by Liz Kessler
Cat rolls her eyes.
“About some work,” I lie quickly, brushing away a stupid feeling of guilt. “Don’t even know what she was on about, really. I didn’t take much notice.” Why am I trying so hard to play down the fact that I enjoy talking to Miss Murray? For Cat’s benefit, or my own?
Cat isn’t even listening. Or looking at me.
“Cat?”
“So, how’re you doing? How’s your mum?” she asks.
“My mum?”
“And . . . and your dad.”
I stare at her.
“Just I haven’t seen them for ages. I mean, at home, at your house. Not been invited round for a while.”
“I know. Sorry. I’ve been a bit busy with other things.” I wink and wait for her to pick up her cue and ask how it’s going with Dylan. She doesn’t.
“So they’re OK, then, your parents?”
I think about the past few weeks: the silences, the sofa bed. I’ve forced myself to not think about it so much that I’ve hardly even talked about it with Cat. Just mentioned it in passing. Too nervous to say too much — and too embarrassed. It feels like admitting a failure or something. On the other hand, this is Cat. My best friend. I can tell her anything. To be honest, it might even help to talk about it. “Well, actually, I’m not so sure,” I begin. “My dad —”
Cat stops and looks at me. “What about your dad?”
I’m trying to work out how to put my unease into words when I spot a familiar black Ford at the curb. Dylan! Suddenly thoughts about my parents are gone. “Cat, I can’t talk now. I’ll ring you later, OK?”
“I thought you were coming back to my house.”
I’m about to answer when Dylan gets out of the car. He comes over and puts his arm around me.
“Hi. Fancy a lift?”
“Cat, this is Dylan. Dylan, Cat.”
“Hi,” Dylan says, smiling at Cat.
Cat looks him up and down. “The wonderful Dylan,” she says.
Dylan laughs and pulls me closer.
I give Cat a half-pleading, half-guilty look. “Do you mind?”
She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Go on.”
“Can I drop you off anywhere?” Dylan asks Cat.
“I’m all right with the bus. Ta.”
I give Cat a hug.
“Call me when you get in, OK?” she says.
“I will.”
Dylan opens the door for me and I can’t help feeling a twinge of guilt as we drive past Cat, lighting up a cigarette and heading to the bus stop.
We drive down to the canal for a walk. Dylan holds my hand as we amble along, kicking leaves at each other. Dead romantic. Then we get to a bench and sit down to stare into the canal.
It’s been ages since I’ve been down here; it’s like a secret world. It’s just getting dark and there’s a line of mist above the water. We’re the only people around. A bit further down, there’s a blue boat tied up, smoke drifting in a straight line from the chimney. It smells of autumn. And it’s so quiet. We only parked about ten minutes’ walk away, but it feels as though roads don’t exist. I squeeze Dylan’s hand while I look around, breathing in the stillness of the woody air.
When I turn to smile at him, he lets go of my hand and pulls me close. Then he starts kissing me, hard. He hasn’t kissed me like this before. It doesn’t feel right. Not here.
“Hey, chill.” I pull away from him after a bit, my lips stinging from his teeth.
“There’s no one around.”
“I know. Doesn’t mean I want to be eaten alive.”
He smiles, like he thinks I’m teasing, and I suppose maybe I am. “Sorry,” he says. “Let’s try again.”
So we do. He kisses me slowly, and I don’t stop him this time. He runs his fingers through my hair, kind of holding my face next to his. A moment later, his hands are moving down my body. For a second, I wonder if I should protest. I don’t want him to think I’m easy. But it feels good. When he puts his hand up my sweater, it makes me jump; his hand is icy on my skin. He stops to look at me, a question on his face.
“Just a bit cold,” I say with a quick smile, and he kisses me again, pressing me up against him and fiddling with my bra. I shiver when he undoes the clasp.
A second later, I’m aware of something on my ankle. I pull away and look down. A scruffy gray terrier with bracken in its fur is looking up at me and panting. Its owner isn’t far behind. A thin woman wearing big headphones over black, straggly hair. She doesn’t even look at us as she strides past.
