by Gemma Weekes
‘One more!’
‘You’re crazy . . .’
‘Just pass it over.’ And this time I managed to hold it down. Smoke seared my throat, fired off a quiet explosion in the back of my head. Suddenly there was s . . . p . . . a . . . c . . . e.
He took a deep inhale of the spliff, held it, then let the smoke out slow and controlled. He held it out to me again with a challenge in his sleepy-lidded eyes. Go on, then. If you’re so tough. His lips. My lips.
I did and started to giggle, despite myself. And he smiled, despite himself. We went back and forth for a while, until the room was milky with smoke.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘Not much left.’
‘No it’s OK. You have it.’
‘Hey . . .’ he said, ‘did you leave an earring last time you were here? And your Pharcyde CD?’
‘Is it pink?’
‘What?’ he asked, leaning his head back.
‘The earring.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Wow! I’ve been looking for that for ages,’ I giggled. ‘You’ve gotta stop stealing my shit, you pervert!’
‘What can I say? Pink is my colour, baby.’ He stretched over to take my abandoned items from a drawer in a nearby side table. A smooth, deep brown gap appeared between the waistband of his jeans and the hem of his T-shirt and my mouth went dry. He laid the CD and earring on the sofa between us.
‘You always leaving your stuff behind,’ he said nasally, mid-toke. The roach gleamed and faded. He put it in the ashtray. ‘Like Gretel with the breadcrumbs or some shit. Lewis now thinks I’m the biggest player since Barry White.’
My things looked out of place there, next to Zed’s thigh. So real! Like, the realest things I’d ever seen, the way they stood out against the cream leather. The air was still as a photo. I twitched toward my digital – my faithful little clicker! – panting like a dog in my jacket pocket but then thought better of it. I didn’t want to disturb the moment. I drew my knees up and tucked my pink cotton-covered feet in beside me. And in that hot room, only faint noise and no air came in through the open windows. The big lunch I’d had with Dwayne and the heat and the smoke all put a cat-like ease in my limbs. I burned, and stretched, crossed and uncrossed my legs, unwrapped a lollipop, sucked it, wiped the light sweat off my neck.
I stared at Zed’s profile, his elegant eyebrows. He reached over and picked up a bulging blue notebook he’d stashed under the coffee table, opened it and began to read.
‘That’s a bit anti-social isn’t it?’ I said.
‘Why, you got a better idea about what I should be doing?’
He looked at me. I was silent.
‘Cat gotcha tongue?’
‘Yeah. No. Course not. Just . . . you know,’ I waffled. ‘Guess what? I have an idea for an art installation. It would be, like, a bedroom? But everything in it would indicate that someone was missing . . . the bed left unmade, a half-drunk cup of coffee, make-up and clothes everywhere . . .’
A darkness gathered and spilled out between us, clouds of it, thicker than the weed smoke or the humid air. Immediately I wanted to unsay it all and go back to the giggles and the jokes. Stupid me.
Eventually he said, ‘Didn’t one of your British artists already do that? Tracey-something?’
I floundered, making it up as I went along. Too far in to retreat. ‘What she did was different. This would have a projection at the back of the room of a face . . . or if I could have a moving projection, like a ghost? And there’d be poetry being read out over the speakers.’
‘What for, Eden? What are you trying to do?’ He flicked sightlessly through his notebook, every bone in his face angular with tension. ‘Just take your pictures, man. I don’t even get all that modern art bullshit.’
‘It’s a way of challenging reality and what you perceive as reality, that’s the point,’ I said, drowning. ‘It’s a way of breaking down all the big ideas about God and man and society and showing how pointless and divisive they are. It shows what our existence really is, that we’re all just lost and alienated and . . . um . . . what’s the word?’ I struggled. ‘Autonomous. I mean photos have their place, but they’re a craft that you can learn just like anything else. Art goes beyond craft and into the realm of—’
‘Sounds to me like you’re trying to take the real world and make it,’ he struggled, ‘cheesy and ridiculous. Life ain’t some art installation! It’s real. Why would you want to put it in a sterile gallery somewhere so folks can pick your life apart?’
