I wonder how that must feel – the girl you love not wanting to admit you’re the father of her baby. ‘Doesn’t it bother you that she doesn’t want to tell people?’
‘Sarah. A few weeks ago, I didn’t want to know. Come on, we better get going. Mum will want the car back.’
I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of my mum’s car, suddenly terrified. I’ve been so excited about these lessons. But now all I can think is what if I manx the car?
‘So how much do you know?’ Louis asks, matter of factly.
‘About driving?’
‘Yeah, you know, from watching.’
‘I don’t watch. Usually, I look out the window.’
‘OK.’
He points everything out. Accelerator. Brake. Clutch. Gears. He tells me what to do. I ask him to repeat the first bit again. I follow his instructions exactly: turn the key, press the clutch, go into gear, ease off on the clutch while pressing on the accelerator. The car revs up. Then stalls.
‘What did I do wrong?’
He taps the hand brake.
‘Crud.’ I forgot to let it off.
I try again, remembering the hand brake. The car cuts out. I feel like a retard.
‘What did I do now?’
‘You let off the clutch a bit fast. Just ease it off. Try again.’
I start again. And stall again. ‘Jesus. What’s wrong with me?’
‘Just try again. You’ll get it.’ He’s so patient, it’s abnormal.
‘Were you this bad?’ I ask.
He lights a cigarette, opens a window. ‘Probably.’
‘Jesus, Louis, why are you always so laid back?’
‘What, you want me to start yelling?’
‘It might help.’ The whole Zen approach is getting on my nerves.
‘Jesus H. Christ. Start the fucking car,’ he shouts.
And we burst out laughing.
Next day, at school, Round Two finally starts. I realise this when Orla Tempany decides to check the truth of the story with me.
‘Are you seriously engaged to a disabled guy?’
I smile. It’s almost a relief. People are so predictable.
‘So you’re not?’
‘No, I am. I just think it’s funny that this is your latest big deal.’
‘Oh my God, she is.’ Orla turns and hurries away to spread the, now confirmed, news.
‘You’d think I was going to marry an actual wheelchair,’ I say to Alex, rolling my eyes.
‘They’re assholes.’
I remember how I used to live on gossip. Was I really like that? I mean, they’re happier that I’m engaged to a guy in a wheelchair rather than just engaged.
After school, Simon comes up to me at my locker.
‘Are you OK?’ he asks.
‘Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?’ I ask coldly.
‘It wasn’t me.’
‘You know what Simon? I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. None of it does.’
‘Well, I think it’s pretty fucking cruel.’
‘Actually, it’s the truth. I am engaged to a guy in a wheelchair.’ I shrug and turn to go.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I tried to stop her.’
‘Who?’
‘Amy.’
‘Yeah well, maybe Amy wouldn’t have thought it was such a big deal if you hadn’t made it such a big deal in the coffee shop.’ Then I do go. Leaving him standing there. With his stupid sorry.
Later, I get a call from Rachel.
‘It’s all over Facebook. Simon ended it with Amy.’
‘I should probably care, right?’
‘It was over the wheelchair thing. She started the rumour.’
‘It’s not a rumour.’
‘I know. Still, maybe he’s not a complete a-hole after all.’
‘You know what, Rache, if he was a frog that turned into a prince, I still wouldn’t care.’
That night, Mum calls me down to the kitchen.
‘I spoke with your dad.’
Oh God. I think my heart has stopped. ‘And?’
‘He said OK.’
‘He said OK? Are you serious?’ I put my hands to my face and scream. I run to her and fling my arms around her.
‘How did you do it?’
She shrugs. ‘I just explained.’
‘And he went for it?’
‘OK, I had to use a little guilt.’ She smiles.
Then I’m hugging her again. ‘Thank you so much. You’re a genius … Oh my God. I have to call Shane.’ We’re getting married. We can be together at last. I start towards the door.
‘Wait,’ she says.
I stop and turn.
