by Liz Kessler
“You’re talking as though she’s dead or something.”
“I just don’t see her as the kind of person who would abandon us like that. She was too committed. Don’t you think?”
The tears are falling from the bottom of my nose and my chin; I don’t bother to wipe them away. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Robyn slides down onto the floor and puts her arm around my shaking shoulders. “Hey, it’s OK. You don’t need to apologize for crying.”
Her impossible efforts to understand make me feel even worse, and she holds me tighter and strokes my arm.
“It’s OK, it’s OK,” she half whispers. I stop for a moment and look at her. She wipes a tear from my cheek with her palm and smooths my hair back. I suddenly realize how close she is and how tightly we’re holding each other. For a second, she returns my look. Then, before stopping to think, my eyes are closed and I’m leaning toward her. Am I imagining she’s Miss Murray? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I tighten my arms around her and brush her lips for a second, for a fraction of a second —
Suddenly she’s pulling away from me, scrambling out of my arms as though she’s just discovered a beetle inside her sweater.
I put my hand to my face as though I’ve been slapped. I actually think I have been.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Robyn is shrieking at me from halfway across the room.
I start to get up. She takes a step backward and slips on one of my books. I move forward to try and stop her falling.
“Don’t come near me,” she spits, awkwardly regaining her balance.
“Robyn, I —”
“What do you think I am? What are you?”
“What d’you mean, what am I? You know what I am. I’m your friend.”
“Friend? Is that what you do with your friends?”
“Look, I don’t know what I was thinking. I thought you wanted . . .”
“Wanted what?”
“I didn’t mean to do anything. I was just confused.”
“You’re confused. What do you think I am? I thought we were friends. I didn’t know you had ulterior motives.”
What can I say? Hey, don’t worry, it’s not you I fancy, it’s Miss Murray? I keep my mouth shut.
“I think you should leave,” Robyn says quietly.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Robyn, can’t we talk about —”
“There’s nothing to talk about. I just think it’d be better if you went.”
“I don’t need this,” I say quietly.
“No, nor do I.” She’s standing near the door, her arms are folded, and she’s staring at me like I’m a stranger.
Neither of us says anything while I pack up my things. The silence shames me. “Robyn, I’m sorry, I didn’t want to make you —”
“Look, it’s nothing personal. I’m just not . . . like that.”
“Nor am I. Well, I mean, not about you. I just don’t know what I —”
“Ash,” she says, opening her door even as she speaks, “I’m sorry, but I really don’t want to talk about it. I’ll see you at school, right?”
“Right. OK.”
She gives me a quick, tight smile as she closes her door, and I walk home in a daze.
When I was in primary school, I joined the chess club. It was in one of those awful caravan-type rooms they used to put classes in when they didn’t have enough proper classrooms. They were called “terrapins,” and they were meant to be there for a term or two; they’re probably still there now. It was on Thursdays after school, and I only went because I wanted to be with my “boyfriend,” Jamie Middleton. We used to go around the back and practice kissing each other on the lips and wonder if we were doing it right.
I never improved at chess. I was too busy kissing Jamie Middleton. But one thing I remember about the game is that you always have to look at the pieces around you and think about five steps ahead if you’re to stand any chance of winning. I remember my head spinning from trying to work out all the possible moves in one go. Sometimes I’d look at the board and realize I was being completely slaughtered. I hardly had any decent pieces left, and the game was closing in on me.
Yeah, I remember that feeling well. Checkmate.
“Pens down, please.”
I hand in my law paper. Two years’ work swapped for five flimsy sides of A4 paper.
Cat lights up a cigarette when we’re barely out of the building. “That was a load of crap, wasn’t it?”
“It was awful.”
“Only three more, thankfully. Can’t wait to get away from this dump. I bet you can’t either.”
“What d’you mean?”
Cat blushes for what I think must be the first time in her entire life and mumbles, “Well, you know. Get away from all the . . . people.”
