Together we tilt our heads to follow two grey squirrels scuttling up to the top of the tree. The one behind’s chasing the other right to the edge of a very tall branch, a bit like me and Pez last night.
‘Feeling better?’
It’s Dad. I turn around and he’s standing in the corner of the room. He’s brought his cereal with him and neither the bowl nor the spoon is more than an inch from his lips as he munches.
I turn back to the window. ‘Yeah.’ I’m not being rude. It’s a gravitational pull.
‘She’s keeping an eye on things,’ Arial explains.
‘Well, it’s time for you to jump in the shower, Arial,’ he says, shovelling more cornflakes into his mouth.
‘Um, excuse me!’ says Arial. ‘You’re not dressed. And your mouth is full.’
I flop down on the bed. ‘Plus, it’s only eleven, Dad. On a Sunday. Does it really matter?’
‘You two have shopping to do,’ he says, wiping milk from his chin with the back of his hand.
I check his face. ‘What kind of shopping?’
He pulls the wedding invite out from under his arm. ‘Country glamour, it says. I’ve already dug out my snazzy jacket and I don’t want you girls letting me down.’ I don’t ask him outright in front of Arial, but this must mean he’s giving us money. ‘We’ll discuss budget when you’re dressed,’ he says, pulling the door shut behind him.
Arial looks at me, mouth open. ‘Yes!’ she cries, jumping on to the bed. ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ She punches her fists in the air before leaping back to the floor and doing a handstand against the wall.
I’m tempted to punch the air too but then I remember last night and I grab her legs and lower her down. ‘C’mon. Let’s get ready.’ She strikes a pose, then squats down in front of the mirror before curling herself expertly back up. It’s hard not to stare. She gives Amira a run for her money. ‘D’you know what that move is called?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘Yeah.’
‘What?’
‘Um … slutdrop,’ she says. ‘God, keep up!’
I watch the door close as she leaves. Mild panic’s stirring in my empty stomach. I’m not sure how much longer I can avoid her questions. Seems like a straight-up chat is already overdue.
We catch a C2 to Oxford Circus and it’s impossible not be swept up by Arial’s excitement as she chats away, leaning her head on my shoulder the whole time. For a couple of hours, we trail in and out of shops and I almost forget about my one-sided screaming match with Pez, my kiss with Rob, March’s tears and what she meant by it’s one for face-to-face. We hit the kids’ floor at Zara, where Arial picks out a blue jumpsuit covered in tiny gold stars and after we choose some matching gold plimsolls, there’s just enough of Dad’s money left for the green, tea-length vintage dress I find downstairs at Topshop and I pick up a few other bits of clothes with my own money too. Arial says the colour of the dress complements my hair, which is nice and everything, but I can’t help thinking that there might be something more interesting in one of Mum’s boxes that I could have had for free.
Afterwards we go to the huge Boots on Regent Street, where I spend far too long studying hair removal products. If I’m ever to do more than kiss Rob, this area of my body clearly needs major attention. I eventually opt for some bikini hair removal cream for sensitive skin that promises confidence and smoothness for twenty-eight days, which, if it delivers, is good going for seven quid. I sample some perfumes afterwards, but I’ve already thought of a better use for what’s left of my wages. It’s been on my mind since Arial walked out of my bedroom a few hours ago. It’s obviously time that her puberty curiosity was handled by more capable hands than mine so I’m calling in some old-school backup. We hop on a bus going home but we don’t get off at our usual stop. We’ve walked halfway up Kentish Town Road and are stopped outside Peanut Butter Books before she notices.
‘What kind of book?’ she asks.
I hold the door open and she passes under my arm. ‘You’ll see.’
She rolls her eyes. ‘I don’t even like reading,’ she says.
I think about pointing out how much she likes stories and being read to, but my stomach drops when I see the guy with the glasses I asked for a job. Apart from a woman browsing the bestsellers near the window we’re his only customers. He’s sitting at the computer with a book and his gaze flicks between the two. It’s a while before he spots us hovering. ‘Can I help?’
