So if he hadn’t messed up his A levels, he would be somewhere else right now. And I would have no idea who he was.
‘I’m sorry that happened . . .’ I say. But I’m not really.
‘It’s OK. I’m retaking some stuff in January, and that should sort me out for next year. It was just kind of a shock at the time.’
‘Was it . . . for any particular reason? Or did it just happen that way?’
‘Well, my parents separated, ahead of getting divorced. Which I didn’t really see coming. Or rather, I had always kind of ignored the signs that it was on the cards. I thought they argued a normal amount, and I thought they disliked each other a normal amount, I guess. And the whole thing was just . . . extremely distracting.’
‘But they still run the shop together, right?’
‘They still run the shop separately, but together. They haven’t figured out what to do with it yet. You’ll never catch them in here at the same time. I’m their little go-between: I pass on messages and deal with stuff for them. At least for the time being.’
‘I’m really sorry. That must be hard . . . being in the middle.’
He smiles. ‘Yeah, it is.’
Following a tense silence, I offer up a worry of my own. ‘I’m really dragging my heels with university applications. I know I want to go, I know I probably want to do English, but part of me feels like I should go somewhere far, far away to, like, assert my independence or something. Like my sister, who’s living a whole new life in Manchester and is loving it.’
‘And the other part of you?’
‘Knows I want to be in London. It’s familiar and scary at the same time. Like, it’s a place I know quite well because I go there a lot since we live so close, but it’s also a place I’ve never lived in, and I want to find out what that’s like. But there’s this pressure to go out and explore and kind of embed yourself in a new world, but . . . I think I need some level of comfort and familiarity.’ I suddenly realize what those words really mean to me. ‘I need to feel like I could see my family easily if I wanted to.’
‘You know, all of those are really good reasons,’ he says gently. ‘So, you get on with your parents? Are they still together?’
‘They are, and I do. Well, sort of. My dad is great because he’s so calm and creative and thoughtful, but it can be kind of difficult with my mum.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, wondering how much detail to go into. ‘She makes our relationship difficult because it feels like she wants to change . . . things about me. Which I’m kind of not that bothered about changing. But anyway. I try to spend time with her when I can because . . . I’ve only got one mum, I guess. She tries, even though it’s in the wrong way.’
‘I get you.’
‘I just feel like a baby, wanting to be close to them. Like I should have grown out of it or something. It’s not like I would want to see them every day, just . . .’
‘Knowing that you could if you wanted to?’ Joe says.
‘Yeah. That,’ I say.
‘I think you know what you’re doing. It doesn’t matter what everyone else is doing or what they think you should do. You know you better than anyone. You’ve got to trust your instincts.’
We sit for a moment before I prod the conversation towards music and bands, and from there, we have nothing to worry about. It’s a smooth back and forth between us as we hop from Nile Rodgers’ production to sixties girl groups to the greatest cover versions of all time.
‘Um, are you OK?’ he asks suddenly, glancing over his shoulder at me as he turns the record over. ‘You look kind of . . . pale. Dizzy.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ I say, as ‘So Long, Marianne’ starts up.
‘Look, let’s just skip the booze – it’s a school night anyway. There’s some orange juice downstairs. Just a sec, I’ll go and get it.’
Sweet relief. I know it sounds pathetic, but I can’t think of anything better than warm orange juice with Joe.
He creaks back up the stairs, and I notice it’s started to rain outside. Even from the back of the shop, we can hear the dull, persistent thud of fat raindrops against the window. Joe flicks on a heater.
‘Yeah, it’s not so cosy in here sometimes,’ he says.
‘No, I like it. Your little corner of the world. It’s a good place to be,’ I reply.
He smiles. I melt. The way his cute nose turns up at the end when he grins. The way his eyes twinkle behind his glasses. We hold each other’s gaze for a bit too long, and my heart fills up. It feels like I’m listening to ‘Maple Leaves’ off the album I bought from him. All swoonsome and dreamy—
‘Aaaachoo!’ I erupt in a sneeze. The dust has got the better of me. Great timing. It’s so loud that Joe laughs.
As I’m rummaging in my bag for a tissue, I lay various things out on the floor. My notebook, my small make-up bag, my copy of What I Loved. Joe picks it up and turns it over in his hands.
