Let's Get Lost

by Sarra Manning

  “I’d say that you were being really cheesy.” I giggled.

  “No, I’m flirting with you; you’re meant to flirt back.”

  I racked my brains for something flirty to say that didn’t contain the phrase “big boy” anywhere near it and came up blank. So, I changed the habits of a lifetime and told the truth. “I missed you today,” I blurted out. “Does that count as flirting?”

  “Oh, that’s much better than flirting,” he assured me, and there was a click and then a long slow breath and I knew he’d just lit a cigarette. “And I missed you, too. Wish you were coming over.”

  At 9:47 P.M., on a school night? Never going to happen. “I wish I was, too.” I was overdosing on the warm fuzzies, and I needed to stop that right now. “’Cause then I could make a start on cleaning your lounge.”

  “God, that’s romantic. I did go out and buy some bleach, though. Just for you. I got the expensive kind that smells of meadow flowers.”

  “Toilets should always smell of meadow flowers. So what’s happening next Saturday?” I asked him, and then I got bolder than ever. “You want to hang out?”

  “Of course I do. But, see, Duckie have got a gig in London and then there’s going to be a party . . .”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Don’t ‘oh’ me in that hurt little voice. Do you wanna come? There’s room in the van, and I think we’re going to sleep on someone’s floor and then drive back the next day. You’ll have to promise to leave your evil alter ego at home.”

  “I don’t have an evil alter ego,” I hissed. “I have layers.”

  “And some of your layers are more evil than others,” Smith teased. “I really want you to come.”

  “It sounds cool. Can I let you know?”

  “By tomorrow? ’Cause there’s a hot competition for places in the back of the van. Isabel?”

  He sounded so serious that I could feel the pitter-patter of impending doom. “What?”

  “This time can you promise not to pick your usual fight with me before you flounce off?”

  “I don’t flounce,” I protested, squirming from the unfairness of his accusation. “Actually, I have a hissy fit, storm out, and then regret it when I’m five meters down the road.”

  “That’s good to know. I’ll make a mental note not to get offended next time.”

  “I never mean to offend you. It just kinda happens. Like, every time I open my mouth without thinking first.”

  “You really open up on the phone. Maybe we should just talk on our mobiles when I finally get to see you.” Smith chuckled, and I had to bite back the crushing retort that was nicely coming to the boil.

  “Oh, whatevs,” I muttered, then cast a sorrowful look at the pile of books and papers on the bed. “Got to go now. I have stuff to do.”

  “Ah, the infamous stuff. I have this theory that you’re an international spy, which would explain why you’re mysteriously unavailable.”

  “You’ve been watching too much Alias, Smith.”

  “Admit it. You’re on a secret mission to recover some shiny little gizmo from a lab in Uzbekistan that could destroy the world with its evil death rays.”

  I could hear my dad yelling at me from the hall about dinner or possibly a Martian invasion. It was hard to tell.

  “Going now, sad boy,” I told Smith, but he was still knee-deep in international master-spy land.

  “And all the labs you break into are attached to dodgy night-clubs for some strange reason so you have to dress up in these really outlandish costumes and . . .”

  “My God, you really need to get out more. I have to go, things to do, worlds to save from shiny little gizmos,” I said, like it was no big deal.

  “I knew it!” he exclaimed excitedly. “How many wigs have you got?”

  “Okay, going now . . .”

  “Have you got a gun and a lipstick that doubles up as a . . .”

  And I was in such a good mood as I went to investigate Dad’s plaintive cries that when I passed Felix on the stairs, I couldn’t stop myself from ruffling his hair in a manner that could have been misinterpreted as affectionate.

  Our little care and share sessions had really gone to Dot’s head. In return for an alibi so I could go cavorting off to London in the back of a Transit van, she wanted me to write two unspecified essays for her at a time of her choosing, lend her my Lost boxed set, and imposed a moratorium on wearing Felix’s Sea Scouts T-shirt to school ever again. She never did understand irony.

  “As if! Whatever happened to just doing someone a favor?” I asked her incredulously when she actually had the nerve to come around to my house for the DVDs.

  “Supply and demand. You want something from me, then I’m going to want something back,” she insisted. “That’s what you always say when it’s my turn to need some help. I thought that was how it works.”

  I stood my ground, and with some well-timed vitriol about the spot on her forehead and how it must be visible from Mars, I sent Dot scuttling away without my beloved boxed set in her eager little hands. She was getting ideas way above her station, and that needed my attention before they got completely out of hand.

  Then I felt my phone vibrate and my brain fell right out of my head. “R U on a secret mission right now? Will your spymaster let you out to play on Saturday? Smith x.”

  And there I was, getting all bent out of shape about Dot and her ludicrous attempts at blackmail, when I should have been saving my emotional resources for dealing with my father.

  “Is it okay if I spend the weekend at Dot’s?” I asked him as I served up his favorite dinner of lemon chicken with wild rice and asparagus.