I think about mumbling I’m fine, but I could be ages trying to find what I want and having Arial in tow, I’m determined to up my game. She wriggles away and starts rifling through gift items on a display table. ‘Can I have these?’ she shouts out, holding up a glittery box.
I ignore her and return to the guy, who I sense might recognise me. ‘Yes, please,’ I say, trying to sound at least vaguely grown-up. ‘I’d like a recommendation.’
He pushes his chair away from the desk. ‘What is it you’re looking for?’
‘A book about—’ I search for the most appropriate word. I consider saying sex, but I’d rather not, not out loud. ‘Um … puberty, babies,’ I say, careful to maintain eye contact, like I’m a mature human. A strange expression crosses his face and I realise I should probably qualify that the book is not for me. ‘Suitable for a ten-year-old to read alone,’ I add, with a little cough.
He smiles without opening his mouth. ‘Follow me,’ he says, heading towards the far wall, where his hand tracks along book spines with impressive speed, pulling out titles as he goes. ‘These are usually popular,’ he says, handing me a small pile. ‘Shout if you have any questions.’
I’m tempted to take the top one and run, but I look over at Arial sitting on the ground, spinning a globe under her finger, then at the six books in my hands. Only one isn’t pink and that is covered in flowers. Another has a sign under the title that says BOYS OUT. For real? This was not what I had in mind when I thought of calling in back-up. I’m not filled with confidence that any of these books will really speak to a girl who’s got moves like Cardi B. I peer further along the shelf at what appear to be the boys’ equivalent and it’s a sea of blue. It’s like the baby card section at the post office.
Mum would have had lots of thoughts about this particular book choice. This is something she would have taken time over, she would have read reviews and everything, but honestly, I’d take Puberty for Dummies if it meant I could get out of here quicker.
Arial stands. I’m watching her get closer when my phone vibrates. Rob! Shit, I haven’t replied to his messages.
Tell me he didn’t give you a hard time?
I bite my lip and type.
More like me giving him an earful
Bubbles …
He was asking for it. Btw I liked talking to you.
I hold the phone to my stomach and look around.
Nice talking to you too
Arial leans over the screen in my hand. ‘Who’s Rob?’
When I look up the shop guy is on his way back. I can’t deal with a conversation, so I grab the least offensive book and hand him the rest. ‘We’ll take this one,’ I say, grinning hard all the way to the till.
He scans the book and I read the title upside down. It’s called Wow, I’m Amazing! which I decide is a positive start, but Arial lifts a corner of the cover like it’s a dirty tissue she wants to drop. Then she traces her finger down the chapter headings and stares up at me with a pained look on her face. ‘Would you like a bag?’ the guy asks.
‘Um, yeah!’ Arial says, eyeing me furiously.
‘And we’ll take those glittery notecards too,’ I say. She bounds off to grab her consolation prize and when we step outside she scrunches the top of the paper bag up tight and shoves it under her arm. ‘Why are you doing that?’ I ask.
‘I don’t want anyone seeing it.’
‘You shouldn’t be embarrassed, Arial.’
She huffs. ‘Your face looked like a squashed-up strawberry in there,’ she says, walking on, clutching the bag to h
er chest. I follow behind, feeling more than a little crushed, and I’m even considering whether it’s time to call Wendy to ask for some advice, but then Arial stops in the middle of the path and turns around. ‘But you know … thanks,’ she says, quietly.
19
I’d planned to get to the cafe early today, so I could talk with March face-to-face before work, but Arial hadn’t done her hair and then she couldn’t find her lunch box, so by the time I arrive I’m almost late and March is already out on the floor taking orders. We spend the next four hours shuffling around like chess pieces. We smile as she hands me the lattes and cream of celeriac soup but it’s hard to look each other in the eye. I’m jumpy, and she’s without her usual spark, but it’s so busy I don’t have much time to think about how uncomfortable it is.
It’s twenty to four when I finally sit down with a slice of quiche. I’m talking gulps of milk and forking pastry into my mouth when March crosses the floor.
