“I’ll put your dad on,” she said.
“Please come and see us. We miss you,” he pleaded.
“I’m sorry, but I’m too busy. It gets me all distracted. Please understand…”
“We love you,” he said, trailing off, not saying good-bye. I could almost feel the floppiness of his hands and shoulders.
“Rachel…” My mother had grabbed the phone. “I’m ordering you to come home.”
“You can’t order me to do anything. I’m almost seventeen.”
“I’ll say it one last time, Rachel.”
I hadn’t been defiant like this before. It shocked me, and her. But it felt good. Independence and determination had heated to the boiling point inside me.
“I’m not coming home,” I said, and hung up.
And then threw up.
• • •
I decided not to talk to them. I decided not to go to church anymore. I decided to cut them out of my life, for now anyway. Whenever Miss Rose announced over the loudspeaker that there was a phone call for me, I pretended not to hear. Whenever she delivered their letters, I didn’t read them. I put them in a shoebox in my cupboard.
When the September weekend came, girls ran out of school to greet their parents. I watched from my cubicle window as happy families left for happy family holidays.
“Your mother is here,” Miss Rose said. She was standing at my open door.
“I’m not going,” I said.
“You have to talk to her.”
“Do I, Miss Rose?”
“Yes,” she said.
So I walked out of the dorm building, past the offices, and into the driveway. My mother was in her car, crying. I hadn’t ever been away from her so long. She had the same drab clothes on as when I last saw her. The same sad face. But at the same time, she seemed totally new, a stranger.
She wound down her window. “You’re not coming home, are you?”
“No.”
“What have we done to you to make you so hostile, so closed-up?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. I just want to study, that’s all. I don’t want any distractions. Please understand.”
“You know we love you. Can you be kind to us? Give a little.”
“If you leave me alone for a while.”
“What about mid-term break in October?” she said.
“I’ll be home for christmas.”
She put her hand out of the window, pulled me to her, and kissed my forehead.
• • •
The holiday weekend was really quiet. I worked from 8:00 in the morning till 4:00 in the afternoon, then went for a walk down the driveway, over the river, and through the village.
One afternoon, I was walking past the curry shop. It was right in the center of the strip, with “Balbir’s Curry House” written in bright red lettering. Inside looked fabulously un-Scottish— warm and colorful and vibrant, the walls covered in handwritten descriptions of the dozens of curries on offer and in bright photos of Indian palaces and forts. A few café style seats covered in velvety orange material filled the small seating area, but it was mainly a takeaway and the cooking was done behind the counter, in full view of the customers. An Asian boy of around seventeen was opening up.
“Hi there,” he said. I only noticed his middle part—large, square shoulders that petered down to a small waist, making an almost perfect triangle. A swimmer, maybe. Boys on the island were not shaped this way. Most of them were at least six inches shorter and had coat hanger shoulders.
I ignored him.
The following afternoon, the same boy was doing the same thing.
“Hi there,” he said. This time I noticed the top bit of him. He had curly dark hair, big brown eyes with lashes that girls use fake-lash mascara to achieve, and a wide, infectious, toothy smile.
I ignored him.
Next time he said, “My name’s Sammy. What’s yours?” I registered his clothes: well-cut jeans, unironed designer T-shirt, freakishly large white trainers. And his voice: second- generation-Scottish, upbeat, sounded like morning birds.
“Rachel,” I said, still walking.
“I made you something,” he said, running after me with a carrier bag. Inside, was a plastic takeaway container. “My world-famous chicken bhoona. No offense, but you look like you need meat. If I could, I’d put you on a mince drip. You’re not a vegetarian?”
“No,” I said. “And thanks.”
• • •
There was something sunny about this boy Sammy. He wasn’t like John, who seemed cloudy and vacant, who’d never managed a conversation with me (other than to ask me to do more than kiss). He was a waste of space. Boys were a waste of space.
Was Sammy?