“Huh?”
“I just thought . . . Look, never mind. It’s all garbage anyway.”
“What’s all garbage?” Heat rises in my face, spreading quickly to my ears.
“You know, what people are saying.”
My voice comes out like it’s being squeezed through a pipe. “What are they saying?”
Cat carries on walking without answering, taking her jacket off as we get out into the street. The sun’s shining right into my eyes. I grab her arm and make her stop. “What are they saying, Cat?”
Cat looks down at her feet. “Look, I know it’s rubbish, and even if it isn’t, it doesn’t matter. You’ve got me, right?”
“Yes, right.” I hold my breath.
Cat pauses while a group of girls passes us. I don’t know if it’s paranoia, but they start laughing a few feet away. They’re talking about me; I just know they are.
“You and Miss Murray.”
I hold my breath. My stomach is a vacuum; my ears feel like they’re on fire.
“They’re saying you’re having an affair.”
“What?”
“That she seduced you, and that’s why she got the sack last month.”
“She didn’t get the —”
“Look, I’m not saying that’s what happened. I’m just telling you the gossip, like you asked. I didn’t start it. I don’t even believe it.”
“Sorry.”
“And anyway, it’s rubbish. Isn’t it?”
“Of course it’s rubbish! Who the hell is spreading this stuff?”
“Just people, you know. Mainly people who don’t even know you.”
“Oh, great.” I roll my eyes. “That makes me feel a whole lot better.”
Cat grins. “Come on. What does it matter what people are saying about you? We just need to show them you don’t give a damn.”
“We?”
“Of course, we. That’s what mates are for, and I’m your mate, aren’t I?”
“Yeah.” I smile at her. “Thank goodness.”
“Right, come on, you daft bint,” she says, walking away. “Exam’s over. Let’s celebrate.”
“Cat, it was only the first one. I don’t finish for another two weeks.”
“Even more reason,” she yells over her shoulder. “Don’t want to waste time worrying. Come on, let’s go for a drink.”
“Cat, you are impossible.” I hold my hands out in a giving-in kind of way.
I’m smiling as we turn the corner, but I stop as I see who’s ahead of us. It’s Robyn, with Luke. As soon as she sees me, Robyn suddenly throws her arms around Luke and whispers in his ear. He looks at her wide-eyed for a second, then stops, turns, puts his arms around her, and kisses her. Not like a peck on the cheek — he really goes for it, right there in the middle of the pavement, so we can’t even get past them without stepping onto the road.
“’Scuse me.” Cat barges past, knocking into Luke on the way.
“Cat, I . . .” Luke breaks off and tries to follow her, but Robyn doesn’t look pleased and he stops.
Robyn looks embarrassed for a second, as if she knows she’s been a right cow. Then she links an arm into Luke’s and glances
at me as if to say, Look, see. This is what I want. A man, right? Get the message?
“You’re both pathetic,” I say as I push through the middle of them, breaking Robyn’s precious contact with Luke’s arm.
“Why?” Luke looks utterly confused. “What have we done?”
“Ask her,” I tell him without turning back.
Cat can march pretty fast when she’s in a bad mood, so I’m panting by the time I catch up with her.
“Arse.”
“Me? What have I done wrong?”
“Not you, stupid.” She gives half a smile. “Him. God, he just doesn’t get it.”
“I hate to say this, but I don’t think I do either.”
“All that. Snogging that mate of yours just to make me jealous. As if,” she snorts.
“Oh, right, yeah. Well she’s not exactly . . . We . . .” My voice trails off. How do I explain this one? I settle for “We’re not such good mates anymore” and leave it at that.
“He’s hardly talked to me since we went to the cinema that time. I think he thought we were going out with each other till I put him right — told him we were just mates and that was it.”
“So you’ve never fancied Luke, not even a tiny little bit?”