‘Well one of us has to deal with reality,’ I shouted, burning. ‘’Cause it’s certainly not you!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about you coming over here doing bloody gangster rap!’ I said, fizzy with adrenaline, running my mouth as fast as I could. ‘Are you serious?’
He rose to his feet, jaw set, eyes wild. ‘Oh my God.’ He paced to the kitchen and back. ‘You challenging me on my rhymes now? You haven’t complained once at the shows I’ve done. I look in the crowd and you out there shaking your ass like it’s a box of Tic-Tacs! Now ’cause I think your idea . . . your idea is stupid! You wanna start talking shit?’
‘You used to be brave!’ I told him, kneeling up on the sofa. ‘You used to be a poet and now you’re just a rapper. It’s embarrassing, mate! Just punchlines and theatre! What’s wrong with you? Isn’t there a law somewhere against false advertising?’ Something in his face went slack. ‘That’s not you, Zed.’
He sat down, hunched forward, elbows on knees. I started to mumble some wordless apology but he threw a hand up in front of my face. Stop.
‘So I’m a fake, huh?’ he smiled. Shook his head.
‘I didn’t mean to sound harsh. It’s just . . .’
‘Well maybe we both are. You acting like you’re dealing with shit but you’re not. You’re still living in the shock of what happened to us. You haven’t moved. You ain’t breathed. You just hanged some posters on the wall and filled it up with mouldy plates and glasses and called it home.’
I crashed. ‘You think that’s what my life is?’
He gave a laugh so faint it was merely an exhalation of breath. A corner of his pillowy mouth twitched upward. ‘You crack me up, though.’
‘Zed.’
‘You,’ he finally looked up, ‘staking out my house with your little boyfriend. What was that? Performance art?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’
‘Did you tell your boyfriend you have a crush on me?’
‘No . . . no!’
He sat up and leaned toward me, smirking as if rejection were something he had no first-hand experience of. Crush. Is that how small he thought it was? His face was flawless and hard. The TV bleated in the background. The weed pounded in my head. I was imploding. He took my chin between his fingers.
‘Are you saying that you don’t have a crush on me, or are you saying that your boyfriend doesn’t know?’
He leaned in further, our faces almost touching. And it was just too easy for him. I could see that. It was easy.
‘Both!’ I yelled, slapping his hand off my chin. ‘And I told you that he’s not my boyfriend. Shit. How could you push up on me like I’m one of your floozies?’
He recoiled. ‘Floozies? This is me you’re talking to! After everything . . . Why would you say that?’
‘’Cause I can’t believe you, that’s why! You’re out of order. I told you that I’m . . . I’m celibate and you still come onto me?’
‘You never said your ass was celibate.’
‘Yes I did.’
‘I didn’t even touch you. Did I tell you I wanted to fuck? Did I try to fuck you?’
I shivered. ‘No but—!’
‘Forget it. I don’t have time for this. You’re such an idiot.’
‘I’m an idiot ’cause I won’t sleep with you?’
Zed shook his head and got up, took the glasses and the bowl of tortillas back into the kitchen.
‘Zed?’ He didn’t answ
er. I followed him to the kitchen. ‘Zed?’
‘Look, I really wanna get some writing done tonight, so let’s do this some other time, OK?’
‘But I brought that movie I wanted to show you.’
‘Yeah well, I’m not even really in the mood for that right now.’
‘Alright,’ I said, going cold all over. Ruining everything. ‘Alright.’
I didn’t say anything else and neither did he. Not even goodbye.
I picked up my stuff and left.
I walked by his death toy, up to the main road and round to the bus stop. I sat there for a long time, letting them pass. Thinking about the bed on a platform, the running and the shock. And what do you do when you’ve wanted something for so long and finally here it is, and maybe all you have to do now is not mess up and it can be yours?
You mess it up, that’s what.
And the next time I’d see him, he’d be injured, concave, with bruises and scratches climbing one arm, and Max hanging off the other.
love.
‘MUMMY!’
Ridley market. Saturday morning. The green and blue print on her long gypsy dress. Her red-painted nails. The sky was blue and very far away. Only slightly closer was her face up there, curls loose and shiny about her cheeks. She carried on talking to a man in brown leather shoes and a woman in trainers.
