Over the Moon

by Jean Ure

  Simon said anything would be better than how it was at the moment. I said, “I couldn’t bear if it my mum and dad got divorced!”

  “You still love your mum, don’t you?” said Simon.

  I said, “No! I hate her!” And then I went and burst into tears and had to get a tissue and try to mop up under cover of my glasses.

  “Did she say why she’s leaving?”

  I told him that it was purely selfish and that she just wanted to exercise her brain. “She wants to get a degree. At her age!”

  “Better late than never,” said Simon. “Lots of older people go and get degrees.”

  “But what does she want it for? It’s stupid! She won’t do anything with it when she’s got it.”

  “How do you know?” said Simon. “She might want to go off and be a teacher, or a – lawyer, or something.”

  “That’s what your mum is, isn’t it?” I said. “Do you mind having a mum that works?”

  “Mind?” He seemed puzzled. “Why should I mind?”

  “I don’t know! It just seems nicer if you have a mum that stays home and looks after you.”

  “She did when we were little. She wouldn’t want to now; she’d get bored. That’s probably what’s happened to your mum. I mean … what does she do all day?”

  I thought about it. What did Mum do all day? “She used to help my dad,” I said. “But he doesn’t need it now, he can afford to employ people.”

  “Well, there you go,” said Simon.

  He seemed to be on Mum’s side! He said, “It’s a pity she has to go off and be by herself, but …”

  “She says she needs to get sorted. She says Dad needs to get sorted. Dad’s never passed an exam in his life, he doesn’t see any need for it.”

  Carefully, Simon said, “Well, your dad’s obviously done all right, but maybe now your mum wants to, as well.”

  “You mean, like … do her own thing?”

  “I’d want to,” said Simon, “wouldn’t you? Or are you going to be one of those women that just lives in their partner’s shadow?”

  “Now you’re sounding like Hattie!” I said. “She’s the hugest feminist.”

  I expected him to pull a face, cos most boys, in my experience, don’t much go for feminist type women. Hattie says that secretly they are afraid of them. She says they feel threatened. On the other hand, Matt had pulled a face and I could hardly believe that Matt felt threatened.

  Dad pulled faces, too, but I wasn’t so sure about Dad.

  “Hattie’s really militant,” I said. “She won’t live in anyone’s shadow. She’ll most likely end up as prime minister.”

  “Good for her,” said Simon.

  “I don’t know whether she’ll ever find a man,” I said. “I mean … I don’t even know whether she’d want to find a man.” I added this last bit rather quickly, in case Simon thought I was casting aspersions. Implying that Hattie wasn’t attractive enough to find one. It wasn’t what I’d meant! All I’d meant was that being so terrifically feminist, and so tremendously focused, she might prefer to concentrate on just having a career.

  I explained this to Simon. He said, “Well, that’s OK, if that’s her choice. Nothing wrong with it. But there’s no reason she shouldn’t have both; lots of people do.”

  We sat talking for simply ages. It was really interesting; I’d never been able to talk like that with a boy before. It was almost as good as talking to Hattie! I felt I could say anything, and he would take it seriously. Most boys (the ones I’ve met) don’t seem to like talking about people, or about feelings, or even just ordinary everyday life. They’re either very stiff and awkward, like girls are some kind of alien life form they’ve never met before, or they turn everything into a joke, and say things to make you blush. Matt was a bit like that. I remembered when we’d sat by the pool after Christmas. Once we’d exhausted the subject of Simon and his mum and dad, Matt had started joshing around, being flirty and trying to make me blush. But that was OK, because that was Matt. I certainly wouldn’t want Simon to be that way! But I have to say it did make a nice change, being able to sit and talk instead of feeling all the time that I had to be girly.

  When Simon had left, Mum said, “Well, he seems like a sensible young man. A bit more to him than there is to Flash Harry!” I thought, God, Mum is so predictable.

