‘David?’ Mum prompts, her eyes big and questioning, full of hope.
‘No, Mum,’ I say, finally finding my voice, ‘I’m fine. Honestly.’
She looks disappointed for a second, but hides it quickly, reaching up and tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
‘Well, I’m glad to hear it,’ she says, patting me on the hand.
As we’re paying the bill, a flash of gold catches my eye. I glance across to Nando’s on the opposite side of the food court. Alicia Baker, Ruby Webber and a few other Year 11 girls are squeezed into a booth surrounded by masses of shopping bags. Alicia has produced a shimmery gold top from a plastic Top Shop bag. She holds it up against her torso as the other girls nod their approval.
‘Ready to go?’ Mum says brightly.
‘Sure,’ I murmur, dragging my eyes away from Alicia and her friends.
That night, I am home alone. Livvy is sleeping over at Cressy’s. Mum and Dad are going to dinner at the house of one of Dad’s colleagues. Essie and Felix are having a ‘date night’.
‘Nothing fluffy or romantic,’ Essie assures me over Skype, as Felix lolls on the bed behind her, ‘just boyfriend–girlfriend time, you know.’
But I don’t know. Not really. I’ve never had a boyfriend or girlfriend (unless you count going out with Leila Shilton for three days when we were six, which I don’t). I’ve never kissed anyone. I’ve never even held hands. I’ve probably exchanged a grand total of ten words with Zachary in the past five years. I’m a complete relationship novice. It doesn’t help that tonight is the night of Becky Somerville’s party and across town in Cloverdale, Leo is getting ready to take Alicia, and I feel like everyone in the entire world is in a twosome except for me.
Mum clearly feels guilty about leaving me because she orders me a massive pepperoni pizza all to myself and sends Dad to the shops to buy a tub of my favourite Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food ice-cream. I wave them off from the door, waiting for ten minutes before heading upstairs.
In my bedroom I drop to my knees and drag out the large box I keep buried under the piles of shoes and coats at the bottom of my wardrobe. Its contents are the result of years of careful sourcing. At the bottom are items that no longer fit but I cannot quite bring myself to throw away – the fairy wings Auntie Jane bought me when I was five (I didn’t take them off for a week), the pink nightie I swiped from beneath my cousin Keira’s pillow one Christmas, Essie’s hated confirmation dress, white and frilly, donated happily. On top of these lie charity shop finds, smuggled into the house under my coat; then cocktail dresses and polyester trouser suits from the 1980s stolen from the back of Mum’s wardrobe under the cover of darkness; more rejects from Essie.
Tonight I select a dress that belonged to Essie’s mother when she was going through her hippie stage back in the mid-nineties, before Essie was born. It’s long, floaty and tie-dyed, and covered with tiny mirrors. I take off my boy clothes, discarding them in a pile on the floor, before slipping it on over my head. I lift up the skirt to my nose and inhale deeply. It still smells of incense, sort of warm, like gingerbread, mixed in with stale perfume and sea salt.
Next I put on my wig. I bought it online earlier this year with money left over from Christmas, running upstairs with it before Mum and Livvy had the chance to demand what was in the mysterious cardboard box tucked under my arm. It’s a shiny shoulder length bob, a slightly darker shade of brown than my real hair. I absolutely love it.
I sit down at my desk and take out my make-up bag. Most of it I’ve bought with my pocket money, other bits I’ve stolen from Mum, or inherited from Essie. I empty it all out, lining it up neatly on my desk, the array of colours. I’ve been watching lots of online make-up tutorials lately. I position my laptop beside me and search for my favourite; a girl from Texas called CeeCee, who is probably the closest I’ve ever seen to a real-life Barbie doll. She delivers her tutorials in a hypnotic thick Southern drawl. Together, step-by-step, we apply foundation, concealer, blusher, eyeliner, smoky eye-shadow. The smoky eyes in particular are harder than they look and it takes four attempts before I get my right eye to match my left. I sit back and take in my whole face – the smooth complexion, the hint of girlish blush, my eyes, thick with mascara and mystery. To finish, I take out my favourite lipstick – Diva Red – and drag it across my lips.