‘Mummy.’
I wanted to pee! Wanted chips and a juice and to sit down and if not I might cry. I might scream. But I was a big girl now. She’d told me I was a big girl and would have to wait for the toilet.
‘Mum! Wee-wee!’
‘Just a minute, sweetheart.’
‘Mum!’ I’d forgotten all my other words. ‘Mum Mum Mum Mum!’
I hated the market smell. I was out of the buggy and standing low to the wet, slimy ground. It was thousands of legs like a forest, and old, soft fruit and fishy puddles everywhere. And I wanted to pee! As usual, we’d spent most of our ‘shopping’ trip standing around while stupid Mum spoke to stupid people about other stupid people. And sometimes they’d squeak at me and try to touch my head or hold my hands but I didn’t like touching people I didn’t know.
On and on she went. She was gonna make me wet myself like a baby and then she’d be cross! Why couldn’t she just shut up? I kept tugging at her hand but she’d shake me off and not even come down to me with her sweet-smelling hair and smooth face and high voice.
I bit her as hard as I could.
‘Ow!’
It was a funny taste, her skin through the green and blue print dress. I didn’t stop until she shrieked with pain, dragged me off of her and came down to eye level. She shook me hard, bit me on the arm with her clean, sharp teeth. I screamed.
‘You see how that feels? It hurts, Eden!’ she said. ‘You trying to make me look bad, eh? You don’t love your mummy?’
I cried and cried and couldn’t answer her.
‘Wow, that’s a real handful you’ve got there, Marie!’ said the stupid brown-shoed man.
‘This chile has a demon, trust me!’ she said to him. ‘Eden, that’s not how nice girls behave, you understand? You don’t love your mummy?’
My legs were itchy with urine. I didn’t say anything, just screamed louder. I didn’t want to love anyone if it meant I had to stand out in the nasty, cold market peeing on myself. I didn’t want love.
cheek drool.
I TRY TO stretch my legs out and meet an obstruction. Where am I? Bits of music split and regroup in my mind, Cody Chesnutt singing ‘Beautiful Shame’. Open my crusty eyes and I’m instantly rewarded with a headache.
‘You OK, darlin’?’
Max. Sitting at the bottom half of the couch so I’m left in an awkward foetal position. She’s blindingly pale, in a scrap of white cotton. Her hair is bright enough to stain my retinas. I blink slowly. The scene goes in, out, and finally back into focus.
‘No,’ I croak, trying to untangle myself from a blue bed sheet. ‘I’m very not OK.’
‘God! Sorry . . . Am I hurtin’ ya?’ she asks, moving so that my feet and ankles are free.
I sit up and the room hurtles forward, my belly trying to jump through my neck. Flashback to last night’s downward spiral, vomit and tears, and a tumble outside the club. A bruise right on the funniest part of my elbow. Zed’s dismissive eyes and strong, kind hands guiding me into their cab, making sure I didn’t hit my head on the roof. But he should have sent me home. ‘What your liver ever do to you, huh?’ he joked. It wasn’t funny.
‘Zed’s just gone out to the supermarket and stuff,’ Max volunteers. She’s watching a cartoon at low volume. I’m horrified to see that her skin looks even better unadorned. I touch my body tentatively and I’m wearing an oversized man’s T-shirt, my underwear and cheek drool. Ugh.
‘OK,’ I answer, trying to keep my words to a minimum. ‘How’s he gonna manage with his arm?’
Max shrugs. ‘He’ll be alright.’
I put a hand over my eyes, returning to darkness for a few blissful seconds.
‘Feeling pretty rough, innit?’ says Max.
‘Yeah.’
‘A lightweight like you,’ she offers, ‘you’re better off with a little coke or an “E” or something. It’s cleaner.’
‘Shit, I can barely handle the basics. Like paracetamol.’
She chuckles and shakes her head. ‘So young, you are.’ In all her twenty-one years on the planet. ‘Better for you to be pure, I suppose. If you’re into that sort of thing.’
‘Aren’t you models supposed to live healthy or something?’
‘Skinny. Skinny, not healthy,’ she laughs. ‘Besides, it ain’t made no difference to me so far. Thank God for genetics. You want some coffee?’
