All About Mia

by Lisa Williamson

  It’s not like he’s ever paid Kimmie any interest. It was me he was looking at both those times at the lido, not her. He doesn’t even know who she is, he admitted as much when I described her just now and clearly had no idea who I was talking about. It’s not like if I walked away now, it would change anything, that he’d magically start fancying her.

  His hand sneaks under the hoodie, under my top, my bra, seeking out skin.

  ‘You want to come back to mine?’ he asks breathlessly, as his cold palm cups my left boob.

  And even though I don’t actually fancy him, and even though I know Mum will be expecting me home in a bit, and even though I know Kimmie would be devastated if she could see me right now, letting Aaron Butler, love of her life, kiss my neck and try to undo my bra strap, I tell him ‘OK’.

  Because, sod it, I’m having fun and feel good about myself for what seems like the first time in ages.

  25

  Not bothering to say goodbye to the others, Aaron and I stumble back to his place. The whole time, he can’t keep his hands off me, stopping every few metres to kiss up against walls and bushes and shop windows. I manage to hold him off long enough to text Mum and tell her I’m still revising and that I might as well stay over at Stella’s. She texts back to say OK. No questions, nothing. I stare at the screen as Aaron slides his hands under my top. Is that it? It seems so easy. Too easy.

  Aaron lives in a house share with a couple of guys and a girl, all students, he explains as he fumbles for his keys. The house is Victorian with high ceilings and picture rails. Even though it’s a warm night, it still manages to feel damp and draughty. The hall is narrow, crowded with battered bicycles and piles of unopened post. The carpet is threadbare, revealing the wooden floorboards beneath.

  Aaron takes me through to the kitchen at the back of the house where my flip-flops stick to the lino and I have to make extra effort to lift my feet. A girl with long dirty-blonde hair is sitting with her feet propped up on the table eating a bowl of cereal and watching YouTube videos on her phone. She pauses to look me up and down, her lips curling upwards in unfriendly amusement, before returning her attention to the screen.

  ‘Mia, Cara, Cara, Mia,’ Aaron says, opening the fridge.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ I say, not meaning it one bit.

  Cara doesn’t even bother to answer.

  I let my eyes wander around the room. The fluorescent tube lights are too bright, illuminating the tomato sauce splatters on the yellowed wall tiles, the overflowing bin, the water stain that covers at least a quarter of the ceiling. It makes me long for the shadiness of the bushes at the park.

  There’s a heap of unwashed dishes in the sink. An upside-down bottle of economy washing-up liquid and a grotty sponge lie redundant on top of the pile. On the draining board there’s a bottle of tequila. It’s about a third full. The bottle itself looks sticky and is covered in fingerprints. It doesn’t stop me wanting some, though. The effects of my last beer are already wearing off.

  Aaron opens a beer for me and pushes it into my hand. ‘Cheers,’ he says, pressing his can against mine before taking a long swig.

  ‘Cheers,’ I repeat.

  There’s a pause. The only noise is the tinny music coming from Cara’s phone. I try to work out what she’s watching, but I’m at the wrong angle to see properly.

  ‘You wanna …?’ Aaron says. He jerks his head towards the ceiling.

  I nod and follow him out of the room.

  ‘Well, she was friendly,’ I say as we climb the creaking stairs.

  ‘Who, Cara? Yeah, sorry about her. Let’s just say she’s a bit possessive.’

  ‘Possessive? How come?’

  ‘We sort of have history.’

  ‘What kind of history?’

  ‘Weird history. When I first moved in here we had a bit of a drunken snog, and I don’t think she’s ever really gotten over it not going anywhere.’

  I smile, enjoying the one-upmanship. Mia 1 – Cara 0.

  Aaron’s room is on the first floor. There’s no living room, he explains, because it’s been converted into a fourth bedroom. The landlord doesn’t know though, so every time he comes round, they have to move the bed into one of the other rooms so he doesn’t twig they’re subletting.

  Aaron’s room is small and square and mostly taken up by a double bed so he has to crawl across it to turn on the lamp. The mattress is bare.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ he says.