  After that, Simon took to calling by most days on his way back from school. Officially he came to drop off my homework assignments and collect what I’d already done. It was easier for him than for Hattie, because Hattie lived way over the other side of town. She said they’d arranged to meet at the station every morning, as they got off their trains, and do an exchange: old for new.

  “Like a couple of spies!” she giggled, over the telephone.

  When Mum learnt that Simon went home to an empty house every afternoon she insisted that he stay and have tea. She said, “It’s all right, you can have it by yourselves, I won’t interfere.” I was glad Mum left us alone, because we just had so many things to talk about – including Mum herself. She was going off any day now to start living in her rented cube, as she called it, and although I kept up a cold front of hostility, I was actually quite frightened. How could she do this to us? How were we going to survive? In all my twelve years, Mum had never been away from home even just for one night! I’d told Hattie by now, thinking she would be as shocked and horrified as I was, but Hattie said she could understand why Mum felt she had to get away for a bit. She said, “I like your dad, but he is a bit, sort of … stifling.”

  I didn’t think Hattie had any right to say that about my dad. It didn’t help! But talking to Simon made me feel a bit less scared and a bit more hopeful. He said he didn’t think I should shut Mum out.

  “I know she’s the one that’s doing it to you, but she’s probably feeling quite gutted, too. And you do want her back again, don’t you?”

  I said, “Yes, I do! I don’t want her to go in the first place!”

  “I think you ought to tell her,” said Simon. “At least she’ll know you still love her.”

  “She already knows that!” I said.

  “Yeah, well, OK, maybe, but it wouldn’t hurt to tell her.”

  I couldn’t; I still couldn’t bring myself even to talk to Mum, let alone tell her that I loved her. Dad wasn’t saying much, either, so life at home was really pretty miserable. And I was still hiding behind sunglasses. It was Hattie who nagged me, now, not Mum.

  “When are you coming back to school? You’ll have to come back some time! You can’t still be looking like something out of a horror movie?”

  I said, “No, I just look like a pickled walnut!” My eyes were still crinkled and I still had dry patches on my face. I wasn’t going back to school in that state!

  “Well, it’s up to you,” said Hattie. “But you’re going to find it really difficult, making up for lost time.”

  So what? I would go back when I was good and ready, and not before. Hattie had no right to bully me! Friends weren’t supposed to bully each other. And then, wouldn’t you know it? Simon started on at me! He said, “Tell me, how much longer are you going to go on behaving like a leper?”

  I snapped, “Until I’ve stopped looking like one! I look like a pickled walnut!”

  “I don’t believe you,” said Simon.

  I said, “Oh, really? And how would you know? You haven’t got the faintest idea what I look like if I take these glasses off!

  That was a mistake, cos he immediately said, “Well, go on, then! Do it! Then I can see.”

  “I don’t want you to see! I don’t want anyone to see!”

  “Your mum’s seen. She says you’re just making a fuss about nothing.”

  “Yeah, well, she would, wouldn’t she? She just wants to pretend that I’m OK so she can go waltzing off and not have pangs of conscience!”

  “What about Matt?” said Simon. “He’s getting worried. There’s only a couple of weeks to go to Founder’s Day and he still doesn’t know whe
ther he’s going to partner you or not. I’m supposed to be reporting back! He’s nagging me to know if you’re presentable. What am I going to tell him? She’s still in hiding and won’t let anyone see her?”

  I said, “Now you’re trying to blackmail me.”

  He didn’t deny it. But sort of apologetically he said, “You know what Mart’s like.”

  I said, “What d’you mean?”

  “Well— ” He shrugged.

  “What do you mean? Know what Matt’s like?”

  So then Simon looked a bit uncomfortable and mumbled, “If you’re not going to be able to go, he’ll probably go with someone else.”

  “Someone else?” I felt my heart began to hammer in my rib cage. “Who?”

  “I don’t know who.”

  “Has someone else asked him?”

  “I dunno! Well – yeah. I think so. I’m not sure. He just told me to check you’re going to be OK.”

  “I am going to be OK!”

