Kiss

by Wilson, Jacqueline

  I still felt guilty when I thought about her. No, I wasn’t going to think about her today. I wasn’t even going to think about Miranda. I wanted to concentrate on Carl.

  I wondered if he’d be awake yet. I flopped back on my bed imagining Carl only two walls away lying in his own bed. When we were little we’d hang out of our windows as soon as we woke up and yell to each other. When we got older we’d keep tin cans by our beds and bash them in our own complicated code. We never said anything extraordinary – Hi, are you awake? I had a funny dream. Have you done your homework yet? Yum, I think Mum’s making pancakes – but it felt great to be secretly communicating, even though we wore our arms out bashing those stupid tins.

  We both had mobile phones now but we seemed to have got out of the habit of calling each other recently. I reached over the side of my bed for my phone in my school bag. I wondered about phoning Carl now, but if I woke him he might be grumpy. I wanted today to be perfect.

  I tried sending him a tiny text: R U AWAKE? I waited, hanging onto the phone, willing it to ching-ching back at me. The phone stayed silent. I sighed and lay on my front. I tried to distract myself thinking up a new Glassworld Chronicle, but for once it was hard concentrating on King Carlo and Queen Sylviana. The idiotic Piper kept playing his shrill pipes wherever they went, even in their innermost private chambers, clowning like a jester and captivating the King. I banged my head on the pillow to try to rid myself of this irritating image. I didn’t didn’t didn’t want to think about him.

  Maybe Paul would sidle off with Miranda next Friday and Carl and I would look at the Chihuly glass together, just the two of us. I daydreamed about a new Ice Age in Glassworld, a winter so cruelly cold that everyone froze to death, iced into white statues – everyone but King Carlo and Queen Sylviana in their heavy sable robes. No, Princess Mirandarette escaped, skating across the iced-over sea to her own sunny land of Sangria, but Piper Paul blundered into a snowdrift and was never seen again, never never never.

  I went to run a bath, hoping that Mum hadn’t used up all the hot water. I looked down at my body and sighed. I still looked so young. Mum kept reassuring me, telling me I was simply a late developer. She told me I’d start getting a figure any minute now. Any hour, week, month, year? What if I never developed? What if I stayed stuck with the skinny body of a ten-year-old girl for ever? What kind of freak would I end up? Imagine a fifty-year-old in kiddie clothes, travelling half price on the buses, turned away from cinemas and pubs. It was obvious why Carl couldn’t take me seriously.

  I peered down at my chest. ‘Grow, can’t you!’ I hissed, lathering myself with soap.

  I shampooed my hair too and then experimented with the curling tongs, but they didn’t work for me. I ended up with a head of crazy Tracy Beaker curls. I looked even younger. I washed my hair all over again and let it dry naturally into its usual limp long style, just past my shoulders. I wore my jeans and appropriated Mum’s black sweater yet again, needing to look cool but not like I’d made any effort. I was simply going next door to see my oldest friend, for goodness’ sake.

  I wondered if Carl was awake yet. I checked my mobile. I tapped out: R U AWAKE NOW, SLEEPY-HEAD? I waited. Then the phone vibrated with a message, making me jump, even though I was holding it in my hand. The message read: EYES WIDE OPEN!

  I jumped up and whirled round my bedroom, punching the air. I stuffed my school bag with pens and crayons and paper and then paused, looking at Carl’s birthday present. I’d wrapped the champagne glass round and round in bubble wrap and then covered it with midnight-blue tissue paper patterned with silver stars. I’d bought a length of silver ribbon specially to tie round it. I didn’t want to give Carl the glass with Miranda and Paul watching and commenting. I decided to give it to him now. I wrapped my old fleece round the parcel as extra protection and then gently wedged it into my school bag.

  Miss Miles was in the kitchen, munching her muesli and reading her book, a dog-eared paperback of Great Expectations. She was dotty about Dickens, reading him constantly. She was forever quoting him, though Mum and I generally didn’t get this until she put her head on one side and said, ‘As the great man says.’

  ‘Hello, Sylvie. Mum’s already off then?’ she said.

  ‘Bright and early,’ I said.

  ‘I hope she has a lovely time,’ said Miss Miles. ‘She deserves a bit of fun in her life.’

  I smiled at her, wondering if she ever had a bit of fun in her life. ‘Did you ever have a boyfriend, Miss Miles?’ I asked.