  I perch on the end of the bed and slurp my beer, putting it between my thighs while I shrug out of Aaron’s hoodie, shivering slightly.

  Aaron returns with a load of bed linen draped over his arm. ‘Can you give me a hand?’ he asks.

  I put down my can of beer on the floor and help him make the bed. It feels weird. Wrong. It’s the sort of thing married couples do together. Aaron’s sheets are navy blue, his duvet cover and pillowcases white with grey stripes. I turn my back and slide on the pillow cases one by one. Aaron’s pillows are flat and sad-looking, tinged yellow. I’m glad the sheets are clean, though. Aaron puts on some music and pulls down his blind. I down the rest of my beer. There are film posters Blu-tacked to the wall – Pulp Fiction and The Godfather and The Usual Suspects, the edges curling up. As Aaron lowers me back onto the duvet, the ceiling feels very far away. Cobwebs cling to the paper lampshade, fluttering slightly as if caught in the breeze. I’m not drunk enough. I need to be drunker than this.

  ‘Can I get another beer?’ I ask, sitting up, the blood rushing to my head. ‘And maybe some of that tequila I saw.’

  ‘The tequila’s not mine, it’s Cara’s.’

  ‘Oh, that’s a shame.’

  ‘But let me see what I can do.’

  He seems to be gone for a long time. There isn’t a mirror so I check my reflection on my phone instead. I look tired, dark shadows under my eyes.

  Aaron returns a few minutes later. ‘Ta-da!’ he says, looking pleased with himself. He has a couple of fresh cans of beer wedged under his left armpit, and two plastic beakers of what I guess must be tequila in his right hand. I wonder how he persuaded Cara to let him have it. From what I could gather, she didn’t seem like the sharing type.

  I down the tequila in one. It’s warm and stings my throat, going to my head immediately. I open the beer and take a gulp of that too. It’s warm too.

  ‘Yeah, sorry, they haven’t been in the fridge,’ Aaron says, noticing my grimace.

  ‘No worries,’ I murmur.

  We put our drinks on the narrow mantelpiece and lie down. I need the toilet but feel too lazy and drunk to move. Instead I let Aaron kiss my neck and collarbone and stomach and tell me how sexy I am. His lips are a bit dry, dragging against my skin.

  ‘You OK?’ he whispers.

  ‘Course.’

  He grins and leans across me to snap out the light. I long for pitch black but there’s a street lamp right outside, its glow leaking in round the edges of the flimsy roller blind that hangs at the window. I squeeze my eyes shut instead.

  Immediately, Aaron starts pulling at my shorts. I arch my back to help. Then he’s tugging my top over my head and tossing it across the room. I hear it hit the door.

  Time to even things out. I remove Aaron’s T-shirt and undo his belt, chucking it on the floor where it lands with a loud clatter. We’re both just in our underwear now. He fiddles with my bra. On the third attempt he manages to take it off. Then he’s yanking at my knickers while I use my foot to slide his boxer shorts down his legs.

  ‘Nice move,’ he whispers in my ear. ‘Want to get under the covers?’

  ‘OK. Hang on a second.’

  I pause and take off my peacock feather earrings, setting them on top of the chest of drawers next to the bed before wriggling under the duvet.

  Aaron’s hands are warm and slightly clammy. As he runs them up and down my body, he tells me how sexy I am and how much he fancies me and all the things he wants to do to me, and I start to relax into it a bit and remember to play my
role, arching my back, gasping in all the right places, whispering in Aaron’s ear as we roll about on the mattress.

  He pauses to lean across me and rifle in the chest of drawers. I hear the sound of a package being ripped open, the snap of plastic against skin.

  It makes me flinch.

  What am I doing? What am I actually doing? I don’t even like him. I barely even know him, I just think I do because Kimmie goes on about him so much.

  Oh God. Kimmie.

  I need to say something; make up an excuse and get out of here, but then he’s climbing on top of me and kissing my neck and it all feels OK again.