The doorbell rings, making me jump. I go into Mum and Dad’s bedroom and peek through the curtains. It’s the pizza delivery guy. I’d completely forgotten about him. For a moment I consider answering the door as I am, as a girl. The thought fills me with excitement and fear. But the fear wins out and I’m quickly wiping my mouth on the side of my hand, smearing it blood-red, and pulling my bathrobe on over my dress. As I’m going downstairs, I rip off my wig and shove it into my pocket. I open the front door a crack, just wide enough to pass over the ten-pound note and receive my pizza, keeping my head down so the delivery man doesn’t clock my made-up face. With the door safely shut, I put my wig back on and remove my bathrobe, draping it over the banister.
I take my pizza into the kitchen, collect napkins and pour myself a glass of Coke. Usually I enjoy catching sight of my reflection in the toaster or kettle, feeling the swish of material around my legs, but tonight, for some reason, I feel flat. I eat my pizza in front of the TV, followed by the ice cream, the entire tub in one go. I feel like I’m faking the enjoyment though, eating for the sake of it. I don’t have that many chances to dress up undisturbed at home and when I do it’s the normal everyday stuff I like doing best – loading the dishwasher, making toast, watching TV. But not tonight. Tonight I feel strange, like everything is off-kilter, like I’m a big fat fraud. As I load the dishwasher, my body leaden and tired, I feel a fat tear roll down my cheek. Horrified, I wipe it away. It leaves a watery black smear on my hand. It’s only nine o’clock, hours before my parents are due home, but I trudge upstairs anyway, remove my dress and wig and scrub my face clean, the remnants of make-up washing down the plughole in a dirty rainbow. I take a shower in the dark, change into a fresh pair of pyjamas and get into bed. I almost go to Skype Essie and Felix, but at the last second remember it’s their date night and they’re probably rolling around naked right now, their thoughts far away from me.
As I lie there in the darkness, unwanted images of Becky’s party keep popping into my head. In my mind it is dark and smoky, full of sweaty bodies sighing and swaying, pressing up against each other in slow motion. There’s a dull ache in my belly. I realise my pillow is wet. I turn on to my side so I’m facing the wall. What’s wrong with you? I ask myself angrily. Then it hits me, I’m lonely. I’m so lonely it physically hurts. The realisation makes me feel even worse. Like I’ve been tricking myself into putting on a brave face this entire time. I roll on to my front, pull my pillow over my head and recite my French vocabulary in my head over and over and over, until, finally, I must fall asleep.
22
‘What you doing, Leo?’
I turn round. Tia is standing in the doorway to the bathroom wearing the Hello Kitty pyjamas she’s been in all day.
It’s Saturday night. Becky’s party starts in just over two hours.
‘What does it look like? I’m doing my hair.’
‘But you never do your hair.’
I ignore her and pick up a tub of Spike’s hair stuff. I take a sniff before scooping some out with my finger and running it through my hair.
Tia sits on the edge of the bath, her toes not quite reaching the floor.
‘Where are you going?’
‘A party.’
‘Can I come?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s a grown-up party,’
‘But you’re not a grown-up. You’re only fifteen.’
‘Fine, it’s a teenage party then, just for teenagers.’
‘Oh. Will there be pass the parcel?’
‘No.’
‘Will there be jelly and ice cream?’
‘I doubt it.’<
br />
‘How can it be a party without jelly and ice cream?’
I ignore her. Spike’s hair gunk has made the front of my hair look all greasy. I dunk my head under the taps and try to wash it out.
‘Leo?’ Tia says, pulling at my sleeve.
‘What?’ I yell over the running tap.
‘If it turns out there is jelly and ice cream, will you save some and bring it back for me?’
I turn off the taps and straighten up, water dripping down my forehead, and look at her hopeful little face.
‘Sure.’
On the way out of the bathroom I bump into Mam on the landing. She’s just got in from her shift at the launderette and looks red-faced and tired.