The second she’s gone, Dylan leans over to take up where we’d left off, but I push him away. “No. Don’t.” The moment’s passed.
“What’s up? You were into it, weren’t you?”
“Yeah. It’s just, let’s take it slow, OK? What’s the rush?”
“OK,” he says with a smile, but I know he’s disappointed.
I reach my hand out and he takes it as we sit quietly, watching a perfect line of ducks waddle past. I laugh and look at Dylan. He smiles weakly and squeezes my hand.
Later, when he drops me off at the end of the street, he starts fiddling with his nails. I know by now that this means trouble.
“What’s up?”
“I want to ask you something.”
Oh, God, here we go again. “Yeah?”
“It’s just that, well, my parents are going away for the weekend . . .”
“Y-e-s?”
“Well, d’you want to, kind of, come round on Friday and, you know . . .” His voice trails off. It’s obvious what he’s asking, but we’ve only just gotten together and I’m not sure. I’ve had a few boyfriends. I’ve never gone all the way, though. It’s just never happened. I don’t know if I’m ready to do it with him.
“Can I let you know in a couple of days?”
“Yeah, course.”
I give him one last kiss before going in.
“Hello, darling,” Mum says, greeting me in the hall, wearing an apron and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Did you have a nice day?”
When did she last express interest in my day? “Yeah, all right.”
“Dinner’s in half an hour. I’ve made lasagna for us all. Your dad should be home any minute. I rang work and he’s just left.”
“Right. I’ll just do some homework.” I go upstairs. Does this mean that they’ve made up? Will we be able to get through a meal without angry icicles forming around our plates?
It’s at least forty-five minutes before I hear Dad’s car roll into the drive. It reminds me of when I was little and they’d gone out. I’d sit on the window ledge and wait for the car to come back. If they were really late, I’d have gone to bed, but I could never sleep till they were home, the headlights fanning out across my ceiling as they turned into the drive. Sometimes I’d still be awake when they tiptoed into my bedroom together to kiss me good night. I’d have to force myself not to grin.
When did they last go out together?
I finish my chapter of Wuthering Heights and am about to close my book and head downstairs when I hear voices. Shouting. I close the book and lie back on my bed, looking up at the ceiling.
Ten minutes later, the front door slams. The car leaves again.
I lie on my bed, fuming. Can they not even get from the front door to dinner without arguing?
Eventually, Mum calls me and we eat together in silence. She doesn’t pretend to smile anymore. I want to say something, but I don’t know what, or how.
After a bit, Mum pushes her plate away.
“You’ve hardly touched it,” I say.
She shrugs. “I’m not hungry.”
There’s a ball of something in my throat. It’s getting in the way of my words. So, instead of trying to speak, I get up and take Mum’s plate to the sink. I’m about to go back to my room when I turn and look at her, still sitting there. Upright. Tight.
I go back to her and put my hand on her arm.
She looks up and smiles weakly at me. Puts her hand on min
e. “Thanks, love,” she says sadly.
I smile back. I haven’t really done anything. I don’t know how to. I wish I did. I’m sure we used to talk, once. When? What about? How did we do it? It’s as if we’re on opposite sides of a crack in the earth, and it’s growing wider every day.
I can’t help wondering what it would be like to have a mum like Cat’s, one you could talk to.
Cat! Oh, no — she’s going to kill me. Somewhere between Dylan’s invitation and Mum and Dad’s marriage breakdown, I forgot to call.
I text her on my way back up to my bedroom: Soooooo sorry. Are you in now? Will call in a bit.
She replies. Cutting Mum’s hair. She’s got a work thing on Saturday.
Cat’s actually a pretty skilled hairdresser. It was what she wanted to study at school, but Jean thought she should take A-levels instead. Reckoned it would give her a better start in life — which might perhaps have been true if Cat actually paid attention to any of her subjects.
See you at school tomorrow? I text back.
Maybe. Not sure if I’m coming in. If not, I’ll come to your place after.
Cool. I’ll tell Mum. You can stay for dinner, I send back.
I pick up the book and open it where I’d left off earlier. A few minutes later, I’m thankful to be engrossed in someone else’s chaotic life so I can forget about my own.
