All About Mia

by Lisa Williamson

  Stella and Kimmie crack up laughing.

  ‘You are such a bad actress, Mia,’ Stella says.

  ‘I’m serious, I have no idea where I got this,’ I protest, prodding at it for good measure. ‘It’s probably just an allergic reaction or something. Come to think of it, Audrey had Beyoncé up in our room like all day yesterday, I bet it’s that.’

  ‘I didn’t you know you were allergic to guinea pigs,’ Kimmie says.

  ‘Yep,’ I say. ‘Really, really allergic.’

  Stella snorts. ‘Oh please, Mia, you’re no more allergic to guinea pigs than I am Kate and Pippa Middleton’s long-lost little sister.’

  ‘But it’s true,’ I whine.

  ‘Honestly, do you think we were born yesterday? Just tell us already! Who gave you the hickey to end all hickeys?’

  ‘No one,’ I say, loosening my hair from its ponytail.

  Mrs Cates barges into the changing rooms and tells us to hurry up, forcing the group to disperse.

  ‘Hair up please, Mia,’ she barks as she strides the length of the lockers.

  ‘I’ve lost my bobble,’ I lie.

  ‘No you haven’t, it’s on your wrist,’ Kimmie says.

  ‘Thanks,’ I mutter, reluctantly tying my hair back up, yanking down a few tendrils in an attempt to disguise the love bite as best I can.

  ‘That’s better,’ Mrs Cates says, shoving a load of wooden rounders bats into my arms.

  Mikey is waiting for us outside the changing rooms.

  The first thing Stella does is instruct him to ‘check out Mia’s epic love bite’.

  ‘Fuck me,’ Mikey says, screwing up his face as he peers at it. ‘Someone went to town on you.’

  ‘Do you have to be so loud?’ I hiss, nodding at the group in front.

  ‘And since when are you coy about this stuff?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m not being coy,’ I mutter.

  ‘Come to think of it,’ Stella says, scampering along beside me like an excited puppy dog. ‘You do look pretty knackered. I thought so earlier.’

  ‘Wow, thanks a lot,’ I reply.

  ‘I’m just being honest,’ Stella says, like that somehow makes it OK to go around telling people they basically look like shit warmed up.

  ‘She’s got a point,’ Mikey says. ‘You’re not looking your hottest this morning, Mia.’

  ‘Well, I think you look really pretty today,’ Kimmie says, offering me a sweet from the bag of Haribo Star Mix she has hidden under the stack of bibs Mrs Cates gave her to carry up to the field.

  ‘Suck-up,’ Mikey says, disguising it as a cough.

  ‘Oh, piss off,’ I say, taking a fried egg and popping it in my mouth, swallowing it whole. I can feel it making its way down my windpipe. Kimmie offers me another. I shake my head, a fresh crop of guilt creeping up my body like climbing ivy on fast-forward, winding round my ankles and wrists, threatening to drag me to the ground.

  ‘So, come on then,’ Stella says. ‘What were you doing this weekend?’

  ‘Or more accurately, who were you doing this weekend?’ Mikey adds, looking disproportionately pleased with himself.

  ‘I told you, nothing,’ I say.

  ‘Whatever! That thing on your neck is a textbook love bite. Plus, how else do you explain the crazy hair? The dark circles? The elusiveness? You’ve blatantly been shagging all weekend!’

  ‘You must think we’re total idiots,’ Stella adds.

  I open my mouth and then shut it again. Because I can’t admit what I did this weekend. Any of it.

  ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe you weren’t going to tell us!’ Stella continues to squawk. ‘I would never dream of not telling you if I got it on with someone.’

  ‘Who is he?’ Kimmie asks, her eyes shining. ‘Someone we know?’

  The guilt morphs into a thousand little knives attacking every centimetre of my body. Stab, stab, stab.

  ‘Yeah, someone from school?’ Mikey asks.

  ‘Ew, no,’ I say. ‘I’ve had it with boys my age, you know that.’

  ‘Then who?’ he cries.

  I hesitate, my brain whirring as I start to panic, my clammy hands struggling to hold onto the rounders bats in my arms.