‘Milk and two sugars, please, crack baby.’
She chucks me the middle finger and is gone in a flash of teeth and hair. I need to get out of here.
I rise carefully to go to the bathroom, picking my dress up off the side of the sofa, and everything kaleidoscopes. I go one shaky foot at a time up the narrow stairs and when I turn the shower on it’s as loud as an army, but just what I need. I dry off using a towel hanging on the rack and it must be Zed’s because it’s still very slightly damp and it’s probably the closest I’m ever going to come to touching him. I rinse my mouth out with toothpaste and wash the spit off my face. Moisturise with some cream that smells like Zed. I pull my hair with partial success into French braids and two of the hair bands that are on eternal standby on my left wrist.
I need to be awake, sober, alert and tough. And I need to leave right now, before he comes back.
Back on with the dress. Back on with the Converse and bangles. Back on with the eye-bag concealer, deep black kohl and an old lipstick smudged in my cheeks for blush. If ever I needed some kind of mask to wear, today’s the day. But in the mirror I still look like the kind of girl it would be easy to resist. I make a mean face and switch the light off, tossing Zed’s T-shirt on the floor.
Turns out, I’d be better off locked in the bathroom because when I make it down the stairs Zed is back and they’re kissing. Tongue and everything. Their bodies are pure white on pure dark like the husk and the flesh of a coconut. She sits with her bare legs and feet thrown over his loose-fit jeans. Margarine-coloured hair; white, fat-free limbs; pink lips; blue eyes. She’s a study in pastels.
By the time their mouths come apart, I’m back upstairs retching into the toilet bowl. Again. The sight of them buried in each other’s faces is not the best thing for a weak stomach.
Knock, knock, knock.
‘Eden! You alright in there, love?’ Max.
‘I’m FINE!’ I say. ‘I’ll be down in a minute!’
I wipe my mouth and stare down at the floor tiles, waiting for her footsteps to retreat. I’ll go home right now. I’ll be fine. I pick up the discarded, oversized T-shirt I slept in and stuff it into my knapsack. A souvenir. I consider pissing on his toothbrush but I’m not sure which one it is and Lewis – as irritating as he is �
�� has done nothing to deserve such treatment. Instead I swipe a couple more keepsakes for the road: Zed’s moisturiser and aftershave.
I almost trip down the narrow staircase trying to be fast and sure. My ankle twists on the bottom step. I soldier it. No sprain could hurt as much as I do in the heart muscle. Max flicks a gesture toward my coffee on the table.
‘There ya go, love,’ she says, turning the volume up on her cartoons. ‘You OK, yeah?’
‘I’m going home!’ I announce to the wall, and set about gathering my things.
‘Eden, come here for a minute.’ Zed’s voice from the kitchen.
‘I gotta go!’ I yell.
‘Just get in here, please.’
I stumble over and lurk mindlessly in the kitchen doorway, watch him begin setting out his ingredients one-handed. He has a gorgeous, broad back. He glances at me while he’s whisking eggs in a bowl.
‘Yeah, so what do you want?’
‘You should eat something, Eden. I’m making breakfast.’
‘Well done, chef Wake ’n’ Bake,’ I say, glancing at the spliff behind his ear, ‘but I’ll eat at home.’
‘You’ve been throwing up half the night, lush. You go out there without something in your stomach and you’re gonna make really good friends with the sidewalk.’
‘What the bloody hell do you care?’ I say, quietly enough that I hope it won’t be heard in the living room.
‘Just eat, please. I’ll be five minutes.’
‘You’re not gonna stay and ’ave some breakfast, Eden?’ Max pipes up from the next room, lazy cow. ‘You ain’t even finished that coffee I slaved over!’
‘OK,’ I hiss at Zed. ‘Whatever. Prove whatever it is you want to prove. I like my eggs scrambled.’
‘I ain’t trying to prove shit. That’s your game,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘I thought you were gonna swallow your tongue last night!’
‘You should know what I was trying to do.’
‘What? Get alcohol poisoning?’
‘Same thing you’re gonna do with that thing behind your ear. Relieve some damn stress.’