“Look, he was better than nothing at a time when there wasn’t exactly anyone else to hang out with.” She looks at me meaningfully, and I redden. “Well, he’s slightly better than that. He can be a laugh, I suppose, and it’s quite flattering to have someone at your heels telling you you’re wonderful and doing anything you want in the hope that you’ll give them a bit of what they want too.”
“So you did it?”
“What?”
“Slept together?”
Cat bursts out laughing. “What are you on about? What would I be doing sleeping with Luke? It’d be like having sex with my brother.”
“I just thought . . .”
“You know, you can be pretty thick at times.” Cat punches me on my arm.
“Ow.”
“And a wimp. Come on, the pub’s waiting.” And she’s halfway down the street before I’ve had time to digest any of our conversation.
Cat takes me to a pub I’ve never been in before; I’ve never even noticed it. The Nag’s Head. It’s kind of cozy: L-shaped and tiny. There are only about eight tables, and all but two are empty. Two businessmen are talking at one, and a girl with choppy blond hair and a tiny gold stud in her nose is reading a book at another. She looks up from her drink as I squeeze onto a wooden bench seat in the corner of the L.
For some reason, I think about Miss Murray. Well, I think about her pretty much all the time, but something about the girl makes me think of her. It’s her eyes, I think.
It’s been nearly a month now and not a single word. Sometimes I think I’m going to burst with how much need there is inside me. Waking up every morning wondering if it will be the day I hear from her. Not knowing how to fill the hour between waking and the postman arriving. Other than checking e-mails and Facebook constantly on the off chance she contacts me online.
A small part of me knows it’s not going to happen, but the rest of me doesn’t want to admit it.
It’s as though she’s been rubbed out. I don’t even know if she’s still around or if she’s moved away or what. I almost want to talk to Cat about her, but I wouldn’t trust myself not to betray my feelings if I actually said her name out loud. And I can’t do it. I daren’t. Not even with Cat.
Sometimes I imagine bumping into her in town, and I try to think of all the things I’d say. But I can’t, because I don’t believe it’ll happen. I think there’s more chance of me spotting a UFO than ever seeing Miss Murray again.
How do you get used to living with a hole inside you?
Cat’s staring at me intently. She fiddles with one of the pint glasses she just brought over. “Ash, you know that stuff, before?”
“What stuff?”
“You know. The conversation. About Miss Murray and stuff.”
I reach for my drink. “Mmm-hmm.”
“So, can I ask you something?”
“Cat, I’ve told you — there was nothing going on.”
“No, I know that. I believe you.”
I look at her. “OK. So what is it, then?”
Cat shifts in her seat. “Are you . . .” She pauses. Clears her throat.
“Am I what?”
“Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”
“No, what? What were you going to say?”
“Look, I don’t want to ask in case I’m way out of line. You might be offended.”
“I won’t.” Won’t I? What’s going on?
“How d’you know when you don’t even know the question?”
“Look, I promise. Whatever you say, I won’t be offended.” My voice shakes. Why am I so scared?
“Sod it. OK. Ash, are you a lesbian?” she says. And it’s out there. Just like that.
She stares at me; I stare back. Now what? I suddenly remember the time I sneaked out when I was grounded for coming home from a party with a huge love bite on my neck.
I’d gone over to Cat’s, and her mum came home early. I dived into Cat’s closet just as her mum came into the room. They talked for a bit and then I heard someone come toward the closet. Next second, the door opened and Cat’s mum was peering down at me, crouched among a pile of sneakers with my head inside a long denim shirt. Neither of us said anything. Believe me, there is nothing you can say when you get caught sitting in someone’s closet. Nothing.
She never ratted on me, but she did send me home. The humiliation of feeling like such an idiot was punishment enough, and I think she knew that.
I had nowhere to turn — just like now.
“Um . . .” I say, cringing at the word “lesbian.” I think I might be, but how do I know? Do my feelings over the past few months add up to enough to use a word like that?
