Asking for It

by Louise O'Neill

  ‘Emmie, do you want a—’ Conor starts, but the door to the hall crashes open, hitting him on the back.

  ‘Shit, sorry, man,’ Dylan says, giving him a punch on the shoulder. ‘I didn’t know you were there.’ Then he sees her and his face lights up. ‘Hey, Jamie, how are you?’ He sidles up to her. Her fingers tighten around the enamel mug and she gulps her drink back, staring away from him.

  ‘Jamie,’ he tries again. ‘Did you hear me? How are things?’

  ‘Dylan.’ It’s Julie Clancy, Sarah Swallows hovering behind her. She’s wearing heavy eyeliner, multiple piercings in her ears, nose and eyebrow. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replies, stepping away from Jamie. ‘Just talking.’

  ‘To that slut?’ Julie squares up to her, prodding Jamie’s collarbone with her finger. ‘What is your problem? It’s not enough that you fucked my boyfriend once – now you want to do it again?’

  ‘Jules,’ Dylan warns her. ‘Come on, be cool. I said—’

  ‘As if I would sleep with him. As if,’ Jamie says.

  ‘Oh, please.’ Dylan narrows his eyes at her. ‘You loved it.’

  Eli laughs, shutting up when Maggie glares at him. Julie swallows a sob and rushes across the room, falling to her knees to search under an armchair, ignoring the yelps of protest from the couple she’s disturbing. Unearthing her bag and coat, she runs through the door to the kitchen, Sarah Swallows calling after her, the two of them engulfed by smoke before the door closes again.

  ‘Dylan, come on,’ Conor says. ‘How is she going to get home?’

  ‘She has her car.’

  ‘She can’t drive – you saw the state she was in.’

  Dylan looks like he might go after her, then he just shrugs. ‘Whatever. It’s not my problem.’

  Ali wraps an arm around Jamie’s waist, squeezing it, whispering into her ear. (I need to get away from this. From her.)

  In the hall there is a small wooden table and chair, a plug-in house phone, notepad and pen, and the pieces of a broken vase on top. To the left a staircase goes upstairs, the front door leading to the garden is on the right, and a short narrow corridor straight ahead, with two doors on either side, photos and ugly oil paintings in gilt frames hanging on the walls.

  ‘There you are.’ Sean emerges from the TV room opposite the bathroom.

  ‘Hey, you,’ I say, as if he was the very person I’d been looking for. ‘Did you know there’s a broken vase in your hall?’

  He groans. ‘Mam is going to kill me. I told Laura to—’

  ‘Laura’s here?’

  He slouches against the wall next to a photograph of him and Jen in the bath together. I press my lips together to stop myself from smiling, but he follows my gaze, his face turning red when he sees what I’m looking at. ‘I told her she could stay for the party if she kept her mouth shut and didn’t tell the parents about it,’ he says, moving to block the photo, ‘and then she invited some of her friends . . .’ He pushes himself off the wall. ‘Sorry. I know it’s not cool, having your fifteen-year-old sister at a party, but—’

  ‘Casey.’ Matt Reynolds falls out of the TV room. He’s covered in a film of sweat, a few whiskers of hair glistening on his upper lip. I peer past him to see if Jack Dineen is in there, but all I can see are the backs of three boys, none of them Jack, watching another two lads playing Grand Theft Auto. Where is he? It’s going to be such a waste of this outfit if he doesn’t show; I won’t be able to wear it again for ages because everyone here will have seen it. Matt pulls up his top to wipe his face, and I almost heave when I see his doughy tummy.

  ‘Are you apologizing for your sister?’ Matt shakes his head. ‘Don’t apologize. She’s fucking hot. And her friend . . .’ He tries to focus his eyes. ‘Not the fat one, the other one, the little one.’ He holds his hand out to about three feet tall.

  ‘Mia,’ Sean supplies.

  ‘Mia!’ Matt starts chanting, ‘Mia, Mia, Mia . . .’ breaking away from Sean to throw his hands in the air. ‘She’s a fucking ride.’ Sean looks at me, and I don’t want to seem boring so I smile to show that I’m cool.