‘Have you heard from him?’ she says before she’s sat down. Her voice sounds different. ‘If you have, you can tell me.’ I shake my head and she bites her lower lip so hard a patch of the colour fades.
‘We still haven’t spoken,’ I say, picking at a piece of burned bacon on my plate. ‘But whatever is going on, you can tell me that too,’ I say, hoping she hasn’t changed her mind about what she said in her text. She pushes her coffee cup forward, studying my face. I swallow the last mouthful of pastry and crumple my napkin. ‘Did you have a fight?’
‘Worse,’ she says, looking over her shoulder. ‘Look, you two have been mates for years, and you’re super close and stuff. It’s just … I hope we’re friends too.’
‘We are.’
‘Close enough for me to—’ She stops. ‘You’re the only person I feel I can talk to about this.’ Her breath is jagged and I’ve a very uneasy feeling about what’s coming next. ‘Can you keep a secret?’ she says.
I nod. ‘Of course,’ I say, but what if what she’s about to say is worse than Sully not listening. What if Pez asked her to do something porny. I almost don’t want to know.
She leans in. ‘I think there’s something wrong, with me.’
I sit up. ‘I don’t understand.’
She sucks her teeth and looks away. ‘I don’t do anything for him, that way,’ she says. This seems unbelievable and I shake my head but she’s talking quickly. ‘I can’t tell you how shitty it feels. And it’s happened twice now.’
‘What has?’
She sighs. ‘One minute we’re together, you know … doing stuff, in bed. We’ll get to a point when things get … heavier, and I want to keep going but I’m also trying hard to relax and get into whatever we’re doing, but I’m so nervous because of what happened before and then something just flicks, and he goes cold. Then he’ll freak out and leave. The last time he didn’t talk to me for weeks and it’s like the exact same thing has happened again. I’ve got no idea what’s wrong with me or what I’m doing wrong.’ Her chin goes like she might cry. ‘I’ve left him three messages and … nothing!’
I can’t believe what I’m hearing and I reach my hand out for hers. ‘Honestly, March, this doesn’t sound right.’ He shouldn’t push her into doing things she’s not comfortable with and she shouldn’t feel she needs to do that stuff just to please him.
‘I’m telling you,’ she says sadly. ‘It is.’
‘No, March. It’s not.’ I’m surprised by the force of my words. When she looks at me I start to doubt whether I’m qualified to say what I’m saying, but I don’t stop. ‘This is messed up. You should talk to someone.’
‘Um… hello, I’m trying!’ she says.
‘How about your mum?’ I suggest quickly.
She shakes her head. ‘I’m trying to talk to you.’
I sigh. ‘Guess I could speak to him, but—’
Her hand hits the table. ‘No, I told you. It’ll seem like I’m betraying him.’
She’s embarrassed and it’s obvious how much it’s taken for her to tell me this. ‘OK.’
‘Promise?’
I’m nodding as the pocket of my apron vibrates. I take my phone out. It’s Pez!
You think I’m the worst. And I am. But am I still invited to the wedding? Mum’s asking. Something about a suit.
Oh God! I suck in a long breath, then look up at March and then back to the phone. Honest answer? Um, I dunno! Not now. I reread his words and I know March reads them too because she sits back and looks around the room, feeding the huge gold hoop through the tiny piercing in her ear several times. ‘Of course, your aunt is getting married. Isn’t she?’
I bob my head guiltily. I was so looking forward to the wedding once but now I wish I was going with a real friend. I wish I was taking March, or even Rob, who could be a real date, instead. I rack my brain for ways to uninvite Pez, but there’s no way to do it without confronting him. Suddenly I spot the time on her watch and I reach out, squeezing her hand. ‘I’m so sorry but Arial finishes camp in four minutes. I’ve got to go.’
‘S’OK,’ she says, trying to smile. ‘Run!’
I pick up my plate and push out from the table. I’m so glad I’ve something in my hands as I pass because when I look at her face, I’ve got an overwhelming urge to give her a hug.
