Leila was skilled at speaking nothing. Her responses were like reflections in a shop window, cast back but not identical. ‘I am sick of these foxes getting into our bins,’ her mum would spit, picking at the paint on the kitchen sill, and Leila would reply, ‘Yes, they keep eating the rubbish.’ Her dad would murmur, ‘God I love this programme, the way they convey so much without having to use words, it gets to me Leila, it gets to me,’ and as he stared at the set, overwhelmed, she would nod and reply, ‘They don’t say much.’
These situations were easy. Other times, it was more difficult. ‘What do you fancy for dinner, Leila?’ was Leila’s least favourite question. That demanded new material. ‘Oh! I am still full from lunch’ only worked if it was afternoon. At 6 pm, it was impossible. It wasn’t plausible! A ham sandwich can only last so long.
Distractions worked. Once, she had pushed everything off the table: glass of water, notebook, the crisp halfway to her mouth. (The crisp was up in the air until the last moment, but it was connected to the table by her elbow so needed to go.) Another time she had stared at the floor, willing herself not to look away. She was frozen, she decided. No one could expect anything of her. She was nothing.
These weren’t long-term solutions. They were exceptions. After all, distractions are not nothing. ‘Water all over the fucking floor Leila, what a mess!’ was something. ‘Leila, can you hear me? Shall I call an ambulance?’ was something. Leila did not approve of something. She did not wish to exert somethings. That was never part of the game.
0
One morning, when her mum said, ‘Good morning!’ as she drew Leila’s curtains, and Leila replied, ‘Morning good!’ her mum began to suspect that a game was being played. It was a mistake. Not everything needed to be pushed through Leila’s encrypter, old made to seem new. Some things could just be repeated. Some things were expected to be repeated. Good morning was the safe zone. But she had fucked it. Morning good! It was early, but she had fucked it.
‘Is everything okay?’ her mum asked, sitting on the side of Leila’s bed. Hand brushing hair off her forehead. This was bad. This was bad. This was bad. A neat inversion would not solve things, but she tried it anyway.
‘Everything is okay.’
