by Katy Wix
I used to watch you from behind my wall. How can I get closer to you, I used to wonder. Because I was never close enough. I wanted to eat you up, so that you would always be with me wherever I went.
I didn’t have many posters in my room, but I had a small picture of you and I would keep it under my pillow. Sometimes I would fall asleep with the phone on vibrate, resting on my heart, just in case. Waiting for your electronic letters to wake me.
From behind my wall, I could guess your every move, so predictable. First you would complete a ring of the car park, then you would practise taking one hand off without wobbling. Then you would weave in and out of the abandoned trolleys. Next, you would make a U-turn so powerfully that I would have to hold my breath, before heading over to the bins to execute a masterful gear change. Your likeability and bikeability were not mutually exclusive.
I would lay my bobbly grey jumper on the ground like a prayer mat and sit cross-legged until my eye could align with the hole the missing brick had created. Then, I would wait for you to ride into shot like the hero in my very own film. You were all I had. Everyone else made me feel small and pushed my buttons but, with you, there were no buttons – they fell off! Button cutter! Button cutter! That was you. You cut off my buttons and made me feel precious. I could withstand an entire school day as long as we both kept our appointments in that car park.
What would happen, I used to think, if I were to come out from behind my wall? To taste the space around you! You would turn and smile as you saw me approach at long last. And you would take the helmet from my nervous hands before gently placing it on my head, to crown me your queen. And you would gesture towards your handlebars, beckoning me to sit on them so we could ‘double-ride’ around the car park as one, but then I would point out that it was both illegal and dangerous, affecting the cyclist’s ability to see, steer and balance, and in some parts of the country so called ‘double-riding’ could carry a £2,000 fine. And then you would shrug and cycle off into the distance, alone.
OUT THERE
You know, it’s so nice to meet someone my own age at one of these things! Which ones are your parents?
(She looks round.)
Oh, don’t tell me – there!
You have the exact same nose. That’s adorable.
I feel like we’ve met before – but I can’t quite place you. My dog’s very emotionally challenged – so I spend a lot of time walking him around Ruskin Park. Are you one of the skateboarders? No, I’m sorry – that’s ridiculous – you don’t look the type. I just know I’ve seen you in an outdoor setting!
Anyway, I’ll leave it with you …
Are your parents intrusive at all? Mine have been charting my academic progress pretty much since the day I was born with the sort of enthusiasm that only unhappy people in need of distraction muster. That’s my set there: don’t be fooled – they’re older than they look – they’ve both had a lot of work done. They remind me of the two Vermeers in our hallway: I walk by them every day and think about their immense age.
May I be bold? Do you think we’re all in a sexual crisis? Us, I mean: millennials, dotcom-ers, generation X, all of the above. Young people. Do you agree?
Ah! Rock-climbing! I’ve just remembered where I know you from – Mile End Climbing Wall. Am I right? I thought so! I never forget a face – actually I do … all the time. I’m better with dogs. Dogs’ faces.
As I was saying – I’m sure I can’t be the first to have so many ideas so young, but our generation haven’t yet grasped the sanctity of fulfilling intimacy. I blame pornography. Gratifying sex must surely consist of more than just the end goal – the journey is just as important: the fine interplay between the purely sensual and the mere sexual, I say mere, but of course there is nothing ‘mere’ about it. For many, sex is as meaningless as shoving some daffs into a vase and yet for some far-off cultures sex represents the great ‘intercourse ‘ present in all of the universe – the joining and coming apart that exists in all, but this is of course all just a hyposofis
(She struggles to say hypothesis.)
just a hyposofis. Hypofis. Oh for Christ’s sake – hypofisis … just a theory.
When I do eventually have sex, I will be absolutely making sure that neither party gets trapped in a reductive idea of what sex should be. Us girls shouldn’t feel bad about wanting to be wanted. That’s just Oxytocin at work, and cities of love have been built on the stuff!