  ‘You may as well tell us the gory details now,’ Stella says in a singsong voice. ‘Because you know if you don’t, we’ll only find out some other way.’

  She’s right. They’ll never let me get away with not dishing the dirt. And I can’t risk them finding out the truth. Not ever.

  ‘Paul,’ I blurt. ‘It was Paul.’ The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

  ‘Wait, Paul who?’ Mikey asks.

  His words are overlapped with a gasp from Stella. ‘Oh my God, as in Paul your next-door neighbour?’ she cries.

  I don’t have to say anything else. They join the dots all by themselves, squealing and gasping, full of questions, all of which I answer in startling detail, the lies flowing easily.

  Too easily.

  27

  I’m not quite sure who’s to blame (although the smart money is on Mikey and his stupidly loud voice), but by the end of PE our entire class seems to know about my ‘affair’ with my forty-year-old next-door neighbour.

  ‘My cousin is going out with a twenty-five-year-old, and I thought that was old!’ Tamsin says as we troop back to the changing rooms at the end of the lesson.

  ‘Does he look forty?’ Kat chimes in.

  ‘Do your mum and dad know?’ Stacey adds.

  ‘No,’ I say, trying and failing to disguise the panic in my voice. ‘And they really can’t, OK? So please just stop going on about it.’

  Despite my classmates’ promises not to breathe a word to anyone (whatever), I still can’t get rid of the sicky feeling in my stomach. I keep waiting for it to go away, but it shows no signs of leaving me alone. It’s there as I get changed back into my clothes, my classmates not even bothering to hide their excited whispers. It’s there as I walk home, fielding yet more questions, inventing more and more lies. It’s there as I eat dinner, and help Mum put sugared almonds in little gauzy bags for the wedding favours, and sit on my laptop scouring social media for evidence of my presence at the park yesterday. And even though I don’t find a thing, and so according to the internet at least I’m in the clear, the sicky feeling remains. It’s there as I lie in the bath, and brush my teeth and toss and turn in bed, unable to fall asleep. And the next morning it’s there the moment I wake up, a big fat tangled knot deep in my belly.

  At Thursday-afternoon registration, our teacher, Mr Costa, hands out our school reports. We usually rip them open immediately (apart from Kimmie, whose parents always insist she brings it home in its sealed envelope), but today I shove mine straight to the bottom of my bag without looking at it.

  I forget about it until later that evening when I’m searching through my bag for a rogue cigarette.

  ‘Is that your report?’ Audrey asks from over the other side of the room.

  I shrug and push it under my mattress.

  ‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ she asks.

  ‘What’s the point? It’s only going to be shit.’

  ‘It might not be,’ she says. ‘It might be really good.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Auds. Get real.’ It’s no secret I’m making a right mess of my A levels. I was stupid to think I was up to them in the first place. My GCSEs were clearly a fluke, a red herring.

  ‘Won’t Mum and Dad want to see it though?’

  ‘I doubt they’ll even remember it’s due.’

  ‘I bet it’s not as bad as you think.’

  I sigh. ‘Thanks, Audrey, but it’s probably worse.’

  On the last day of term, for probably the first time ever, I’m glad to have an excuse not to go to the pub with the others.

  ‘I’ve got to get home and pack,’ I explain at the school gates.

  The venue for Mum and Dad’s wedding is a big hotel on the edge of town and it’s our base for the next two nights.

  ‘Can’t yo
u just come for one?’ Mikey asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ Kimmie says. ‘You don’t have to stay long.’

  Even though the guilt has faded a bit, I’m still struggling to look Kimmie in the eye properly, directing most of my conversation at her eyebrows instead.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t,’ I say, pretending to check my phone. ‘My mum will go mad if I’m not home on time.’

  ‘Er, since when does Queen Mia care about keeping people waiting?’ Stella points out.

  ‘Oh, shut up, Stella. It’s my mum and dad’s wedding. Do you really think I’m such a cow that I’d mess it up for them?’

  Stella frowns. ‘God, it was supposed to be a joke,’ she says.

  I smack myself on my forehead with my right palm. ‘Stupid me,’ I say. ‘There I was assuming you were just being a bitch.’

