Asking for It

by Louise O'Neill

  Me: K.

  Maggie: Are you annoyed?

  Me: No, of course not.

  (Yes. Yes, I am. But not surprised.)

  Maggie: Yay, thanks babe. Oh, and don’t kill me but Fitzy is here too, he offered us a lift and I felt bad so asked him along. SORRY!!!!!! xxx See you in 2 mins.

  I grit my teeth. Now I’m going to have to text Conor as well.

  Me: Few of us hanging in my place tonight. Nothing major. You can come if you’re not up to anything else.

  He texts back with indecent haste.

  Conor: Hey Emmie! I’d love to come, thanks for asking me. See you soon. X

  I stare at the X for a few seconds. I wish he wouldn’t do that.

  ‘Bryan?’ I knock, pushing the door open when I hear him grunt. A musty smell of unwashed socks and Abercrombie Fierce hits me. He’s sitting on his bed, lifting weights. There is a plate with bits of dried lasagne stuck to it and a mug of tea half hidden under the bed. (Emmie, what have I told you about eating in your bedroom? Do you want to have an infestation of mice, is that what you want?) The green-and-navy tartan curtains are closed, the exposed bulb hanging from the ceiling giving the room a blank glare.

  ‘Right, so a few more people are coming tonight.’

  ‘How many is a few more?’ His face contorts as he raises the weight.

  ‘Just Eli Boahen, Ethan Fitzpatrick and Conor from next door.’

  ‘Grand.’ He drops the weight on the bed and grabs one of the good hand towels, peach with white bows on it, and starts wiping his face. I want to tell him that Mam will kill him for doing that. But we both know she won’t. ‘You’re not wearing that, are you?’ he says.

  I smooth down my new dress. It’s black, cut down to the navel, and very, very short. ‘What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?’

  ‘I don’t know, Em.’ Bryan takes a gulp from his water bottle. ‘It’s a bit slutty, isn’t it?’

  I stare pointedly at the FHM poster Blu-Tacked on to the wall opposite the bed, of some topless model, one finger in her mouth, the other hand reaching into her knickers.

  ‘That’s different.’

  The doorbell rings so I just roll my eyes at him.

  ‘You look fab,’ Maggie says when I answer the door, giving me a kiss on the cheek, Ali doing the same. Eli nods hello, a case of beer under one arm, walking into the kitchen with Fitzy. I lean in to give Jamie a kiss as well, feeling her stiffen as I do so. I can smell a hint of vomit underneath her perfume.

  ‘You all look gorgeous,’ I say. Jamie and Ali are both wearing short dresses, except Jamie is wearing hers with Converse and an oversized knit jumper. Maggie is wearing skinny jeans tucked into black ankle boots, a sheer white tank gaping so much at the armpits you can see the black lace triangle bra underneath it; her hair is slicked up into a high topknot, dark burgundy lipstick her only make-up.

  ‘Did you see Ali’s shoes?’ Jamie says. ‘Aren’t they just amazing?’

  Is that a hint of a red sole? (You want what for Christmas? And how much would they cost? I am not spending that kind of money on a pair of shoes, Emmie.) ‘Very nice,’ I say, feeling sick. ‘Very . . . high.’

  ‘My mother always wears shoes this high,’ Ali says, ‘and she’s even taller than I am.’

  ‘They’re fab,’ Maggie says.

  Ali looks at me again, almost pleadingly. I clear my throat. ‘Did you bring the cough syrup?’

  ‘Yup,’ Ali says, holding up a large red-and-white shopping bag with ‘Hennessy’s’ emblazoned across the front. She had been reluctant when I asked her earlier to swipe it from her dad’s pharmacy. I’ll get in trouble, Emma, she said. I wrapped an arm around her waist, resting my head on her shoulder. Please, Ali. Come on. It’ll be fun. Please? And I could feel her melt.

  ‘Cool,’ I say as the doorbell rings again. I point them through to the kitchen. ‘There’s 7 Up and Jolly Ranchers on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Wow.’ Conor’s standing on the front porch, a paper-wrapped bottle in his hands. ‘You look . . .’ He trails off. Neither of us moves; we just stare at each other.

  ‘Sorry.’ He thrusts the bottle into my hands, and I’m glad to have something else to look at.

  ‘There was no need, Conor.’

  ‘Ah, it’s just some wine from the fridge.’

  ‘Conor,’ Jamie shouts as we walk into the kitchen.

