Summer Skin

by Kirsty Eagar

  Jess nodded rapidly.

  ‘Good,’ Farren said, with a satisfied sniff. She pushed off the desk, flashing Jess a smile that was disconcertingly normal and suggested she hadn’t been quite as angry as she’d seemed. ‘Let’s go shoot some hoops.’

  CHAPTER 10

  FEVER FOR THE FLAVA

  Jess didn’t bring up Instagram until they were en route to the basketball courts. ‘Okay, the trick to dealing with spray is to get off the net. Look around. It’s not here, is it? Not in the real world,’ Farren told her, puffing slightly because Jess had insisted they jog there as a warm up. ‘It’s an electronic mirage.’

  Jess smiled wanly, dribbling the basketball as she ran. ‘But it feels real. I don’t think I’ll ever go online again.’

  ‘And there’s your silver lining,’ Farren said, with a case-closed air. ‘There is simply no excuse for being on social media. Not even if it’s just to check out what the stupids are doing.’ Jess bounce-passed to her, realising for the first time when Farren’s aversion to social media had started. ‘I mean, look at what it’s done to you.’ Farren’s voice changed subtly. ‘Turned you into a pouter.’

  Jess groaned, but not loudly enough to drown out Farren’s laughter. ‘Don’t! I’m already embarrassed enough about that stupid photo. I’m going to delete it. Actually, I’m going to delete my whole account.’

  Farren’s laughter ceased and she passed the ball back to Jess harder than was necessary. ‘You are not deleting anything. There are freshers who did things to three other knights because you told them to. They’re copping this shit, too. You owe it to them to ride it out. Leanne’s cool with that—’

  ‘Yeah, and she’s also a maniac,’ Jess muttered.

  ‘She’s been leaving comments on their accounts. Supportive comments. And I want you to do the same. Right now, they don’t care about the spray, because you two are right there in the trenches with them. They think they’re legends. Don’t you dare ruin it.’

  ‘You’re right. You’re absolutely right.’ Jess exhaled, dribbling the ball a couple of times. ‘When we see them we should give them high-fives and stuff.’

  Farren snorted. ‘Where do you get this shit?’

  ‘You. You do that all the time, and people love it. I think that’s why the council would lay down and die for you. You’re always good-jobbing and high-fiving. People love to feel appreciated.’

  For once, Farren was silenced. It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. ‘Oh,’ she said eventually. And then, because Farren never stayed silenced: ‘You have to apologise, by the way. Leanne’s already rung the fresher dude and offered something that was about as close to an apology as she gets—only because I was standing on her arse, mind you, but still.’

  Jess winced. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘Not really. Pretty shaken up, I think. And humiliated—it’s not like the knights would be forgiving.’

  Jess sighed, feeling bad for Richie. He had seemed like a nice kid. Fuck. She wished she could rewind time and take him out of it. ‘I’ll ring him later, too.’

  ‘I meant you should ring your guy.’

  ‘Can’t.’ Jess’s voice hardened. ‘And won’t. I have no idea who he is, but even if I did, he’s a misogynistic pig who fully deserved it. The only thing I’m sorry about is Richie, but I’m not sorry for anything else. I reserve my right to choices, too, and I choose to behave badly. So there.’

  ‘Ooh,’ said Farren. ‘So you’re feisty.’ And Jess stifled a giggle, knowing all was well between them again and feeling lighter for it.

  Their footsteps crunched on the dirt path that linked Unity to the campus. Any signs of the previous night’s storm were long gone, the girls’ runners already covered in dust. Every time Jess noticed they were out of step, she slowed down. Farren was short, and beside her Jess, at five-foot-seven, felt like a lanky giant. In every other aspect of life besides running, Farren moved like a bullet, fast and straight and true, whereas Jess liked to wander. Farren was a third-year arts/law student who got involved, changing the world from the inside out. Jess was a second-year economics slacker, allergic to committees of any kind. Farren analysed things rationally, looking at them from all angles. Jess operated on gut instinct. Farren was an only child, the offspring of two lawyers, now divorced. Jess was one of three siblings whose parents hadn’t made it past high school. Both had lived on T-floor the year before, and the birth of their friendship had been fast, furious and forever. Obviously.