‘What’s got into you?’ she says accusingly.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask.
‘Acting all chirpy,’ she says, narrowing her eyes, like acting chirpy is the sin to end all sins.
‘Dunno what you mean,’ I say, breezing past her.
She’s right though, I’ve been in a good mood all week. Things that usually annoy me – Amber using up all the hot water in the morning, Tia leaving her cereal bowl in the sink, Spike’s singing, pretty much everything Mam does – all this stuff washes over me.
As I pull on my hoodie and check my reflection one last time, the familiar little voice pops into my head, warning me not to get carried away. I ignore it. Because Alicia is different, I’m convinced. She’s not like the girls at Cloverdale School, made bitter and mean by the things they’ve seen. No, Alicia is fresh and hopeful. And tonight I get to spend the entire evening with her.
Alicia’s house sits off the main road behind a pair of massive gates. It’s big and symmetrical, with a huge front door twice the width of ours and loads of windows. As I walk up the driveway it seems to get even bigger, looming over me. I reach to press the doorbell and realise my hand is trembling slightly. I shake it hard. Now is not the time for nerves. Tonight is all about being calm, cool, tough.
A tall black man, who I assume must be Alicia’s dad, answers the door. His skin is glossy and smooth and his teeth gleaming white, like Alicia’s. Just like the house, he towers over me.
‘Can I help you?’ he asks, his voice deep and velvety.
I clear my throat but my voice still comes out sounding all weird. ‘I’m here to pick up Alicia?’
‘I’m sorry, young man, but you must be mistaken, my daughter is forbidden to date boys until she is at least twenty-one. On your way now, please,’ he says, shooing me away and making to shut the door.
‘Oh, right, sorry,’ I stammer, confused.
‘Dad!’ Alicia screeches. I look over his shoulder and there she is, standing on the staircase behind him with her hands on her hips, wearing dark blue jeans and a gold top.
‘Don’t listen to a single word he says!’ she calls.
Her dad breaks into a wide grin. ‘Only joshing with you, Leo!’ he laughs, punching me on the arm. ‘Come in, come in!’
I’m ushered into the hallway. It’s huge. We don’t even have a proper hallway at home, just a space at the bottom of the stairs that’s forever littered with shoes and bits of unopened post. But Alicia’s hall is as big as our lounge, if not bigger. I wipe my feet hard on the doormat, not wanting to dirty the cream carpet. Alicia’s mother appears from the kitchen, wearing a striped apron. She looks like a mum from a TV advert – all glowing and perfect. She takes hold of my shoulders and kisses me on each cheek, telling me how nice it is to meet me.
I’m struck that both Alicia’s parents know my name, meaning Alicia must have spoken about me at least a bit.
‘Leo, please excuse my super-embarrassing parents. They mistakenly think they’re hilarious,’ Alicia says as she pulls on her coat, ushering me out of the front door.
‘Back by midnight, please,’ her dad says, tapping his watch.
‘Yes, Dad,’ Alicia says, rolling her eyes.
In all the commotion I haven’t had a chance to look at her properly. It’s only now, standing on the front doorstep as she wraps a long pink scarf round her neck, I get the opportunity. She has her hair fastened up with a few curls pulled loose so they frame her face and she’s wearing make-up. She looks amazing.
‘You look really nice,’ I say.
She smiles, ‘And so do you, Leo Denton.’
My stomach does a flip-flop.
Shit.
There is no question which of the houses in Becky’s street is having the party. At number twenty-six, the music is already pumping and I can make out the shadowy forms of party-goers through the curtains. We arrive to find Becky in the hallway greeting each of her guests with a high-pitched squeal and/or perfumed hug. She’s wearing a glittery pink dress that makes her look like a fairy on top of a Christmas tree. When we walk in she shrieks especially loud.
‘OMG, I’m so beyond excited you’re here!’ she cries in this bizarre American accent, a bit like the one Tia speaks in when she’s watched too much Nickelodeon. Becky’s greeting to me is a casual, ‘Hi, Leo,’ and a slow look up and down, a hint of a smile on her lips.