  “I suppose so,” he said, his nose twitching as I held the plate in front of him. “You two seem to be getting on very well.”

  “We have a lot in common,” I said sweetly, pouring the chicken and lemon stock I’d made onto his rice. “She’s so very loyal.”

  “I find your other friends a little acerbic for my tastes,” he commented, eyes tracking every movement of the plate. “But Dot seems nice. Hmm, this looks delicious!”

  “So, I’m going to go straight to her place after school on Friday and then I’ll see you Sunday night,” I ventured, amazed by my own audacity. I’d carved another day with Smith out of thin air. “And I’ll call you and you’ve got my mobile number so . . .”

  “Stop fussing, Isabel. I’m sure Felix and I can manage without you for forty-eight hours. Just make sure you find some time to do your homework.”

  I had to stuff a whole asparagus spear into my mouth sideways to mask my triumphant smirk.

  Let'sGetLost

  Let's Get Lost

  17

  If my bag hadn’t been so heavy, I think I’d have run all the way to Smith’s student hovel. As it was, I walked at a brisk pace and felt drunk with freedom. Like, for forty-eight hours I could escape all the crap that usually pulled me down and be the new, improved version of Isabel that I liked much better than the current one.

  There’d be kisses. Lots of kisses, all sticky-sweet and smoky. And we’d curl up under his covers so I could let him cuddle me and whisper stories in my ear and, if he really begged, I’d even cuddle him back.

  But oh, the best-laid plans of mice and Isabel were not to be, because when Smith opened the door he had doom and gloom writ large.

  “Um, surprise!” I tilted my face for at least a peck on the cheek, which I didn’t get as he stood aside to let me in.

  “I thought I wasn’t seeing you until tomorrow. I’ve got this essay to write,” he whined, and he sounded just like Felix when he doesn’t want to go to bed. “On Nietzsche. Why am I doing a degree in philosophy?”

  “Well, it’s not exactly going to lead to steady employment, is it?” I chirped gaily, following him up the stairs. “Not many vacancies for fully qualified philosophers.” I needed to start building up my tact muscles; Smith’s brow was so furrowed it had to be causing him immense pain.

  “It seemed like a good idea a
t the time,” he mumbled, nudging open the door of his room. “But I’ve got to get this sodding essay done tonight so I can have the weekend off.”

  “Oh, I’ve already . . .” I stopped. I wasn’t supposed to have done all my homework in my lunch hour and fortuitously placed study break because I was a lady of leisure and not someone who was still doing the book-learning thing.

  “Already what . . . ?” Smith muttered. He was staring disconsolately at an open book, which was littered with annotations and scrawled notes in the margins. If my dad could see it, he’d have had Smith publicly flogged for cruelty to the printed word.

  “Um, I’ve already . . . er, planned to make you dinner,” I exclaimed hurriedly. “I’ll make you dinner and you can do your essay while delicious cooking smells waft up from the kitchen. What do you fancy?”

  “You cook? Food?”

  I was this close to slapping him upside his fuzzy head. “Of course, food! I’m going to cook some for you as soon as you tell me what you’d like to eat.”

  “I’m not fussed,” Smith mumbled, giving me a face full of sulk. “Anything. And can you close the door behind you?”

  Half an hour later, I was back from Safeway and chopping up some mushrooms so I could add them to the rat poison I had sautéing gently with the onions and garlic. Technically, it was chicken, but it would have totally served him right if it had been rat poison.

  I should have known that when I get all anticipatory and excited about something it’s doomed to royally suck. Smith hadn’t even deigned to look a teeny bit pleased to see me, but as I chopped and sautéed and stirred, the familiar rituals calmed me down, soothed my inner pain, and I was even able to hum a few bars of the really lame Geri Halliwell song that was on the radio.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Jailbait herself. You allowed near a stove unattended, kid?”

  I carefully put down the wooden spoon and turned around to see Jane standing in the doorway.

  “Oh, it’s you,” I said icily. If Smith and Molly weren’t around, then there was no reason in the world why I should be polite to her.

  “Guess so,” she agreed. “You’re really domesticated. You might want to watch that—it’s prematurely aging.”

  “Did you want something or did you plan to just stand there and try to piss me off?” I picked up the spoon and gave the chicken cacciatore a quick stir, so I’d have something to do with my hands that didn’t involve throttling her.

  She glided further into the kitchen, getting right into my space as she peered at the stove top. “Hmm, is there enough for me? If I eat any more ramen, I’m going to get scurvy.”

  My little halfhearted daydream of having a romantic candlelit dinner on the sofa was instantly destroyed as I pictured Jane sitting between the two of us, shoveling food into her gob as she kept up a running commentary on how young I looked.

  “I don’t know how hungry Smith is,” I prevaricated, pushing a piece of chicken around with the spoon. “There might be some left.”

