Before i die jenny downham download

I want it to be perfect, Zoey. If I have sex with a boy I don t even know, what does that make me? A slag? She turns on me, her eyes glittering. No, it makes you alive. If you get in a cab and go home to Daddy, what does that make you? I imagine climbing into bed, breathing the dead air of my room all night, waking up to the morning and nothing being any different.

Her smile is back. Come on, she says. You can tick the first thing off that bloody list of yours. I know you want to. Her smile s contagious. Say yes, Tessa. Come on, say yes! She grabs my hand, steers me back to the door of the club. Now text your dad and say you re staying at mine, and let s get a move on. Jake says. He s leaning against the sink in his kitchen and I m standing too close to him. I m doing it on purpose.

I just fancied some tea. He shrugs, chinks his beer bottle against my cup, and tips his head back to swig. I watch his throat as he swallows, notice a small pale scar under his chin, a thin ribbon from some long ago accident.

He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, sees me staring. You OK? He smiles at me. He has a nice smile. I m glad. It would be so much harder if he was ugly.

Half an hour ago Jake and his mate Stoner Boy grinned at each other as they led me and Zoey into their house. Those grins said they d scored. Zoey told them not to make any assumptions, but still we walked into their lounge and she let Stoner take her coat. She laughed at his jokes, accepted the joints he made for her and got steadily wrecked. I can see her through the door.

They ve put music on, some mellow jazz number. They ve turned off the lights to dance, moving together in slow, stoned circles on the carpet. Zoey has one hand in the air holding a joint, the other tucked into Stoner s belt at the back of his trousers. He has 19 both arms wrapped around her so that they appear to be holding each other up.

I feel suddenly sensible, drinking tea in the kitchen, and realize I need to get on with my plan. This is about me, after all. I gulp my tea down, put the cup on the draining board and move even closer to Jake. The tips of our shoes touch. Kiss me, I say, which sounds ridiculous as soon as I say it, but Jake doesn t seem to mind. He puts down his beer and leans towards me.

We kiss quite gently, our lips just brushing, only a hint of breath from him to me. I ve always known I d be good at kissing. I ve read all the magazines, the ones that tell you about nose bumping and excess saliva and where to put your hands.

I didn t know it would feel like this though, the soft scour of his chin on mine, his hands gently searching my back, his tongue running along my lips and into my mouth. We kiss for minutes, pressing our bodies closer, leaning in to each other.

It s such a relief to be with someone who doesn t know me at all. My hands are brave, dipping into the curve where his spine ends and stroking him there. How healthy he feels, how solid. I open my eyes to see if he s enjoying it, but I m drawn instead to the window behind him, to the trees surrounded by night out there. Little black twigs tap at the glass like fingers.

I snap my eyes shut and grind myself closer to him. I can feel just how hard he wants me through my little red dress. He makes a small moaning noise at the back of his throat. Let s go upstairs, he says. He tries to move me towards the door, but I put my hand flat against his chest to keep him at bay while I think.

Come on, he says. You want to, don t you? I can feel his heart pulsing through my fingers. He smiles down at me, and I do want to, don t I? Isn t this why I m here? His hand is hot as he laces our fingers together and leads me through the lounge to the stairs. Zoey s kissing Stoner Boy. She has his back against the wall and her leg between his. When we walk past, they hear us and they both turn round.

They look dishevelled and hot. Zoey wiggles her tongue at me. It glistens like a fish in a cave. I let go of Jake to get Zoey s bag from the sofa. I rummage around in it, aware of everyone s eyes on me, the slow grin on Stoner s face. Jake s leaning against the doorframe, waiting. Is he giving the thumbs-up?

I can t look. I can t find the condoms either, don t even know if it s a box or a packet, or really what they look like. In my embarrassment, I decide to take the entire bag upstairs. If Zoey needs a condom, she ll just have to come and get it. Let s go, I say. I follow Jake up the stairs, concentrate on the sway of his hips to keep myself cheerful. I feel a bit strange, dizzy and slightly nauseous.

I didn t think that walking up the stairs behind a guy would remind me of hospital corridors. Maybe I m just tired. I try to remember the rules about feeling sick — whenever possible get lots of fresh air, open a window or go outside if you can. Get good at distraction therapy — do something, anything, to keep your mind off it.

