by Cat Clarke
I finally look up at her. ‘How can you say that?’
‘Sorry. That was crass of me. All I’m trying to say is, what’s done is done. It doesn’t matter who meant what or who did what. We’re in this situation and we just have to make the best of it. It will be OK, Alice, I promise you.’ She puts her hand on my knee and I stare at it. Her fingers are long and elegant, her nails are perfectly manicured. Her nails used to be bitten down to the quick, if I remember correctly.
‘Is that why you’re doing all this memorial stuff? Making the best of it?’
‘I saw an opportunity and I went for it. I thought it was about time people around here started showing me some respect. In case you hadn’t noticed, I was nothing at this school. I was less than nothing. And now I’m not. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the only one making the best of this situation, am I?’
‘What are you talking about?’ I’m suddenly dog-tired. This conversation has ground me down to a fine powder. The tiniest puff of wind would blow me away.
‘You mean to tell me you actually believe you’d be going out with Jack if Tara was still alive?’ She snorts. ‘Two words: as if.’
‘He … I …’
‘You know I’m right. Even if by some miracle he would have asked you out, Tara would never have allowed it to happen. She was not a good person, Alice. You have to remember that.’ Polly’s voice is gentle now. She thinks she’s almost snared me with her words. She might be right.
‘She used to be a good person – the best.’
Polly snorts. ‘I find that very hard to believe.’ She doesn’t know, of course. She didn’t know me or Tara back then. And even if she had done, she’d probably have conveniently forgotten – just like the rest of them.
‘She didn’t deserve to die. No one deserves that.’ My eyes fill with tears and I tilt my head back as if that will pour them back to wherever they came from.
Polly says nothing.
44
She’s right. Going to the police won’t do any good. Tara and Rae are gone. We have to get on with our lives.
I’m still not sure whether Polly meant for all this to happen. There’s something not quite right about her, definitely. But I can’t believe she’s a murderer. More like an opportunist or something. It’s like she said – there’s no black and white. Everything is murky grey, blurred at the edges. The distinction between murderer and opportunist seems an important one, but I could well be kidding myself.
I can’t help thinking that maybe Polly’s the way she is because of how everyone’s treated her. Who can blame her for wanting to be popular? That’s what most people want, isn’t it?
She’s right about Jack too, much as I don’t want her to be. The thought of me going out with him if Tara was still around is almost laughable. I may not be as bad as Polly – using Tara’s death as a springboard into the higher echelons of the social scene – but I’m not far off.
Ghost Tara isn’t talking to me. When she’s around she sits on the floor in the corner, glaring at me. She was hoping I’d have a huge confrontation with Polly, ending with me frog-marching her down to the local police station. I’ve let her down. I try not to look at her; it hurts too much.
I can’t help thinking about Tara’s body at the bottom of that well. I can’t help thinking about what she must look like now. There are bound to be bugs and worms and all kinds of awful creepy-crawlies down there. I wonder if the reality is worse that the horror-movie image in my head.
She shouldn’t be down there. I bet it gets very cold at night. And what happens when it rains?
She must be lonely. No one ever comes to visit.
The next day at school I throw myself into getting back to normal. I eat lunch in the cafeteria. I talk to Cass. I even talk to some other people. But I do my best to avoid Danni; I don’t know what to say to her. I pass Polly in the corridor between lessons and she gives me a look. It seems a very pointed look, but I’m not entirely sure what it’s supposed to mean.
Jack’s loitering at the school gates at home time, looking rumpled and knackered and good enough to eat. I embarrass myself by running into his arms.
‘What are you doing here?! And how did you manage to get here on time? You lot finish at the same time as we do, don’t you?’
Jack holds up his hands like he’s shielding himself from my barrage of questions. ‘Whoa! The answers to your questions are, in the order you asked: I wanted to see you; I nipped out early from my study period; and yes, we do finish at the same time as you.’
