Page 96 of Little Miss Fortune

‘In a sense. I don’t know how to explain it without it sounding like I’m making it up, but they can make you feel really small.’

That’s exactly how I felt after an hour with them. ‘I can believe that.’

‘Toby is expected to be perfect. I am the runt. Which is weird, because I don’t think they’ve ever actually said that to either of us, but they just make sure that with every fibre of your being, you know that that’s what they think of you.’

‘We didn’t press the button.’ I press the green G.

It goes down two floors, then she hits Stop.

‘Their expectations of him are so heavy that—’ Her voice wobbles and tapers away.

‘Yes?’ My ribcage is squeezing my lungs and my heart.

‘Toby... hasn’t been doing well for a while... mentally. I’ve been very worried about him, that he might... do something to himself.’

The meaning of her sentence doesn’t reach me. I blink a couple of times just to make sure this wasn’t in my head. The words chisel at the marble in my head but no shape forms. No understanding comes. How could any meaning form from something so far removed from my reality?

‘He’s been different since his skiing accident,’ she reassures me. ‘Calmer and more playful, but I can’t help but worry.’

‘I forgot my stuff’—I realise—‘in Toby’s fridge.’

‘I’m not going to go up if that’s okay, the dinner was a bit much for me. If you speak to him, please don’t mention what I said to you. He might get mad that I’m airing his dirty laundry like this.’

‘Oh, okay.’ My mouth moves without processing what Sophie just told me.

There is only one thing on my mind. Toby.

Toby.

I need to make sure he is okay. I need him to know that I was wrong for shouting at his parents and blaming him. He needs to know that I’m here.

The lift crawls up, ignoring my pleas to hurry. I hold my breath, fearing what state I might find him in.

‘Toby?’ I ask, not seeing him on the couch in the living room.

My heart sinks at the thought of opening the bathroom door and finding him there, but it’s empty. ‘Toby?!’ I scream louder.

His bedroom door slowly opens, a defeated and soft voice calls out, ‘Fuko? Why are you here?’

‘I left my cooking stuff here. It was a solid £40 of ingredients. Not all of us are made of money,’ I say, trying to make a joke, but it comes out a lot harsher than I wanted.

My hand locks around the opposite elbow. He awkwardly strokes behind his neck, rolling his head into it.

‘I—’ I say.

‘This was—’ he says at the same time.

‘Oh, sorry, please.’ I gesture to him to keep talking.

‘No, what were you going to say?’

‘I was just going to say that I am sorry about being so harsh. I think your parents have a lot of expectations of you. I just got defensive because I thought about Hanako.’

‘No, I get that. I’m not impressed with myself either. I’m sorry you got to see that.’

I look at him right now and see a young boy, who just wants to be loved and accepted by his parents. Who would do anything to please them. A boy who hides behind jokes, pranks, and humour, but is so hurt on the inside.

‘Honestly, sometimes it does feel like there is no way out from them,’ he jokes again, trying to lighten the mood, but his voice betrays him.