  “So what do I say when he asks me if I’ve – like – well! Seen you,” said Simon.

  There was a silence. My heart was still hammering. Who was it who had dared ask my date to go with her to Founder’s Day? Instead of me! Who else did Matt know?

  “Thing is,” said Simon, “he’s used to, like, having his pick. Been spoilt, I guess.”

  Well, and so had I; I was used to having my pick. But I would just die if Matt were to go to Founder’s Day with someone else!

  “Be brave,” said Simon. “Just take them off … I’ll tell you if you look like a pickled walnut. Honest! Give you my word. If I say you don’t, you can trust me … you don’t!”

  I took a breath, trying to stop my heart going at it like a bongo drum. Slowly I said, “All right … I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll take my glasses off if you’ll come in the pool.”

  Oh! That was different. He didn’t like it when I turned the tables on him.

  “I told you,” he muttered, “I don’t swim.”

  “Matt said you did. He said you could. He said you just wouldn’t, cos of being scared people would stare. That’s as pathetic as me not taking my glasses off. It’s just vanity. Like anybody cares how you look. Actually, it’s worse for me cos Matt does care how I look. So if I’m going to be brave then you ought, too!”

  “But I haven’t got any bathing trunks.”

  “No problem! We’ve got loads, we keep them specially. You won’t get out of it that way!”

  He agreed, in the end. I could tell he wasn’t happy, but I stood firm. He was being mean to me, I would be mean to him! It wasn’t till I’d changed into my swimsuit – in my bedroom – and taken off my glasses and studied myself up close in the mirror, that I started to feel a bit guilty. I really didn’t look too bad. I almost began to feel ashamed of all the fuss I’d been making. It had been horrendous at the beginning, but Mum was right: I could have gone back to school days ago.

  I went racing downstairs and into the pool room, and banged on the door of the changing cubicle.

  “Hey, Simon!”

  “I’m coming,” he said.

  “No, I wanted to tell you, it’s OK, you don’t have to, I’m sorry! I’ve taken my glasses off, you can look, but I won’t make you undress. You don’t have to go in the pool!”

  “Actually,” he said, “I do.” He opened the door of the cubicle and I tried very hard not to stare at his leg, cos a) it would have been rude, not to mention insensitive, and b) it would have embarrassed him; but quite calmly he said, “It’s all right, I’ve psyched myself up for it. I should have done it before. It’s just stupid vanity.”

  “Me, too,” I said. Simon said no, I was right, it was worse for me. He said, “I guess it’s always worse for girls.” I told him very firmly that he was being sexist – though in the nicest possible way – and that it was in fact worse for him, because my eyes had only swollen up through my own stupidity, whereas he couldn’t help what had happened to him.

  “Plus I’m almost back to normal, but Matt said you’d got to have more operations?”

  Simon said, “Yeah, well … that’s the way it goes. And you are back to normal. You don’t look in the least like a pickled walnut!”

  “So will you tell Matt?” I said.

  He promised that he would, and we both went into the pool and sploshed up and down for a bit, then sat on the side and talked. We were there for ages! Simon was such an easy person to talk to. He told me more about his mum and dad, and how they’d got on really well before his dad had gone and trashed the car. And then he thought about it and said maybe that wasn’t quite true; maybe they hadn’t got on quite so well. The reason his dad had trashed the car was that he was in a towering great rage.

  “He and my mum had just had this really big fight and Dad was, like, still seething. So I guess, maybe, him screwing up just brought matters to a head. It’s funny,” he said, “I’ve never really admitted that before. I’ve always liked to believe that everything was perfect. But looking back, I can see that it wasn’t. Not really. There were all sorts of clues.”

  I said that when I looked back, I couldn’t see any clues at all.

  “Not until these last few months.” Before that, everything had been perfect. I said this to Simon, and he said maybe it had only seemed so.

  “It could be something that’s been building up for ages. Like your mum could have been feeling more and more frustrated and just, like, keeping the lid on things?”

  I said doubtfully that I supposed it was possible.

