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Gloves Off

Page 2

by Louisa Reid


  that there

  is more fun without me.

  i bring her lies from outside and

  she serves up love

  spoonfuls of kindness,

  platefuls of hope

  that make me choke.

  and then, as if she knows,

  sometimes she takes my hand and says,

  “one more year, lil,

  just one more year.”

  and i think about moving on

  and leaving her behind.

  planning who i might become

  is something

  we cannot resist.

  except i don’t think she realizes

  i only want to get away

  from this.

  NEW SHOES

  i’ve been ignoring all the talk,

  cotton wool for ears,

  but,

  then,

  at break on thursday, mollie says,

  “you coming tomorrow? stacey’s thing?”

  the girls pull me over.

  i know better than to

  believe,

  but they’re smiling

  and seem

  so real,

  hide my smile in my sleeve.

  my friend,

  (true friend?)

  old friend,

  (real friend?)

  mollie.

  our history began

  with our first day at school.

  finger-painting

  playing house

  daisy chains and hide and seek,

  jumping in puddles,

  secrets, stories, sleepovers at hers.

  until just lately. not so much these days.

  not really for a while.

  so i’m a little shocked

  to be included.

  yes, all right, i say,

  thinking fast,

  regret already beating hard, making my blood rush,

  cheeks flush.

  i’ve got nothing to wear,

  you know.

  “well, don’t worry.”

  she shrugs, “that’s okay.”

  they slide their eyes

  to one another

  then to my feet –

  share more than a glance.

  “i’ve got these shoes,

  don’t need them any more,

  you can buy them off me if you like,

  thirty quid,

  they’ll look cool,” mollie says.

  (i don’t miss the smirks. i’m not a fool.)

  no point asking mum for

  the cash –

  dad’s payday

  is weeks away.

  but i know where she keeps

  her secret stash –

  money she got when granddad died

  and that she keeps

  for

  emergencies.

  i’m thinking this counts.

  FRIDAY

  we catch the bus to hers.

  mollie talks non-stop

  about the boy she fancies,

  how she plans

  to get with him tonight

  if things go right.

  her mum sees me, exclaims in surprise,

  “how are you, lily? it’s been so long!”

  we run upstairs,

  away from questions,

  we laugh and plan.

  i watch mollie transform.

  (but i’m not staring, just snatching a look

  now and then

  as i pick at the polish

  that’s already

  peeling from my nails.)

  her jeans are tight and ripped.

  her top is short,

  a second skin,

  her breasts pushed up high

  and her stomach taut,

  still tanned from summer

  (or bottles of sun –

  orange,

  fake beauty,

  better than none).

  she watches herself, pouts and preens

  likes what she sees, turns to me.

  now it’s my

  cue.

  i can nod,

  look up,

  exist

  for a moment,

  now my opinion is

  required.

  “do i look all right?”

  mollie already knows,

  but, still,

  i tell her she is beautiful.

  “god, i look so fat,”

  she says

  still staring at

  the girl in her mirror

  who gleams –

  resplendent

  and

  astonishing.

  you look amazing,

  i tell her again,

  thinking about shrinking.

  she doesn’t thank me

  and i accept

  without complaint the fact that she

  does not reciprocate.

  LAST YEAR

  mollie invited me round hers,

  and i stayed the night.

  on monday morning

  she told them all

  i’d watched her undress

  and she’d caught me staring

  pervy lez.

  OUT OF THE DARK

  they go to a party to dance,

  i go

  to watch.

  to see how the business is done:

  the work of growing up, of creating

  yourself, the hatching and flourishing of

  girls,

  butterfly bright,

  dragonfly gold.

  (their teeth as sharp as fangs

  their nails like claws.)

  i sit at the edges.

  the shoes

  are too tight

  to stand in,

  don’t fit me at all,

  (i didn’t say a word

  handed over the money,

  and something else

  that made me burn).

  stacey’s house is transformed:

  darkness flashes,

  music pounds,

  the air is full of smoke and lights.

  the boys

  huddle, shove.

  the girls

  scream and strut.

  like venturing to the moon,

  a group begins to dance.

  they know the steps

  synchronized,

  jump

  ing

  back-

  wards,

  for-

  wards

  shoulders turning,

  bodies sliding, quick, fast, streaks of brilliance, white

  teeth, bright eyes.

  so much skin.

  i stare.

  everyone understands the way they ought to

  be.