  She thrusts a red cup full of purple liquid at me and then one at Conor. ‘Drink up.’ I take mine, but Conor refuses, handing it back to Jamie, who drains it. She points a finger at Ali and barks, ‘Cigarette. Now,’ at her. She shoves open the stiff patio door, and Ali follows, rummaging in her Chanel bag for her own packet of fags.

  Maggie hops up on the counter next to the fridge, her skinny legs dangling about a foot from the ground. She leans back against the apple-patterned wall tiles and yawns. ‘The heat is making me sleepy.’ Eli walks towards us. I smile at him but he doesn’t see me, I guess, as he stands between Maggie’s legs, nudging her knees apart so he can get closer.

  I hear Jamie scream from outside, Ali shushing her nervously.

  ‘Jesus,’ I say, ‘how is she drunk already?’

  ‘She was tipsy when we picked her up,’ Maggie says. ‘I think her parents had another fight, they—’

  ‘Yeah, well, we all have problems,’ I say. Jamie screams again, and my jaw clenches. ‘Seriously, the neighbours are going to complain if she doesn’t shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Do you think she’s OK?’ Conor asks. ‘Should I go out and check on her?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ I say. ‘She’s just looking for attention. Ignore her.’

  ‘You girls are such bitches to each other,’ Eli chuckles, and Maggie elbows him in the ribs.

  ‘Come on, Em, be nice,’ she says. ‘Jamie’s just nervous about tonight, with both Dylan and Julie being there.’

  ‘She shouldn’t have fucked him then,’ Eli says. ‘Shit, she was wasted that night though.’

  I look away, staring at my reflection in the night-black glass of the patio door.

  Ali grabs her iPhone from the marble counter and hands it to Eli, instructing him to take a photo of us.

  ‘Oh, wait, Fitzy and Conor, get in it too,’ she insists. She thinks it’ll look cooler if we have boys in the photos, to prove that she has male friends. She stands between them, a thrilled expression on her face. Immediately after it’s taken, Maggie jumps down off the counter and she and Ali crowd around the phone.

  ‘Aren’t you going to look at the photo too?’ Eli sounds amused.

  ‘No.’ I hold eye contact with him for a second longer than is strictly necessary. ‘I don’t need to.’ Eli shifts from one foot to the other, then looks away.

  ‘I look like shit in this picture.’

  ‘No, you don’t,’ Maggie says. ‘You look fab.’

  ‘Fat, more like.’

  ‘Ali . . .’ Maggie sighs. ‘Shut up. You don’t look fat.’

  Ali insists on taking another photo, then another, until they’re finally happy with the perfect one to upload to Facebook. Maggie starts swiping through Ali’s old photos, showing a few to Eli, going pink as he tells her how pretty she looks. She gives a sudden snort of laughter.

  ‘This is hilarious!’ she says. ‘Why didn’t you send these to me too, Em?’

  ‘Send what to you?’ I say. Ali lunges for the camera but it’s too late, I’m looking at a series of photos of me, taken with FatBooth, my face as bloated as Chloe Hegarty’s. I hand Ali back her phone. ‘I didn’t take these. Guess Ali had some free time on her hands.’

  ‘It was just a joke,’ she mumbles.

  The doorbell rings again.

  ‘Em.’ Ali follows me as I walk away. ‘Em, please. It was a joke.’

  ‘Hilarious.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Please don’t be cross with me. I’m sorry, OK? Are you fighting with me?’

  I don’t answer for a moment, a knife edge of satisfaction cutting through me when I see her forehead pinch
with anxiety. I can almost taste her fear that she’s annoyed me, that she’s gone too far.

  ‘No,’ I say finally.

  ‘Are you sure? You still seem mad at me.’

  ‘Jesus, Ali.’ I shake her hand off me and gesture at her to go back into the kitchen. ‘I have to answer the door.’

  Bryan comes bounding down the stairs, two steps at a time. He’s freshly showered and barefoot, wearing a Beatles T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘Hey.’ He opens the door and reaches out to Jen, drawing her close to kiss her.

  ‘Ew,’ I say, and they break apart, smiling at each other.

  ‘Hi, Emma,’ Jen says, hugging me hello. She’s the same height as Bryan, and seems to be made up of points and sharp edges from her teeth to her elbows, but there’s something luminescent about her, her skin so pale it almost glows. ‘You looking forward to tonight?’

  ‘Yeah, should be fun.’

