To Be Honest

by Polly Young

  Alicia reckoned.

  He freaked her out badly that night in the woods. She was smoking, alone, god knows why. It makes some sense I s’pose, now I know she finds boys hard. Practising smoking, she was, to impress them and I’d taken Tao out ‘cos Mum was driving me mad.

  I watch the dog run crazy round fit man: he’s whipped up into a frenzy, which is what Tao did when he wanted to play just with me.

  I’d come home from school and he’d bring me a towel, which meant, ‘play with me now or I’ll definitely howl the place down.’ Mum would be knackered from work so we’d go out with Josh or just us two.

  Alicia was petrified. She said, “is that a horse?”

  I’m serious. And she told me and I laughed. Well, you would, I bet. And Josh laughed too and she said he was a fag and then chucked hers away and put down her bag and then picked up a stick, which was a mistake, ‘cos the thing that Tao really liked most was the lake. The one in the woods behind school’s black with slime and it’s full of old bikes. It’s been there since time ever started.

  So, Alicia’s stick starts to shake as she sees Tao charge, so she aims at the lake and it smacks down, much harder than I thought it would. And Josh and I know what comes next.

  And it’s good. Tao plunges in violently. Swimming’s his thing and he reaches the stick and avoids the shopping cart that sticks out like some mangled body; all stuck in the dead reeds and rubbish; the grainy, wet muck.

  He heaves out. He’s so pleased with himself I crease up, ‘cos the look on his face is just like he’s a puppy again. But guess what? Alicia isn’t amused and her plasticky smile lets me see she’s confused and freaked out. Too late: Tao’s on the run still. And sadly for Alicia, she’s standing downhill from the water that’s stagnant and smelly and vile. Next thing, Tao’s landed on top of the pile

  That is Alicia.

  She got up and untangled herself from my wonderful, beautiful dog, who tried to lick this person he thought was so fun. But Alicia made a noise like a broken dishwasher and stumbled away, leaving Josh and me still in fits. Weird that now I think Alicia might be ok.

  But Tao’s still gone and I miss him.

  And Oh Em Gee, that dog is fit.

  * * *

  We meet at the fountain. Miss Mint’s got, like, six reasons to apologise but she doesn’t, she just says, “bit late,” and winks and chews her thumb.

  And I say, “don’t do that. You’ve got such nice nails.”

  And she says, “you haven’t.”

  I’m trying to work out how cross I am at her for:

  Going out with Kai

  Two-timing Taff

  Ignoring Josh

  Making Mum sad

  Biting my thumb

  Being late

  Oh, and basically messing my life up. The main thing is lying. I don’t know how she can’t see what she’s doing is bad. We’ve only got six days left. What if she’s already ruined it?

  “I like him,” she shrugs, “and if I’m you and you like him too, what’s the prob?”

  “ ’Prob? I think you can do better than that,” and I remind her she has a degree and a PGCE and something called a TLR ‘cos I had a meeting about it on Friday and I actually think I might go for another. I tell her.

  “I don’t want to,” she says, looking stunned.

  “I do.”

  “But it’s loads more responsibility.”

  “A lot more,” I correct. “Not loads. And it’s also more money,” and she strops and doesn’t reply.

  We head to La Verite , a posh French place just opened and which no Fairmere year kids would ever set foot in. Miss Mint’s paying, which means really I am.

  “How’s money?” she asks, when she’s ordered a coffee and water and absolutely

  nothing else.

  And it’s fine, ‘cos she gave me her card and her PIN and I’ve not used it much. Just taxis and food. And the dentist.

  “Oh yeah, how did that go?” she asks, looking shifty. And I need to do this filling in carefully.

  When I’ve told her, she hides in the coffee cup.

  “I don’t do that now.”

  And I fall off my chair ‘cos my shoulder’s been gored. More great pain, Mr Morlis. I shout, “don’t you lie, it’s not fair!”

  There’s clatter and bangs as Miss Mint and four waiters all rush to my side, waving napkins. I’m ok, but shit, did that hurt. And I’m furious. So mad I start speaking in French. And I yell,

  “ vous êtes fou . Vous ne se soucient pas de la santé ou votre vie. Taff vous aime, mais vous ne devriez pas devenir sa femme, si vous ne pouvez même pas être honnête avec lui au sujet de la nourriture. Et nous ne serons jamais de swap en arriè,,,,re si vous ne pouvez pas dire la vérité.”