  (maybe

  i know, too.

  maybe

  i have learned

  upstairs in my room, quietly tried out

  these steps.

  imagined moving

  lightly, easily,

  made of air, everyone watching, seeing

  at last, that i am just like them.

  dreamed it, at least,

  because

  the mirror would have laughed

  if i’d have let her see.

  she would have reminded me

  not to be

  such a fool.)

  RUN, RABBIT

  the varnish picked clean away,

  i chew my nails,

  wonder, should i leave?

  mollie dances towards me,

  pulls my hands and drags me up and off my chair,

  into the crush.

  out of the edges, out of the darkness,

  i totter centre stage

  the beat thuds

  i like the boom of it,

  catch the rhythm,

  move my feet and hands and arms,

  begin to

  twist and dance beside my friend –

  next to her no one will notice me.

  but kids from my year

  circle near,

 
clapping, smiling,

  jumping to the beat.

  “go lily, go lily!”

  what?

  my skin prickles

  i look for the door

  mollie steps back, becomes the crowd, lost –

  i can’t catch her eye.

  another face

  aidan vaine.

  he dances closer

  so

  i step away.

  he shakes his head

  and pulls me in.

  panic

  heat

  spreading

  over

  my

  cheeks

  and

  neck,

  itchy

  and

  red

  panic

  crawling

  up

  and

  over

  my

  chest.

  “come on, let’s see you dance,”

  he says,

  and –

  when nothing happens –

  except that he just nods

  and smiles – a smile that is not a smile,

  a smile that threatens more than it could say –

  i hesitate,

  then

  decide

  okay.

  what choice do i have?

  aidan gets closer.

  i’ve never liked him,

  never, ever could.

  but everyone is watching,

  and everyone will see

  that maybe it’s okay

  to like a girl like me.

  aidan plays football,

  thinks he’s a man.

  he’s all mouth and muscles,

  there’s stubble on his chin.

  everyone hears about the girls

  he says he’s had.

  and the things he’s done on a friday night

  drunk

  and

  high.

  time i

  sidle off,

  sit down,

  safe,

  because right now

  vertigo strikes –

  i wobble,

  almost fall

  but he isn’t letting go.

  he’s closer still,

  his breath on my cheek

  sour, not sweet –

  warning signs.

  he smells of drink.

  i lean away from the scratch of his skin

  the thickness of his face,

  and heavy breath.

  but he’s moving nearer, stretching towards me,

  towering over me.

  it is the first time a boy has

  touched me like this,

  been so close.

  well.

  (unless you count that time

  last year

  another party here,

  they’re all watching porn.

  her brother

  pushing your hand

  into his pants.

  you freeze.

  you

  do not know

  if you have the right

  to scream.)

  backing away

  i think i’m smiling,

  even as my heart hammers

  because

  he’ll feel the sweat on my skin,

  the bulges at my waist,

  he will know,

  if he touches me

  everything i hide.

  (he knows already,

  fool –

  didn’t he hurt you

  on your way home

  from school?)

  i force myself to last

  another second

  and another.

  look into darkness and it stares right back –

  with an eye that

  blazes,

  angry and alive.

  aidan’s arms are tighter, he’s welded to me now,

  as the beat explodes,

  and i’m crushed into his bones

  the music

  rises,

  it’s pulsing, pounding,

  juttering and demanding,

  and aidan has me around my waist.

  he’s shouting like he’s having fun,

  a whoop!

  another!

  faces leer,

  fists punch the air, as they close in

  on him

  on us.

  hands and hips and mouths,

  making gestures,

  something foul,

  obscene.

  something i wish i hadn’t seen.

  and aidan’s laughing,

  then whispering in my ear.

  what is it?

  he’s still holding on.