‘You have to come see me,’ she says. Suddenly, I see it. Mum finally stood up to Dad and got her way. Only it’s not her way. It’s mine. This isn’t what she wants – for me to leave home at seventeen.
‘Of course I will.’
‘At least once a week.’
‘More.’
‘Maybe every Sunday for lunch. Both of you. And one night during the week?’
I smile. ‘That’d be nice.’ I really want to ring Shane now, though.
‘Sarah, you have to promise me something.’
I look at her.
‘Hold on to your independence. Stay yourself.’
I almost cry for her. ‘I promise, Mum. I swear.’
She smiles. ‘I’m going to miss you so much.’
‘Mum, you’ll see me all the time.’
‘At least I’ll have you for a few months yet.’
Months? ‘I thought it’d be sooner than that.’
‘It takes a bit of organisation, Sarah. You have to wait in line for a priest, a church …’
‘Really?’
‘And there’ll be paperwork. Especially given your age.’
‘Damn.’
‘It might be no harm, Sarah. It’ll give everyone time to get used to the idea.’
She means Shane and me. ‘We are used to it. We just want to be together.’
‘You spend most of your time together as it is.’
‘Except for school.’ Which I resent. I really do.
‘Which you’ll have to keep up.’
‘I know.’
‘So there’s no rush, Sarah.’
‘Actually, there kind of is.’ But now, at least, we can be together properly. We can fall asleep together, wake up together, use every bit of time we have to be together.
‘Mum, can you do me a favour?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Can you drive me over? I don’t want to tell him over the phone.’
She smiles. ‘Sure. I’ll just go get the keys.’
‘You look suspiciously happy,’ he says, when he sees me.
I put my hands on my hips and wiggle them. ‘You’re looking at your future wife.’
He smiles. ‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’ I run to him, vault myself up and fling my arms around him. The chair almost topples over.
He laughs.
I pull back and look at him. ‘I’m going to be a wife!’ I say unnecessarily.
‘A missus.’
‘A kept woman.’
‘A frau.’
‘What’s the word in French?’ I ask.
‘There is none.’
‘Then what do they say?’
‘Woman.’
I laugh. ‘“Come here, woman.”’
‘I like the sound of that. Fetch my slippers, woman. Put the cat out, woman.’
‘Shut up.’ I laugh. ‘Let’s get your laptop.’
‘Why?’
‘To plan our big day.’
He smiles. ‘You don’t waste time, do you?’
‘Are you kidding? If we could get married right this minute, we would be getting married right this minute.’
‘Here, give me a kiss.’
‘Give me your laptop.’
It’s Louis who picks me up.
‘I’m getting married before you,’ I tease.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m rushing into the kitchen to see if Mum has my birth certificate. She’s on the phone, her back to the door.
‘I’ll be lost without her,’ she’s saying. I think of Dad leaving. Now me. And I know Louis will be gone as soon as he can. God. She’s going to be all alone. ‘Are you joking?’ she says. ‘Louis’s never home.’
I reverse out. The house will be so quiet now. Just when she changed job to finish early. Slowly, and kind of bewildered, I walk upstairs.
I want to tell Alex and Rache in person. I manage to hold off till the morning, then ride the whole way on the DART without saying a thing.
‘What are you smiling about?’ Alex asks suspiciously.
‘Nothing.’
But as soon as we’re out of the DART station, I stop walking. And smile.
‘Who wants to be a bridesmaid?’
‘Oh my God,’ they say together. They burst into smiles together. And hug me together.
Then Alex loses her smile. ‘You have to wait till I have the baby. I’m not waddling around in an amazing dress looking like a whale. OK?’
The baby’s due in two months. The paperwork’s going to take that long anyway. ‘OK, sure.’
‘What kind of wedding are you going to have?’ Rachel asks, sounding excited.
‘What do you think? The works. Church wedding. Like, loads of flowers. Doves, definitely.’
‘Doves?’
‘Yeah, doves.’
Alex laughs.
‘Would doves and balloons be too much?’ I ask.
‘The balloons might frighten the doves,’ Rachel suggests.
