Sixteen: Mad

“Hello, Layla.” Tina’s voice is really curt, as if she’s mad at me for not letting her come round. But I don’t care about that; I just want to know what the hell she’d done.

“I just spoke to my mother,” I fume, “and she told me something very interesting.”

Tina was silent, and then the line went dead. She’d hung up on me, before she even knew what I was going to say.

She’d obviously done something.

So I leave the house. I climb into my car and drive over to her house. She’s in, but it takes her a while to open the door. And when she does, she’s very pale and looks slightly scared.

I push past her into the house. “Why the hell did you tell my family that I’d had a stalker? Why the hell did you give them fake numbers and addresses?” I shout as she stands there, leaning against the door. She’s silent. “Well? C’mon, I want an answer!”


“If you hadn’t done that, I probably wouldn’t have tried to commit suicide!” I scream at her. “It’s all your fault!”

“I had to do it, Layla!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were so dependant upon your family...”

“Yes! I know! I love them! They’re everything to me!”

“It was getting in the way of your career! You were planning on all these trips to England, them to come to us – they would have only got in the way. You wouldn’t have nearly got as far as you have now without me doing what I did! You know that!”

“BUT I DIDN’T GET TO SEE MY FAMILY IN THREE YEARS!” I yell. I’m so mad; I’m on the verge of violence. “I DON’T CARE ABOUT MY JOB! I DON’T CARE ABOUT IT AT ALL! AND I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU, EITHER! NEVER CONTACT ME AGAIN! I NEVER EVEN WANT TO SEE YOUR FACE!” I turn around and storm out of the house. She tries to follow, begging me to come back inside, telling me to calm down and then – “Stop overreacting!”

I ignore her and climb into my car. She stands by the door, leaning against the window, asking me to wind it down. I lock the doors and sit there, head in hands, calming myself down before I drive off. When I do, I look back at her. She’s stood in the middle of the road, looking oddly lost.

When I get home, I slam upstairs to my room and punch Gerard’s number into the phone. He finally answers and I spit out, “You’ll never guess what I’ve just done.”

“Well, I know already. Tina rang me.”

“She – she did?”

“Yes. She had a right go at me, too! She said it was all my fault that you’d turned on her, all my fault that you’d contacted your family.”

“I hate her.”

“Now, don’t be so...”

“I really, really do!” I feel like crying all over again. “I just want...”

“Yes?” Gerard prompts.

I sigh. “I just want to go home.”