  Just to piss her off, to be honest.

  And she looks at me blankly, as white as the cloth that she’s using to dab at the hot coffee froth that she’s spilled on her jeans. And then all of the heat rushes out of me and as I get to my feet I say, “sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted. It’s just that I can’t handle you and the lying. It’s really frustrating.”

  She whispers, “yeah, I’m sorry too.” And gets off her knees. And we both sit back down. She breathes in, then, “please can you say that again, in English this time?” And she smiles and I do it (and yes, it does rhyme).

  “You’re crazy ; you don't care ‘bout health or your life. Taff loves you, but you shouldn't become his wife if you can't even be honest with him ‘bout food. And we'll never swap back if you can't tell the truth.”

  We unpick the menu together. I tell her I know she counts calories from the bit of paper in her bag, noting the times of the day and the things she can eat and the numbers they hold, like, religiously.

  I’m pleased when she tells me she hides food; about the chocolate in her desk drawer at school; the skipped meals; about the cakes festering under Posy .

  “Does Taff know?”

  She shrugs. “He just thinks I don’t eat much. I control it round him.” I think back to the bath and him being so pleased that I wanted to eat.

  “Why’s it so hard?”

  “It just is,” she crumbles sugar on her lap. “I can’t help it.”

  And I say, “Rach was the same. But she’s getting a bit better ‘cos dancing’s her thing now.”

  And Miss Mint smiles and I think if she can’t help it, maybe Rach can.

  * * *

  We stay and get jelly, which doesn’t offend Miss Mint’s constitution. And now: my best friend.

  Josh’s been round to Miss Mint’s. He came round in the morning, before she went to meet Kai to do shopping; before she left Kai to see me. And I think, there might be something in this getting up early.

  “He wanted to talk about Felix. And the letter.”

  I go cold. But turns out he’s happy. Which is the main thing. Apparently, he sat at the kitchen table at breakfast, all spruced up in tailored shorts, ready to talk, but Mum was getting ready for work and Miss Mint wasn’t eating but stressing ‘bout what to wear so he’d had breakfast well early at his but he made all these crepes in Mum’s kitchen, with blueberry compote, whatever that is, sprinkling icing sugar over like snow, and Miss Mint and Mum watched him make four and put tiny

  Stars from a jar

  Leftover from Christmas last year

  On the top.

  And just before Mum left she said,

  “Josh, that’s lovely; really and truly. I love jam and craps.” And she’d tried to get Miss Mint to eat them, but that obviously wasn’t happening, so she’d promised to have them when she got in, but looked a bit worried they’d keep and he’d said,

  “My boyfriend Felix will have them.”

  Miss Mint goes, “it was awesome. Your mum’s jaw was hanging.”

  And I think, Mum’s cool; she knows Josh’s gay, but yes. Yes. I can imagine. (I also think, we need to do something about your vocabulary, my girl).

  “And the letter?”

  “He than
ked me, but took the piss. Basically he just thought it was weird.”

  “So you read it?” I knew it. I’m livid.

  “ No ,” she says, spinning so fast I believe her. “I wouldn’t do that. But it’s pretty obvious what you put.”

  And the scent of blueberry disappears from my nostrils ‘cos I had more faith in Josh than that. But he’s in love, so I guess I’ll forgive him.

  “What about Kai?” I’m still trying to process the longing looks; the lingering; the basic obsession.

  Miss Mint puts her chin in the pads of her fingers and holds it.

  “Was Felix with him? Kai, I mean? When Josh mooned over him?”

  I nod, slowly.

  “I think Josh was scared,” she says, wisely. “He knows the whole school worships Kai and Felix’s not out yet so he’d be scared too. Kai, was cover for Josh and Frankee for Felix. It’s just like one of those weird celebrity shows, or Shakespearean drama,” her eyes roll. “I think it’s amazing, but sad in a way,” and she shakes her head, sadly. “Hidden love sucks.”