  “Doesn’t strike me as something that’d come on suddenly,” said Simon. “It might have seemed sudden, when she finally came out with it, but that’s only because you didn’t know what was going on.”

  “No,” I said, “and neither did Dad!”

  “You reckon?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t!”

  “He probably did,” said Simon. “People usually do. They just close their minds because they don’t want to know. If you let yourself know, it means you have to do something.”

  “Like what?” I said. “There’s not much you can do if your mum walks out!”

  “Just give her a bit of time. Give them both a bit of time. I’m sure they’ll work things through. Your mum seems like a really together person.”

  “What about my dad? What does he seem like?”

  Simon hesitated when I asked him this. He said, “I don’t really know your dad.”

  “From what you’ve seen of him.”

  “I only really know what you’ve told me. From what you’ve told me it sounds like he still loves your mum but he’s feeling, like … hurt? And confused? Like she’s throwing everything back in his face and he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve it.”

  “He hasn’t done anything to deserve it!” I cried. “He just doesn’t understand!”

  “Could be that’s the key to it. Once he does— ”

  “They’ll get back together again? You really think so?”

  “Maybe if you help them,” said Simon.

  What he thought I could do, I really didn’t know, but at least it gave me something to hold on to. Afterwards I thought what a lovely guy he was, and what a shame he was physically challenged. What Dad in his non pc way would call crippled, but that is such a hateful word. It was how I’d thought of Simon when I’d first seen him; but now that I’d got to know him, and especially now we’d both bared our souls – well, my eyes and his leg! – I just thought of him as Simon, who happened to walk with a limp.

  It was still a shame, cos actually he was really quite attractive, I could really have gone for him. I mean, if I hadn’t gone for Matt first. Anyone would have gone for Matt first! Like when me and Hattie were together, boys always went for me first. It was just a fact of life, I wasn’t claiming any credit for it.

  And then it occurred to me … maybe Simon would make a good partner for Hattie on Founder’s Day? If she hadn’t already got one, that is. I’d promised to look out for her, but what wit
h my eyes swelling up and Mum dropping her bombshell, I’d forgotten all about it. Hattie herself hadn’t mentioned it, so I assumed she was still partnerless. Not that you had to have a partner, but most everybody did. Poor old Hat! It would be horrible if she was the only person on her own. And it wouldn’t really matter that Simon couldn’t dance, cos Hattie isn’t that much of a dancer. She wouldn’t mind. They could sit and talk together. They’d get on really well!

  I was so pleased to have solved the problem, I thought that I would tell Hattie the very next day, when I went back to school.

  Matt rang that evening. He was all jokey, so I was all jokey too. He said, “My spy tells me you’re fit to be seen again?”

  I said, “Yup! I can go out without frightening people.”

  I wasn’t really feeling jokey. Really I would have liked to ask him who he had planned on going to Founder’s Day with, if not me. But I wasn’t quite brave enough, so we just fooled around a bit and Matt said it was a pity he hadn’t discovered sooner that I didn’t look like a pickled walnut any more cos then we could have met up, maybe, at the weekend.

  “Unfortunately it’s too late, now, I’ve gone and arranged something else.”

  Still being all jokey I said, “I hope it’s not anything too exciting!”

  “How could it be exciting,” said Matt, “if you’re not there?”

  Hopefully I said, “I could be there.”

  “I wish,” said Matt.

  He never did tell me what he was doing. He said we would speak again after the weekend and then rang off, leaving me feeling vaguely dissatisfied. That night I wrote in my diary for the first time in weeks.

  Matt called. Simon has told him I am back to normal and will be all right for Founder’s Day. Next week! Matt said, “Talk about leaving things till the last minute.” He said, “I was getting a bit worried, there. I didn’t fancy going with a pickled walnut!” I guess I should be grateful that he has waited for me. A boy like Matt, he could have any girl he wanted.

  I am quite looking forward to it, though somehow not as much as I thought I would be. I don’t know why. I’m sure it will be fun when we get there.