  A once vacant lot near Research Road had transformed over the summer break. Now it was a construction site. It was disconcerting. Jess hadn’t even realised it was a vacant lot until she saw it cordoned off by a chain-link fence. Surely they couldn’t fit a building in there? But apparently they were going to—its footprint marked out on the cleared ground by wooden framing and steel mesh. Four builders were pouring cement for the foundations. Another group were sitting in the small sliver of shade thrown by the site office, having their lunch.

  ‘Okay, I need candy,’ Farren said, slowing to a walk.

  ‘We only just started! That’s what we do after.’

  ‘For my eyes.’

  ‘Oh,’ Jess said, nodding understandingly. The two girls stopped, hooking their fingers through the chain-link fence. Wet cement gushed out of a hose that looked like an elephant’s trunk, and the throb of the mixer seemed to beat in Jess’s bloodstream. It was like she was overly sensitised, sliding through the heat in a state of aroused shock.

  Can I touch you? She could hear his voice. And every time she thought about it a thrill passed through her body, like electricity through wires, lighting up the hot zones. But then her mind slid into what came after and she felt confused and upset. And angry.

  ‘Why is this an open fence? Shouldn’t it be boarded or something?’ Farren asked, peering over her Aviators. ‘I didn’t think you were supposed to be able to see into construction sites. Although I never understood why. Maybe it’s to stop busybodies reporting health and safety breaches.’

  ‘Maybe it’s to stop girls from leering at the builders.’

  Farren laughed. ‘Or vice versa.’ She nodded at the clump of guys on their lunch break, who’d been surreptitiously perving, but immediately pretended otherwise. ‘They’re checking out your legs in those running shorts.’

  ‘I think they’re looking at your socks.’ The two girls stared the builders into submission, emboldened by the privacy afforded by sunglasses. An orange extension cord ran from the site office to a portable stereo, and snatches of adverts reached them in between gusts of wind. ‘I bet you a million dollars that’s tuned to Triple M,’ Jess said, pushing her Ray-Bans up to hold her hair back from her face. ‘Triple M rocks your worksite.’

  ‘Are you being a snob?’

  ‘Can’t be. My dad used to work on building sites.’

  ‘You should ask him about fencing regulations.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Farren. I’m sure he’s right up on it.’

  ‘If they had boarding, this could be like a peep show. Hey, just quietly, I think something’s gone down between Allie and Mikey.’

  ‘Get out of here.’

  Farren wrinkled her nose. ‘So you knew already.’

  ‘Well,’ Jess said modestly. Then she added: ‘Not sure it’s good, though.’

  ‘No, probably not. Mikey has trouble coming.’

  ‘What? What! Oh, I didn’t need to know that. When?’

  ‘Before your time. Our first year. Why? Judging me?’

  ‘No, I’m just reeling, that’s all,’ Jess said. Part of Unity’s culture was a curiously discreet approach to sexual intrigue. Who people were doing, and who they’d done, was never really discussed, and it made Jess, who’d only had one sexual partner the entire time she’d been there, feel like there was a whole world of covert stuff going on that she knew nothing about.

  As if to illustrate this, Farren said, ‘After him was Widget. That’s how I got to know Davey. I’m sure Davey’s been with Ka
tie Millhouse, but he won’t admit it. And do you know why Davey was crying at last year’s At Home? Because I kissed Ben Kerevi. And at Paulie’s twenty-first—you know how Callum kept trying to mediate between us?’

  ‘I never knew what that fight was about.’

  ‘It was about Davey sleeping with Gemma Wickham.’

  ‘What?’ Jess coughed.

  ‘It upset me, but what I really hated was that he wasn’t honest about it. I wanted to get him back—Callum didn’t just mediate. Although I had to initiate it, of course. You know what Callum’s like.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Five times. That night. I was very angry,’ Farren said. Jess didn’t doubt the sexual marathon. She’d long associated Farren’s room with a kind of musty tang she suspected came from the sheets. ‘Retaliatory sex is the worst. You’re using them and using yourself. I’m not proud of it. But mistake made, lesson learned, I’m trying. I think that’s what this part of life is about—making mistakes. Because no one I know is getting married.’