  She paused, stirring her lumpy breakfast. Her eyes looked misty behind the thick lenses of her glasses. I felt mean for asking her. Of course poor Miss Miles had never managed to have a man in her life.

  But she surprised me. A little pink edged along her cheekbones.

  ‘I’ve had my moments,’ she said. ‘There was one man in particular …’ She sighed.

  ‘It didn’t work out?’

  ‘Perhaps it was my fault,’ she said. ‘Maybe I should have been a bit bolder. Seize every opportunity, Sylvie, otherwise life rushes past before you’ve had a chance to live it properly.’

  I nodded politely, eating cornflakes straight out of the packet. Then I had a quick peep inside the cake tin.

  ‘Have you been baking?’ said Miss Miles.

  ‘At my friend Miranda’s.’

  ‘Can I have a peep?’ She craned her neck upwards like a meerkat. ‘Oh, I say! That’s totally professional. Lucky Carl! Tell you what, if my old mum makes it to a hundred I’ll get you to make a cake for her.’

  ‘Do you think she will?’

  Miss Miles shrugged. ‘Probably. She’s a determined old bat. I think she’s decided to live for ever. Worst luck.’

  I blinked. I’d assumed Miss Miles was devoted to her mother. ‘Don’t you like your mum?’

  ‘Not much. And she doesn’t like me, but I’m all she’s got now to keep her in new nighties and talc and boxes of chocolates. Your mum’s an angel to take me – it makes all the difference. It’s so lovely that you and your mum are such good friends.’

  I smiled and stuffed another handful of cornflakes down my throat, feeling embarrassed.

  ‘Why don’t you pour yourself a proper bowlful, dear?’ said Miss Miles.

  ‘Well, I’m in a bit of a rush. I’m going next door,’ I said. I felt a bit mean shooting off straight away and leaving Miss Miles on her own all day. ‘Carl will be waiting for me,’ I told her.

  ‘What larks, Sylvie, old chap,’ said Miss Miles. ‘As the great man says.’

  ‘Yeah. Mm. Whatever,’ I said, grabbing my bag and the cake tin.

  I didn’t have a free hand to knock on Carl’s door. I clattered the letter box with my elbow and almost immediately the door opened. Jake stood there, dressed in an old skimpy black T-shirt and black jeans. His brown hair was unaccountably black too. Even his hands were purply-black.

  ‘Don’t blink at me like that, Sylvie,’ he said. ‘I know, it looks a bit weird. I thought I’d dye my hair black to look kind of gothic for the band, but I didn’t twig you need rubber gloves when you rub in the dye gunk.’

  ‘Oh well, black hands are ultra-gothic. You should file your nails to a point and paint them black too,’ I said, joking.

  ‘Do you think that would look cool?’ Jake said seriously.

  I raised my eyebrows and edged round him. ‘I hope Carl hasn’t dyed his hair.’

  ‘As if,’ said Jake. ‘He’s still little Goldilocks. What’s that you’ve got there – a cake? Let’s see!’

  ‘It’s not for you,’ I said, but he prised the lid off anyway.

  ‘Oh yum! Did you make it yourself? Lucky Carl!’

  ‘Carl makes better cakes than me.’

  ‘He would,’ said Jake. He reached out to break off a piece of icing with his black fingers.

  ‘Don’t!’ I said, trying to hold the tin out of his reach.

  ‘It’s OK, only teasing. Will you make a cake for me when it’s my birthday?’

 
‘A black one, with black icing, and little black bats as decoration?’

  ‘Cool!’

  ‘Is Carl in his room or in the Glass Hut?’

  ‘He’s in the kitchen. Jules is making pancakes. Come on. There’s heaps, so you can have some too.’

  ‘I’ve already eaten,’ I said, but when I breathed in the sweet eggy lemon buttery smell in the hot kitchen I decided to go for breakfast number two. Jules was standing at the Aga, her hair sticking up, wearing her purple painting smock, patched jeans and scarlet espadrilles. She blew me a kiss and poured more batter into her pan.

  ‘Pancake, Sylvie?’

  ‘Yes please!’ I said, sliding onto the bench beside Carl.

  He was wearing his jeans, a soft blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and an old bead necklace I made him years ago.

  He grinned at me. ‘See, I really am awake,’ he said. ‘What’s all the stuff?’

  ‘I made you something round at Miranda’s. It’s for your birthday.’ I held out the tin to him.