  ‘Anyway,’ I say, once Matt has staggered off into the kitchen to get another drink, ‘who else from the football team is here tonight?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Sean pulls me towards him. ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Sorry, Sean.’ I gently push him away. ‘I have to go find the girls.’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Maggie leans back to grab a beer from the case behind her and hands it to me. She’s still perched on the edge of the table, her legs wrapped around Eli, who is standing with his back to her. Fitzy, Jamie and Ali are dancing in the middle of the room.

  ‘Shit, J is wasted,’ I say as I watch her fall down, clutching at Fitzy, who drags her back up to standing. I haven’t seen her this drunk since . . . Well, it’s been a long time.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. Maggie is resting her head on Eli’s shoulder, one arm wrapped around his chest as he runs his fingers up and down her forearm. ‘Where’s Conor?’

  ‘He’s chatting up Mia Deasy.’ Maggie points to where the iPod station is and I have to squint to see in the darkness. Laura Casey, Jen and Sean’s youngest sister, is talking to a chubby girl with frizzy red hair, the two of them sipping their beers self-consciously. Conor has to lean down to talk to Mia, tiny even in high heels, her oversized eyelashes and round eyes making her look like a human Bratz doll.

  Conor throws his head back as if she’s said something really funny, and my stomach clenches. I reach behind Maggie and grab another can of beer. ‘I’m going to give this to Conor. I think he’s all out.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, resting my hand on the small of Conor’s back and handing him the can. ‘I thought you might need a top-up.

  ‘Mia.’ I brush against Conor’s chest as I lean over to give her a kiss on the cheek. ‘How are you? I’ve been meaning to talk to you for ages. How’s first year going? Are you settling in to the convent?’

  ‘I’m in third year,’ Mia says quickly when Conor almost spits out his beer in shock. ‘I’m in the same year as Laura. I’m nearly sixteen.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s because you’re so tiny, I guess. It’s adorable. You’re like a child.’ I try not to smile as Conor shifts away from her. ‘I’m jealous.’

  ‘Oh my God, why would you be jealous of me?’ Mia’s eyes widen. ‘You’re gorgeous. And I love your outfit.’

  ‘Oh, thanks,’ I say. ‘I wasn’t sure of it earlier. Come on, Conor, your honest opinion – what do you think of this dress?’

  ‘Dress? Is that what they’re calling T-shirts these days?’

  ‘Stop it!’ I swat him on the arm. ‘You sound like Bryan. He told me it looked slutty.’

  ‘Your brother Bryan?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Bryan has never met an FHM poster he didn’t like.’

  ‘Exactly!’ I say. I move in front of Mia and hold his gaze. ‘See, I knew you would get it. Do you remember when Mam found all that porn on his computer and wanted to know what BBW stood for?’

  The two of us convulse with laughter and he doesn’t even seem to notice Mia leaving. We chat for another ten or fifteen minutes, until I forget why I even came over here in the first place. I’m actually enjoying myself, I realize. I never enjoy myself at parties, not really.

  ‘Dineen.’

  The music has stopped so I hear his name clearly.

  ‘And remember when—’

  ‘No, sorry,’ I interrupt Conor, just in time to see Jack Dineen, tanned in a loose white wife-beater, walk through the kitchen door, shouting over his shoulder to someone behind him, and Laura and Mia and their friend in the corner start whispering loudly ‘Oh my God . . .’ ‘. . . no way . . .’ ‘. . . is that actually . . .’ ‘. . . yes, it is,’ and then Paul O’Brien walks in. It’s like someone famous has arrived – a moment of silence, then whispers, elbow nudging, stifled giggles.

  I don’t get the fuss; he’s nowhere near as cute a
s Jack. Everyone is obsessed with him because he’s ‘Paul O’Brien’. He’s what I call a Reputation Boy. They might have been cute years ago, but no one seems to have noticed that the appeal has faded, that he’s ‘gone off’, as Mam would say. Sean sprints into the dining room, barely looking in my direction, and slaps both of them on the back. Paul makes a drinking gesture with his hand. His eyes fall on Laura and her friends, lingering on Mia, looking her up and down. He raises his eyebrows, turning to Jack, and says something, Jack snorting with laughter, turning to stare at Mia as well.

  ‘Hey.’ Conor takes hold of my elbow. ‘Do you want to go outside for some fresh air? It’s really hot in here.’

