Bleed for Me Read Free Page B

right, I’l put you at the back. Permanently.’
    Sienna bows her head glumly.
    The drama teacher claps his hands. ‘OK, let’s do that scene again. I’l play your part, Lockwood. It’s a kiss, OK? I’m not asking you to take out her tonsils.’
    Mr El is takes his place opposite Erin, who is tal for her age and wearing flat shoes. The scene begins with an argument and ends when he puts a single finger beneath her chin and tilts her face towards his, whispering in a voice that penetrates even at the lowest volume. Erin’s hands are by her sides. Trembling slightly, her lips part and she topples fractional y forward as if surrendering. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss her, but he pul s away abruptly, breaking contact. Erin looks like a disappointed child.
    ‘OK, that’s it for today,’ says Mr El is. ‘We’l have another rehearsal on Friday afternoon and a ful dress rehearsal next Wednesday. Nobody be late.’
    He looks pointedly at Sienna. ‘And I expect everything to be perfect.’
    The cast wander off stage and the band begins packing away instruments. Easing open a fire door, I circle a side path to the main doors of the hal where a dozen parents are waiting, some with younger children clinging to their hands or playing tag on the grass.
    A woman’s voice behind me: ‘Professor O’Loughlin?’
    I turn. She smiles. It takes me a moment to remember her name. Annie Robinson, the school counsel or.
    ‘Cal me Joe.’
    ‘We haven’t seen you for a while.’
    ‘No. I guess my wife does most of this.’ I motion to the school buildings, or maybe I’m pointing to my life in general.

    Miss Robinson looks different. Her clothes are tighter and her skirt shorter. Normal y she seems so shy and distracted, but now she’s more focused, standing close as if she wants to share a secret with me. She’s wearing high heels and her liquid brown eyes are level with my lips.
    ‘It must be difficult - the break-up.’
    I clear my throat and mumble yes.
    Her extra-white teeth are framed by bright painted lips.
    Dropping her voice to a whisper, ‘If you ever need somebody to talk to . . . I know what it’s like.’ She smiles and her fingers find my hand. Intense embarrassment prickles beneath my scalp.
    ‘That’s very kind. Thank you.’
    I muster a nervous smile. At least I hope I’m smiling. That’s one of the problems with my ‘condition’. I can never be sure what face I’m showing the world - the genial O’Loughlin smile or the blank Parkinson’s mask.
    ‘Wel , it’s good to see you again,’ says Miss Robinson.
    ‘You too, you’re looking . . .’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Good.’
    She laughs with her eyes. ‘I’l take that as a compliment.’
    Then she leans forward and pecks me on the lips, withdrawing her hand from mine. She has pressed a smal piece of paper into my palm, her phone number. At that moment I spy Charlie in the shadows of the stage door, carrying a schoolbag over her right shoulder. Her dark hair is stil pinned up and there are traces of stage make-up around her eyes.
    ‘Were you kissing a teacher?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘I saw you.’
    ‘She kissed me . . .’
    ‘Not from where I was standing.’
    ‘It was a peck.’
    ‘On the lips.’
    ‘She was being friendly.’
    Charlie isn’t happy with the answer. She’s not happy with a lot of things I do and say these days. If I ask a question, I’m interrogating her. If I make an observation, I’m being judgemental. My comments are criticisms and our conversations are ‘arguments’.
    This is supposed to be my territory - human behaviour - but I seem to have a blind spot when it comes to understanding my eldest daughter, who doesn’t necessarily say what she means. For instance, when Charlie says I shouldn’t bother coming to something, real y she wants me to be there. And when she says, ‘Are you coming?’ it means ‘Be there, or else!’
    I take her bag. ‘The musical is great. You were bril iant.’
    ‘Did you sneak