‘Siri Hustvedt, huh? Isn’t that Paul Auster’s wife?’
‘Sure is, my friend.’ I was going to ask if he’s read it, but . . . clearly not.
‘Have you read anything by him?’ He tosses the book back to me without another glance, and I stuff it back into my bag.
‘No, not yet. But I’m loving this book. Really, really loving it. It’s making me want to go to New York and look at art—’
‘Wait, you haven’t read anything by Paul Auster?’ he interrupts me, sounding not at all interested in hearing about What I Loved.
Like the sound of a glass shattering, something dawns on me. ‘Do you know you never recommend things by women when we talk about books or music or films or TV or whatever? Do you consume any media by women? Like, ever?’
He sighs. ‘Stuff isn’t automatically good just because it’s by women, you know.’
‘First, yes I do know. Second, way to avoid answering my question.’
He sighs. ‘Yes, I do “consume media” by women,’ he says, defensively punctuating his words with air quotes.
‘OK, fine, whatever – I’m sure you’re right,’ I say, sensing that the shift in mood has brought the evening to an end. I feel like I’ve run out of steam. And I don’t want to overstay my welcome. The thought of him waiting for me to leave is too cringe to bear. ‘It’s getting late. I think I’m going to head off.’
‘Oh, are you sure?’ Joe asks, surprised. ‘I can walk you to the bus stop if you want?’
‘No, that’s OK. I’m sure I can make it on my own,’ I say, getting up and throwing my bag over my shoulder.
We descend the rickety stairs in silence. While I’m putting on my jacket at the door, I try to brush off the weirdness that just passed between us and strike up conversation again.
‘Thanks for having me,’ I say. Even if he can be a bit defensive, I guess there’s still nowhere else I’d rather have been tonight.
‘It’s no problem at all,’ he says.
He looks like he’s about to give me a hug goodbye when his eyes seem to illuminate with an idea or a memory. He paces over to the till.
‘Before you go, I wanted to give you this,’ he says, fumbling under the counter and producing – what else – a record.
I gasp with delight: the new album by my beloved fat feminist icon Lee Klein and her band the Hairpins. Lee’s face dominates the sleeve, contorted into a wild scream. Her chin pressed against her neck making it impossible to conceal the fullness of her face. ‘NO BIG DEAL’ is printed over her mouth in neon-pink spray paint.
‘Oh . . . wow . . .’ I’m taken aback. I would have been fine streaming this on my phone. But to have it, to really have it physically, and for it to be a gift from Joe.
‘We didn’t get many in, and we’re probably not going to sell many. You know, to the middle-aged man contingent of Croydon’s record-buying public. I thought at least one copy would be better off with you.’
‘That’s really kind of you. Thank you so much. I feel like I haven’t even mentioned that I like t
he Hairpins, let alone love them,’ I say, overwhelmed with gratitude.
‘I just took a chance, I guess,’ he says. ‘She seems like your kind of girl.’
‘Have you listened to it?’ I ask.
‘I haven’t. But I will if you tell me it’s good.’
There’s something about that which makes me glow a little inside. It wrestles with my insecurities. Maybe it’ll even win.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Here You Come Again’ – Dolly Parton
The next morning, I decide to walk to school to clear my head. I’ll put something fun like Stop Making Sense by Talking Heads on my headphones, and I’ll stomp all the way there.
I’m barely down the hill to the main road when I feel the insistent buzz-buzz-buzz of my phone in my pocket. Who calls people in this day and age? I wriggle the phone out of my jeans pocket and check the screen. Katie.
‘Hi, Katie.’
‘Hello, baby sausage. How are you?’
‘I’m all right – just communing with nature by walking to school.’
‘I can hear the traffic from here. There ain’t much nature on the main road between home and school, pal.’
‘OK – “communing with nature” was maybe a bit extreme. I just wanted some time on my own. Anyway, what is the purpose of your call?’
‘I just thought I’d give you a ring before school while I knew you wouldn’t be busy. I realized I hadn’t spoken to you in ages. Every time I call the house to speak to Mum and Dad, you’re out. You seem to be out all the time these days, which I entirely approve of.’ I can hear the smile in her voice. ‘Why so busy these days? Have you got a boyfriend? Or a girlfriend? I mean, either’s fine. Or both. Or neither.’