  I step away from him. ‘No, I’m OK, thanks. I’m going to get another beer.’

  Tossing my hair back, I walk towards Eli and Maggie, making sure I’m in Paul and Jack’s eyeline.

  ‘Hey.’ I put my hand on Maggie’s shoulder and pull her face away from Eli’s. ‘Where have Jamie and Ali gone?’

  ‘They were dancing.’

  ‘They’re not here any more.’

  ‘They could be in the living room. Or maybe outside?’ she says, her lipstick smudged.

  ‘Oh, you two.’ I lean in to pick a piece of lint off Eli’s shoulder, ignoring Maggie frowning at me. I wouldn’t do anything with Eli, of course not. He’s my best friend’s boyfriend. But it’s always nice to see if I could. ‘You should get a room.’ I say this as slowly as I can. ‘There’s plenty available.

  ‘Sorry,’ I murmur, stepping between Jack and Paul to grab another can of beer from the case on the dining table.

  ‘Hey, Emma,’ Jack says, and I half smile at him.

  ‘Yes, hello, Emma,’ Paul says, and I tip my can in his direction. ‘I have to say, you’re looking particularly lovely this evening.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I turn on my heel and walk away before he can say anything else.

  There’s no sign of Jamie and Ali in the garden, just some lads sitting around a rickety wooden table between two tall monkey-puzzle trees, playing poker. There’s a couple pressed up against the wall, the boy looking like he’s trying to mould her body into the pebble-dashed wall. Two blonde girls are smoking, wearing denim hotpants so short I can see their ass cheeks.

  It takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom in the TV room, but the girls aren’t in here either. I have to breathe through my mouth because of the mixture of Lynx, smoke and sweat.

  ‘Are you cold, Emma?’ Matt Reynolds pipes up from the two-seater chair opposite me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was just asking if you were cold?’

  ‘Not especially, Matt. It’s, like, thirty degrees outside.’

  He leans forward, his legs splayed apart, and rests his elbows on his knees, crouching down. ‘Are you sure? Because it looks like you’re pretty cold to me.’

  The others burst into raucous laughter, the guy next to Matt giving him a high five, and I feel like getting up and slapping him across his stupid face.

  ‘Very funny,’ I say. ‘So mature.’

  ‘What’s funny?’ Jack opens the door. (I knew he would come looking for me.)

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I say. ‘Poor Matt here is just overawed at the sight of my nipples. It must be tough being a virgin at such an advanced age.’ I take a sip of my beer and pull a sympathetic face. ‘Like a bull tied to a gate, I’d imagine.’

  He splutters, ‘Fuck you, Emma. You’re not that fucking hot, you know,’ and starts listing the girls he’s shagged. ‘. . . and then there was Lauren, and Saoirse, and . . .’ the others laughing even harder this time, hitting the armrests, stamping their feet, and jeering, ‘Virgin, virgin, virgin . . .’ at him.

  ‘Can I sit there?’

  I take another sip of my beer before I look up. ‘But I’m sitting here.’

  ‘There’s room for one more, I think.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I lean back in the chair. ‘I’m pretty comfortable.’

  Jack rolls his eyes at me and sits on the armrest, pretending to watch the two lads playing the Xbox.

  ‘I need some health. This mission is killing me,’ one of them says, clicking furiously at the controls.

  ‘Just fuck a hooker, that’ll help,’ Matt Reynolds says, and they laugh.

  ‘So,’ Jack says to me, ‘were you at the match yesterday?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, giving an exaggerated yawn. ‘But I left, like, ten minutes before the end.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘then you missed the best part. I scored the winning goal.’

  ‘You scored a goal? Oh, well done you.’

  I tap his knee when I say this and he grabs my hand. I try and pull away but he won’t let me. He swirls his thumb gently on my palm, a dimple forming in his left cheek, and I feel myself go liquid.

  ‘Maybe you’ll come to the next match.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  ‘And maybe you should stay until the end this time.’

  ‘Maybe I should.’