That night, after I’d read one of the novels for English, I went to the small kitchen on my floor, took the lid off the plastic container Sammy had given me, and put the curry in the microwave. It looked pretty ordinary, like the ones we used to get in Glasgow—all thick and lumpy—but when I took it out of the microwave, several separate smells danced their way from my nostrils to my brain. Garlic, onions, ginger, coriander, tomatoes—each solid, comfortable, and independent, but even better together. I put my fork into one of the large pieces of chicken. Before heating it, I hadn’t been looking forward to the meat. I craved meat about as much as I craved the Sabbath. But now, my brain told me there was no time to waste, no time to sit down. I had to taste it. It was unlike anything I’d ever eaten. The chicken was softer than meat should be. It opened itself out, nothing to hide. I ate it slowly, eyes closed, making embarrassing sexual noises as I savored and swallowed. Ahhh. I would think about this for a long time. I would want it again very soon. In fact, I needed to know it was possible. Now. I walked out of the dorms, down the driveway, over the river, and into the curry shop.
It was very busy. A line of politely queuing customers waited against the wall and a middle-aged man packaged curries and handed them to the next in line. I could see Sammy’s back as he cooked over the burners. He was whistling while cooking. A smiley happy boy, working hard, producing something he loved.
“Can I speak to Sammy for a moment?” I asked the middle-aged man at the counter. He was bald, and the right kind of overweight: soft but not fat. He yelled something in Hindi (I think).
Sammy fiddled with the controls on the cooker, and turned around.
“Hey, Rachel. How was it?” he asked.
“It was…hard to believe. I came to say thank you.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “Dad, you mind if I take ten?”
The middle-aged man, obviously his father, probably named Balbir, said something in Hindi (I think), which made Sammy laugh, take off his apron, and open the trap door on the counter. “Let’s go for a walk,” he said.
I was like, “There’s no need.”
“Of course there’s no need,” he said.
Before we got out of the shop, Sammy had asked me to tell him three surprising things about myself.
“My name’s Rachel.”
He made a honking sound. “Doesn’t count. Not interesting. And you already told me that.”
“Okay, I come from an island up north…” I was honestly stuck. What was interesting about me? “I can’t think of anything else,” I said. “You tell me three things first.”
“Once I ate a small bowl of red chilies for a dare and had to go to hospital. My first kiss was with Maria Jamieson from Comrie—she used her tongue and I didn’t. And I failed all my standard grades.”
We’d reached the driveway.
“Well, Sammy…”
“Sharma.”
“Well, Sammy Sharma. You are very forthright. And a very good cook. Do you sell that particular curry all the time?”
“That and many others which are just as good.”
“I don’t do lamb.” I didn’t mean this to sound like an order. Or did I?
“Got it. No lamb.”
“Well, you’ll be seeing me then. But for now, I have to go.
”
He was like, “You’re not getting away that easily. Three things.”
“I’m good at keeping secrets. I never lose my temper. And I want to be a doctor.”
“Honk! Boring and elusive.”
“I am not elusive.”
“You’re more bottled up than ketchup. If you weren’t so cute, I’d have given up already.”
“It was nice to meet you,” I said, shaking his warm hand and walking up the driveway.
As I made my way towards the school, a bright green convertible stopped beside me.
“Excuse me, do you know when the girls get back?” a boy of around seventeen asked. I recognized him—it was Amelia’s asymmetrical-haired fire escape boyfriend. He didn’t know me.
“Any time before nine,” I said.
“Cheers.” He pronounced it chairs. What was Amelia thinking? Blah. I bet after they did it he said things like: “Now woman don’t try and tell me you won’t savor that for weeks” or “Damn, I forgot to tell Jeeves our Harry can’t abide vodka.” To add to the whole disgusting ensemble, he had brown goggle eyes and overworked designer stubble.
The girls arrived back at school that night. According to Aimee, Mandy and Louisa headed down the forest track almost as soon as they arrived.