The thing is, though, Cat’s question makes me admit the truth to myself. I want to be with someone, and, yeah, if I’m honest, I’ve become fairly sure I want it to be a girl, but how can I start labeling myself if I haven’t done anything about it yet? Wouldn’t that be like calling yourself a pilot when you’ve never even been in a plane?
“It depends what you mean by the word,” I say eventually, and Cat bursts out laughing.
“It’s pretty obvious, Ash. Do you fancy boys or girls?”
“I don’t fancy anyone,” I answer, too quickly.
“OK, but if you did, would it be a boy or a girl?” she asks, slowly and carefully. I’m backed into a corner. I’m crouched among the shoes and shirts. I know the answer; it just feels like too much of a commitment to say it out loud. Once I’ve put it out there, that’s it. Finally, I say, “OK, maybe a girl, I think.”
Cat grins. “Well, halle-bloody-lujah!”
“What?”
“I knew it!”
“How could you know when I didn’t?”
Cat looks serious for once. “I don’t know. I suppose I’ve always known. Even when you weren’t, if that makes sense.”
It doesn’t, but I know exactly what she means.
Then a thought occurs to me. I hesitate for a second. Then, “Cat, are you . . .”
She laughs. “No, Ash, I’m not gay. It would make life a whole lot easier if I was, I can tell you.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Yeah, well. Anyway, I’m not. But you are.”
I look down at my glass, cheeks burning.
“And I couldn’t hang around forever waiting for you to tell me of your own accord.” Cat lifts her drink. “Here’s to queers!”
“Cat!”
“Chill. No one’s listening.” Cat winks and knocks back half her pint.
I don’t know what to say. I look around the pub. The girl with the blond hair looks up at Cat briefly and glances over at me. I’m about to smile, but she’s back in her book before I get the chance, and I feel cheated and stupid, like when you see someone waving and you w
ave back and then realize they meant the person behind you.
I guzzle my drink, hiding my blushes behind the glass.
Four pints later, I remember I’m supposed to be studying. I’m supposed to be taking A-levels, supposed to care about my future.
Cat and I stumble out of the pub, clinging onto each other’s arms as we make our way toward the bus stop. The road’s quiet, the sun just disappearing behind the neighborhood on our right. There are a couple of clouds in the sky, birds tweeting. I realize it’s nearly summer, and for a split second I get a feeling of — I don’t know what, exactly — optimism.
We’re almost at the bus stop when I hear it.
“Oooh. Dykes!”
What? I pull my hand away from Cat’s arm, glancing quickly at her. A group of four lads are sitting on a bench at the bus stop, smoking and laughing.
A couple of them are messing about on their phones; the other two are holding cans of beer and looking our way. One’s lanky and tall. The other, next to him, looks stocky and shorter, with a face full of acne.
“Losers,” Cat says dismissively.
“Hey, love, g’iz a kiss.” The lanky guy leans forward to crush his cigarette on the pavement as we approach. I stare straight ahead and try to ignore them. My stride is wooden.
“I’ll sort you out. Won’t be a lezzer once you’ve tried me.” He nudges the boy next to him, and they both laugh.
I look at Cat. She’s staring down the lanky guy. She looks so calm and cool. Why is my heart fluttering with fear?
“So,” she says to him. What’s she doing? “You reckon you’re so good you can get a girl to switch sides, do you?”
The lanky guy stands up. “At your service,” he leers with a small bow. “And it just so happens I might be holding tryouts for my team. Wanna audition?” Then he turns around and nudges one of the guys still sitting on the bench. “Hey, Gav, you can film it. ‘Josh Mathews Turns Gay Girls Straight.’ Might go viral. I could set up a business, make a fortune.”
Should I say something? But what? What could I say? Sorry, mate, you’ve got your facts wrong; she’s not actually a lezzer, but I am?
His friend — Gav — looks up for a second. “Josh, chill out, mate. Don’t be a jerk,” he says, then goes back to whatever he was doing on his phone.