In here, he says. His bedroom s nothing special — a small room with a desk, a computer, scattered books on the floor, a chair and a single bed. On the walls are a few black and white posters — jazz musicians mostly. He looks at me looking at his room.

You can put your bag down, he says. I don t move. Because if I sit down on that bed, then I need the lights off. Could you light that candle? I say. He opens a drawer, pulls out matches and gets up to light the candle on the desk.

He turns off the main light and sits back down. Here is a real breathing boy, looking up at me, waiting for me. This is my moment, but I can feel my chest ticking. Maybe the only way to get through this without him thinking I m a complete idiot is to pretend to be someone else. I decide to be Zoey, and begin to undo the buttons on her dress.

He watches me do it, one button, two buttons. He runs his tongue across his lips. Three buttons. He stands up. Let me do that. His fingers are quick. He s done this before. Another girl, a different night. I wonder where she is now. Four buttons, five, and the little red dress slides from shoulder to hip, falls to the floor and lands at my feet like a kiss. I step out of it and stand before him in just my bra and knickers. What s that?

He frowns at the puckered skin on my chest. I was ill. What was wrong with you? I shut him up with kisses. I smell different now I m practically naked — musky and hot. He tastes different — of smoke and something sweet. Life maybe. I ask in my best Zoey voice. He pulls up his T-shirt, over his face, his arms raised. For a second he can t see me, but he s exposed — his narrow chest, freckled and young, the dark shine of hair under his armpits.

He chucks his T-shirt on the floor and kisses me again. He tries to unbuckle his belt without looking, with only one hand, but can t do it. He pulls away, looking at me all the while as he fumbles at button and zip.

He steps out of his trousers and stands before me in his underwear. There s a moment when maybe he s uncertain, and he hesitates, seems shy. I notice his feet, innocent as daisies in their white socks, and I want to give him something. Not all the way with a guy. The candle gutters. He doesn t say anything for a second, then shakes his head like he just can t believe it. Wow, that s amazing. I nod.

Come here. I bury myself in his shoulder. It s comforting, as if things may be all right. He wraps one arm around me, the other creeping up my back to stroke my neck. His hand is warm. Two hours ago I didn t even know his name. Maybe we don t have to have sex. Maybe we could just lie down and snuggle up, find sleep in each other s arms under the duvet. Maybe we ll fall in love. He ll hunt for a cure and I ll live for ever.

But no. Have you got condoms? I reach for Zoey s bag and tip it upside down on the floor at our feet and he helps himself, puts the condom on the bedside table ready and starts to pull off his socks. I ve never been naked in front of a guy before. He looks at me as if he wants to eat me and is wondering where to start. I can hear my heart thumping. He has trouble with his pants, easing them over his hard-on.

I pull off my knickers, find myself shivering. We re both naked. I think of Adam and Eve. It ll be OK, he says, and he takes me by the hand and leads me to the bed, pulls down the duvet and we climb in.

It s a boat. It s a den. It s somewhere to hide. You re gonna love it, he says. We start to kiss, slowly at first, his fingers lazily tracing the lines of my bones. I like it — how gentle we are with each other, our slowness under the candle s glow. But it doesn t last long. His kisses become deeper, his tongue thrusting quickly, like he can t get close enough.

His hands are busy too now, squeezing and rubbing. Is he looking for something in particular? He keeps saying, Oh yeah, oh yeah, but I don t think he s saying it to me. His eyes are closed, his mouth is full of my breast. Look at me, I tell him. I need you to look at me.

He leans up on one elbow. I don t know what to do. You re fine. His eyes are so dark I don t recognize him. It s as if he s changed into someone else, is not even the half-stranger he was a few minutes ago. Everything s fine. And he goes back to kissing my neck, my breasts, my stomach until his face disappears from me again. His hand works its way down too, and I don t know how to tell him not to. I move my hips away from him, but he doesn t stop.

His fingers flicker 24 between my legs, and I gasp with shock, because no one has ever done that to me before. What s wrong with me that I don t know how to do this? I thought I d know what to do, what would happen. But this is spiralling away from me, as if Jake s making me do it, when I m supposed to be in charge.

I cling to him, wrap my hands round his back and pat him there, like he s a dog that I don t understand. He eases himself up the bed and sits up.

All right? He reaches over to the table where he left the condom. I watch him put it on. He does it quickly. He s a condom expert. I nod again. It seems rude not to. He lies down, moves my legs apart with his, presses himself closer, his weight on top of me. Soon I ll feel him inside me and I ll know what all the fuss is about. This was my idea. I notice lots of things while the red neon numbers on his radio alarm move from to I notice that his shoes are on their side by the door.