“So how was it?” I asked when the door to the derelict shack was finally opened. I hadn’t been inside the shack before. It was for cool people who smoked and shagged and then spray-painted the details on the walls (J has a huge c***, francis is a s***, h and m did it here…twice). I had no business there. But the weekend of almost complete solitude had made me yearn for my old friends.
“Fine,” Mandy said, touching her new fringe. She’d had her beautiful curly hair permanently straightened and framed by strand-perfect bangs. It didn’t suit her.
“What did you get up to?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she said, all distant and monosyllabic. The constant smile I used to love had completely vanished. She’d injected a pout into her lips.
“What about you Louisa?” I asked.
“It was boring. It rained. You?”
“Just study,” I said, watching as Mandy got up and left the shack without saying so much as good-bye. Louisa lit another cigarette. She said she loved smoking—she was like pure gagging for nicotine—but she didn’t look as if she loved it. Every time she inhaled she winced. And she held the cigarette like a robot might hold one: stiffly, as if there were rules about where your fingers should be and the rate at which they should connect with your mouth. I got bored, and the smoke made me feel terrible. “You want to head back?” I asked.
“I’ll just have another one,” she said. “See you up there.”
At dinner, Louisa and Mandy sat at a different table, even though I was the only person sitting at our usual one. It’s obvious when someone is deliberately not looking at you. Their necks go rigid and they don’t blink, and the rest of their face looks at you by turning red. This is what Mandy and Louisa did as they ate dinner and as they walked out afterwards. It all made the cauliflower cheese congeal inside me. I waited a minute, then walked back to my room and tried to read another book from the curriculum. But I couldn’t concentrate.
Jennifer Buckley, the very short girl with curly brown hair who’d cried about her cat in the first week, knocked on my door that night. She had a cabin-sized suitcase which she rolled in carefully before sliding the door shut and resting it on the floor at her feet.
“This is Mercy,” she said, unzipping the case to reveal her ginger tabby. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
I oohed and ahhed and stroked even though I find cats scary in the same bony, nippy way that ferrets are.
“She is beautiful,” I lied. Then I told the truth: “I understand how much you need her here. I’m taking this information…” I put out my hand as if her secret were lying on it, then put it in my mouth. “And I’m eating it.” I chewed and swallowed. “It’s gone.”
After Jennifer, no one knocked on my door to unleash their woes. Maybe they didn’t need me anymore. Maybe they’d formed solid friendships now and could tell each other. Was I sad about this? Or was I glad? All I know is that my cubicle suddenly felt completely separate from the rest of the school. A whole other world.
Oh shite, an island.
Eventually, someone else did knock on my door. It was Mandy, but she didn’t have a secret.
“Hey Mand!” I said.
“Hi…I have to tell you some things,” she said, declining my offer to sit next to me on the bed. She was still withholding eye contact too, which is totally creepy when someone’s talking to you. “First, I split up with Andrew.”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry, I know…”
“It’s fine,” she interrupted, moving her eyes from the window to the mirror. “Second…Oh god, I’m just going to say it! John told me to tell you you’re chucked.” She was actually tweaking her new bangs as she spoke.
“Well, that’s no surprise.”
“Are you okay about it?” She looked at me, at last.
I thought for a moment. “Yes.” And I was. What I wasn’t okay about was Mandy. She was so rude and distant. Why wouldn’t she sit down? Why did she have to stand over me, all rigid and threatening? Why were her eyes so mean?
“Have I done something to upset you?” I asked.
“No.” Eyes away again. Back to the mirror. Was she happy with her legs in her new high-waisted shorts?
“I know you, Mand. I know you’re angry.”
“All right. I’ll tell you this. It’s just that you’ve been so dull since you came here. You do nothing but study and you’re in your room like all the time.”