‘It’s good to see you. I’ve … missed you.’ I bury my head in his shoulder and try to force down the lump that’s mysteriously appeared in my throat.
‘I’ve missed you too. I didn’t want to have to wait till Saturday to see you.’ He wraps his arms tightly around me and I lean into him. He smells of good, clean boy sweat mixed with Lynx deodorant.
We stand there for a minute or two. I didn’t know just how much I needed to see him – needed to hold him – until now.
‘Wait, don’t you have band practice today?’
He pulls away and looks at his watch. ‘Yes, in approximately twenty-three minutes.’
‘And how exactly are you planning to get to Camden in approximately twenty-three minutes?’
‘Ah, you’re forgetting about my trusty steed.’ He gestures over his shoulder at the battered old BMX leaning against the railing. ‘She’ll get me there on time, no probs. Never let me down yet.’
‘You came all this way just to see me for a couple of minutes?’
Jack nods and looks bashful. ‘Yeah, I suppose I did.’ He is so close to perfect I don’t know how I can stand it.
‘Well you’d better hurry up and kiss me then, hadn’t you?’
‘Yeah, I suppose I should.’
And he does. And it’s easy to fall into the moment and forget about everything – forget about Tara and Rae and Polly and Cass. I’d almost be able to forget where we are, if it wasn’t for one or two people shouting, ‘Get a room!’ as they walk past.
Not for the first time I thank God that Jack has chosen to be with me. It’s miraculous. Too good to be true. And it’s not true, is it? This relationship is a house of cards resting on a fault line. But it’s the only good thing in my life right now, and I won’t let anything ruin it.
When Jack pedals away I feel like my heart is trying to push its way out of my chest, like it wants to go with him – it needs to be where he is or else it will forget how to function. I had no idea it was possible to feel this way about another person. It terrifies me.
By Saturday, my head is seriously messed up from lack of sleep. My vision keeps on going wonky – like I’m seeing everything from underwater – and I can’t concentrate on anything for more than a minute at a time. I waste the morning attempting to write a rough draft of an essay for Daley. I’m not helped by Ghost Tara repeating herself in my head: You have to tell him today. You have to tell him today. You have to. When I look down at the page I realize I’ve started to write Tara’s words instead of my essay. I throw the pen across the room and scrunch up the sheet of paper into a tiny little ball. Then I head to the bathroom to splash my face with icy water. I don’t like what I see in the mirror. I don’t look normal. I don’t look right. Why can’t anyone else see that?
My hair looks OK and my skin is clearer than it’s ever been – if a little pale. So I think it’s my eyes. I think there’s something not quite right with my eyes. They stare back at me lifelessly. Dull grey and brimful of secrets. There’s a greenish tinge in a certain light, but it’s muddy and mossy and about as far away from emerald as you can get. Mum was either colour-blind or lying.
Dad doesn’t talk much at lunch. He sits at the table with the newspaper propped up in front of him and a frown on his face. He hasn’t really had much to say since our little chat about Daley. I feel guilty every time I look at him. He must think I’m the worst daughter in the world, and he doesn’t even know the half of it.
<
br /> He’s going out to watch the football with his mates, then he’s off out to dinner with a ‘business associate’. He won’t be back until ten at the earliest, so I don’t have to bother making up some lie about where I’m going. I don’t even have to tell him I’m going out at all. Lying by omission is much less guilt-inducing.
I take a long bath after lunch and take extra care removing every last bit of unwanted hair from my body. That’s when it hits me properly. This is the day. By tonight I will be an ex-virgin. Everything will have changed. I should probably be more excited, but all I feel is a squirmy sort of fear in my gut.
I never would have thought it would happen like this – planned and premeditated. I’d have thought it would just happen in a lovely, spontaneous sort of way. One thing would lead to another and then before I had a chance to start stressing it would all be over. And I would be happy and relaxed and probably more than a little smug.