  Our voices are getting lower, our heads moving closer to each other, inch by inch, wondering which one of us is going to crack and be the first to lean in so afterwards we can say that the other person instigated things. I’m getting so turned on I almost feel queasy, but this is the bit I enjoy the most, I think. The build-up, that moment just before you finally kiss, that’s always better than the actual sex. During sex I’m thinking about what I look like, trying to make sure the other person is having a better time with me than they did with the last girl. And, of course, even before they come I’m wondering how I’m going to make them keep their mouth shut about what we did or didn’t do.

  ‘Emma.’ It’s Ali, tapping my shoulder.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m sorry, OK,’ she says, ‘but I really need your help.’

  I press my lips together tightly, but I don’t want to seem like a shitty friend in front of Jack, so I follow her out the room.

  ‘Jesus, Ali, what could be so important—’

  ‘Oh my God, are you still angry with me because of what happened earlier?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘About what happened earlier.’ She lowers her voice. ‘The FatBooth thing.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ali, I haven’t thought about that since. I was about to score with Jack when you—’

  ‘I know, and I’m sorry,’ she cuts in. ‘But I didn’t know what to do.’ She opens the door into the dated bathroom, the bath, toilet and sink a matching avocado colour, a scuzzy wool mat on the white lino.

  ‘Jesus,’ I say when I see Jamie collapsed over the toilet seat, heaving, but there’s nothing left to throw up, only a trickle of bile dribbling through her lips.

  ‘I know,’ Ali says. ‘What should we do? Should I call her parents?’

  ‘No,’ I say quickly. Jamie’s mam will have a nervous breakdown if she sees Jamie like this. ‘What happened to her? She was fine the last time I saw ye.’

  ‘She scored with Colin Daly.’

  ‘So?’

  Ali turns her head towards me and says out of the side of her mouth, ‘He tried to have sex with her, and when she said she didn’t want to, he said that he had heard from Dylan Walsh that she was a sure bet.’ Jamie moans when she hears Dylan’s name, dry-heaving into the toilet again.

  There’s a knock on the door.

  ‘There’s someone in here,’ I call out but they knock again, more urgently.

  ‘We said, just a minute,’ Ali snaps, and Sean Casey answers uncertainly, ‘Is everything OK in there?’

  ‘Shit.’ Ali steps over Jamie’s legs to get to the mirror, pulling her make-up bag out of the navy quilted handbag. ‘Do I look all right?’ She applies more bronzer to her overly tanned face, smooths down some flyaway hairs at her centre parting.

  ‘Sorry, Sean,’ she calls out, and I step in front of her.

  ‘You are not leaving me alone to deal with this, Ali.’

  ‘Please, Em. I’m begging you. Please do this for me. It’s Sean.’r />
  ‘And I was with Jack.’

  ‘I never ask you to do anything for me,’ she says, and we both know it’s the truth. ‘But I’m asking you now. Please?’ She hesitates. ‘I really, really like him, Em.’

  He doesn’t like you, I want to tell her. He wants to be with me.

  ‘Fine,’ I say, and she squeals, gives me a massive hug and rushes out. I bolt the door after her and sit on the edge of the bathtub. Ali had the presence of mind to tie Jamie’s hair into a ponytail, so at least I don’t have to hold it back. I check my phone, sending Maggie a Snapchat, taking a selfie and posting it on Instagram, snorting when Matt Reynolds comments on the photo asking for a tit pic. After one violent retch that sounds like it might burst the lining of her stomach, Jamie wipes her mouth, then gets to her feet unsteadily, holding on to the toilet for balance.

  ‘Do you need help?’

  She bends over the sink, splashing her face with water. Standing up straight, she looks at me in the mirror. Her face is blotchy, her eyeliner smeared halfway down her cheeks.

  ‘What do you care?’

  ‘Jamie—’

  ‘You said it would be better.’

  ‘Jamie, I—’

  ‘It’s not better, Emma. It’s not better.’ Her breath is rasping in her throat. ‘You said, you said . . .’ She can barely get the words out through her tears. She looks such a mess, and there must be something wrong with me, because I know I should feel sorry for her, but all I feel is disgust. Look at yourself, I want to tell her. You’re ruining your make-up. Do you even care? I try to shush her, telling her to ‘Come on, J, you need to calm down, this isn’t the right place for this’, but she ignores me, sitting on the toilet seat, her head in between her knees so all I can hear through her wails is ‘. . . you said . . . you said that if I . . . Dylan . . . you told me to . . .’