  ‘Tell Sean he’d better have the place cleaned up when I get home. I’m not doing it for him.’ I nod. ‘I love your dress, by the way,’ she says. ‘Zara, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, smirking at Bryan. ‘On sale. Fifteen euro.’

  ‘Ah, feck it, I bought the same one for full price months ago.’ She turns to Bryan. ‘Remember? I wore it for your birthday party? You loved it.’

  I try not to laugh. ‘OK, I’ll let ye at it.’

  The kitchen is empty when I return. The sliding door is wide open, tiny black midges buzzing around the recessed light bulbs in the ceiling, like constellations of black stars. I pour myself another drink from the pitcher, throwing it back, and refill the cup again before grabbing Precious from the counter, wiping away the dusting of ginger hairs she’s left, and follow the rest of them outside.

  Maggie is doing somersaults on the trampoline to show off her years of gymnastic training. Ali is bouncing half-heartedly beside her, her hands holding the hem of her skirt down. Jamie is standing at the edge, watching them, draining what’s left in her red cup. She should take it easy. She should know what happens when you drink too much.

  ‘That is seriously cool.’ Conor claps Fitzy on the back, Eli raising a can of beer to him. The three of them are sitting on the garden chairs, the case of beer open on the table.

  ‘What’s cool?’ I say.

  Conor sits up straight. ‘Ethan got accepted into the Rhode Island School of Design.’

  ‘It’s one of the most prestigious art colleges in the States,’ Eli says when I look confused. ‘It’s a huge deal.’

  ‘That’s amazing, Fitzy,’ I say, but he doesn’t look up from his phone. There’s an awkward pause.

  ‘Who was at the door?’ Conor asks.

  ‘Jen Casey. She and Bryan are watching a movie.’

  ‘Bryan’s home?’ Conor grins. ‘Are they in the living room or the TV room?’

  ‘TV room,’ I say.

  ‘Fitz, you coming to say hello?’

  He looks up from his phone. ‘What?’

  ‘You coming to say hello? Bryan’s here.’

  ‘Yeah, cool,’ Fitzy says. ‘You know I’m always happy to see Bryan.’

  I smile at him, as if that didn’t hurt. Leaving my phone and cup on the table next to the beer, warning Eli to be careful of it, I heave myself on to the trampoline with the girls. We jump and jump, higher and higher, until I want to reach into the inky black sky and swallow the stars.

  ‘J, wait,’ Ali calls after her as Jamie walks into the kitchen. ‘I’d better go after her, check if she’s OK.’ She gets down from the trampoline, yanking her dress down her thighs. I turn to Maggie, reaching my hands out to her instead, but she points at my chest. I look down, and the top of my dress has fallen out of place, exposing my boobs. I laugh, expecting her to join in, but she’s staring at Eli. She picks up her red cup on her way back into the kitchen and throws whatever is left in it down her throat, ignoring Eli’s protests that he ‘wasn’t looking, not really’.

  Was Eli looking? (I want him to have been looking.)

  I lie on the trampoline, staring up at the sky. I visited my aunt Beth in London last summer, and at night-time we sat in the tiny honeysuckled garden of her Hammersmith townhouse, eating salads that she had picked up at Whole Foods Market, drinking glasses of Pimms, and all I could think about was that you couldn’t see the stars, blurred behind smog clouds and the glare of city lights. You can have all of this, Beth told me. It’ll be easy for you, with the way you look. And you can hold a conversation too, which always helps. The world is your oyster, Emmie. But you need to leave Ballinatoom, you need to get out of there like I did. Is that really all you want for your life? London. The echoing bang-bang as her neighbours stomped up their wooden staircases, the heat rising from the concrete, the sweat-stained armpits on the tube, the grubby beggar who touched my feet and asked for spare change, the constant requests to repeat myself because my accent was too thick, the eyes that skimmed over my skinny jeans and ballet pumps. ‘How did you get on?’ Ali asked me when I got home. ‘Was it amazing?’ Maggie said. And I told them about Beth’s shabby-chic home, the forest-green wallpaper and velvet couch, the Union Jack cushions, and her Proenza Schouler bag, her daily Bikram yoga classes, and her office with a view of Big Ben, and the shopping spree she treated me to at Topshop. I told them I loved it. I told them it was the best week of my life.

  Is it possible to want everything to change and nothing to change, all at the same time?

  I close my eyes, the wobbles undulating in waves through me, swirling in my throat and filling my eyes and my brain, making everything go soft. I can hear the patio door swish open, then close again, the sound of footsteps, an exhaled breath as someone drags their body on to the trampoline, the material sagging as they lie down next to me.