  Yes, I know, I think. “And you’re with Kai now.” I’m testing. I’m soft; I am raw. I don’t know if I’m ready to find that out for sure.

  She takes a deep breath and then holds out her palms. “I think so,” she says. Then she crosses her arms. “But really I’m doing you a favour.”

  “Oh? How come?”

  “Well when we swap our lives back, the deed’s already done.”

  “What do you mean?” Dread scuttles like beetles all over my neck. I think what I’m hearing is the last thing I want.

  “Kai and I having sex.” There, she’s said it. The harmony’s

  broken.

  Mr Morlis will be so disappointed.

  * * *

  Now we’re trying to think of ways to help Mum. ‘Cos she’s not baking or making; her spending’s got out of control. I see where I get it from now.

  Mum’s stuck on internet shopping like tartar to teeth, Miss Mint says, which is quite witty for her.

  I think of the short, black dress price. What a fool. What was I thinking? Eighty quid! I could pay for Mum’s heating for a month. Go to Paris with Taff. Like a grown up. Which would be a million times more fun than Courtney’s party.

  Miss Mint says it’s easy.

  “All your mum needs to do is to realize there’s more to life than home trimmings and sewing. She needs an event. Something fun. To dress up.”

  That won’t be easy, I think. You don’t know my mum. But then I remember she does. I tell her about the dress and me lying and she goes kind of quiet and says, “well, let’s give it to her.”

  “What?”

  “She said it’s grown up, right? The dress, I mean?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So she’s a grown up. So we’ll just say it’s hers now.”

  I’m not sure quite how that will help, but the power of clothes is something I’ve come to believe in recently. She’s nothing to wear it to though, I think meanly. Quite seriously. If there’s a neighbourhood party, Mum says she won’t go, which I think is ridiculous. Mum’s forty two. If she doesn’t start partying, what will she do? End up all lonely and take up bowling?

  “OK, she can have it.” Mum does need some bling. “You think that will help, though?” I’m still not convinced. Last time Mum wore Lycra, like, everyone winced. It was Easter and Dad had just left the country. Mum went on a bender of SATC meetings-up and it all came to a sticky end when she threw a tea party.

  She went round the bend making scones and tooth-friendly, no-sugar fruit cake and chocolate éclairs. Such great care did she take with the masses of food, she entirely forgot to get something nice to wear. That’s when she got the idea of internet shopping, you see. One click and she’d bought a demure, on-the-knee Lycra number. The only thing was, she’d not checked what the size was so when the guests came, she was decked in this miniscule slut-suit: Miss Mint would have died. The dress was appalling, and Mum nearly cried.

  Luckily, Martha was there to assist. She doled out the teacakes. “Get out now,” she’d hissed and Mum got changed into cords and a tunic, I think. I tell Miss Mint all this. I see her heart

  Sink.

  “So she doesn’t do Lycra?”

  “She might if it’s right. And not too revealing, or small, or skin-tight,” I say, ‘cos I’m thinking it might be a plan now that Dad’s gone to try and find Mum a nice man.

  * * *

  I can’t stop thinking about Kai and Miss Mint maybe having sex. We skirted the issue for the rest of the day, like Strictly on Ice , winding and weaving our words, skating round important bits and missing out others. There’s no lies, but we’re up to day six. Six jour. And I’m starting to feel like what we don’t say counts, for sure. ‘Cos my chest kind of hurts, like pleurosis.

  * * *

  Taff’s back the next day, so we say our goodbyes and I traipse back home, well to 45, and stop off at Waitrose to buy wine, which I can, no ID questions asked. And that’s fine, but what’s not fine is when I get home I pour one massive glass and then slide off of Posy and

  Onto

  The

  Floor.

  ‘Cos sex with Taff’s definitely breaking the law.

  Chapter 15: Sunday, seventh night

  “Back by three,” Taff had boomed carefully down the line from the ‘base’ as he calls it. “See you then. Keep things hot.”

  And I’d said, “what, the roast? Oh yes, fine. I’ll do pork. Lots of crackling.” He’d cracked up, delighted, ‘cos I’d talked about food, so I hadn’t had time to consider the rude innuendo.