  what? I say.

  lean back, away.

  he laughs.

  he smells of dead things

  of the alley near our house

  of the leaves

  and the gutter

  and i can smell my own fear –

  its stink on my skin.

  he’s swinging

  me

  round and round

  “Yee Ha!” he cries,

  “Yee Ha!”

  and i shrug and struggle,

  but i cannot throw him off,

  he’s got my clothes, my flesh

  my body in his hands

  and he’s pulling and grabbing, riding me –

  on my back,so heavy he’s crushing me,

  bucking

  and squeezing

  buttons popping

  my brain exploding

  no one hears me

  or knows i’m screaming.

  “Yee Ha!”

  he hollers,

  as he spins,

  and my

  feet are tangling, my clothes are tearing,

  ripping, in tatters,

  i grab at my top,

  try to hide my breasts, my flesh

  but

  he won’t let go.

  they’re roaring, jeering,

  bent double, laughing –

  and aidan holds on.

  how long is it before i get away?

  i shake.

  face burning

  throat raw

  eyes streaming.

  everyone saw.

  i stumble somehow out of there

  force my way free.

  mollie’s disappeared,

  but,

  i hear her laugh

  and crow,

  “did you see the state of her?

  those shoes!

  can you believe she thought

  that we actually wanted her here?”

  outside autumn’s arms are thin and cold.

  WHAT

  did i ever do

  to aidan vaine?

  there’s nothing to say,

  no way to explain

  why he hates me

  because i simply exist.

  maybe he hates me

  because i don’t resist.

  HOW TO HIDE

  “what happened?” mum asks,

  she’s breathing, fast and heavy,

  face flushed,

  hot and bothered,

  panting panic,

  taking all the air.

  i push her away –

  there’s too much that

  i can’t say.

  i’m fine,

  i tell her

  she stares at me,

  blinks,

  worried eyes,

  creased with questions,

  and the hallway

  waits for all the words

  i’m keeping under lock and key.

  i want to ask my mother, who decided

  that girls who look like me are wrong?

  who says girls like me are not allowed to dance

  or run or swim and know

  that they are lovely too?

  the mirror laughs

  i told you so.

  i want to smash its smirking grin.

  you should go out,

  i shout at mum.


  stop being so pathetic. get a life.

  although i really think that everyone

  should be allowed to hide.

  because if you were to come and force her

  out of this hole, like a fox beaten

  into the chase of hounds, i wouldn’t think

  that fair, or right.

  i say the words

  harsher still,

  it’s your fault, mum,

  i hate your guts,

  and leave her alone to cry.

  BEACH

  here’s a memory.

  years ago, but sharp.

  my mother sitting

  far from me,

  as if we’re strangers after all.

  who cares about the beach, the sun, the sky?

  i can only watch her sitting there,

  alone,

  as if she does not belong and has no right

  to even that one square of sand.

  come and play with me,

  i call, as if

  sandcastles and shells and ice cream cones

  will be enough to make her smile. and yes,

  she lifts her face,

  but then she shakes her head, and seems

  to draw a wall around herself,

  a barrier i cannot break.

  head in a magazine, she waits

  until i’ve had enough.

  it was supposed to be fun –

  a holiday!

  we were going away,

  making lists of things to do,

  dreaming of waves

  and hot, bright days.

  planning and packing, excitement growing –

  sunflowers bursting bright yellow into

  the grey.

  clouds passed across the sun and i

  wondered why she wouldn’t feel the sea against her

  skin,

  the sun on her shoulders, the sand between her toes.

  she sat apart from us as if she did not want to tar us

  with the same brush,

  she kept her body over there and for all she hid

  everyone stared.

  we are not beach people.

  not summer people.

  not shorts and t-shirts and strawberries and cream

  on long green lawns with a view of the sea folks.

  BERNADETTE (4)

  Your daughter’s eyes

  Ash grey,

  Burnt out.

  You’d waited up,

  Hoped she’d come home

  Happy,

  That tonight was going to be the start of something

  Better –

  Friends, at least.

  But her face is white and

 

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