‘Here, let me take your coats,’ she says, holding out her arms.
Even though it’s sweltering, I keep my hoodie on. Alicia takes off her scarf and coat and gives it to Becky.
‘God, I love your top,’ Becky says. ‘Let me see the back.’
Alicia does a little twirl. Her top ties round her neck and reveals her smooth brown back. From what I can tell, I don’t think she’s wearing a bra. I swallow.
‘Go through to the kitchen,’ Becky says, waving us through. ‘My mum’s ordered like twenty pizzas.’
Becky’s mother is the spit of Becky, with the same moon-face and drawn-on eyebrows. The kitchen tops are piled high with pizza boxes. I help Alicia find a vegetarian slice before finding some ham and mushroom for me.
‘Now, make sure you get a drink from Becky’s dad!’ Becky’s mum says. ‘We’ve got beer, wine, alcopops, whatever you want. I’m not one of those strict mums. I was young once, believe it or not!’
Becky appears in the doorway.
‘Mum!’ she says through gritted teeth. ‘Aren’t you and Dad meant to be leaving?’
‘Calm down, darling, I’m just making sure everyone’s fed and watered.’
‘Well hurry up!’
Alicia and I grin at each other.
Becky’s dad is behind the breakfast bar, playing barman. Bottles of spirits and mixers crowd the work surface and a load of cans of beer and bottles of WKD and Smirnoff Ice sit in a plastic bowl full of ice in the sink.
‘What can I get you?’ he says, ignoring me and looking straight at Alicia. She leans forward to inspect the drinks selection and I swear Becky’s dad glances at her boobs.
‘A Smirnoff Ice, please,’ Alicia says brightly.
‘Can of Foster’s,’ I chip in.
‘Coming right up,’ Becky’s dad says, winking at Alicia. He makes a big show of tossing the bottle in the air and catching it, like he’s a cocktail waiter or something. He even takes the top off with his teeth and spits it out into the bin, pausing like he expects us to applaud him. The whole time he keeps his eyes on Alicia.
‘Enjoy, darling,’ he says, handing the bottle over to her. Almost as an afterthought, he pushes a can of beer towards me, his gaze still lingering on Alicia.
We make our way out of the kitchen with our drinks, balancing our pizza on flimsy paper plates. The living room is packed with kids. The iPod deck is blasting Kanye West. It’s weird seeing everyone from school out of uniform. This is the first time I’ve moved amongst them in this way, body parts brushing as Alicia and I make our way through the living room. Some openly stare at us, whispering as we pass.
Alicia heads for the conservatory where it’s a bit quieter. We set our drinks down on a plastic picnic table in the corner, but remain standing up, Alicia swaying in time to the music. As I take my first bite of pizza, tomato sauce oozes over the side of my slice and lands on my hoodie.
&
nbsp; ‘Leo!’ Alicia cries out.
I swear under my breath as Alicia gropes about in her bag for a tissue. She manages to scoop up most of the sauce, gently dabbing at the rest. When she’s finished she steps back, satisfied, and smiles at me, this gentler version of her usual megawatt grin. And for a moment it’s like we’re the only two people at the party. But then we’re interrupted by some of Alicia’s mates, chucking their arms around her, complimenting her on her top, the way she’s done her hair, and they are just the first of a steady stream of visitors.
As Alicia receives her subjects, I sit down in one of the picnic chairs and just watch her – the way she laughs at jokes that aren’t funny, how she leans in and listens intently as secrets are shared, nodding thoughtfully, saying all the right things. At one point she catches my eye and gives me this reluctant little shrug as if to say sorry.
Around nine o’clock, Becky’s parents finally leave, making a big show of saying goodbye.
‘We’re just over the road if you need us! Back at midnight!’ Becky’s mum calls as Becky practically shoves her out of the door.
‘Becky’s so lucky,’ Alicia says when we’re finally alone again. ‘My parents wouldn’t let me have a party without them being there in a million years. And they definitely wouldn’t let me have all that booze.’
The Art of Being Normal Page 11