‘I don’t have a boyfriend . . .’ I trail off. ‘But there is someone I like. A lot.’
‘Oh, how fun! Is it going well? Are you happy?’
‘No to all of the above,’ I say morosely.
‘Do you want to tell me about it?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. I kind of hate talking about it because talking about it only proves to me that I really care about it, and I don’t want to care, because caring is painful.’
‘I can try to give you my best non-patronizing adult advice. Or at least, I promise I won’t judge you.’
I pause for a moment, hesitant to open up. But then I think about it. There are worse people to confide in than my older sister. So I launch into a detailed explanation of Joe: who he is, how I feel about him, and everything that happened that took us up to last night. Katie doesn’t interrupt my flow, and makes all the right listening noises, only interjecting with useful questions where appropriate.
‘OK, so last night sounds like it was weird, right?’ I say once I’ve finished filling her in. ‘Like it was all going super well, all cosy and nice and records and beanbags and rain against the window, then all of a sudden, it wasn’t, and then before I could run off, he gives me the new record by my favourite band. But I don’t know how to feel about it. Overall good? Overall bad? Both? Neither?’
‘Well, obviously I can’t say either way because I’m not you, and I wasn’t there – but it does sound like this hangout last night was . . . I guess, weirdly stressful, because it sounds like you never really know where you stand with him,’ she says.
‘Yes! That’s the problem: I can never tell if he just wants to hang out as a friend or if he might be interested in me . . . like that. But we have a great time when we do hang out.’
‘To be honest, he wouldn’t spend so much time with you if he didn’t want to. I can’t know for sure the nature of his feelings for you, but I don’t think he’d hang out with you if he didn’t like you.’
‘That’s the thing. I know he likes me, because I’m obviously extremely cool as I’m sure you would agree,’ I say, leaving a beat for Katie to confirm, which she grudgingly does. ‘But what I don’t know is if he likes me likes me. Like, does he fancy me?’ I feel ridiculous saying this out loud, but it really is the only question I want an answer to right now.
‘I wish I could give you the answer, but even in my infinite wisdom, I cannot. But this isn’t like you, matey – you’re not usually stressed out like this. Maybe that’s not a good sign?’
‘I guess it’s because he’s all super-experienced, which intimidates me and makes me feel like an idiotic baby? I mean, to begin with, I thought he was just a regular guy, but it turns out he’s some kind of super-stud, having sex with a thousand girls (give or take).’
‘You can’t do anything about how much sex someone has or hasn’t had. And more than that, it’s kind of irrelevant to what sort of person they are. I guess all you can judge him on is his actions towards you,’ she says.
‘You’re right. You’re right – I know you’re right,’ I say, quoting our favourite film, When Harry Met Sally. It’s something Katie and I say to each other when what we really want to say is, ‘I know what you’re saying is true, but I don’t care, and I’m going to keep doing the opposite thing anyway.’
‘Trust me. Who he’s had sex with is not the important piece of this puzzle. I think you getting so stressed and tangled in this is more important. But what do I know.’
‘You know a lot,’ I say.
‘OK, little one – I’m at work now, so I have to go, but I’m really happy you opened up to me about this, and I hope I said at least one helpful thing.’
‘You did. You’re great. I love you,’ I say. I’m not used to speaking this openly to anyone, even my sister. But the distance and the phone make it feel easier to talk.
As I hang up, I realize, against all odds, I feel calmer about Joe. I feel like I’m a part of his life now. Maybe I’d even go as far as to say he feels like a new friend. I don’t feel like he’s just going to disappear into the ether any more, that one unanswered message means I’ll never see him again. Since ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’, maybe the reverse is also true, and presence makes the heart grow . . . less fond? Maybe seeing him more, having him around, is good for keeping a lid on my feelings. And it’s important for me to know that. To realize that I can stand up for things I think are important, even when it means disagreeing with a really, really cute guy – and I don’t have to panic when it happens.