PATIENCE
I’m woken in the night by these noises. Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing … probably just the screaming dead, or similar. At first, each sound struck me with absolute terror, but then I just got used to it.
It’s important for me to be able to express these feelings openly with you Doctor. The noises seem to come not from this world. One night, I broke wind with such horsepower that I think I frightened the spirits away. They didn’t re-visit for weeks after that. But, last night, they reappeared. Words cannot paint what happened next … but I’ll give it a good go.
I’d just finished watching Location, Location, Location when I suddenly felt really sleepy, and not just because the show had been about new-builds in Chester. Boring! It was only 9:45 and usually at 9:45 I am far from tranquil. I’m usually full of beans. As I’m making my way up the little stairs to Bedfordshire, I began thinking – surely I’m too young to be going to bed at this time. Anyway, I suddenly caught sight of my face in the bedroom mirror, pale and harmless, when I noticed a cobweb in my hair. I yanked it out with force and it really isn’t easy for one with such anxiety to withstand a cobweb in the hair. Where was its maker!? The spider! I’m the sort of person who always assumes the alarm will go off when they walk out of shops. And it did once, for absolutely no reason. Three security men in intimidating livery asked to see my receipt and one of them looked like a young Stalin and well, the whole thing was awful.
I’m sorry, I seem to have gone down an avenue.
I got into bed and naturally, buried my face in an old copy of Grazia. I used to keep a stack in the bathroom, but they had gone rather crisp. I was just nodding off when I heard someone sigh, just a simple sigh but it wasn’t me and I live alone. It came from right inside the room. My blood curdled, honestly, and well, that was it – I was too frightened to sleep – I stayed up most of the night flicking through articles about how to wear tangerine, that sort of thing.
I was thinking perhaps a sleeping-tablet would help, or perhaps it could be something as simple as too much cheese or Irritable Bowel Syndrome, what do you think? I’m very open to your ideas.
PICK
Please get it right. It’s a massive deal. Make a long list, then a short list, treat it like the Baftas. It may seem counterintuitive but you might want to wait until the baby is actually born, so you can see its face before you decide, because if you get this wrong, without sounding alarmist, well … it’s tantamount to child abuse. Yeah.
God, how I longed to be a Jess, or a Sarah or even something devastating like Brittney. But when the teachers called out ‘Pandora’ in the playground, only one person turned their head to see, and that was me. There were no others.
It’s been a burden, my whole life, my name. And you may think that a name doesn’t really matter, that much, but it does! What’s even worse is that it didn’t even suit me. A Pandora should be elegant, serene. I was fat and shy. It’s so much worse, like being an ugly Belle, a quiet Gabby, or a clumsy Grace. Some little girls are desperate to stand out aren’t they and be noticed, actively looking for signs of their uniqueness, but that wasn’t me – I was desperate not to be seen. There was nothing you could throw over the name Pandora to try and conceal it, no chance of pushing it into a corner and hoping no one would notice. I was furious with my parents for forcing me into the middle of the room for all to see … because they named me Pandora. Nominative determinism. Your name affects your future. Because no one called Gary will ever run the country.
And then, when I got a bit older, the boys would make really la
me jokes about my box. Well, by then I knew the myth quite well and I would say, ‘Actually, that’s a complete misnomer. Pandora opened a jar, but it’s often mistranslated as a “box”, and besides, she only opened it out of curiosity, she didn’t mean any harm and anyone else would have done exactly the same, if they had been in her position.’
So, this woman, this poor woman Pandora – created by the gods, has been the victim of victim-blaming. It was Prometheus’s fault quite honestly. So there we go – who was really to blame – a man. This defenceless woman has taken all this blame – a disproportionate amount of blame – when really Prometheus started it. All Pandora ever did was open a jar, like Nigella – she has been completely misrepresented.
I don’t really know how you get it right, to be honest. Sticking to something biblical is always a safe bet, but not Dorcas … or Jezebel, and you should be fine.