Alex smiles. ‘And the doves might burst the balloons.’
‘So just doves then,’ I confirm.
After school, we get off the DART early to check out a shop that sells wedding dresses. We walk in. A bell rings overhead. Two assistants chatting to each other at the counter, glance at us, then at each other. I remember we’re still in uniform. One of them approaches, like she’s coming to get rid of us. Maybe she thinks we’re just messing. Not a bad idea, I think, spending an afternoon trying on wedding dresses. Wish I’d thought of it before.
‘Can I help you?’ she asks, like that’s the last thing she wants to do. But then she sees Alex’s bump and her whole attitude changes. She smiles at her.
‘When’s the big day?’ she asks.
‘You’re talking to the wrong person,’ Alex says. Kind of rudely, which is why I love her.
‘Oh, sorry.’ She actually blushes. ‘So, who is the bride?’ she asks carefully.
‘That would be me,’ I say. ‘And these are my bridesmaids.’ Suddenly, it hits me. We’re really doing this. I feel like whooping and doing a little dance.
‘Of course,’ she says, not exactly grovelling but not far off. I remember the recession. Things must be bad. ‘What price range were you thinking?’ she asks.
‘What price ranges do you have?’
‘They start at five hundred, for the sale items,’ she looks over at a rack of sad looking dresses, ‘and go up to eight thousand,’ she turns to the Vera Wang range.
I’m screwed. But don’t let on. Don’t want to give her the satisfaction.
‘Great!’ Alex says. ‘We’ll see all of them,’ she says with the confidence of someone who is minted. ‘And the bridesmaids’ dresses too.’
‘Follow me,’ the assistant says. She starts to walk down the shop.
Alex whispers to me. ‘Don’t look at the labels. Just pretend you’re Cinderella.’
I smile. And think, Why not enjoy the afternoon anyway?
The assistant starts to actually assist, pulling out dresses and talking about ‘features’.
Alex dismisses her with an ‘It’s OK, thanks. We’ll take it from here.’
The dresses are amazing. We end up heading for the fitting rooms with about fifteen, draped over each of our arms. Wow, they’re heavy.
‘Just a moment,’ the older assistant says. ‘I’ll accompany you.’
‘What, into the fitting rooms?’ I say.
‘Not quite that far.’
Just outside the fitting rooms, there’s an area with gigantic mirrors and a rack to hang the dresses. That’s where everyone waits while I go in, with one dress at a time.
I step into the first dress. It’s so soft, so silky but so cold. I shiver. I stand up straight and look in the mirror. It’s beautiful. But it’s not me. I know that straight away. I go out anyway because it took so long to put on.
‘Wow,’ Rachel and Alex say, together.
The assistant zips me up, in silence, without me even asking. She doesn’t ‘ooh’ or ‘ah’ and I think that maybe I can trust her to, at least, be honest.
She doesn’t take the next dress in line, but roots through them. Then she takes out the sixth or seventh from the front and looks at it for a moment. Then she hands it to me.
‘Try this.’ It’s a sexy sheath of silk, low neck, no sleeves. Very simple.
‘You think?’ I ask, unsure. It seems kind of plain to me. But this time, when I look in the mirror, I almost don’t recognise myself. I look so grown up. So sophisticated. This is my Cinderella moment. All I can do is stare. When I (finally) come out, there’s this gasp, followed by silence. The assistant smiles like she’s satisfied, like this is why she does her job. She zips me up and I allow myself a swirl in front of the mirror. How did she know?
Alex starts taking photos on her phone. Front. Side. Back.
‘I’d prefer if you didn’t,’ the assistant says.
‘Why not? They’re just photos,’ Alex says.
‘She’s so beautiful,’ Rachel says.
‘All right, go on then. Though strictly it’s not allowed.’
‘I’ll just take one last shot,’ Alex says. She takes it, then says, ‘OK. Done.’
‘So,’ the assistant says to me. ‘Would you like to see any more?’
I shake my head.
She lifts the price tag. ‘Five thousand euro.’