Later, Arial is sitting beside me on the couch reading Wow, I’m Amazing! or whatever it’s called. Her hand is over her mouth, where it’s been for a while, but I can still see her lips move as she reads. I’m half-heartedly watching The Good Place while googling wedding speeches.
A fun speech about love? Did Wendy even discuss this plan with Fran? I search speeches about love and everything I click on is so clichéd. For all its endless reach, the internet spits back pretty much the same ten results no matter what I type in. I’m only sixteen and I’m already beginning to feel disillusioned with love. Suddenly Arial giggles and I look over.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing,’ she says, but I scan the page she’s reading. It’s a double spread about the crushes and funny feelings that girls have about boys. Doodled love hearts filled with fuzzy advice on how to make smart boy choices. I’m reading what’s written inside the heart-shaped drawings and to be fair it seems like pretty sensible stuff underneath the fluff. Arial taps the page with her finger. ‘Look, they say about gay people,’ she says.
My eyes follow hers to the bottom of the page and sure enough there’s another bubble that says – girls who go on to have relationships with women are called lesbians and boys who have similar feelings for boys and who go on to have relationships with men are called gay. She looks pleased about this and I smile back but something irks. I lean over and read it again but it’s that same scratchy feeling and I sit back with a sigh. ‘What?’ she says.
I frown. ‘Huh?’
‘You’re making that face.’
‘What face?’
‘The one you make when you’re mad.’
‘I’m not mad,’ I say, sounding irritated because I do feel mad. I sit forward and scan the passage one more time. Nope, there’s nothing. Definitely no mention that how I feel is even possible.
‘Vetty?’ Her voice is soft.
‘It’s just—’ I stop and slowly tilt my face to hers. ‘I’m not sure this book covers everything, that’s all.’
She shrugs. ‘I like it.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ I say. ‘I’m glad.’
‘But you should tell them,’ she says, squinting up at me. ‘What they’ve left out.’
I mess up her hair. ‘Not sure it works like that.’
Her face scrunches up. ‘They’ll never know if you don’t tell them?’
It’s impossible to argue with Arial’s logic sometimes, and what she’s just said makes me think about Pez; about how he’s changed and about whether I have any right to question it or whether it’s my business to give this much of a shit. I think about how simple things once were and how complicated they feel now and then I think about my tenth birthday and how
we saw something in each other as we stood by those automatic doors in Tesco; something special, something unspoken and understood.
I write the word LOVE in capital letters at the top of my page and under this I scribble One minute max! Dad warned me that any longer and people generally lose interest. Then, because I’ve no idea what to do next, I sketch caricatures of Wendy and Fran’s faces in the margin of my page. I’m no artist so I draw Wendy in side profile with her long brown hair in a low side pony. I do big eyes, which are easy because hers are like mine. I colour in all three tiny gold hoops she has on each ear with my blue pen, including the minuscule golden moon she’s got in the piercing higher up too. Fran has great hair and I take care doing big, bold, wavy lines for her. It’s very blonde with very dark roots and even though it’s only to her shoulders it’s so thick and full that it’s almost as wide as it is long. Fran’s Welsh, but she smiles like an American, so I draw a large open mouth with big full lips. I try to capture her soft eyes but they don’t turn out that well.
Wendy loves Fran and Fran loves Wendy. It’s easy to see. They’re there for each other like strategically placed cushions when the rest of the world feels too sharp. Like when Fran’s dad had the car accident or when the farm had money problems before the holiday cottages took off and there was all that stress with the bank. The worst was when Wendy did the test that said she wasn’t pregnant and they both cried for a very long time. They didn’t pretend the problems weren’t there. They didn’t say everything was OK when it wasn’t, they’d simply lift one another up so they could see the good stuff was still there too. But wow, the rows! There was an enormous one over lunch one Sunday; it started about politics but it was soon obvious that Fran was super mad about something else that Wendy had done and the rest of us quietly left the table one by one, without clearing our plates. I hated seeing them fight but Dad said the strongest relationships can weather a storm.
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