  I’ve passed my week’s marking to Miss Mint and she’s given me homework. We argued a bit, ‘cos she seems to think her doing physics revision and me ticking year 7 spelling’s unfair. But I think she should just get a life, to be honest. I’m sitting and struggling with forces and fields; stupid Newton and circuits and weird curving yields, when a figure appears in the window and slinks, pale and lithe, like a stealthy, elasticky lynx, past the house.

  It’s Felix. He knocks once on Josh’s front door.

  I turn away, glad. I don’t need to see more.

  * * *

  Taff’s back a bit early: two minutes to three. The taxi draws up as I’m stirring gravy.

  Who knew I could do that? Have I stirred it enough? Are there lumps? There are lumps, oh no, oh and they’re big ones and also there’s one in my throat as the door slams.

  He’s in and he’s there and it’s wrong. It’s wrong as he pushes me up against the draining board, smoothes back my hair and says, ‘hi’. It’s wrong as he takes the spoon from me and licks, licks it well.

  Really well.

  And says, ‘yum, this is wonderful, Phoeb. Come here. Grrr.”

  But it’s wrong ‘cos it’s not me he’s telling, it’s her.

  So to stop all this wrongness, I turn into Mum. I fly round the room, whisk away every crumb, with clanging and basically making as Much Noise as Possible. He’s watching me now, from the oven, and you know that phrase, ‘a smile plays on lips?’ well, his comes back to mine

  For a thoroughly, utterly, really good time.

  His smile, I mean. Up, down, all over, it skips. It visits my mouth; stays a while, then it strays round my jaw bone, my ear lobe, the nape of my neck. And here I was thinking I’d give him a peck on the cheek and it would all be fine. Not likely.

  Taff takes my hand and says, “let’s go upstairs,” and I instantly know that this man really cares for Miss Mint. Phoebe Mint. And it’s not my call to pull him. Nor his. No, it’s not ours at all.

  The way I get round it is really quite cool. I wink at him and say, “I bet you’ll drool over all of this food I’ve done, mainly for you,” and I do, so I don’t need to stress it’s not true. It works. He’s interested. His smile takes a break from kissing my fingers. His head starts to shake really slowly, like he can’t believe it’s real that his food-freaked fiancée has made this great meal.

  S
o after we can’t stuff any more parsnips and potatoes in, we sit down on Posy and cuddle. Which is fine, I think, ‘cos Miss Mint wouldn’t mind that. And he says with a twinkle, “Phoebs, I love you but I have to say I love you even more now you’re a tiny bit fat.”

  And I hit him. ‘Cos even though I don’t care how much I eat and the food was delicious, I’m not turning into a porker like Olly Goddard. Not for anyone.

  * * *

  After we’ve dozed a bit, Posy ’s getting uncomfy and I have an idea.

  “Let’s walk to the Country Kitchen.”

  It takes some persuading, ‘cos Taff’s stiff and burning in places I don’t want to think about. But he grunts and heaves off the sofa and stretches his incredible arms out. We gather ourselves and our wits and our mitts and our coats, ‘cos it’s cold outside, and shouldn’t we take the Lamborghini or just stay in? He says with a grin. And again, he is nuzzling and pressing, caressing, but even though everything in me says ‘yes’, my outside is strong and well done, Miss Mint, I think, ‘cos eventually we leave. I’m wearing the peacock coat from last Saturday. The military boots. My chignon’s in place.

  Well, maybe a little bit messy.

  The Arts Centre’s rammed. We push through the jammed up weekenders, all down from the buzz of The City, which I think sounds fun, and settle for something light: maybe a bun.

  We sit in the corner. Martha’s by herself, rushing round tables; a sinewy elf. But then she stops, sharp. The cake stand’s unclean; she gestures at someone.

  I know it’s Miss Mint well before I see her. She’s wearing my top with the stain on the back and she’s using a mop by the counter. She puts it down, sighs, goes and sees what Martha wants. I can lip read but even if I couldn’t, I’d know it was about chocolate fudge.

  “So what would you like?” I fold my arms and he says I look business-like, though his rippling, tweedy shoulders make me want to unfold them again and reach over macramé and ... but part of me’s feeling professional.

  “So, what would you like?” breathes Miss Mint and I take a long gaze, though I know exactly what’s down on menu card.