The Pause Read Free

laughter, though she probably doesn’t even get the joke. She’s pretending she does just so Dad’s ultimate dad-joke doesn’t fall flat.
    Dad went to Trinity College in Dublin and became, if you can believe it, an accountant. It doesn’t seem right, does it? You just don’t hear of Irishaccountants. Writers: yes. Comedians, musicians, political activists, actors: certainly. But accountants? It’s wrong somehow. Kind of like Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt being insurance claims assessors or Stephen Hawking working as a cinema usher.
    â€˜What’s up, Dec?’ he says. ‘Girl trouble?’
    I can sense Mum slip into semaphore mode again, her arms waving about like a baton twirler.
    â€˜Not to worry, pal,’ he says, ruffling my hair. ‘Plenty of other fish in the sea.’
    I push his hand away. ‘Well then, why don’t you go and fuck a tuna?’
    Mum gives me a look as if I’ve gone too far, but cuts me some slack and doesn’t say anything.
    â€˜Looks like someone needs a happy pill,’ says Dad.
    â€˜Give him a little space, Shaun,’ says Mum in diplomat mode. ‘He’ll be all right.’
    â€˜He shouldn’t speak to Daddy like that,’ interjects Kate as if her opinion actually counts. I hate it when she calls Dad ‘Daddy’. She just does it for effect. To be all cutesy and cuddly, to the point where I want to beat her over the head with her My Little Pony. I hate myself for behaving this way to Dad and Kate, but I can’t help it. My nerves are screaming and they just don’t get it.
    â€˜Could you go and check the pool temperature, darling?’ says Mum, to Kate. ‘Summer’s well onthe way and I fancy having a dip when I get home from work.’
    Kate races out the back like a demented chicken and Dad follows when Mum gives him a nod. Mum comes over and gently puts her arm around me. It’s a half-hug. She knows the rules. But unfortunately I can’t hug her back, not even half. Life doesn’t work like that. I haven’t been able to hug her since I turned thirteen. And yet I really need to. I need her to draw me into her and let me cry like a baby. But that’s not about to happen.
    â€˜Hang in there, Dec,’ she says. ‘The sun will smile on you again soon. I promise.’
    As she makes the promise, I feel it building in my chest, welling in my eyes, but I choke it down and blink it away. And apart from my screaming nerves, I’m okay. For now. At least Mum, Dad and Kate didn’t see me cry, and that’s the main thing.
    â€˜I’m here if you want to talk about it.’
    I wish she hadn’t used that pronoun at the end. That tells us all that there’s a specific ‘it’ that’s bothering me, and we all know what ‘it’ is.
    I don’t even manage a grunt.

True story: a little nuggety guy walks up to an extremely tall woman in a nightclub and says, ‘Hey, baby, what’s the weather like up there?’ The woman looks down at the guy in disgust, hoicks up a throatful of phlegm, spits on him and says, ‘It’s raining.’
    That would have to be, without a shadow of a doubt, the worst pickup line in history. Though I think mine runs it a pretty close second.
    It’s the last train we can catch to school without getting a late notice. Chris and Maaaate tell me to give up. She’s not coming this morning. She’s either sick or her parents have driven her. Besides, Smith Street Girls’ High is only two stops up theline: she can afford to catch a later train. With five stops to Redcliffe Boys’, we can’t.
    We scramble onboard, climb the stairs and grab a three-seater. Chris and Maaaate talk about an upcoming English exam. I zone out and stare out the window as the rain streaks down it. Each day I don’t see her is a day lost.
    â€˜Mate,’ says Chris, elbowing me in the ribs. Maaaate looks over