  ‘Are you asleep?’

  It’s Conor.

  I wait for a few moments before answering. ‘No.’ I open one eye, and he’s on his side, watching me.

  ‘I need another drink,’ I say, trying to sit up, but he stops me, placing one hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Wait. That shit is strong, Emmie. Just give it some time before your next one. Unless you want a repeat of what happened at Dylan’s.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘You were such a mess.’ He shakes his head.

  ‘Sound out for bringing me home.’

  I never thanked him properly.

  ‘No problem. Of course it took longer than I had expected, what with you refusing to get off the footpath on to the road because it wasn’t a road, it was a black lagoon.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘A black lagoon with sharks in it.’

  ‘Those trips were strong,’ I protest, but I lie back down.

  I had woken up the next day in his single bed, Conor asleep on the ground next to me. I looked around his neat, clean bedroom for something I couldn’t even name. A photograph of the two of us from when we were kids, maybe? Whatever it was I was searching for, it wasn’t there. I pushed back the duvet cover as quietly as I could and tiptoed out of his room without saying goodbye.

  We lie in silence for a few moments. I curl my legs into my stomach, running my hands down the smooth skin of my shins, and he reaches out, and very, very gently touches my little finger with his, his arm pressing against mine. He drops his hand slowly, barely touching the side of my waist, and for some reason I don’t move away. I turn my head towards him, and he does the same. His eyes darken, his fingers pressing into my skin as he starts to make circles at my waist, agonizingly slow. I wonder, just for a second, what it would be like to pull that T-shirt over his head and to kiss him, to see what that would do to him. His fingers drop a little lower, they’re on my hip bone now and my breath turns jagged.

  ‘I must get another drink.’ I clamber off the trampoline and walk away without looking back.

  *

  ‘Would you mind bringing us to the front door?’ Ali asks as Fitzy stops the car at the bottom of the drive up to the Caseys’ farmhouse.

  ‘Sorry,
Ali,’ he exhales, the breath coming out of his nose, halfway between a snort and a sigh. ‘But I’d never get out of that mess.’ He points at the haphazard queue of cars.

  The windows of the house are rattling, as if the music is beating against the glass. There is a group of people outside the front door, red pinpricks of cigarette ends burning in the dark. The air is heavy with the smell of cow shit. Ali and I struggle to walk over the cattle grid, our heels getting stuck in the gaps between the metal bars, Maggie and Jamie looking on and laughing with the boys. Conor is the only one who comes back to help, wrapping his arm around my waist and lifting me on to the concrete at the other side.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say as he places me down. He turns back to help Ali, but she’s managed to make it across.

  ‘Oh, Ali,’ I say, pointing at her feet. ‘Your shoes.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Ali says, bending down to wipe the dirt off them.

  They probably cost five hundred euros, and it doesn’t matter that they’re ruined after one wear. I smile tightly at her.

  Outside the back door there’s a small outhouse, overalls hanging off hooks on the concrete wall, a row of mucky wellies lined up underneath. We open the back door and walk into a poky kitchen. The door to the living room is closed, as is the window, and the small room is foggy with sweet-smelling smoke.

  ‘Shit.’ Maggie coughs, waving her hand in front of her face as she drags Eli into the living room, the others following.

  ‘For fuck’s sake.’ A pallid-faced guy whose name I can never remember steps in front of me to shut the door behind them.

  ‘Blowback?’ He (Oisin? Eddie?) asks, waving a joint at me.

  I nod and he turns the joint around in his mouth and carefully places it between his lips, waiting until I come closer, opening my mouth to suck in the smoke. I hold it in for a few seconds, then breathe it out, clouds rushing through my brain as I try not to cough.

  In the living room, the main lights are switched off, a couple of small lamps on, some boys gathered around an iPod docking station hooked up to a boom box. They seem to be arguing with a stumbling girl, their mouths moving, but I can’t hear them over the music. All the furniture has been pushed out to the edges of the room, and there are couples on the chairs and a large three-seater sofa, grinding up on each other. Three girls in tight bandage dresses are in the empty space in the middle, their arms flailing as they dance. Fitzy, Ali, Jamie, Maggie and Eli are standing by a table covered in a hand-crocheted tablecloth, now destroyed with beer stains and fag burns. Maggie is pouring what’s left in the 7 Up bottle into chipped enamel mugs, Eli passing cans of beer to Fitzy and Conor.