The door isn t shut properly. There s a strange shadow on the ceiling in the far corner that looks like a face. I think of a fat man I once saw sweating as he jogged down our street.

I think of an apple. I think that a safe place to be would be under the bed, or with my head on my mother s lap. This is it. It s really happening. I m living it now. When it s finished, I lie under him feeling mostly silent and small. We stay like this for a bit, then he rolls off and peers at me through the dark.

What is it? What s wrong? I can t look at him, so I move closer, bury myself deeper, hide in his arms. I know I m making a complete fool of myself. I m snuffling all over him like a baby, and I can t stop, it s horrible. He sweeps his hand in circles on my back, whispers Shush into my ear, eventually eases me away so he can see me. You re not going to say you didn t want to, are you?

I wipe my eyes with the duvet. I sit up, my feet dangling over the edge of the bed onto the carpet. I sit with my back to him, blinking at my clothes. They re unfamiliar shadows scattered on the floor. When I was a kid, I used to ride on my dad s shoulders. I was so small he had to hold my back with both hands to stop me tipping, and yet I was so high I could splash my hands through leaves. I could never tell Jake this. It wouldn t make any difference to him. I don t think words reach people.

Maybe nothing does. I scramble into my clothes. The red dress seems smaller than ever; I pull it down, trying to cover my knees. Did I really go to a club looking like this? I slip on my shoes, gather the things back into Zoey s bag. Jake says, You don t have to go. He s leaning up on one elbow. His chest seems pale as the candle flickers. I want to. One arm hangs over the side of the bed; his fingers curl where they touch the floor. He shakes his head really slowly.

Zoey s downstairs on the sofa, asleep. So is Stoner Boy. They lie together, their arms entwined, their faces next to each other. I hate it that it s OK for her. She s even wearing his shirt. Its sweet buttons in little rows make me think of that sugar house in the children s story. I kneel beside them and stroke Zoey s arm very lightly.

Her arm is warm. I stroke her until she opens her eyes. She blinks at me. Finished already? I nod, can t help grinning, which is weird. She untangles herself from Stoner s arms, sits up and surveys the floor. Is there any gear about? I find the tin with the dope in it and hand it to her, then I go to the kitchen and get a glass of water.

I think she ll follow me, but she doesn t. How can we talk with Stoner there? I drink the water, put the glass on the draining board and go back to the lounge. I sit on the floor at Zoey s feet as she licks a Rizla and sticks it to another, licks a second, straps that down too, tears off the edges. How did it go? A pulse of light through the curtain blinds me. I can only see the shine of her teeth. Was he any good?

I think of Jake upstairs, his hand trailing the floor. I don t know. Zoey inhales, regards me curiously, exhales. You have to get used to it. My mum once said that sex was only three minutes of pleasure. I 27 thought, Is that all?

It s going to be more than that for me! And it is. If you let them think they re great at it, somehow it turns out all right. I stand up, walk to the curtains and open them wider. The streetlights are still on. It s nowhere near morning. Zoey says, Have you just left him up there? I guess so. That s a bit rude. You should go back and have another go. I don t want to. Well, we can t go home yet. I m wrecked. She stubs the joint out in the ashtray, settles herself back down next to Scott and shuts her eyes.

I watch her for ages, the rise and fall of her breathing. A string of lights along the wall casts a gentle glow across the carpet. There s a rug too, a little oval with splashes of blue and grey, like the sea. I go back to the kitchen and put the kettle on. There s a piece of paper on the counter. On it someone s written, Cheese, butter, beans, bread.

I sit on a stool at the kitchen table and I add, Butterscotch chocolate, six-pack of Creme Eggs. I especially want the Creme Eggs, because I love having those at Easter.

It s two hundred and seventeen days until Easter. Perhaps I should be a little more realistic. I cross out the Creme Eggs and write, Chocolate Father Xmas, red and gold foil with a bell round its neck.

I might just get that. It s one hundred and thirteen days until Christmas. I turn the little piece of paper over and write, Tessa Scott. A good name of three syllables, my dad always says. If I can fit my name on this piece of paper over fifty times, everything will be all right. I write in very small letters, like a tooth fairy might write to answer a child s letter.