  ‘I don’t know about getting married, but you and Davey are meant to be together. I can tell you that right now.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Farren asked, and there was the most delicate note of hope in her voice. It made Jess want to hug her.

  ‘There was this moment at the end of last year—I can’t remember where we were, but everybody was really drunk. You said something funny, blurted it out, and I saw the look on Davey’s face. He was just, I don’t know, delighted. Taken by surprise. Then he gave you this big hug.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Jess,’ Farren said, with an embarrassed smile. ‘That’s lovely.’

  ‘When I saw that, I knew what to aim for. And I knew I didn’t have it with Brendan.’

  ‘Byron,’ Farren corrected: her nickname for Brendan. As in, Lord Byron. As in mad, bad and dangerous to know. ‘He asked me to give you a letter. I told him I didn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘You should have got involved right from the start. Asked me what I was thinking,’ Jess said gloomily.

  ‘’Cause he’s soooo sensitive, you know?’ Farren said, on her own riff and not listening at all. ‘Authentically low-fi. He uses paper. Pens. So cool.’

  Jess snickered. ‘Crafty-cool?’

  ‘No, no—cooler. Thoreau-cool. Like he went into the woods, and he made the paper, and then he made the pen, and he used his own blood for ink, squeezed from the heart you broke, to write you a letter.’

  ‘He was my Edward.’ Jess grinned, tickled by the thought. ‘Why didn’t you ever say anything? About him?’

  ‘I’m your friend, not your manager. Anyway, he was probably necessary for your evolution. The mistake you had to make. We couldn’t work out why you stayed with him for so long.’ Farren frowned, obviously still wanting the answer.

  ‘God, even I know that. I stayed with him,’ Jess made an elaborate flourish in the air with her hand, ‘because he kept telling me I wouldn’t.’

  Farren snorted in appreciation. ‘You’re probably right.’ She turned her attention back to the builders. ‘Why do they like milky drinks so much?’

  The lunching builders had grown bolder. They now seemed to be openly discussing Jess and Farren. Jess wondered how much they could hear—the wind was blowing that way. Then a young guy with dreadlocks and his hard hat worn at a rakish angle spun the stereo around so that it faced the girls directly, turning the volume right up on Hot Action Cop. Presumably, so that they, like his cheering workmates, could appreciate his lip-synching and crotch-grabbing skills.

  ‘You owe me a million dollars,’ said Jess.

  ‘Walk, don’t run,’ said Farren.

  As they turned to go, a lone wolf whistle split the air, and they stopped dead, turning back abruptly. The builders suddenly appeared to be very occupied.

  ‘Oh, you’re so brave. You’re so brave now!’ Farren shouted.

  Their second retreat was met with a cacophony of wolf whistles. The girls squealed and then started to run, laughing so hard they couldn’t breathe.

  ‘You know what’s really bad?’ Jess asked, when they’d slowed back to a jog.

  ‘We were being objectified? I kind of liked it. I never get objectified.’

  ‘He took my timetable—the guy from Knights. Said nothing, just ripped it off the corkboard. You know when someone’s so angry they are just ice? Didn’t slam the door, closed it very carefully. Maybe he’s going to get me back.’

  ‘Maybe he likes you.’

  ‘He called me a slut.’

  ‘Generation Porn, Jess. Consider it a term of endearment.’

  CHAPTER 11

  I DON’T WANNA HEAR IT

  Saturday night, Jess jaywalked towards the arched windows and elaborate fretwork of the Royal Exchange Hotel like she was pleased to be introduced—although they’d met before, of course, and the place was the RE to its friends. Once inside, she headed for the public bar, deciding she’d get served a lot quicker in there. The place was busy, J. Roddy Walston and the Business blasting out. To Jess, wanting to cut loose, catch up with the night, the music was stirring, anthemic.