“Have you finished chapter sixteen?” I ask Robyn the next day as we head to the cafeteria.
“Read it last night. God, all that wild passion!”
“I know. I can’t imagine ever feeling like that about anyone.”
“Miss Murray said that’s her favorite bit. I can’t wait to discuss it this afternoon. She’s brilliant, isn’t she?”
I look at her sideways. So it’s not just me who thinks she’s cool. For a teacher. “Yeah, she’s —”
“Excuse me, girls,” Luke says, butting in as he joins us in the queue. “Less of the bad language, if you don’t mind.”
We look at him blankly as he holds his plate out for a helping of undercooked chips. “Books, lessons, ‘brilliant’ teachers. Isn’t this all getting a bit freaky? Are you forgetting where we are? This is school! We’re not here to work! There’s plenty of that to come when we’re too old to party. Which reminds me, are you coming on Friday, Robyn?”
“Coming where?”
“Party. Dylan’s house.”
“Party?” It’s my turn to butt in. “What party?”
“Don’t tell me you’re not coming!”
What happened to the evening on our own that I’ve been worrying about? “Of course I’m going! I just didn’t realize the whole world had been invited.”
“Well, not the whole world. And I wouldn’t exactly say ‘invited,’ as such. But that’s what happens when your parents go away, isn’t it? Remember your birthday? My house? Time to return the favor.”
Before I can think of anything to say, Luke’s paid for his lunch, scribbled something on a piece of paper, and shoved it at Robyn: Dylan’s address! I don’t believe it! Wait. Isn’t Luke into Cat?
“See you Friday,” he calls over his shoulder, and Robyn blushes. Uh-oh.
“OK, Dylan, I’ll try to explain it one more time.”
We’re sitting in his car, in what seems to have become our spot. For some people that would be a little wooden bench in the middle of a park, surrounded by beautiful old oak trees and pale pink blossoms. For us, it’s a knackered old Fiesta with no heating and nasty plastic orange seats, alongside a row of wheelie bins. The bin men dump them at the end of the road on Tuesdays, and you have to go around lifting the tops off them all to find your own. Ours has got “34,” with a smiley face painted inside the lid. God knows why. It’s no reflection of what anyone ever does in our house.
Dylan looks interested when he hears the word “party” but seems to have completely missed one crucial point.
“Dylan, you’re the host!”
“But I don’t know anything about —”
“Have you told anyone about your parents going away?”
“Well, I might have kind of mentioned it to the lads after band practice . . .” His voice trails off and he bites a piece of skin off his thumb.
Great. Not only am I freaking out about whatever I may or may not do on Friday, there’s now going to be a whole load of people turning up for a party while I may or may not be doing it.
“We’ll just tell them we can’t let them in,” he says.
Great thinking, Dylan. “Yeah, right. Ever heard of King Canute?”
He looks up, puzzled.
“The geezer who tried to stop the tide from coming in.”
We’re sitting in silence trying to work out what to do next when there’s a loud knock on his window. It’s bound to be Mrs. Langdale. I slide down in my seat.
“I don’t want her to see me,” I mouth at Dylan as he winds his window down.
“Huh? But it’s —”
“Hi, Ash.” Cat’s face appears at the window.
I heave myself back up, snagging my top on a hardened cigarette burn on the back of the seat. “Hi, Cat. Sorry, I thought you were . . . I was just . . . Oh, never mind.” I open my door. “Thanks for the lift, Dylan.”
“But what are we going to do about —”
“Look, just sort it out, OK? I’ll see you Friday.” I kiss him on his ear.
“You mean . . .” He smiles and raises his eyebrows.
“I just mean, whatever. See you Friday.”
“He’s quite cute, I suppose,” Cat says as we walk up the road.
“Yeah, he’s OK,” I reply, holding my smile in. Cat doesn’t give compliments very easily, so “quite cute” from her is more like “completely bloody gorgeous” in anyone else’s book.
“What d’you want to do this evening?” I ask before she says anything to undercut her near-compliment.
Cat shrugs. “Just hang out. What d’you want to do?”