  I’m being a moody cow, I know I am, but somehow I can’t bring myself to apologize. I just need to have a break from the lies I’ve told, the chance to reset. For about the thousandth time, I regret letting them believe it was Paul who gave me the stupid love bite. Why didn’t I just make up a random boy? If I had, they’d have probably forgotten about it by now. I wish I had a time machine I could climb inside so I could put it all right. I try to decide when I would go back to. Getting ready for PE on Monday? The moment just before Aaron kissed me in the park? The moment just before I kissed Paul? Or further back still? When exactly did everything start to unravel?

  ‘What’s with you this week?’ Stella asks, putting her hands on her hips. ‘You’ve been in such a mood.’

  ‘Is it Paul?’ Mikey butts in. ‘Did something else happen?’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘I told you, I haven’t seen him all week.’

  ‘But how? He lives next door, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Oh my God, just drop it, OK?’

  ‘But, Mia—’

  ‘I said, drop it.’

  They exchange looks, ranging from concerned (Kimmie), to bitchy (Mikey) and exasperated (Stella).

  I take a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been in a bit of a shit mood this week,’ I say. ‘Things are just a bit stressful at home right now, you know, with the wedding and everything.’

  This is a lie. Even though I’m not exactly looking forward to it, my bad mood has barely anything to do with the wedding. My explanation seems to do the trick though, both Stella and Mikey quickly apologizing for having a go at me.

  ‘I’ll see you guys tomorrow, OK?’ All three of them are invited.

  The mood lifted, we hug goodbye. I’m still relieved though, when we can finally go our separate ways and I can breathe that little bit easier.

  As I walk away, I try to shove everything that’s happened from my mind and focus on the weekend ahead. It’s going to be full-on and if I’m going to get through it, I need to be on form.

  28

  The introduction to ‘Isn’t She Lovely’ by Stevie Wonder blasts through the overhead speakers.

  ‘Go, Audrey,’ Grace says. ‘Go!’

  Because Grace is wearing flats, Audrey is the tallest for a change, wobbly and uncertain in her high heels as she creeps round the corner and down the aisle towards the music like a cautious baby deer in lilac chiffon.

  As rehearsed, I count to five before following her.

  The room is packed, kids piled on laps, several people forced to stand at the back because there are more guests than available chairs. There are so many strings of fairy lights I feel like Father Christmas is going to emerge any second yelling, ‘Ho, ho, ho!’ and tossing presents from his sack. Audrey must have legged it because the aisle is entirely clear. As I walk down the centre, the faces on either side are a blur. All I can see are teeth and camera phones and humongous hats until I spot Stella, Mikey and Kimmie waving madly at me and I’m able to focus for a few seconds and give them a grin in return.

  There’s a collective sigh from the entire crowd. I turn round just in time to see Grace and her ‘adorable’ baby bump advancing down the aisle towards me, followed by an even bigger sigh for Mum’s entrance. Dad’s eyes are already wet, and by the time Mum joins him they’re both openly wailing at each other, milky mascara tears running down Mum’s face.

  The ceremony is being conducted by a woman called Charmaine. Even though Mum’s family is officially Catholic and Dad’s family are super-Christian, neither of them wanted a religious service. The compromise is a single reading from the Bible performed by one of Dad’s billions of great-aunts, offset by Mum’s sister Ali reading a passage from Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.

  ‘And now I’d like to invite Grace and Sam to the front,’ Charmaine says as Ali returns to her seat.

  Huh?

  Mum and Dad look equally surprised as Grace and Sam get up, Sam taking a seat at a keyboard I hadn’t even noticed was set up, Grace smiling serenely at us all as Charmaine adjusts the microphone to her height.

  ‘This is a special surprise for Mum and Dad,’ Grace says breathlessly. She turns towards them. ‘Thank you for being the most incredible parents I could ever wish for.’

  She nods to Sam, who begins to play the introduction to ‘Back for Good’ by Take That. It was number one in the charts when Mum and Dad met and is their official song.

  Pleasure ripples through the audience as Grace begins to sing, her soprano voice as clear as a bell. Mum and Dad beam, their arms wrapped round each other, Mum’s head resting on Dad’s shoulder. I glance behind me. Everyone is spellbound, snapping pictures and swaying in time with the music. Stella and the others have been reeled in, joining in on the chorus. Kimmie even cries.