RIVERBED
I never feel the cold. People would say ‘Are you cold?’ and I would say, ‘Never’. Winter couldn’t even stop me from playing outside. I hated summer and I longed for the earth to turn dark and cold each year. ‘Goth Girl’, I heard the girl next door shout over the hedge once. But she had a twisted hip, so I wasn’t allowed to be mean back. There’d be steam coming out of people’s mouths like they were spray-painting the sky. But nothing much came out of my mouth.
My Mum would drag me to the doctors and say, ‘What in God’s name is wrong with my child? It’s the middle of winter and every time I turn my back, she’s taken off her coat’. People would say, ‘You can’t go out without a coat’, so I put on a coat. ‘You can’t go out without a hat’, so I put on a hat. I kept the peace. I’d walk for maybe ten minutes, when I’d have to take them off to breathe and stop.
Then one night I wanted to be alone, so I went to my spot. I knew the best hiding places but the minute you see someone else there, well, it’s not a secret hiding place any more, is it? It’s ruined and you have to let go, move on and find another hiding place. This was one of those nights – I lost my hiding place.
Behind our house was a river. I was in the cool water, up to my ankles, just looking for stones, the ones like black potatoes. I liked to paint them in bright colours and then sometimes I’d write a name on one too and give it as a present. That’s all I had to offer – I was just a child. No matter how crap a present is, if it’s given to you by a child with no money and big eyes then you have to love it.
The feeling of going down to the water to find my black potatoes was the best feeling I had in my whole life. And the deep river like a big cold dish. Then I see it: a man and a woman. What are they doing?! Are they? Oh my god – they’re taking off their clothes! They are naked and by that I mean – they haven’t got any clothes on! He was talking quietly in a murmur punctuated by her soft, short laugh. And suddenly, I’m hot, for the first time in my life, I’ve got flames just under my skin. Flames. Rushing. Sick. Just so ashamed. So angry that, well, it’s so stupid because I was just a kid but I was angry that the adults hadn’t seen me – I was there first – angry that they hadn’t respected my little patch of the river where the best pebbles are. And the noise grew louder and I thought I would drown in shame. The man looked up. He saw me! Our eyes met. It was like I’d been shot in the stomach. I ran and ran and ran, a panting beast, all the way back to my house.
‘Oh, where is your coat?!’ my mother yelled through the gaps in my heavy breaths. I tried to explain. I had left it on the riverbank. But, no, wait, let me explain! I had to move, get away. Oh! Adults never listen. They never listen.
I went up to my room, seething. Tomorrow I would go back to the river, for the last time, hope my coat will still be there and say farewell to my hiding place – and to my lost innocence.
SOUTH
I could just see his One Direction keyring peeping out from under his T-shirt, so that’s how I knew. We were both at the same bus stop and we both looked up and made eye contact at the same time about three times in about seven minutes. I was waiting for the P4 which goes about every two hours. So, I just said, ‘Have you ever seen them live?’ He looked confused so I pointed at the keyring. But I could tell then that he was a bit shy, like he didn’t expect me to speak. I don’t mean like he didn’t think I knew how to speak, no, more that he just wasn’t expecting such a sassy girl at a bus stop on a Tuesday afternoon in such wet weather. He said no he hadn’t and looked at his shoes. Then I remembered my uber fact. So I said, ‘Did you know that two of One Direction are actually cousins but they didn’t even know – like they only found out last week?’
He said he didn’t think that was true. I said ‘fool’ quietly under my breath to myself, to keep the peace really. But it is true. He’s wrong.
