Now, Maybe, Probably

by Dillie Dorian

  I turned around and went back to our room, suddenly with a muddled and awful feeling like maybe Aimee had meant something heavy. What if she was only so psycho about little things like that because something bad had happened to her? And almost as bad – what if I was being an irrational bitch now? I wouldn’t like it if either of my brothers (or Harry) saw my boobs these days.

  Oh, what if cattiness was contagious?

  #11 All The Wanted Things

  I never found out if there was anything serious haunting America. (And don’t get me wrong, I didn’t think I was entitled to find out either.) When she came back up to our room to dry her hair, she had nothing to say to me. I tried apologising in case I’d been mean, but she flicked the hairdryer on emphatically, so I figured she didn’t want to hear it.

  As for Zak, Harry had his few words with him and it came out that he would be grounded for the next week, not for perving but for trying to lie. OK, I didn’t think that was fair, because he was only saying what everyone wanted to hear, and got a little panicked and mucked it up. I always say what my friends and family want to hear, and no one has grounded me for commending Kitty’s art for being more circly than triangly, or, Chantalle’s face.

  Kitty herself hadn’t been left alone by Harry’s diplomacy – she’d been pestering about needing a Mary Poppins outfit for the talent show, and he’d given her a firm budget of seven pounds. So that was how I found myself trailing round the shops on Saturday afternoon.

  “That one is perfect,” Kitty had said several times as we passed various shop windows and stalls peddling up-to-the-minute fashions.

  “That one is more than seven pounds alone,” I’d had to point out each time, slightly heartbroken that she couldn’t have it, even though there was no having all the wanted things when me and Charlie and Zak were her age either. (Or now.)

  As I tried to drag her into British Heart Foundation to hunt for a more affordable coat, Kitty stopped short outside the neighbouring fashion shop. “THIS one!” she said, stubbornly. “The red one.”

  In the shop window was a gorgeous poppy coloured coat – the old-fashioned type with double buttons up the front and a belt to tie at the waist kind of like a dressing gown. The neck was the best part, lined with a thick faux fur scruff. It looked nicer than anything Ms Poppins would have had. £40.

  “It’s beautiful…” I admitted, unwisely. I half wanted such an elegant coat for myself, though I didn’t imagine I could pull off the bright red.

  “Can we buy it?” she asked.

  “I’m afraid not, Kit,” I sighed. “It’s forty quid.”

  “That’s only two times seven!” she said quickly. “Haven’t you got any money?”

  “Two times seven is fourteen,” I corrected. “The coat is four-zero. Four times ten.”

  “So?”

  “I don’t have forty pounds, Kitty.”

  She stuck out her bottom lip, and retracted her arms inside her scuffy little navy blue coat. “Now?”

  “I still don’t have forty pounds,” I said firmly. “We will have to ask Harry.”

  “Ask him now?”

  “I can’t ask him now,” I said, wearily. “I need to use the phone to call his work, and the phone is at home.”

  “You’ve got a mobile phone though.”

  Oh. So I had. I reached into my jacket pocket for it, only to find it out of charge. “It’s died,” I said.

  “You’re lying,” she accused.

  “Kitty, I’ve had enough of your attitude today. You can’t have everything, and even if I wanted you to have everything, I can’t get you everything because I don’t have any money.”

  “But I need to look like Mary Poppins!” she whinged, threatening tears. “That coat is a Victorian coat.”

  “It’s an expensive coat,” I argued. “Now come inside the charity shop and choose something sensible.”

  Inside the charity shop things were no better. “These coats are all stupid and smelly!” she protested loudly.

  “Shush!” I winced, thinking of the old lady behind the counter having to hear a moody brat calling things in her shop smelly.

  “But they are!” she moaned.

  I flicked through the short coat rail, but was disappointed to find that they didn’t have anything remotely old-fashioned. All the close-enough coats were ridiculously long old ladies’ ones, and everything in child sizes was pink or silver puffa with most of the shimmer scratched off.

  “We’ll try another shop, then,” I told her, grabbing her by the hand and giving the till lady an apologetic look. “It’s rude to say that things are smelly,” I had to explain once we were outside. “What if the person thought you meant them?”