My wrist aches. The kettle whistles. The kitchen fills with steam. We get the lift up to the eighth floor, and usually there s a moment when she opens the door and says, Hey, you!

Dad usually loiters for a while on the step and they talk. But today when she opens the door, Dad s so desperate to get away from me that he s already moving back across the hallway towards the lift.

Watch her, he says, jabbing a finger in my direction. She s not to be trusted. Mum laughs. Why, what did she do? Cal can hardly contain his excitement. Dad told her not to go clubbing. Ah, Mum says. That sounds like your father. But she went anyway. She only got home just now. She was out all night. Mum smiles at me fondly. Did you meet a boy? I bet you did. What s his name? I didn t! Dad looks furious. Typical, he says.

Bloody typical. I might ve known I wouldn t get any support from you. Oh, shush, Mum says. It hasn t done her any harm, has it? Look at her. She s completely exhausted. I hate it. I feel dismal and cold and my stomach aches. It s been hurting since having sex with Jake. No one told me that would happen. She s refused to have her blood count checked for nearly two weeks, so phone me if anything changes.

Can you manage that? Yes, yes, don t worry. She leans over and kisses my forehead. Cal and me sit at the kitchen table, and Mum puts the kettle on, finds three cups amongst the dirty ones in the sink and swills them under the tap.

She reaches into a cupboard for tea bags, gets milk from the fridge and sniffs it, scatters biscuits on a plate. I put a whole Bourbon in my mouth at once. It tastes delicious. Cheap chocolate and the rush of sugar to my brain.

Did I ever tell you about my first boyfriend? Mum says as she plonks the tea on the table. His name was Kevin and he worked in a clock shop. I used to love the way he concentrated with that little eye-piece nudged into his face. Cal helps himself to another biscuit. How many boyfriends have you actually had, Mum? She laughs, pushes her long hair back over one shoulder. Is that an appropriate question? Was Dad the best? Ah, your father! I once asked Mum what was wrong with Dad.

She said, He s the most sensible man I ve ever met. She sent postcards for a while from places I d never heard of — Skegness, Grimsby, Hull. One of them had a picture of a hotel on the front. This is where I work now, she wrote. Dad said. I hope she bloody bursts! I put her postcards on my bedroom wall — Carlisle, Melrose, Dornoch.

We re living in a croft like shepherds, she wrote. Did you know that they use the windpipe, lungs, heart and liver of a sheep to make haggis? I didn t, and I didn t know who she meant by we , but I liked looking at the picture of John o Groats with its vast sky stretching across the Firth. Then winter came and I got my diagnosis. I m not sure she believed it at first, because it took her a while to turn round and make her way back.

I was thirteen when she finally knocked on our door. You look lovely! Why does your father always make everything sound so much worse than it is? Are you coming back to live with us? I asked. Not quite. And that s when she moved into her flat.

It s always the same. Maybe it s lack of money, or perhaps she wants to make sure I don t over-exert myself, but we always end up watching videos or playing board games. Today, Cal chooses the Game of Life. It s rubbish, and I m crap at it. I end up with a husband, two children and a job in a travel agent s. I forget to buy house insurance, and when a storm comes, I lose all my money. Cal, however, gets to be a pop star with a cottage by the sea, and Mum s an artist with a huge income and a stately home to live in.

When I retire, which happens early because I keep spinning tens, I don t even bother counting what s left of my cash. He goes to get a coin from her purse, and while we re waiting, I drag the blanket off the back of the sofa and Mum helps me pull it over my knees.

Will you come? Isn t Dad going? You could both come. She looks awkward for a moment. What s it for? They want to do a lumbar puncture. She leans over and kisses me, her breath warm on my face. You ll be fine, don t worry. I know you ll be fine.

Cal comes back in with a pound coin. Watch very carefully, ladies, he says. But I don t want to. I m bored of watching things disappear. In Mum s bedroom, I hitch my T-shirt up in front of the wardrobe mirror. I used to look like an ugly dwarf. My skin was grey and if I poked my tummy it felt like an over-risen lump of bread dough and my finger disappeared into its softness. Steroids did that. High-dosage prednisolone and dexamethasone. They re both poisons and they make you fat, ugly and bad-tempered.

Since I stopped taking them I ve started to shrink. Today, my hips are sharp and my ribs shine through my skin. I m retreating, ghost-like, away from myself. I sit on Mum s bed and phone Zoey.