  You can do this, Mia, I tell myself. You can.

  I wrap my legs around the tops of his to prove it. He groans in response and says my name.

  ‘You ready?’

  Ready for what? I want to ask. I don’t, though. Instead I whisper ‘yes’ and gently bite his earlobe, making him groan.

  The pain as he pushes into me is sharp and unexpected. I let out an involuntary gasp. He stops.

  ‘You OK?’ he asks.

  I bite my lip hard and nod. ‘Fine. Sorry.’

  He hesitates before pushing again. I squeeze my eyes shut in preparation, trying to block out the pain.

  Aaron stops again, propping himself up on his elbows. ‘Mia, you’re not a virgin, are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Of course not. It’s just been a while.’

  He frowns.

  Another push. I grit my teeth and try not to cry out.

  He swears under his breath and rolls off me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, wrapping the duvet around me, embarrassed by my nakedness suddenly.

  ‘You should have told me you were a virgin, Mia,’ he says, pulling the condom off and letting it drop on the floor. He leans over the side of the bed and reaches for his phone from the pocket of his discarded jeans, the screen lighting up his face.

  I open my mouth to respond but realize I don’t have a clue what to say. I could try to deny it but what would be the point? Aaron is absolutely right. I am a virgin. I’ve just spent so long letting my friends think I’m not, that I did it with Jordan, that I’d almost tricked myself into believing it too.

  ‘I need the loo,’ I say eventually. ‘Do you have a T-shirt or something I can wear?’

  Aaron opens a drawer and tosses me one. I pull it on over my head. It smells fusty, just like the house.

  I can’t find my knickers.

  ‘Can you turn on the light please?’ I ask, holding the T-shirt down over my thighs.

  He switches on the lamp. The duvet is all twisted and our clothes are scattered over the floor. The abandoned condom lies on top of Aaron’s jeans. Just the sight of it makes me feel hot with shame.

  I snatch up my knickers, pulling them on before stepping out onto the landing. The bathroom is on the opposite side, near the stairs. It smells of mould. I pee for what seems like for ever. The shower curtain has the map of the world on it. I find Jamaica, then Greece, then New York City. There’s no soap to wash my hands with. Eventually I spot a sliver of a bar at the bottom of the bathtub but it’s all grey and veiny. I make do with a rinse of lukewarm water instead.

  I don’t like the look of the single towel hanging on a hook on the back of the door, so I wipe my hands on Aaron’s T-shirt instead, leaving dark handprints on the navy-blue cotton.

  I stare at my reflection in the smudged mirror. My mascara has run and I have a love bite on my neck, purple and ripe. I rearrange my hair so I don’t have to look at it.

  Back on the landing, I run into Cara. She smiles at me, eyeing my neck. It’s a mean smile though, one that doesn’t reach her eyes.

  ‘Got a problem?’ I ask.

  She just shakes her head and disappears into a dimly lit, weed-scented bedroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

  By the time I get back to Aaron’s room, he’s asleep or at least pretending to be. Either way I’m glad. I gather up my clothes and start to put them on. As I fasten my bra, I stare at the mole on Aaron’s temple. It looks like a chocolate chip. I hadn’t noticed it before. Kimmie probably worships that mole.

  A tear rolls down my cheek.

  No, I tell myself. None of that.

  I wipe it away with my fist and fold Aaron’s T-shirt. I put it on the edge of the bed and leave the room without looking back.

  26

  ‘Shouldn’t you have left by now?’ Grace asks the following morning as I search for my English folder amongst the mess on the kitchen table.

  ‘Slept through my alarm, didn’t I?’ I say.

  The truth is I’ve been awake for hours. I’m going purposefully slowly so I don’t have to walk to school with my friends.

  ‘What is that?’ I ask. ‘It absolutely stinks.’

  ‘This?’ she asks, holding up her mug.

  I nod.

  ‘It’s red raspberry leaf tea,’ she says in this weird, serene voice she’s taken to speaking in any time anyone brings up the birth. ‘It’s supposed to help ease labour by strengthening the walls of the uterus.’