Although hanging out with Joe last night made it feel like a Friday, unfortunately it wasn’t, and I still have to sit through a whole day of school today. But for the first time in weeks, I listen, properly, all the way through physics and French and English. I feel secure in myself, in what I’m doing. I don’t have to peer over anyone’s shoulder at their notes to find out what my teacher just said. I say smart things in class, rather than zoning out and retreating into my thoughts. Talking to my sister has cleared my head better than any solo walk could have done. School’s not so bad this year, and I don’t have much of it left.
It’s been a good day. I descend the stairs from the sixth-form block slowly at 3.45 p.m., content that it’s the weekend, content that everything seems roughly in good order. I hear someone skittering down the stairs at high speed behind me and only realize it’s Holly when she makes a point of overtaking me. Oh God, Holly. For all the highs and lows of Joe, I’d forgotten about my run-in with her. I’ll bet you anything that she hasn’t forgotten. She stands at the bottom of the stairs, holding the door open and looking up at me as I cautiously pick my way down the last set.
‘Come on, slowcoach,’ she says cheerily.
What is this, a PE lesson? Any excuse to rub it in.
‘I’ll hold the door for you as long as you promise not to beat me up again.’
‘All right, all right, all right,’ I say. ‘I’m coming. And . . . I’m sorry about what happened the other day.’ I’m not really sorry, but if she’s willing to brush it off, then it’s better for everyone if I do too.
‘Oh, that’s OK,’ Holly says absent-mindedly, not looking at me, instead scanning the street outside. ‘Who’s he?’ she asks, peering around the door, raising her eyebrows and
cocking her head.
‘Who’s who?’ I ask, rounding the door that Holly’s propping open. ‘Oh!’
My heart speeds up in seconds. He’s there. He’s right there. Well, Joe certainly gets Holly’s seal of approval. Her eyes are practically sticking out on stalks like in a cartoon.
‘That guy with the green sweatshirt,’ she says. ‘Ohmygod – is he waving at you?’
‘Yeah . . . he’s . . . my friend, I guess,’ I say. What else am I meant to say? He is my friend.
Holly eyes me with a look of respect I haven’t seen in her before. Yeah, Holly – you underestimate me. I’m not just a tragic fat loser. I’m a cool fat babe. With attractive male friends.
‘Well . . . have fun with your mate,’ she says, dismissing me with a screwface and a patronizing wave.
Clearly her respect was never going to last long.
‘Friend of yours?’ Joe asks, shouldering his backpack as we start walking.
‘Absolutely not,’ I reply. ‘Entirely not.’
What’s with his new habit of turning up in unexpected places? Is he doing this to mess with me? First, he disappears for weeks – at the peak of my crush, he was nowhere – and now it feels like he’s everywhere.
‘Not at work today?’ I ask, as casually as humanly possible. Of course he’s not at work; he’s right here.
‘No, my mum’s holding down the fort today,’ he replies.
We walk on in silence. Why is he here? Is it rude to ask why he’s here?
‘Hey,’ he says, as we turn the corner and start the gentle slope up to the centre of town. ‘You left in kind of a rush last night. I just wanted to make sure you were OK.’
‘Me? Yes, I’m fine. I’m really good, actually. I feel better about things than I have for a long time,’ I say, beginning to relax about his unexpected appearance.
‘Tell me about it?’ he says. ‘Tell me about the things you feel good about.’
So, without telling him how much his appearance in my life threw me off-course, I tell him about getting my focus back. I tell him about messing up and forgetting to do my essay. I tell him about everything great I’ve listened to lately. I tell him that even though I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to do next year, I’m fairly confident I’ll make the right choice. And we walk. And we walk. And we walk. We walk in circles, we double back on ourselves, we just keep going and we can’t stop. We walk past the town hall, past the alley where reggae music is always playing, past the cinema, past the shopping centres, through the shopping centres, down to West Croydon, up to East Croydon. The ground is slick with rain, but the sky has cleared, and it’s a beautiful, crisp evening, and there’s no one I would rather be here with. The atmosphere seems to crackle and fizz with possibilities. It feels like we both know our aimless walking will have to come to an end at some point, but I desperately don’t want it to. I told my dad I’d be in for dinner. It’s dark already.
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