The Terrible
Page 6
you could be the next Naomi. Alec. Any
one of them other black lasses.
He says you’ll do well because your nose is “nice and slim.”
read your mum’s diary that she does not keep private.
She records days that she has sex with smiley faces.
Plus, there are the days underlined in red
see . . . Jan 20th
Found Terence in bed with his white woman
see . . . Feb 11th
New glasses for the kids
see . . . Feb 26th
Gynecologist
meet David, Mum’s new boyfriend
who steals money from her
and asks you if you’ve done it with a boy yet.
Hear David having sex with her
feel weird.
Find the problem page
in Sugar magazine
I hear my parents having sex!
Paper-clip it to a letter for your mother and leave it in her handbag.
notice the louder noises subside for a while, but then she forgets. It starts up again and you feel sick
but interested
but sick
. . . hate David!
hear her tell her friend Madge
David is no good in bed. Feel a little better.
feel no blood inside of you
find concentrating hard
cry in frustration in Maths
read ahead in English
drift, mostly
hold the gaze of male teachers for too long
feel them react
feel the powerfear
pluck your eyebrows into questions
and
roll your skirt up at the waist
Meet Devonte outside the Red Lion pub.
He’s a black man with a black name in this white town. You exhale. What a find! Someone to match you. Devonte is beautiful, with large, dark eyes.
It’s weird, he says. You’re the same age as my sister
but she’s just a kid.
Give him your number. Invite him into your room
two days later
in the day, when your mum is sleeping
let him on top of you,
nearly inside
and when asked if you’ve ever done this
before
feel very shy about the fact that you haven’t, so
lie. Which is a mistake.
When it’s over and you’re downstairs
feel awful; sore/awful
on fire; rude fire
and wonder how anybody ever enjoys that
ever.
Pretend not to notice him stealing four CDs on the way out.
They belong to David anyway
who is
awful
it hurts
it hurts to sit.
you smell
different. There’s a weird scent
about you
some male odor. The man left his smell behind
all over you. You ache.
You lie in bed a lot.
Roo comes to sit with you sometimes. Sits at the end of the bed
reading his comic and swinging his legs. Wants to be a Superhero these days.
Always there just to be there. He puts a hand on your forehead.
“Are you sick?” he whispers,
concern behind his little red-framed glasses.
“I think so. Yes,”
you say
and turn to the wall.
Go under
feel cold all the time
feel you don’t see the point of life.
One night
Mum walks in when you’re in the bath.
“Stand up now,” says she. “Look in the mirror
and look hard.
You want to die? Are you crazy?
You’re the most beautiful thing I made.”
Go under. Far under.
notice more odd things about David
e.g.
mood swings
(some days he really hates you)
e.g.
an obsession with young black female singers
e.g.
an
obsession with cookies
cakes
and other sweet things
e.g.
when he finds out you like strawberry milk bottle sweets
he buys you a carrier bag full of them.
Too many to eat. Like two hundred
e.g.
tells you and your mum how pretty you both are
how he’s a lucky man
What happened to that Devonte?
he mocks.
Devonte seemed nice.
You
sneak out at the weekend.
Down beers in bars. Talk to men who tell you they’re
married, but it’s not fun anymore
it’s all going to shit, they say.
She doesn’t understand me, they say.
I only stay because of the kids,
or
It’s just something about you, they say.
Let them feel you up a little
at last orders and again on the way home through the park. Let them stick their tongues in your mouth
it’s a little bit awful (especially if they’re old)
but not the worst. The Worst is doing nothing. Letting life sink in.
Take a job washing dishes in some Italian restaurant
the men:
Santino, waiter
Mario, owner
Marco, chef
Marco says
Listen,
I want to go out with you.
What do you think, says Mario
about coming out with me?
I want you to teach me English, says Santino
Play into the powerfear
consider all of them,
even though Mario is old and potbellied
and Marco’s wife hired you
You’re going to the park to teach a grown man English?
says David.
There’s a name we used to have for girls like you.
Prick tease.
David smirks. His teeth are terrible.
the girl and the cleaner of glass
Although this is all her body,
all five foot nine and three quarters of it,
the girl doesn’t recognize it as such. As anything other than
(1) a Hot-thing (2) a weapon of delicious and complete destruction (3) an almost-power. The usual window cleaner is away on holiday. The new man is chirpy, with an accent from down South. Kind of draws out the vowels. Sounds different, like someone from the telly.