  I pull a face. ‘Well, it smells rancid,’ I say, knocking a pot of pens off the table.

  I swear under my breath and drop to my knees to pick them up.

  ‘I didn’t think you were even here,’ Grace says. ‘Mum said you were staying at Stella’s.’

  By the time I got back last night, everyone was in bed.

  ‘Yeah, I was going to,’ I say. ‘But then I remembered I needed my PE kit.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have just borrowed something off Stella?’

  Trust Grace to think of that.

  ‘Didn’t think.’

  I straighten up and put the pot of pens back on the table.

  Grace slides off her stool and adds a splash of cold water to her tea. ‘What were you revising for?’ she asks.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘At Stella’s.’

  ‘Oh, Media Studies.’

  It’s the first subject that pops into my head.

  ‘Stella takes Media Studies?’ Grace says.

  ‘Yeah. Why?’

  ‘I could have sworn when I chatted to her last summer, that she said she was doing English, Geography, Art and Economics.’ A pause. ‘I must have got it wrong,’ she adds.

  ‘Yeah, you must have,’ I say, finally finding my folder under a pile of Mum’s work invoices.

  But Grace never gets it wrong. She knows that and I know that.

  I glance up at the clock. ‘I’d better get going,’ I mutter.

  I walk to school slowly. If I time it right I can go straight to English and won’t have to see Kimmie until lunch time at the earliest. I don’t quite know why, but until I’ve seen her face-to-face, it’s almost as if I can trick myself into thinking what happened with Aaron wasn’t so bad, that I’m not a completely horrible person after all. In the cold light of day, I feel even worse than I did last night, stumbling home in the dark, feeling dirty and sore and numb.

  I arrive a few minutes before the bell, dropping off my stupid letter of apology for Ugly Tie Man at the admin office before ducking into the toilets and sitting in one of the cubicles until it rings. I wait for the corridors to empty before sprinting to English, slipping into my seat just in time for Mrs Poots to call my name on the register.

  At break time, I make an excuse about unfinished homework and hide out in the library instead of heading to the sixth form common room. I’m staring out of the window when I notice someone waving at me from over the other side of the library out of the corner of my eye.

  Kimmie.

  My heart starts to beat faster as she makes her way towards me with a big smile on her face. She looks extra cute today in a corduroy dungaree dress layered over a T-shirt with cherries embroidered all over it.

  ‘Hey,’ she says. ‘Stella said you were in here.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, swallowing hard.

  ‘What homework are you doing?’ she asks, looking at the empty table in front of me.

>   ‘Oh, RS,’ I say. ‘I’ve just finished it actually.’

  She nods and slides into the seat opposite. ‘Are you mad with us?’ she asks.

  ‘Mad? Why would I be mad?’

  She draws circles on the table with her finger. ‘It’s just that none of us heard from you pretty much all weekend.’

  ‘I was busy.’

  ‘What doing?’

  ‘Just stuff.’

  The guilt physically hurts. Sort of like a nettle sting, only a hundred times worse.

  ‘Is everything OK, Mia?’ she asks. ‘You seem a bit funny.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘It’s probably just PMT, you know how I get.’

  She nods, but doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘Oh my God, what the hell is that?’ Stella cries.

  It’s the last period of the day and we’re getting changed for PE.

  ‘What’s what?’ I ask.

  I’ve been spaced out since my conversation with Kimmie in the library earlier and am not remotely in the mood for Stella’s theatrics.

  ‘That big fat vampire bite!’ she says, pointing at my neck.

  Shit. I reach to untie the ponytail I’ve just scraped my hair into, but it’s too late. I’ve been rumbled.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Mia,’ Stella continues, forcing my head to one side to get a closer look. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Get what?’ I ask, shaking her off.

  ‘Oh, come on, like you don’t know it’s there.’

  I go over to the mirror and pretend to notice the love bite for the very first time. Despite about twelve layers of concealer, it’s shining out for all to see.

  Idiot.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘Where the hell did that come from?’