  “Well I didn’t mean her!” Kitty whined. “I said the COATS are smelly!”

  “Would you shut up?” I seethed. For some, probably hormonal reason, I was having as much trouble staying calm at this point as any of my friends. Maybe our periods had synchronised in some creepy spiritual way and that was why we all had a fuse the length of a cough sweet. I was late-ish by my extremely rough estimation.

  “Can everyone shut up?” asked Kitty. “You’re all being all shouty today.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, as we entered Oxfam.

  I was sorry we’d entered Oxfam. And every other shop after that. I was sorry we’d come out at all, because it was still as completely freezing as last Saturday, so cold that my back hurt in my stupid short jacket. We both needed new coats really badly, but I was secretly scared to ask Harry for anything for me – mostly in case he lumped one of Aimee’s chavvy old jackets at me and spent the next two years asking me why I wasn’t wearing it.

  We returned home bitter and empty-handed, having called a truce on the snapping and both shut up all the way back. I didn’t like not talking to Kitty while we walked anywhere – Mum had always talked to us on the way to and from town – so it was weird going back past the church and down our road in chilly silence. We made it, though, but didn’t get to mention the coat situation to Mum in the meantime because Aimee was kicking off again.

  “Well, he’s NOT here!” screamed Aimee. “How can you have let him out after what he did?! Dad said he was NOT to go anywhere!”

  “I didn’t let him out, Aimee,” said Mum, tiredly. “He’s not supposed to have gone, yes, but I don’t know where he is. He’ll be in trouble when he gets back.”

  “But he’s grounded and he’s not acting grounded!” she whined. I took back every irritation I’d had about Kitty inside my head – this was the truly toddlerish girl.

  “Aimee…” Mum sighed. “Just mind your own, will you? Hello, Harley and Kitty. Did you find anything nice in the charity shop?”

  “No, but I found the perfect coat in a proper shop!” Kitty exploded. “It’s red and fluffy and Victorian!”

  “Ooh,” said Mum. “How much?”

  “Forty pounds,” I grumbled. I didn’t want Kitty to have an opportunity to get her addition wrong again and accidentally make Mum say yes.

  “Ah,” said Mum. “Well, you never know, Kitty. You might get a new jacket in the autumn. As for now, you just need your Mary Poppins costume.”

  “It is my Mary Poppins costume,” said Kit. “It’s the perfect coat!”

  “It’s perfectly overpriced,” tutted Mum, pulling Kitty in for a standing-up hug, as there was getting to be no room on her lap for a gangly seven year old.

  I sighed and went upstairs.

  #12 harly

  We had Sunday lunch at Andy’s, which was something we hadn’t done in a while, and Charlie had hung back when we left. (Prying Aussies should note that Sunday lunch with Andy’s dad was once a more frequent affair – an hour a week where Dad had to keep up appearances in front of family friends.)

  Zak hadn’t been permitted to hang around anywhere, because it turned out that when he’d gone out when he wasn’t supposed to, he’d gone out somewhere that he wouldn’t be allowed even if he hadn’t been grounded. He’d gone all the way
to the big game store by bus to pick up his Nintendo Wii which had come into stock, outraged that Harry no longer wanted to drive him. He’d be grounded for a whole month now, and grounded from the Wii until Monday when he could only get an hour in.

  I had plans to throw together an outfit for Kitty that afternoon. In secret, and to make it so good that she wouldn’t complain. (Much.) This was a problem for numerous reasons, but particularly because most of the shops in town would be shut on a Sunday, and even if they weren’t, I only had seven quid.

  After no luck in either of our wardrobes (I didn’t dare check Aimee’s), the only glimmer of hope lay in the attic box room. It was still full of everything from spare lightblubs to school jumpers that were between any of our sizes (for now). Along with the unwearable sweatshirts were every worn out pair of shoes me and my siblings (and cousins) had had since playgroup (well, the ones Hendy hadn’t sought and destroyed), every pack of uncomfortable socks me and Charlie had wrinkled our noses at on Crimby Day, every old pair of jeans that wouldn’t once have merited a patch on the knee, and generally everything Zak and Kitty hadn’t wanted or managed to grow into. There was bound to at least be enough material around to wangle a coat out of Devon.