I know it’s going to be nothing like I’ve always imagined. I’m fully prepared for awkwardness, embarrassment and pain. But at least it will be with Jack, and there’s no one I’d rather be awkward and embarrassed with. I could do without the pain bit though.
Choosing the right clothes is tricky. I can’t help thinking the dress I wore to the dance would have been the most appropriate pre-virginity-losing outfit. At least that was easy access. I wish we’d just got it over and done with there and then. It’s not that big a deal, is it? People do it all the time.
I try on a couple of skirts, but they don’t look right. Too try-hard. I need to look like me. It has to be jeans – easy access or not. My favourite ones are still languishing on the beanbag where I chucked them the other night. I can’t remember the last time they were washed, but they smell OK. A plain black top is the best I can come up with after a lengthy search.
Ghost Tara reappears when I’m spritzing on some perfume. She’s sitting in the corner again, looking small and vulnerable. I turn away and concentrate on applying some waterproof mascara.
‘Don’t do this.’ Her voice is different, more serious.
‘Why not? Because I’m not good enough for your little brother?’
‘You’re not, but that’s beside the point. I don’t want you to hurt him.’
‘Me hurt him? From what I’ve heard, that’s not the way it works.’
Tara sighs at my lame joke. ‘That’s not what I meant and you know it. He’s falling in love with you.’
I say nothing.
‘He’s falling in love with you and you are going to stomp all over his heart. How do you think he’s going to feel when you tell him the truth? You think he’s going to give you a hug and say, “Don’t you worry about my dead sister – I’m over it.”? You honestly think he will ever be able to forgive you for what you did? God, Alice, I always knew you were stupid, but this really takes some beating.’
‘I—’
‘Don’t say it. You are going to tell him. Today.’ Suddenly she’s standing behind me. Hallucinations can move faster than you can blink.
Before I can think of anything to say, she’s gone again, leaving me feeling dizzy.
Once last look in the mirror before I head off confirms that I look adequate if a little bit queasy.
There is no way in hell I’m telling Jack anything.
45
The journey to Jack’s house takes longer than expected. The bus gets diverted due to a burst water main on the high street. My stomach feels like it’s made from lead. I can’t seem to shake this jittery pre-exam feeling. I’d really like to know how a normal girl would be feeling right now. Surely there should be delicious anticipation mixed in there somewhere. What I’m feeling seems way too close to dread.
Looking out the window helps to calm my nerves, even though I have no clue where the bus is going or whether it’s going to end up where I need to be. People are milling around outside pubs even though it’s freezing cold. I suddenly worry that the diversion will take me past the pub Dad’s at with his mates, and he’ll happen to be outside, and he’ll happen to look up at exactly the wrong moment, and I’ll be so busted. Then again, that might not be so bad after all. He’d drag me home and he’d cancel dinner with his ‘business associate’ and we’d order a Thai takeaway and watch a DVD together.
No. I want to see Jack. I want to do this.
If I can just get through the next few hours without thinking about Tara, everything will be fine.
Jack opens the door so quickly I haven’t even finished knocking. My fist is raised as the door swings inward and I nearly lose my balance. Smooth.
He looks great. That smile is enough to make my doubts and fears slink away to the back of my brain. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, jeans and odd socks. He catches me checking out the socks.
‘What?! It’s been scientifically proven that people who wear odd socks are forty-eight per cent luckier than people who don’t.’
‘So you’re hoping to get lucky tonight, huh?’
‘That’s not what I … well, I kind of am, actually,’ he says sheepishly.
‘Yeah, we’ll see about that.’ I flounce past him, dropping my jacket on the back of the sofa. Then I turn and smile, and he smiles back, and everything is right with the world.
Jack orders a Thai takeaway, which makes me wonder if he can read my mind. He apologizes for not cooking something himself – he reckons he’s a terrible cook. Tara used to tell him he’d never get a girlfriend if he didn’t know how to cook. Tara was wrong.
