Exclusive Extract from See You Tomorrow

Am I a storm? Am I electric?

 

She’ll be sixteen in a few months, her forehead is sweaty, under her hairline too. Her mouth is trembling and she knows she needs to hurry up – her knees wobble as she walks. Her heart is wild and emboldened; she feels weak, she feels strong.

 

One metre sixty-one, two burning eyes, three freckles on her nose, straight blonde fringe and glittering lip gloss.

 

The white bra, the one she bought without her mother’s knowledge, the one her mother would probably think was tawdry, would he like it?

 

Is she the one he just has to have? Is she irresistible?

 

Sandra doesn’t need any sleep, doesn’t need any rest, why sleep the seconds away? She’s never going to sleep again, she’s going to stay awake twenty-four hours a day, because she doesn’t have the time to waste a second of the life she’s living.

 

Terrorism, environmental disasters, financial crises. They might well exist out there, they might well be important, to Mum, to Dad, to the teachers, to grown-ups, but to her they don’t exist. The world has vanished. All she’s got is heat and dread, haste and apprehension. All she feels is this drizzle within, like a strange rain falling inside her, wonderful and dangerous. Because Sandra is going to meet the one she loves.

 

He must be there by now?

 

She clutches the silver cross resting in the hollow of her throat, wipes her damp forehead with her arm. It’s embarrassing, she’s inherited it from her father. He always has patches of sweat under his arms when he hangs up his jacket after work and says, ‘Ah, it’s good to be home’.

 

Maybe she should get herself a headscarf she could tie from the back of her neck round her forehead. Maybe he’d like that. He wouldn’t have left yet, would he?

 

Sandra drags the heavy industrial hoover as quickly as she can across the shop floor. She’s not checking the time on her mobile every minute, more like every five seconds and now it’s way too late, 20:50.

 

He’s going to be waiting for her by the substation in Gosen Woods. Just by Madlavoll primary school. Close to Gosen kindergarten. She’s attended both of them. He’ll be waiting for her. And he’s not lying now is he, because love, that doesn’t lie, does it?

 

Jesus, imagine if Mum had seen her?

 

He took her face in those warm hands, his pupils were aglow. She held her breath, felt his thumbs stroke her lips, then he kissed her and said what she wanted to hear: ‘I’ll be there at nine. See you tomorrow.’

 

Love doesn’t lie.

 

It’s nice outside now. After a few weeks of rain, the September sky is brightening up even though the temperature has dropped and everybody can feel what’s coming: there’s a nip in the air. Everything living will fade and die.

 

It’s all the same to Sandra. Come rain, come storm, come everything. War could break out, and that would be fine, as long as she gets to be with him, with him. The girl can hardly understand what she was doing before she met Daniel. All the days and nights spent with her friends, standing around the schoolyard, hanging about outside the shop, walking arm-in-arm, sniggering, and singing out loud in unison. It seems so insignificant, so stupid, so childish. They can go on about how preoccupied she’s become lately. Mira can say it as loud as she likes, Sandra’s let us down, Sandra’s losing it. And Mathilde, poor girl, looks like she lives in squalor, as Mum would say, she can say it too, Sandra’s changed. Makes no difference what they think, it’s air, it’s wind, it’s really less than nothing. All that matters is running towards the one you love and letting your heart melt into his.

 

Daniel glances up at the football pitch by the school. He takes his mobile from his leather jacket. 20:52. She’s usually on time.

 

Daniel spits.

 

You get the life you’re given, it’s your job to live it.

 

It’s shite with things that are best left buried thousands of miles underground.

 

Sometimes he thinks about it. About killing. Just going out and killing somebody. Making a person disappear just because he can. What a release it must be. Clench your fists until they’re as hard as wrecking balls, pummel a face until you can’t tell it’s a face.

Maybe tonight’s the night.