He has just finished all the windows and he asks if there’s anyone else home
and for some reason the girl says,
“Just me. Shall I pay you?”
even though it’s not strictly true—her mum is crashed out upstairs, knackered from the night shift and the day shift and the night shift, and David is at the video game store and could walk through the door any minute. Little Roo is in the living room, glued to the Cartoon Network. None of that matters. She twists two of her braids between her long fingers.
“I like your hair,” says the window cleaner, on cue. “Really pretty.”
“And so,” he says, “is the rest of you.”
She’s teasing, to begin with. Sits on the kitchen table swinging her long, long legs. It’s supposed to be a game, a trick to help her catch her reflection.
He waltzes over. Like a cowboy in a western. There is power and there is fear and they are staring right at each other.
/>
He is bright-eyed and adept and surprisingly prepared and even though they’re in the kitchen
and there is no introduction to what is about to happen
he gets it out right there and then
and slides on a yellow condom. Yellow, she thinks. Ha,
yellow, she thinks.
My favorite color as a kid.
Yellow, she thinks.
Shit, I used to be a kid.
Yellow;
am I still
a . . .
and all this is a little unexpected but she’s a grown-up girl, whatever. At this point, she thinks, it’s weird not to. It happens; perhaps it hurts,
but anyway. It doesn’t take long.
It happens on the kitchen table, which is odd. What a woman, he says, indulgently, shaking his head as he leaves.
She thought she saw herself watching from outside,
in the awful garden.
I’m sure I’ll make it into his dreams, she thinks,
and takes two showers.
16.0
It is summer.
She is walking in the woods round the back of the school with Dylan.
They sit on a bench in the clearing. Dylan is from the estate round the back and is hazel-eyed and almost red-haired but not quite. They start kissing, because it has been on the cards for, like, ever. She opens up his fly because it’s what you do. Kiss it, he says, so she does. Over and over again
until he finishes. He tells her thank you.
She feels power and sex, like she knows what she is made for.
At home, David has made bland, awful pasta. With green awful pesto.
At home, David asks her where she went.
She says,
“School,”
and he glares and says,
“Really. School.
Really.”
“Leave it alone, David. For once,”
snaps Mum, exhausted,
leaving for work.
let’s do something together
David has a friend, Peter,
a filmmaker who works in a video store. Peter is witty and graying,
large stomached, green-eyed. Sees David for the idiot he is.
Apparently David hangs around the store all day and all the men make fun of him behind his back.
Apparently David brags about his stepdaughter who can sing better than most of them on TV and is bound to be famous.
Peter comes over to see David and Mum one night.
They all sit in the living room
laughing loudly
eating Pringles, drinking white wine and watching DVDs.
Peter says he can make you a demo CD for all the record companies.
You go to the studio.
You sing for Peter. Toni Braxton and Whitney Houston and Des’ree
with karaoke backing music.
“I really like your voice,” Peter says. “And I think that I could get you some work.
Really, really. Let’s do something together.”
Even though he has no kids, he looks like someone’s dad. You know the type;
kind around the eyes,
lived-in body. You make up songs and sing them. Peter is lovely.
Takes you out for food most days. Buys you chicken and chips
listens when you complain about
English combined
performing arts and psychology
buys you Malibu and Coke
or Bacardi and Coke
or Martini and lemonade. You take a detour one night
after the studio
in the back of Peter’s car.
The next day
you are talking to your mum in your bedroom.
Watch her pick up the dress you were wearing,
the red shirtdress
now streaky in the inside back,
unicorn silver. Magic.
You see her throw it back down on the bed.
“What’s all that?” she is saying
“What’s all what?” you are saying
You’re terrified, but you don’t dare show it.
You’re relieved when she changes the subject.
And all because of some fumble in the car,
some emission
some almost-sex
All because of some nonsense you did when you were lonely-energetic. Full of the stars and full of Malibu and Bacardi and lemonade and Martini and Coke and all because you couldn’t waste your superpowers by going straight home to bed;
because of these things
Peter is hooked. Wants to start something. Really likes you (or something). Gazes at you out of the corners of his eyes.