  She got in line at the bar, digging around in her messenger bag for her purse. While she waited, she sought out her reflection in the blur of faces in the mirror behind the service area. Georgie, one of her workmates, had made her over while they’d been on break, which was the sort of dumb thing you agreed to when you had time to kill. Her long hair was piled on top of her head, with a few wispy bits pulled loose. And her make-up? Georgie Shore. Jess had since rubbed some of it off. But in some ways it was good not to look like her usual self. She still had this paranoia that a random stranger would turn to her and say, Hey, you’re that girl who got sprayed on Instagram. Nice pout.

  Then Jess caught a flash of pink. Even before she saw his reflection, she knew it was Blondie, just by the way other people were turning to stare. When his face appeared in the mirror behind hers, her heartbeat stuttered. He was standing so close she could smell his aftershave.

  At that point, the bar guy stopped in front of her, ignoring a couple of others to serve her early—she was still in her work clothes, and black-and-whites looked out for each other. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘A rum and coke, please.’ She nodded at Blondie. ‘And whatever he wants.’

  Blondie looked at her, his eyes heavy-lidded. ‘I want my Wednesday night back.’

  ‘Okay, apart from that. Come on, let me buy you a drink. We should celebrate.’

  ‘Celebrate what?’

  ‘Your new look,’ Jess said, trying not to giggle and failing. Nervous.

  ‘Decided?’ asked the bar guy, placing the rum on the bar.

  ‘A Coke thanks, mate,’ Blondie answered.

  Jess paid for their drinks and then carried them across to Blondie, who’d moved to a spot against the far wall. ‘Cheers,’ she told him, handing him his Coke. When he didn’t respond, she clinked his glass. ‘Oh, come on, where’s your sense of humour?’

  ‘Haven’t seen it since Wednesday. How long does this shit last, anyway?’ He made a gun using his thumb and forefinger, and attempted to blow his head off.

  Jess stared at his hair—formerly blond, now pink. ‘It’s semi-permanent. But the good news is that it’s also very conditioning. I mean, spare a thought for me. I’m the one who had to buy a new toothbrush.’ Blondie remained impassive. Jess winced. ‘At least your eyebrows are starting to grow back.’

  Apart from those minor details, he looked good, in jeans and a Western shirt, the sleeves rolled up and showing his forearms. Jess had recently realised she had a thing for forearms. Golden-haired, muscular forearms. She looked away, taking a sip of her drink.

  ‘Happy with yourself?’ Blondie asked in a sour voice.

  ‘Come on, it could have been a lot worse.’

  ‘Oh yeah, that fresher dickhead.’

  The thing is, one of the M-floor girls had later told Jess, with the blank-faced look associated with shock, if we hadn
’t stopped Leanne, she would have kept going. She was having the time of her life. Sometimes I think there’s something wrong with that girl.

  If you lived on T-floor you’d know there was, Jess had responded.

  ‘They didn’t just shave his eyebrows,’ Jess said, nodding.

  ‘Yeah, I saw. They did his head.’

  ‘And his arms, and his chest, and his legs. But they didn’t need to shave his,’ Jess whistled, pointing downwards, ‘because apparently the kid’s an optimist.’

  ‘If some guys had done that to a girl, there’d be hell to pay,’ Blondie muttered.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Jess snarled, hit by a rush of blood to the head. ‘Nobody seems to mind when some guys watch things without permission. I guess the assumption is that girls who have sex deserve everything they get.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The sweep. Last year.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wasn’t here last year.’

  They were interrupted as a guy wearing a sunset-hued Hawaiian shirt passed them, saying, ‘Killer’, in a low, guttural voice, his gaze flickering over Jess.

  ‘I thought they’d have to be around somewhere,’ Jess said when he’d gone. ‘You guys hunt in packs, don’t you? And it’s probably crucial for morale that you teach me a lesson.’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself. He’s not from Knights. He went to high school with me. St Luke’s. He wouldn’t have a clue who you are. You have that much in common.’

  ‘Actually I object to that,’ Jess said, with more passion than necessary because the memory of him dismissing her on the basis of her footwear had annoyed her for days. ‘You’re wrong. The fact that I can get away with lots of different identities means I have a really strong sense of identity. Who I am is not determined by what I look like. And it means I’ve got a sense of humour.’