  I went off on a bit of a memory trip as I hoofed through the plastic crates and cardboard boxes which stacked to the ceiling even after our November clearout. I remember when we both had black Clark’s shoes with kittens on. (Prying Aussies should note that “we both” was me and Shells, not me and Charlie. First term of Year R.) I remember when I had patchwork-leg jeans with a “9” on. (I was eight, going on nine, and they were dark blue with sort of triangular swatches all the way down.) I remember walking to playgroup on a rainy morning with Mum and Charlie and you and baby Zak in the pram, splashing in puddles in our tiny wellies. (We had ugly PVC raincoats to match – mine was red with Postman Pat decal, Charlie’s was yellow with Fireman Sam, and Shell had pink with Tots TV.)

  The raincoats! I could remember Zak inheriting Charlie’s one for a while, but when it came around to Kitty, she vehemently argued after the start of school that nobody wore raincoats anymore. All three of them were bundled up in a box, as garishly bright as ever.

  I carefully unfolded mine, the red one. The Postman Pat decal had almost rubbed off completely, and looking at the matching wellies, the design wasn’t on straight at all. They’d been stickers of some sort! Probably iron-on, judging by what a mess the plastic was around those areas. What if I scratched the rest off?

  That worked a charm, and before long I held a neat-as-new red raincoat, except for the slight pocking where it might have been ironed. From a distance, wouldn’t that look just like the beautiful button-up coat? She’d only have to wear it for a couple of minutes at the front of the hall. Most of the Infant children likely wouldn’t know what a raincoat was, if what Kitty had told us was right.

  I worried for a moment about what could go underneath, but realised with resignation that she might as well just wear her school uniform and shoes, since it took her so long to get dressed.

  “Oh!” said Mum, with surprise, when I went downstairs to show her my solution. “What happened to Postie Pat?”

  “He… rubbed off,” I said, awkwardly. “Almost entirely. I just neatened it up. Was he… ironed?”

  “No, no! They were all transfers like the false tattoos you used to like. I’d never iron plastic!”

  Mum was as pink as your rain mac with defensiveness. Was it possible that she’d once been as useless at housework as I was? Out of tact, I decided not to press the matter, and she gratefully took on the task of breaking it to Kitty about the anorak costume.

  I could hear all the way from the computer desk on the top landing that Kitty was unimpressed. “BUT IT CRINKLES WHEN I DANCE!!” “BUT IT’S GOT A HOOD AND NO FUR!!” “BUT IT’S A RAINCOAT!!”

  I didn’t care a jot. I’d tried my best, and saved Harry seven pounds in the meantime. If I was a selfish person I could even have asked Mum if I could keep them and claim it was the cost of the coat – but I wasn’t, so I didn’t.

  The grubby teal background on the computer burned my eyes. Already the whole screen was humming at me, and there weren’t even any speakers. Every time I switched that thing on, I regretted it. I’d heard people complain about how ancient the school computers were, but this one took the biscuit. It had an ongoing click right inside the big box part that got on my nerves.

  I thought about typing my History homework. It would look so much better in print – a whole twenty four pages on the capture and liberation of the African slaves. I’d had four weeks to do it, and already finished a while ago, but it would be due on Monday. Could I type twenty four pages in a few hours?

  MSN flashed at me. It had been set to sign in as soon as anyone turned the computer on. Maybe my friends were as bored and as hiding as I was – the ones I had left.

  Not my friends.

  Jordy.

  He said: heyyo

  I said: hi

  It took all my energy not to capitalise the first letter or add a full stop. I wondered if that was how much people like Jordy struggled when they were supposed to write a History essay.

  He said: wubu2?

  What was “wubu2”? “Wub you too?” I hadn’t said I wubbed him.

  I said: What’s “wubu2”?

  He said: wot u bin upto? wots ’’

  I said: Oh, not much, just had Sunday lunch. What about you?

  He hadn’t meant what’s a quotation mark had he? He hadn’t even properly copied the key I pressed to get the double one…

  He said: yh me 2

  I said: What did you have?