God.
Peter thinks David is a c
u
n
t. And anyone else who knows David is a c
u
n
t,
well. They get you.
Peter says he loves you. Says he really thinks he loves you. Ah well, good. Someone has to.
Peter takes you to hotels most of the time (those travel lodges with the blue-and-white logos)
in the weekdays to skip college, fuck and drink wine.
17.0
The thing is, says the head booker at the model agency, frowning,
we think you’re stunning. Obviously, we think you’re stunning.
B u t
you’re very busty for fashion. You could try to drop a few pounds. We’d love to put you in our commercial division but your look might be too strong for that. It’s Manchester, y’know? London is a stronger market, but you’d really have to be living there. And they’re very strict on measurements down there, but we could try to help you. In any case, it’s not easy for Black Girls. If they have another one on their books, they’re not going to take you. I’m just being honest, y’know?
She is tossing her bobbed blond hair around and saying all of these things as if they weren’t important. As if it isn’t my whole life she’s talking about. I have to get out of this town. I need my life to be different, need a career. I need to be away from Grandma and Granddad and Mum and David. I can’t do anything right. The only person who gets me is Little Roo. Mum and David are always fighting. I need a way out; some solid escape. I watch fashion TV all day every day. The models are dewy and long and skinny and gleaming. I try everything to shrink. I drink Diet Coke and take bread off my sandwiches and eat Jamaican Water Crackers instead of food. I hear that chewing gum tricks your body into thinking that you’re eating, so I buy sugar-free gum every chance I get. I do the New York City Ballet training video every day without fail.
Even when I’m cold all the time and always want to sleep, I still have the deep arch in my back and my boobs are going nowhere. Try not to wiggle your bum when you walk, say the girls at the agency. You’re modeling the clothes, not your body. Peter says they don’t know what they’re talking about.
He knows a man who knows a man in the next town. Soon, I’m doing trade shows for small clothing brands and local catalog shoots.
Mum looks like I’ve punched her in the face when I refuse to apply for university. What’s the point? I say. I sing. I dance. I’m an actress and a model now. I can do it all without school. What I do well, you can’t go to school for, Mum. I realize how that sounds but I don’t care. It’s already isolating being at sixth-form college, not able to relate to anyone else because I’m with Peter, a grown man their dads’ age. A man who doesn’t like it if I go out, unless I’m with him. I feel large and black and old before my time. Nobody else who is seventeen looks my way. I’m not tiny or light enough, and my hair is doing weird things. I can’t talk to anyone about Peter. It is a secret with sharp edges,
a thick, serrated weight.
M
um pretends she doesn’t know a thing. She knows,
I know she knows. Marcia knows I know she knows;
she skirts around the subject once or twice. We do a pretty dance.
“I hope you’re making decisions that won’t affect your life,” she is saying.
“Do you have a boyfriend yet?” she is asking.
David is delighted at the tension in the house. He can be horrible to me and nice to Mum, or the other way around, at his leisure.
“Get an education. Your looks will only get you so far, lady,” he says, getting in my face and
winking,
the fuck.
17.5
Somewhere away down South, near London but not quite there,
I am singing Whitney Houston covers and wearing
long, tight dresses with sparkles that catch the light. Peter looks after my backing tracks or sometimes we hire a pianist. My hair is permed and hangs to my shoulders. I look a lot like Mum used to. Before she was always tired.
College is nearly over. I am almost free. I drink. I drink double whiskey and Coke and Bacardi and Coke and Peter drinks the best beer they have on draught.
Down South near London,
but not quite there, I am sitting in the pub after the gig with Peter while a naked blonde walks around with an empty pint glass. The men put pound coins in it.
She’s okay, says Peter, but I much prefer the brunette before. More natural. This one’s too skinny and fake boobs aren’t my thing at all.
I know, I say. I know.
Up North,
somewhere near home
but far enough away,
the music starts and the girl is dancing, the men are leering.
I could do that better, I say.
Yeah but you wouldn’t want to be that,
says Peter.
Imagine what she must be going through to have to do this. I mean, what must be running through her head?
She isn’t thinking about you, I want to say.
Look at that, Peter says, sneering. The corner of his mouth is twisted up.
I can see everything, he says,
even the pink.
You paid for it, I say,