He starts trying to find a picture on his phone of when he met them. I really wanted to show off my knowledge so I said that a lot of people don’t understand all the aspects of being a Directioner, you know. We’ve got a reputation for being deadly. People think we’re crackers don’t they – obsessive. But we just really want them to do well and I don’t know about you but I also think it’s about being part of a community isn’t it – something bigger than yourself. It’s a form of spirituality – like how my neighbour does chanting in her front room sometimes. It’s communion. Why else would we all wait around for hours on end in the cold just to catch a glimpse of Harry’s perfect curls. I just wish their management wouldn’t push them so hard – I mean look what happened to Zayn. My friend’s dad was in a band in the late eighties and the same thing happened apparently but he ended up in rehab ’cause he was addicted to food.
We stood in silence for a moment. I couldn’t tell if it was sexual tension or just tension. And I couldn’t tell if he was really looking at me or if he was looking at his reflection behind me.
Then the P12 came and he got on it and in a moment of total sorcery I got on too – even though I wanted the P4. But then it was just really awkward because he sat at the back with some old ladies and there was no room so I had to sit on my own near the front. I got off at the next stop and waited for a P4. Honestly, he gives the fandom a bad rep.
I hope they never split up.
SQUEEZE
Look, this whole thing has been like a film. Not necessarily one that I would rent again but …
It’s not like I haven’t imagined what it would be like to be with you because I have, believe me. I even fancy your shoes.
You’re so clever … not as clever as me (she laughs a little) but you know …
Undeniably, we have a connection, a spark. And it’s obvious to everyone. A few people have noticed and asked me if anything was going on between us and of course, of course, don’t worry – I didn’t say anything. I was just breezy and subtly changed the subject by saying something like, ‘Where do you stand on the whole Russell Brand, don’t bother voting thing’ and then they would forget what we were talking about.
I feel as though, and I’m not sure exactly when this started to happen, but I feel as though I know where you are in the room all the time.
Ugh, I’m a little out of my depth here.
This has all been very heightened and I think we both adore the idea of it so much, of being together, but I worry that it’s not based in reality. I can’t image going around Asda with you, d’you know what I mean? It’s all so intense with us. I guess we’re both quite intense people.
Well, I think I’ve always met two types of guys really: those that I’m very physically attracted to and those where you fall in love with someone’s mind and I suppose what I’m saying is, and this will sound quite full on but, with you … there are both these things and I guess it overwhelms me a little. But, having said that, I am with someone and I can’t break their heart just because we like the idea of being together and I know you respect that.
Maybe you’re so perfect that I can’t relax with you, maybe that’s it. I never see your flaws. And in some ways, maybe if we kill this now, it will be so perfectly preserved and never grow old l
ike Marilyn Monroe’s face.
Your hands. God, I love your hands.
I’d only take all my crap out on you anyway eventually! It’s best you never know. I won’t come down from my pedestal and nor shall you. We can stay up there like a God and Goddess, Shiva and Shakti, immortalised by our love. I said love! I didn’t mean to. No one has said the L-word up until this point. I didn’t mean to say it.
Perhaps, for this moment only, we are in love.
THE BIG DAY
Thank you. Thank you. Thanks so much.
Um, not very good at public speaking and unfortunately I’m not just saying that, so I’ll keep it brief. And I’m sure you’ll agree with me when I say that the bride looks absolutely ravenous today, absolutely gorgeous – love the hair – really jazzy! And, she was so worried about – because it’s very thin isn’t it and in bright sunlight – it can go quite see-through can’t it, so I’m just glad that the beautiful hair piece arrived on time – let’s hope no one had to sell the hair due to poverty to get it to you here today. Right then, well as chief bridesmaid (it wasn’t going to be at all actually, was it? Do you remember? I said no at first because today was meant to be the day that I was going on a sushi-making course, and it was non-refundable but then it got cancelled at the last minute, thankfully).
So what makes a good wedding speech? Well, I honestly didn’t have a clue and I’ve only been to one wedding myself – last year in Cyprus (and it was awful). So, I decided to Google it and according to the internet, a good speech should ‘share some funny or touching memories about the bride, honour the bride and groom’s relationship and offer up advice and well-wishes as the pair begin their lives together’.