  What did you have? For Sunday lunch? He had to think I was some kind of moron, ’cause everyone knows being socially stupid is less OK than not being good at spelling… or, computers.

  He said: beens on tost, i wz at my nanz

  I said: Oh. We had…

  What could I SAY?? I knew he could see that I was typing, and it made me nervous. Wouldn’t want to look like I had to have a think.

  …a roast. Only because Andy’s dad was cookin’.

  “Cookin’” with an apostrophe? Was that OK? Was I getting the hang of this abbreviation lark?

  He said: o awsum BRB

  I said: What’s BRB?

  He said: b rite bk

  Be right… book? Back. Oh right. Was that the online version of See You Later (But Not Really)?

  I said: OK.

  Kitty had stopped shouting, so I nipped for a packet of crisps while Jordy was away. Salt and vinegar. I was half finished before he typed anything back.

  He said: Baaaaaaaaaaack!!

  I said: Hello!

  He said: Actually I was meaning to ask, will u go out with me?

  I nearly fell off my beanbag.

  I’d been planning this moment since Year 7.

  I typed (carefully): Of course! I’d love to. x

  Kiss… that was what everyone put on their messages wasn’t it? Friendly but not too flirty. All my mates did it to me. But that was texts! Oh no…

  Serious no… It was worse than that.

  He said: Good, I think you’re very hiufffvvvvvhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

  I said: Hang on – very what?

  He said: harly………

  I said: What?

  He said: imm bk! u do reelize ur brozz just coned u in 2 ad mitn dt u luv me

  I said: …what? i never sid tht it was aimeee

  I was panicking so hard that I could barely type after all. Jordy knew – he’d probably known for a long time, but now there was no pretending he might possibly not. My breathing went funny and I had to dig my toes into the carpet to try and ignore the thump of my suddenly violent pulse and the casual whir of Harry’s smart-casual beige computer radiating teal background and awkward conversation window straight at my face.

  Jordy knew and I would see him at the party.

  Jordy knew and I would see him AT SCHOOL.

  #13 Schism

>   As far as I was concerned, Charlie was in disgrace.

  If he’d thought he wanted me dead for stealing his trainers in a big misunderstanding last term, I was frantically searching for a pain worse than death which I could assign to him in my mind until I felt completely better.

  I’d had to avoid Jordy all Monday morning, and having finally persuaded my remaining friends to squirrel away in the English block loos where he would never find us, I vented my despair.

  “You’ll never guess what happened to me yesterday!” I moaned. “I was talking to Jordy on MSN, and he asked me out! Only it wasn’t really Jordy. It was Charlie. I’m going to murder him!”

  Devon jokingly indicated the little circle on the ceiling that we were all wary of in case it was a camera. (It wouldn’t surprise anyone to find out that the caretaker monitored graffiti by watching us pee.) She’d heard it all on the way to school, as for once Charlie had slimed straight off with Andy so he could ride the wave of despicableness without being made to feel bad about it by either of us girls.

  “Probably don’t confess to intended murder in here…” she hissed.

  “God, Kay, you’re such a schiz!” sniffed Rachel, who was with us for once.

  As usual, no one bothered to point out that it wasn’t a nice thing to say. Devon knew we knew.

  “That was pretty low of him,” said Rindi.

  “Well, Charlie’s a nasty little worm anyway,” said Rachel. “Asking his own twin sister out!”

  “For a prank!” I found myself defending him. I was getting the same creeping feeling from her words that I’d had with Aimee’s accusation. It turned out; I just really didn’t personally like the thought of incest. Like with being a lesbian, I was recently heaving slightly selfish sighs of relief all over the place that those sorts of things would never be my problem, especially at school!

  Rachel got a text which made her frown and take her attention off filling in for the queen bees while they were away terrorising someone else.

  “Is… everything OK?” I asked, sensitively. Even if she had just been quite nasty on purpose about me and Charlie, I still automatically and absolutely cared about every one of my girl friends.

  “Yeahofcourseitis!” she snapped. “Break’s over; I’m off!”

  I’m off. It was always that with Rachel. Being in totally different classes to all of us 100% of the time, there was no friendly “let’s go” aspect to it. She was always off, personally.