We sit on the living-room floor eating the food straight out of the boxes. There’s a single silver-framed picture of Tara on the mantelpiece. It’s very hard to ignore, but I try my best.
The pristine cream carpet is so thick it’s probably comfier than most people’s beds and I’m so paranoid about making a mess that I force myself to eat extra-slowly. And I only eat about half the amount I would normally eat. It’s partly down to nerves, and partly that I don’t want Jack to think I’m a greedy cow. And I’m more than a little bit worried about garlic breath.
Jack’s super-talkative and super-attentive – he keeps asking if I need a top-up, or whether I think he should put the central heating on. It makes me feel more at ease, knowing he’s just as nervous as I am. We haven’t talked about it, but I’m pretty sure he’s a virgin too. I can’t know for sure without asking, and I would never ever do that. I wonder if I’ll be able to tell when we’re doing it.
He brings out some mint-choc-chip ice cream that he bought for pudding. ‘Now I may not be able to cook, but I can create the most perfect scoops of ice cream you will ever see. It’s a gift.’
‘You are truly blessed.’
‘Ouch! Your cynicism hurts. I feel actual, real pain. Right here.’ He taps his chest and adopts a facial expression that would put Bambi to shame.
I have to admit, the ice cream is perfectly scooped. I pretend to inspect it carefully from every angle. ‘Not bad, not bad. But I’ve seen better.’
‘Oh, you are in so much trouble. You should never, ever disrespect a man’s scooping abilities.’ He scoots closer to me and before I know what he’s doing he’s stuck a finger in his ice cream and smeared it on my nose. It tickles.
I raise an eyebrow, seriously unimpressed. ‘I seem to have ice cream on my nose. I suggest you do something to rectify this situation as soon as is humanly possible.’
‘Or what?’ he says, a cheeky, challenging grin working its way across his face.
‘Or a world of pain is coming your way in the next five seconds … four … three … two … one.’ At the exact moment the word ‘one’ passes my lips, Jack tilts his head towards mine and licks my nose.
He leans back and looks at me through narrowed eyes. ‘Nope, think I missed a bit.’ He goes in for another lick. ‘There, that does it. Good as new.’
‘That was … gross.’
‘Did you know that nose-licking is the greatest sign of respect in … um … Azerbaijan?’
I lean in close and he does the
same. I pause when his lips are tantalizingly close to mine. ‘You … are … full of it.’ His laugh is stifled by my mouth on his.
The ice cream has melted into ice-cream soup by the time we get round to eating it.
We sit in silence for a little while. I know what’s coming, but I’m not going to be the one to say something.
‘Do you … I mean, should we … go upstairs? Only if you want to, of course. We can always watch a DVD or something if you’d rather …’
46
We head for the stairs, exchanging a couple of nervous glances. I make a quick diversion to the bathroom while Jack waits in his room.
I squeeze some toothpaste onto my finger and give my teeth a quick onceover. I check my hair in the mirror – it’s looking only slightly dishevelled. Right. This is it. No turning back now. Unless I jump out the window. I doubt I’d fit though. Jack would break down the door to find my legs dangling over the sink and my arse well and truly jammed in the window frame. Something tells me that wouldn’t be a good look.
Jack’s sitting on the edge of the bed looking slightly anxious when I enter the room. There are no candles, no rose petals. The curtains are drawn and there is some mood lighting – if you count the desk lamp, which has been angled to shine its light on a poster of some obscure French film.
I stand in front of him and when he looks up I know this is going to be OK. I just need to muster up some fake confidence from somewhere.
‘I think I’d like to kiss you now.’ And I do sound confident. Not even a hint of wobbliness in my voice.
He nods. ‘I think I would definitely be OK with that.’
I lean down and put my lips on his, gently at first. Then harder. I push his chest so he lies back on the bed and then I’m mostly lying on top of him, except our feet are still on the floor.
Jack stops kissing me for a second and says, ‘Toothpaste? No fair.’
I kiss his neck. Tiny little kisses.