I nearly collapse. ‘Oh. OK. Good.’ (Good?) ‘I’ll have to come back, though. With my mum.’
‘Of course,’ she says. And I can’t tell if she believes me or not.
She unzips me and I return to the changing room, so careful not to damage the dress. If I damage it or mark it, they might make me pay for it.
Outside the shop, I remember the bridesmaids’ dresses. ‘Oh my God, we forgot you guys.’
‘Good,’ Alex says. ‘You think I’m trying anything on looking like this?’ She looks down at her bump. ‘I need chocolate.’
‘Let’s go to Starbucks,’ Rachel says.
‘Best idea I’ve heard all day,’ I say. Still thinking about the price tag.
‘No,’ Alex says. ‘You’re about to hear the best idea you’ve heard all day.’
I smile. ‘Does that even make sense?’
‘It’s going to,’ she says. ‘Marsha!’
‘What?’
‘Marsha’ll do it. Marsha’ll make the dress.’
‘Oh my God. Would she?’ I ask.
‘Why d’you think I went mad with the camera in there? So I can show her what you’d like. Of course she’ll do it. If I ask her nicely. She’s been so sweet since I got pregnant.’
‘She was always sweet,’ Rachel says.
‘I know but she’s insanely sweet now. Making baby clothes. Loads and loads of the cutest baby clothes. She’d almost make you look forward to it.’
We look at her.
‘Almost.’
Next day, we go see Marsha. She’s all excited that I’m getting married. She wants to see pictures of Shane. I hand her my phone. She loses her smile. Then produces a fresh one. Manufactured. She looks at me like she’s looking at a different person. A particularly good person.
‘Right. Let’s see those shots you took of the dress,’ she says
to Alex.
Alex fiddles with her iPhone and passes it to Marsha.
‘Oh, wow,’ she says. She looks up at me. ‘You’re beautiful.’
I smile. Embarrassed. In that dress I just may be.
‘It’s a stunning dress. Good photography, Alex, very professional.’
‘Why, thank you.’
‘Right,’ Marsha says. ‘First thing we do is measure you up.’
‘I’m an eight,’ I say.
She tsks. ‘No one’s just an eight.’ She whips a measuring tape from her back pocket and moves like a bullet, taking the measurements as automatically as someone brushing their teeth. She pulls a pencil from behind her ear and starts to scribble notes. Then she starts to sketch the dress. ‘It looks very simple,’ she says as she draws. ‘It isn’t. The important thing is to get it to fall right.’
I nod seriously.
‘I’m pretty sure where I can get the fabric. How long have we got on this?’
‘Actually,’ I say with a grimace, ‘we’ve probably got a few months. It’s, like, impossible to get a church.’ Which I think must be some sort of cosmic revenge for all the thousands of Masses I’ve skipped.
‘I’ll work ahead anyway,’ Marsha says.
And I hate to bring up money but I have to know if I can make this. If I don’t ask, I’ll be stressing the whole time.
‘How much do I owe you?’ I ask, quietly.
She looks at me like I’ve just called her a hooker. ‘I’m not charging. You’re a friend.’
I stare at her. ‘Oh my God. That’s so sweet.’ My hand goes to my heart. ‘But I have to pay you something. For your time. For the fabric.’
‘No,’ Marsha says. ‘This one’s on me. I want to give you a present anyway. Now I won’t have to think.’
I don’t remind her that I hardly know her because I know she’d be insulted. So I just hug her.
‘Thank you so much. You’re the best,’ I say, and there are tears in my eyes.
THIRTY-SEVEN | OXYGEN
Weeks pass. The weather gets colder, the days get shorter and Alex’s bump gets bigger. One day, in the middle of October, when I switch on my phone after school, there’s a message from Shane.
‘Call me. Nothing to worry about. Just not at home.’
It’s too noisy to call back so I grab my stuff, lock my locker and tell the guys I’ll meet them outside. On my way out, I start thinking: Does anybody say ‘there’s nothing to worry about’ unless there is? Worried, I call him.
The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually) Page 53