Sex, I ask her. What does it mean? You really did get a crap shag, didn t you? I just don t understand why I feel so strange.

Strange how? Lonely, and my stomach hurts. Oh, yeah! I remember that. Like you ve been opened up inside? A bit. That ll go away. Why do I feel as if I m about to cry all the time? You re taking it too seriously, Tess. Sex is a way of being with someone, that s all. It s just a way of keeping warm and feeling attractive. She sounds odd, as if she s smiling. Are you stoned again, Zoey? Where are you? Listen, I have to go in a minute. Tell me what s next on your list and we ll make a plan.

It was stupid. It was fun! Don t give up on it. You were doing something with your life at last. When I hang up, I count to fifty-seven inside my head. Then I dial A woman says, Emergency services. Which service do you require? The woman says, Is there an emergency? I say, No. She says, Can you confirm that there is no emergency? Can you confirm your address? I tell her where Mum lives. I confirm there s no emergency. I wonder if Mum ll get sent some kind of bill. I hope so. I dial directory enquiries and get the number for the Samaritans.

I dial it very slowly. A woman says, Hello. She has a soft voice, maybe Irish. Hello, she says again. Because I feel sorry for wasting her time, I say, Everything s a pile of crap. And she makes a little Uh-huh sound in the back of her throat, which makes me think of Dad.

He made exactly that sound six weeks ago, when the consultant at the hospital asked if we understood the implications of what he was telling us. I remember thinking how Dad couldn t possibly have understood, because he was crying too much to listen. I want to tell her. I press the receiver to my ear, because to talk about something as important as this you have to be hunched up close. But I can t find words that are good enough. Are you still there? No, I say, and I put the phone down.

Give me the pain, he says. My spine is parallel to the side of the bed. There are two doctors and a nurse in the room, although I can t see them because they re behind me.

One of the doctors is a student. She doesn t say much, but I guess she s watching as the other one finds the right place on my spine and marks the spot with a pen. He prepares my skin with antiseptic solution. It s very cold. He starts at the place where he s going to put the needle in and works outwards in concentric circles, then he drapes towels across my back and puts sterile gloves on.

And a five-millilitre syringe. On the wall behind Dad s shoulder is a painting. They change the paintings in the hospital a lot, and I ve never seen this one before. I stare at it very hard. I ve learned all sorts of distraction techniques in the last four years. In the painting, it s late afternoon in some English field and the sun is low in the sky. A man struggles with the weight of a plough. Birds swoop and dive. Dad turns in his plastic chair to see what I m looking at, lets go of my hand and gets up to inspect the picture.

Down at the bottom of the field, a woman runs. She holds her skirt with one hand so that she can run faster. The Great Plague Reaches Eyam picture for a hospital! A cheery little The doctor chuckles. Did you know, he says, there are still over three thousand cases of bubonic plague a year? No, Dad says, I didn t. Thank goodness for antibiotics, eh? Dad sits down and scoops my hand back into his.

Thank goodness. The woman scatters chickens as she runs, and it s only now that I notice her eyes reaching out in panic towards the man. The plague, the great fire and the war with the Dutch all happened in I remember it from school. Millions were hauled off in carts, bodies swept into lime pits and nameless graves.

Over three hundred and forty years later, everyone who lived through it is gone. Of all the things in the picture, only the sun remains. And the earth. That thought makes me feel very small. Brief stinging sensation coming up, the doctor says. Dad strokes my hand with his thumb as waves of static heat push into my bones. It makes me think of the words for ever , of how there are more dead than living, of how we re surrounded by ghosts.

This should be comforting, but isn t. Squeeze my hand, Dad says. I don t want to hurt you. When your mother was in labour with you, she held my hand for fourteen hours and didn t dislocate any fingers! There s no way you re going to hurt me, Tess. It s like electricity, as if my spine got jammed in a toaster and the doctor s digging it out with a blunt knife. I ask. My voice sounds different.

Held in. No idea. I asked her to come. Did you? Dad sounds surprised. He frowns. That s a strange thing to think. I close my eyes and imagine I m a tree drenched in sunlight, that I have no desire beyond the rain. Your Rating:. Your Comment:. Read Online Download. Great book, Before I Die pdf is enough to raise the goose bumps alone. Add a review Your Rating: Your Comment:. Before I Die by Jenny Downham. Bevor ich sterbe by Jenny Downham.

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