  ‘Did you know about this?’ I ask Audrey in a low whisper.

  She shakes her head.

  At the end of the song the room breaks into thunderous applause. At Mum and Dad’s insistence Grace and Sam hold hands and take about ten bows.

  ‘How long have you been planning that?’ I ask once Grace has returned to her seat.

  ‘Just a few weeks,’ she replies, facing front and not looking at me. ‘We practised while you were at school.’

  ‘You should have said something.’

  ‘We wanted it to be a surprise, silly.’

  ‘Not to Mum and Dad, to me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I might have wanted to do something special too.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I mutter.

  ‘No one was stopping you, Mia,’ she says, stroking her bump.

  I try to concentrate as Charmaine moves on to the final vows, culminating in her announcement that Dad and Mum are now ‘man and wife’ and he may ‘kiss the bride’. They snog for about a minute straight while ‘Happy’ by Pharrell plays and the crowd goes wild. The doors at the front of the room are flung open and we’re ushered out onto the terrace for drinks and photos. Within seconds I’m hijacked by aunts and uncles and family friends I haven’t seen in ages. Instead of their usual comments about tall I am and how grownup I look, all they’re interested in is Grace and the baby.

  ‘You must be so excited,’ they say, over and over again.

  I smile and tell them what they want to hear, that ‘I can’t wait’ to meet my niece or nephew.

  The photographer rounds us up for endless photographs on the lawn, the group combinations gradually getting bigger and bigger until all 150 guests are assembled together on the damp grass. It takes for ever to make sure everyone is looking in the right direction and can be seen, heels sinking into the lawn and tempers fraying.

  It’s as we’re waiting for my cousin Tanisha to persuade her three-year-old, Dante, to stop screaming and smile nicely for a final shot, that I notice her, standing on the steps wearing a crisp white skirt tucked into black trousers, a tray of Pimms resting on her palm, a weird little smirk on her face as her eyes clock me in the crowd. It’s the exact same smirk she wore when I bumped into her outside Aaron’s bedroom last weekend, his T-shirt barely covering my bum.

  Cara.

  The photographer seizes his mo
ment. ‘Everyone say, “Best wedding ever!”’ he yells.

  ‘Best wedding ever!’ the crowd crows back obediently.

  Everyone apart from me. I open my mouth and make the right shapes but I’m pretty certain no actual words come out. There’s only one thought on my mind – what the hell is Cara doing at my mum and dad’s wedding?

  ‘You OK, sweetheart?’ Dad asks once the photographer has dismissed the crowd. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I stammer. ‘Just hungry, I think. I only had a bit of breakfast.’

  ‘Well, not long now until we eat,’ he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.

  The photographer beckons Mum and Dad to join him for a few more shots. Dad kisses me on the forehead and takes Mum’s hand.

  As the terrace swarms with thirsty guests, I try to think about the situation logically. It’s not as if Cara’s going to march up to Kimmie and tell her I shagged her housemate – that would make no sense whatsoever. She doesn’t even know who Kimmie is, never mind the fact that Kimmie fancies Aaron. I remember what Aaron told me, about him blowing Cara off that time and how badly she took it. She was probably only giving me evils because she’s jealous. Yeah, that must be it. Feeling slightly better, I smooth out my dress and go look for Stella and the others.

  I find them gathered around Grace and Sam, their hands fixed to Grace’s bump, even Mikey’s, who claims to hate kids as much as I do.

  ‘Hey,’ I say.

  ‘Hey,’ they reply, barely even looking at me, their hands still stuck to the bump.

  ‘Oh my God, I can feel it moving!’ Kimmie gasps, crouching down and pressing her right ear against Grace’s belly like she’s listening to a bowl of Rice Crispies go ‘snap, crackle, pop’.

  ‘Me too!’ Stella says. ‘Loads!’

  ‘Of course it’s moving,’ I say. ‘It’s a foetus. That’s what foetuses do. They move. Big fleshy deal.’

  ‘Not today, Mia,’ Grace says, sighing. ‘Please.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I demand.

  ‘You know what I mean.’