“I’m working…”
“I know you are. That’s all you do, apart from acting like you’re some confession-taking priest.” She was now touching up her lips with the lip-gloss she’d retrieved from the pocket of her shorts. “What’s that all about? Everyone’s saying it’s like big time strange. Everyone’s saying they’re not gonna tell you anything anymore. Me and Louisa especially.” Mwaa Mwaa. Her lips were done.
“I don’t ask people to tell me stuff.”
“Has anyone said anything about me?” Back at me again. Not nice eyes. Take them away. Give them back to the mirror.
“Mandy, you know I don’t tell.”
“Well, it’s pissing me off. Secrecy pisses me off. Since coming here, I realize you’ve never really told me anything about yourself and I’ve told you everything! You never give back, you know. You just suck people in and hold your breath.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s weird. You’re weird.” With this, she turned around, opened my door, and left without shutting it.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
In the months before christmas, the only thing I did other than study was eat. It made me feel better, and I have to admit I didn’t feel well. Perhaps because I’d cut my family off and because my friends seemed to have cut me off.
If anyone wanted to tell me secrets (and there were very few now) I refused to listen. “I’m sorry, I just don’t want to hear,” I’d say. After a while, all the girls stopped asking. Perhaps they resented that I knew too much. Perhaps they no longer needed to confess, having sorted themselves into gaggles of friends— the Populars, the Sporty types, the Keeners (i.e., geeks), the Internationals, the Emos, the Goths, the Bi’s, the Brains, etc., etc. I didn’t belong to any of the groups. I was alone. I ate everything on offer in the dining hall and visited Sammy in the afternoons for one of his famous curry dishes.
Mandy became entrenched in the Populars, which included Amelia and her clone, Taahnya. This group spent all their time bitching about others, doing makeovers, and swapping clothes. Louisa flitted between Mandy and the Populars and a group of studious types from Asia (the Internationals). One morning while I was waiting in the queue for breakfast, I got chatting with one of the Internationals, Jan. She came from China, but her Scottish accent was perfect.
&nbs
p; “You a friend of Louisa’s?” she said.
“We come from the same island,” I told her.
“She’s good at English. Probably be dux.”
Louisa. Dux. Hmm. A few months ago this would have sent me straight to the library. I still wanted to succeed, but somehow, I didn’t have the energy to compete for glory.
One evening, Amelia came into my room to ask for help with a math question. “Hi, Rachel,” she said. “I am going crazy with this. Have you got a moment?” This soft, kind voice was new. I hadn’t heard it since she’d said good-bye to her parents on the first day. Somehow, though, it seemed completely natural. I worked through the problem with her. She said thanks sweetly afterwards, but as she slid the door shut to enter the hallway (i.e., the real world) this flash of humanity flew to the wind because Jennifer Buckley accidentally bumped into her (“Out of my way, turd!”). Somehow, I didn’t mind too much. I knew we both had our own pressures and our own ways of coping.
With no friends at Aberfeldy Halls, Sammy became my best pal. With him, I felt kind of light, like a single slice of fluffy white bread. He made no assumptions about me. He had no expectations. He called me R. I called him S.
Having decided I was more bottled up than ketchup, he devised silly games to try and un-bottle me. “There are four essential ingredients for happiness,” he said. “Fresh air… exercise…and giggling.”
“That’s three,” I said.
“Aha…the fourth is the most important one. You have to work that one out for yourself.”
I had no interest in working it out. But I enjoyed the first three. All his games involved these components. Our three-legged race, for instance, went like this:
In the park behind the shops, S ties his foot to mine. It’s windy. We’ve never stood so close before.
S puts his arm around my waist. I worry that he might notice I’ve been eating too much.
I put my arm around his. Three parts of my body are in direct contact with his. These parts feel tingly.
S says, “Let’s walk first, then run when I say.”
We walk slowly, our strides matching after six or seven steps, then he says, “Run!” and we run towards the pond, and all the way around it. We are a good team. We go faster and faster.
Amelia O’Donohue Is So Not a Virgin Page 5