“Well, actually, I want to ask your advice about something,” I say as we get to my front door. “But not a word to anyone, and don’t mention it in front of my mum, right?”
Cat stops. “Ash, is it about your dad?” she asks in a whisper.
“My dad?” I stare at her. “Why would it be about my dad?”
“Sorry. I dunno,” she answers without looking at me.
“Cat. What? What about my dad?”
She shakes her head. “I . . . Well . . . I thought I saw him the other day. He was . . . he . . .”
“He what?”
Cat clears her throat and looks straight at me. “Er, well . . . I just thought he looked troubled.”
I think back to the sofa bed. The arguments. The silences. The way all of it is too painful to talk about — too raw to even think about. “Yeah. I guess he is a bit,” I say. “But I don’t want to talk about it. Not just now. Is that OK?”
Cat nods. “Sure. Whatever.”
I smile a thank-you at her and unlock the door.
Mum wanders out of the kitchen as we let ourselves in. Her hair’s falling over her face. “Hello, darling,” she says to me. She turns a tired smile onto Cat. “Nice to see you, Cat. I’ll call you both down when dinner’s ready.”
“Thanks, Mum. See you in a bit.” I drag Cat upstairs.
Cat chucks her jacket over the chair and sits on the edge of my bed with a magazine. I scroll through my playlists, picking out some music while I work out what I want to say. I know I’ve probably talked about Dylan quite a lot over the past few weeks, and I don’t want to drive Cat mad going on about him — but I need her help. This feels like a decision that’s too big to make on my own.
I’m being stupid, I suppose. At least half the girls in our year have lost their virginity, some of them ages ago, but I’ve always done my best to avoid the when-did-you-lose-yours? conversations. They’re like the when-did-you-start-your-period? ones from the changing-room gossip a few years earlier. I remember the feeling when I first told Miss Anderson I couldn
’t go swimming. I didn’t explain why and she never asked.
Some of the girls used to go into detail on purpose because they knew it embarrassed her. Not me. I don’t know which of us was more awkward about it, actually: me, stammering and blushing and taking about half an hour to get the words out, or her, fidgeting as she laughed nervously, clearly wanting me to go away and not say any more.
But there was a good side to it, too. Pride. Feeling like I was part of a club. I could complain with the others about PMS and about how badly my stomach hurt. I could smirk with the confidence of one who’s in the gang when we asked the new girls if they’d met “Henry” yet. And I felt the smug glow of importance as we explained in hushed voices who Henry was: “He comes to visit you once a month, but if you’re naughty, he doesn’t visit for nine months.”
It’s always tempting to be part of a gang, but now that I’m teetering on the edge of this exclusive club, I don’t know if I want to join — or if I’m prepared to pay the entrance fee.
Is that why I want to do this — to join the club? If I do want to. Surely that’s a bit of a naff reason. Isn’t it meant to be about love or something? Not because you want to be in with your mates.
I know Cat isn’t a virgin because she told me. She lost it to this guy she went out with last year. An older dude with a motorbike and about three times as many piercings as her. He was the first boy her mum had ever disapproved of. Jean’s hard to offend. Maybe that’s why Cat did it. Or maybe it was just that she really, really liked him. She said she did — but she never talked about it all that much. She doesn’t, really. It’s weird. We’re so close she feels almost like a second skin at times, but when it comes to talking about emotions, well, it’s just not her thing. “Can’t be doing with hearts and flowers,” is what she says. Which suits me just fine, right now, when it comes to talking about life at home. But not about this.
I sit down next to her on the bed. “I want to ask you something.”
Cat puts the magazine down. “OK. Shoot. What’s it all about?”
“Dylan.”
Cat groans. “Really? I never would have guessed,” she says sarcastically.
I’m not sure if she’s joking. There’s a kind of edge in her voice. I open my mouth to ask, but she carries on. “I mean, I’m not being funny or anything, but have you noticed that you haven’t talked about much else other than Boy Wonder since you got together? ‘Dylan’s in a band,’ ‘Dylan kissed me,’ ‘Dylan hasn’t phoned for three minutes.’”