  “Am I ruining your little plans for a cozy dinner à deux?” She smirked and then straightened up, the patronizing smile replaced with something more dark and resolute. “It’s okay, I’m just pushing your buttons, sweetie. But you and I need to have a little talk.”

  Was there ever a sentence more likely to make your heart sink toward the floor? “What on earth have we got to talk about?” I snapped, slamming the spoon down on the counter so I could put my hands on my hips and glare at her.

  “There you go,” Jane cooed. “I knew you couldn’t keep up that goody two-shoes act forever.”

  “It’s not an act . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she breezed with an airy wave of her hand. “So I know you’re lying about your age and it makes me wonder what else you’re lying about. I’ve seen you and your friends out . . .”

  “And what?” I snarled so ferociously that Jane raised her eyebrows and took a step back. “What have you seen? Us walking around with our dates of birth tattooed on our foreheads?”

  “I’ve seen you,” she repeated doggedly. “Your little girl gang gives off some deeply screwed-up vibes, and I’m not having you pulling any shit on Smith. He’s my friend. I look out for my friends, so think of this as a warning. You step on him, then I’m gonna step right on you twice as hard and for ten times as long.”

  She was really scary. Like, the original Japanese version of The Ring scary, but when it came to being bullied I could always give as good as I got.

  I held up a hand to my heart. “Oooh, I’m quaking in my boots here. Not. When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it. Now, was there anything else you wanted or have you fulfilled your bitch quota for the day?”

  Jane was distinctly underwhelmed by my scariest voice. “I mean it—you do anything to hurt him and I’ll make you wish you’d never been born.”

  “Do I look bothered?” I could tell she was itching to slap me. “Smith’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. Not like he’s been getting all riled up about your totally wild accusations, is it?”

  “That’s because I haven’t said anything to him.” Jane paused for effect “Yet. But if you don’t behave like a good little girl, then I will.”

  And she wasn’t to know that I was used to this threat and counterthreat. Attack and defense. Sometimes I think I invented it. Certainly I knew enough not to show the slightest sign of weakness. “And if you start sticking your gigantic nose in where it’s not wanted and coming between me and Smith, then well, it’s hard to think up a really credible threat, what with you having been in rehab and stuff . . .” I tailed off meaningfully. “Now that I think about it, you do seem a little unhinged. I hope you’re not using again ’cause that would be . . .”

  “Oh, God, you’re good,” Jane said, and then to my utter surprise, she started laughing. “Wow! All credit to you, sweetie, you come out fighting, don’t you?”

  “Damn straight,” I growled, and she patted my arm condescendingly as I flinched away from her.

  “I’ll be watching you,” she caroled in a singsong voice, wagging her finger at me.

  “Why do you have to be such a cow?” I hissed. “Smith likes me, Molly likes me, why can’t you just leave me alone?”

  Jane shrugged. “There’s just something about you that really gets under my skin,” she admitted. “And Molly? Love her to bits, but she’s a terrible judge of character.”

  “No, I’m not,” said an indignant voice, and we both whirled around to see Molly standing there, with Smith looming behind her. I could feel my heart suddenly start banging away as if I’d just run a marathon. How much had they heard?

  “I am a fantastic judge of character,” Molly insisted, folding her arms across her chest. “Most of the time. And we’re going to be late for rehearsal and something smells like it’s burning.”

  “Shit!” I turned back to the stove where dinner was just about to stick irretrievably to the bottom of the pan. I quickly added some more water and chucked in a good handful of herbs and then stirred the mixture like I’d never stirred anything before. And if my face was bright red that was just because I was standing too near to an open flame.

  “Right, we’re off, then,” I heard Molly say after a three-minute diatribe on how ace she was at judging people’s characters unless they were “lanky wankers who play guitar and think with their dicks.” “See you, Isabel.”

  I grunted something that sounded vaguely like good-bye but didn’t turn around until I heard them thundering down the stairs. Smith was leaning against the kitchen table, rattling his keys on one finger.

  “Did you get your essay done?” I asked brightly, like I was being tested for my Brownies homemaker badge.

  Smith nodded his head morosely. “Yeah, and it blows. I might have to take another look at it after dinner.” He gestured in the direction of the cooker. “Smells good.”

  “I just need to make the pasta and it’s done.” I opened what looked like the cutlery drawer. “It’s a novel i
dea, but you could actually wash your knives and forks before you put them away.”

  “Do you want something to drink? I’m going to the off-license.”

  When he came back with two bottles of wine and I’d laid the kitchen table and dished him up probably the first home-cooked meal he’d had since he’d been, like, home he just sat there, pushing the food around with his fork and not saying anything.

  And I was practically mirroring his fork-pushing and the not-saying-anything because it was obvious he’d heard every thrilling exchange of my catfight with Jane. He was working up to asking questions that were going to ruin the rest of the weekend. Though from where I was sitting on a slightly wobbly chair, the weekend looked like it had pretty much been ruined already.