  ‘Shouldn’t I wait?’

  ‘No, it probably won’t keep. Especially now Jake’s had a peer. Go on, open it.’

  He took the lid off the tin. ‘Hey! It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Can I see?’ said Jules, peering over from the pan. ‘A birthday cake! Oh well done, Sylvie. I won’t have to make him one now. Shall we have it for tea?’ She tossed the pancake expertly.

  ‘I could maybe try a weeny slice now,’ said Carl.

  ‘Pig! You’ve had two whacking great pancakes already,’ said Jules.

  ‘OK, make it three, and I’ll save my cake,’ said Carl.

  ‘I’m having the pancake after Sylvie’s,’ said Jake. ‘Know your place in the pecking order, squirt.’

  ‘Pipe down, both of you,’ called Mick from the living room. He was sprawling on the sofa with the Observer newspaper. ‘You’re both total squirts compared with me, the Alpha Male. It’s my pancake next, isn’t it, wife?’

  Carl rolled his eyes at me. ‘What’s in the bag?’ he said, gently patting it.

  ‘Just stuff.’

  ‘Stuff wrapped in special paper with a silver ribbon,’ said Carl, investigating.

  ‘Open it when it’s just us,’ I whispered.

  Mick sometimes mocked Carl’s glass obsession. He knew Carl always wanted money on his birthday to spend on his collection. He’d never give it to him. He’d spend a fortune on some gadget or sports equipment that Carl barely used.

  Carl smiled. ‘Dl-rows-salg,’ he whispered.

  It was our own old private word, Glassworld spelled backwards, meaning fine, yes, OK, you bet, whatever.

  It was so wonderful that Carl was in such a good mood. We stayed eating pancakes, all of us laughing and chatting and bickering together. It was just the way it used to be. I was Carl’s dearest friend and one of the family. I didn’t even have to feel guilty about leaving Mum on her own because she was off having her own adventure.

  After I’d eaten two pancakes and Carl one more we started to slope off to the Glass Hut, but Jake kept mucking about, going on and on about his boring band, wanting to play this new song he’d written. He sang it reasonably well – he’s always had quite a good voice, though I think Carl’s is better, so true and pure it makes me want to cry. Poor Jake made me want to laugh. He put on this ridiculous soulful expression, tossing his weird black tangled hair out of his eyes. He enunciated in an exaggerated way so we could appreciate every word of his lyrics, waggling his mouth around and showing a lot of his teeth. I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to stop myself laughing.

  ‘What do you think, Sylvie?’ Jake said when he’d finished at last.

  ‘Yeah. It’s great, Jake, truly,’ I said, and then I rushed out of the room into the garden, spluttering.

  ‘What a dork,’ said Carl. ‘He looks just like a wild thing with all that mad matted hair and big rolling eyes and too many teeth.’

  ‘Oh, Carl, yes, exactly, but you shouldn’t be so mean.’

  ‘Why not? He’s always mean to me.’

  ‘Yes, but Jake’s so sad. He keeps showing off to me now, trying to make an impression, and he’s so obviously wasting his time.’

  ‘Is he?’ said Carl.

  ‘Well, of course. I can see he’s dotty about Miranda, all the boys are, but I can’t get him a date with her.’

  ‘I think you’re getting your wires crossed, Sylvie,’ said Carl, opening the Glass Hut door.

  I peered around, breathing in the lovely slightly earthy smell of the hut. There was something slightly strange. The glass collection wasn’t arranged with pin-neat perfection. The Glass Boy was facing the wall, his back to us. The paperweights were clustered together, the vases were spread out unevenly and one of the tiny glass horses was hobbling along on three legs.

  ‘Oh, Carl,’ I said. ‘The horse’s leg’s broken!’

  ‘I know. Shame. Still, you know how fragile they are,’ said Carl.

  ‘But how did it happen? Who’s been in here moving everything around?’

  ‘Well …’ Carl suddenly seized the feather duster in the corner of the hut. ‘It was me, Miss Sylvie. I’m Plain Jane the Silly Servant Girl and I was a-doing of the dusting and I just flipped the wee glass horsey with my feather duster and down he toppled and broke his little fetlock—’

  ‘Shut up, Carl. It wasn’t you. You’re ever so careful when you dust.’

  ‘Yes, OK, well, whatever,’ said Carl, tickling my neck with the feather duster. ‘Let me see my birthday present then!’

