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my life.
The margins of all my exercise books are filled with letter Cs in various colours, fonts and incarnations. I stare out of classroom windows, wondering what he is doing. I imagine him at university, taking lecture notes, hanging out with his friends at the uni bar, putting in his two cents worth at the sociology tute he loves. And, of course, talking to girls. Grown-up girls at university. Girls who can go drinking with him after class, girls his own age whom he could confidently introduce to his family and friends. Girls who know how to dress and to wear make-up. Girls who have had sex. Girls who study the same texts as him. Girls who stand a chance in hell.
I’m quieter than usual during the lunch period. I lie on my back on the grass, my head resting on my school backpack, surrounded by the voices of my friends, and look up at the bright blue sky. Penny sits next to my inert form, talking to Ally and Eleni, but occasionally she waves a hand in front of my face, and shakes her head, laughing.
‘She all right?’ someone asks.
‘Sure,’ says Penny. ‘She’s just in her happy place.’ Penny drops her hand onto mine and briefly squeezes it.
The six lanes of traffic on the other side of the fence hum to my right. I close my eyes and imagine Chris brushing my hair away from my neck with warm hands. I open my eyes again. My lips feel like they are burning.
At work, I hear that Street-cred Donna’s dad has belted her and kicked her out of the house. Egged on in large part by the stepmother. Her real mother re-married and moved to America when Donna was twelve. Up ahead of me on register twelve Donna is serving customers, her eyes puffy and her shirt un-ironed.
During my break, I walk out to the back dock, eating my muesli bar, and happen upon Chris and Donna. She’s crying. Her face is streaked with eye make-up, her shoulders are shaking and she smokes with nicotine-stained fingers. Chris is gently stroking her back. Catching sight of me over the top of her bowed head he wordlessly waves me away.
I wonder, despicably, if I invent a similar crisis will he stroke my back too?
D AYLIGHT
The next day I sit in maths with Penny in our usual spot – far left, second row from the front. I knit my brows together and attempt to address myself to hard, cold daylight. To the way things are. It’s never going to happen.
‘Probably not,’ says Penny, reading my mind and telling it like it is in her usual style.
I sigh and look out at the park on the other side of the road. I can see a PE class of unfortunates jogging up a hellish incline. Unless , I think, my momentary flirtation with reality dissolving, I can somehow infiltrate the older set at work. Get him to associate me with his contemporaries. Maybe I could get hold of his reading list for uni. Maybe I could start smoking, get a fake ID and start going to the pub. Maybe I could learn to stomach beer and how to order it. Maybe I could buy some clothes aside from jeans and T-shirts. Maybe I could learn some new and super-impressive words.Convince him that I am a twenty-year-old trapped in the body of a minor.
‘I could do it.’ I say to Penny. ‘It could be done. Right?’
‘Oh sweetie. I think it would be hard to pull off. And anyway, he probably likes that you are different from his usual world.’
She’s right; it would be hard to pull off. Observe this monumental fuck-up from last week.
Against all the odds, Chris had run out after me into the street after I had knocked off from a Sunday shift. ‘Oi! Youngster!’
I’d turned to face him and instinctively stood up straighter at his nearness.
‘Look, some of us are going back to Ed’s now for some cones. Do you want to come?’
Cones? Ice-cream? I’m on a dairy-free diet, because I’m lactose intolerant. And Ed lives several suburbs away; how would I get home afterwards? Would Mum and Dad notice that I was late and want answers? Mrs Hulme wanted chapters two and three of The Great War
The margins of all my exercise books are filled with letter Cs in various colours, fonts and incarnations. I stare out of classroom windows, wondering what he is doing. I imagine him at university, taking lecture notes, hanging out with his friends at the uni bar, putting in his two cents worth at the sociology tute he loves. And, of course, talking to girls. Grown-up girls at university. Girls who can go drinking with him after class, girls his own age whom he could confidently introduce to his family and friends. Girls who know how to dress and to wear make-up. Girls who have had sex. Girls who study the same texts as him. Girls who stand a chance in hell.
I’m quieter than usual during the lunch period. I lie on my back on the grass, my head resting on my school backpack, surrounded by the voices of my friends, and look up at the bright blue sky. Penny sits next to my inert form, talking to Ally and Eleni, but occasionally she waves a hand in front of my face, and shakes her head, laughing.
‘She all right?’ someone asks.
‘Sure,’ says Penny. ‘She’s just in her happy place.’ Penny drops her hand onto mine and briefly squeezes it.
The six lanes of traffic on the other side of the fence hum to my right. I close my eyes and imagine Chris brushing my hair away from my neck with warm hands. I open my eyes again. My lips feel like they are burning.
At work, I hear that Street-cred Donna’s dad has belted her and kicked her out of the house. Egged on in large part by the stepmother. Her real mother re-married and moved to America when Donna was twelve. Up ahead of me on register twelve Donna is serving customers, her eyes puffy and her shirt un-ironed.
During my break, I walk out to the back dock, eating my muesli bar, and happen upon Chris and Donna. She’s crying. Her face is streaked with eye make-up, her shoulders are shaking and she smokes with nicotine-stained fingers. Chris is gently stroking her back. Catching sight of me over the top of her bowed head he wordlessly waves me away.
I wonder, despicably, if I invent a similar crisis will he stroke my back too?
D AYLIGHT
The next day I sit in maths with Penny in our usual spot – far left, second row from the front. I knit my brows together and attempt to address myself to hard, cold daylight. To the way things are. It’s never going to happen.
‘Probably not,’ says Penny, reading my mind and telling it like it is in her usual style.
I sigh and look out at the park on the other side of the road. I can see a PE class of unfortunates jogging up a hellish incline. Unless , I think, my momentary flirtation with reality dissolving, I can somehow infiltrate the older set at work. Get him to associate me with his contemporaries. Maybe I could get hold of his reading list for uni. Maybe I could start smoking, get a fake ID and start going to the pub. Maybe I could learn to stomach beer and how to order it. Maybe I could buy some clothes aside from jeans and T-shirts. Maybe I could learn some new and super-impressive words.Convince him that I am a twenty-year-old trapped in the body of a minor.
‘I could do it.’ I say to Penny. ‘It could be done. Right?’
‘Oh sweetie. I think it would be hard to pull off. And anyway, he probably likes that you are different from his usual world.’
She’s right; it would be hard to pull off. Observe this monumental fuck-up from last week.
Against all the odds, Chris had run out after me into the street after I had knocked off from a Sunday shift. ‘Oi! Youngster!’
I’d turned to face him and instinctively stood up straighter at his nearness.
‘Look, some of us are going back to Ed’s now for some cones. Do you want to come?’
Cones? Ice-cream? I’m on a dairy-free diet, because I’m lactose intolerant. And Ed lives several suburbs away; how would I get home afterwards? Would Mum and Dad notice that I was late and want answers? Mrs Hulme wanted chapters two and three of The Great War
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