.
    Mum went to fetch the dustpan and brush from the kitchen as the atmosphere remained still, save for the impolite ramblings of Sue Ellen.
    Lara turned to her dad desperately, anxious for him to offer a reasonable enough explanation so that she could tuck into her food even though she suddenly wasn’t that hungry.
    So she repeated the question, this time with added oomph and a sprinkle of exaggeration. But, still, the silence that followed remained intense, threatening to swallow her up whole, leading her to take a chance on something she’d only ever call on during desperate times. Like when Mrs. Kershaw, her teacher, asked who’d thrown a felt-tip pen across the classroom as her back was turned. Everyone knew it was Connie, but Lara had simply nodded her head and said she hadn’t seen a thing.
    Lara would have to lie again.
    â€œRyan said you must have found me in the street one day and taken me home. Is that true?” she asked, turning to Dad.
    â€œYou’re being silly!” said Mum, stooping to sweep shards of broken glass into the green dustpan.
    Something, a thought or a feeling or a memory, kept whispering to Lara that this was potentially serious; and she longed to jump into Doc Brown’s traveling machine, punch in random buttons, and find herself back fifteen minutes ago, no, make that three weeks, so she could ignorantly lark about happily on Blackpool beach, her only care being whether she’d collected enough shells or not.
    She just longed to be herself again. Lara from Entwistle Way, somewhere in Essex. But her brain, unable to process the early contents of the Pandora’s box she’d just unlocked, decided to respond in the only way that made any sort of sense to her at that moment.
    â€œJUST TELL ME WHAT HE MEANT!” she yelled, finally, feeling a strange release, as a fuzzy redness became her vision, her heart racing with a sudden surge of injustice. She needed the truth and was going to get it. Today, this minute, this second!
    But not one sound from anyone followed—just an unintentional burp from Dad as Mum continued to sweep up the last of the broken glass, eyes fixed on the ground.
    Dad turned to Mum with a worried look. Mum stared blankly at the wall as she stood to her full height.
    â€œDon’t worry yourself about it,” said Mum almost robotically. Lara opened her mouth in preparation for petulant protest, just as Dad, perhaps sensing her on Standby for Full Tantrum Mode, spoke. But it was to say three words that surprised, annoyed, and continued to confuse her all at once.
    â€œIt’s not time.”
    So, there was something.
    Even the next day in the local paper shop, where Lara regularly used her £1 a week pocket money to purchase sweets and comics, the atmosphere suddenly felt colored with “grown-up” seriousness. A woman with a huge hat stared at Lara and Dad as she pretended (badly) to be interested in the newspaper headlines of the day. Her eyes stalked them as Lara browsed the teen magazines longingly and Dad, as usual, joked with Mr. Maharajah, the newsagent, as he secretly eyed the rows of cigarettes sitting on the back shelf.
    Clues previously hidden behind fluffy clouds of ignorance now began to magnify all around Lara, and gradually, the staunch belief