  ‘In a minute. Look, Carl, it’s obvious someone’s been in here, moving stuff around. It wouldn’t be Jules, would it? Perhaps we’d better ask her, because if she hasn’t then I think someone’s broken in—’

  ‘No one’s broken in, silly. Paul was here,’ said Carl.

  ‘Paul?’ I blinked at him.

  ‘Yes, he came round for a bit after his match yesterday.’

  ‘And you let him in the Glass Hut?’

  ‘Yes. Don’t act like it’s such a big deal. It wasn’t my idea – he asked to see it, he was interested,’ said Carl, flinging himself on the sofa.

  ‘So interested he mucked everything about and snapped off the horse’s leg?’

  ‘He didn’t do it deliberately. He can’t help being a bit clumsy. He was horrified. He says he’s going to get me another one.’

  ‘Did you …?’ I swallowed. ‘Did you show him our Glassworld book?’

  ‘No!’ said Carl. ‘No, of course not. It’s ours.’

  I breathed out.

  ‘Besides, I didn’t want him to think me completely nuts,’ said Carl.

  I grabbed the cushion under his head and whacked him with it. He whacked me back and then we were messing around mock-fighting, somehow back to normal again. I still hated the thought that Paul had been bumbling around our private place, poking and prying, breaking things, but at least he hadn’t stumbled through Glassworld, smashing everything.

  ‘Can I have my present now, please?’ said Carl.

  I handed it over with a flourish. I didn’t need to tell him to be careful. He delicately untied the ribbon, undid the wrapping paper, unwound the bubble wrap.

  I waited, my heart beating fast. I knew Carl would be tactful and say he loved whatever I gave him, but I also knew him too well for him to be able to fool me. It was always risky buying him glass when I knew so little about it. I loved the champagne flute and I was pretty sure it was Victorian, but maybe it was just reproduction, maybe it was just any old rubbish and Carl would secretly hate it.

  ‘Oh!’ he said when he saw it. ‘Oh, Sylvie, it’s lovely.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s absolutely beautiful.’ He ran his finger very gently along the vines curling round the stem. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘It was in the Cancer Research shop near my dentist’s. I didn’t have enough money on me but I went back.’

  ‘How much did you pay?’

  ‘You’re not meant to as
k that! Ten pounds. Was that too much?’

  ‘Total wondrous bargain. Oh, Sylvie, you’re the best friend in all the world.’ He raised the glass to me and mimed drinking. He breathed in, as if savouring his sip of champagne, and then held the glass solemnly out to me.

  I leaned over and sipped too. It was the way we used to play when we were little, melting ice lollies and pretending they were wine. It was so real I could almost sense the fizz of champagne under my nose, taste the delicate froth on my lips.

  I looked at Carl. He looked at me. His face was soft and gentle, his eyes dreamy. He leaned forward a little. He had only to move a fraction more, angle his head sideways, and we would be kissing. I leaned forward too. Carl blinked and stood up suddenly.

  ‘Let’s play Glassworld,’ he said quickly. ‘OK, it’s King Carlo’s official birthday on Friday, but that’s a bit of a public bore, all pomp and ceremony, so Queen Sylviana decides to give him a very special unofficial birthday celebration the Sunday before. Sunday is their only day off from royal duties, a day when they can leave off their glass crowns, kick off their glass boots, and indulge themselves. So they sleep late, and when King Carlo wakes, Queen Sylviana has her pet canary trill Happy Birthday to him. She brings him a special birthday breakfast prepared by herself, golden croissants in the shape of His Majesty’s initial, and a bottle of the finest vintage champagne from the Glassworld cellars.

  ‘“But you’ve forgotten the glasses, my dear Queen,” says King Carlo.’

  ‘“No, no,” says Queen Sylviana, smiling, and she hands him a beautiful midnight-blue parcel tied with silver ribbon, and inside the parcel King Carlo finds the finest antique champagne flute blown when his great-great-great-grandfather was but a boy. It’s the most beautiful birthday present from his dear Queen. It makes him very happy. He starts musing on all the past birthdays they’ve spent together, ever since they were first betrothed as small seven-year-olds. His first birthday present was … Come on, Sylvie, what was it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I mumbled. He was indulging me, playing the game I loved most in the world, but it was all delicate diversionary tactics.

  ‘Of course you know,’ said Carl. ‘Come on, start writing it. On King Carlo’s seventh birthday his child bride Sylviana gave him—’