Kiss

by Jacqueline Wilson

  'They r a n g up yesterday evening, after you'd gone. They want me and the boys to play at this birthday party and they're paying – fifty quid, how cool is that!'

  'Your band?' I said. 'Oh. Well. Good for you.' I tried to edge round him.

  'Will you come, Sylvie?' said Jake.

  'Come where?' said Miranda, materializing behind me.

  'This party. My band's playing,' said J a k e proudly. 'You can come too.'

  'I don't think I can make it, Jake,' I said, rushing past. There! He could get Miranda to go

  – t h a t was surely w h a t he wanted.

  'But you don't know when it is!' J a k e called after me.

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  I pretended not to h e a r him. He couldn't very well follow me right into t h e girls' toilets. I charged into t h e cubicle and faced the worst. It wasn't as bad as I'd feared, but I still h a d PE to contend with.

  'Sylvie?' Miranda called, outside my cubicle.

  'Why don't you want to go to Jake's party?'

  'It's a birthday party. It'll probably be some little kid wanting to do a bit of head-banging with all his mates. No one sane would employ J a k e for a real party. His band is unbelievably awful.'

  'OK, point taken. I expect I'll be on some heavy date with Paul anyway' said Miranda.

  I m u t t e r e d a very rude sentence.

  'What? Hey, t h a t ' s my boyfriend you're describing so graphically,' said Miranda. She didn't sound too perturbed. 'What's he done to upset you?'

  'He h a s n ' t done anything to me!

  'To Carl? Hey, have you found out about this fight?'

  'No,' I said quickly.

  'Are you sure you don't know something?' said Miranda. 'Hey, Sylvie, what are you doing in there? Have you got galloping diarrhoea or something?'

  'Shut up! I've got my period,' I hissed.

  'Oh. Right. Have you got a tampon then?'

  'No.'

  ' 'S OK, I've got one in my school bag. Half a tick.' She passed one under the door.

  'I can't use them,' I whispered.

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  'What? I can't h e a r you.'

  'Miranda! Look, I don't w a n t to announce this to t h e whole world. I don't use tampons, I can't get t h e m to work, OK? They're too big or I'm too little, whatever. Shall I broadcast it on the Tannoy system?'

  'Yes please,' said Miranda, giggling. 'Try my tampon. Go on, it's a special little one.'

  She gave me full instructions on how to use them. I prayed no one else was in the toilets.

  But eventually I triumphed.

  'Yay! I've m a n a g e d it. Oh God, w h a t a palaver!' I said, coming out of the cubicle and washing my hands.

  'You're acting like you've never had a period before, Little Titch,' Miranda teased.

  'Well. It is my first time if you must know'

  'Really! I started when I was ten.'

  'Typical. Precocious brat.'

  'That's me, babe. You come to your Aunty Miranda whenever you need practical advice.

  W h a t lesson have I got next? I can never remember at this stupid school.'

  'I've got PE,' I said grimly.

  'Poor you. I h a t e prancing around in those awful baggy school knickers. God, they're such depressing garments.'

  'Lucy wears two pairs of knickers when she's got h e r period,' I said.

  'Oh, Lucy would. She'll wear two pairs of knickers the first time she goes out with a boy,'

  said Miranda.

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  We giggled unkindly. I knew I was being mean b u t it made me feel so much better.

  I was still desperately worried about Carl, b u t I told myself he'd manage somehow. Boys h a d fights all the time. No one would know why.

  I went round to see Carl as soon as I got back from school b u t he wasn't there.

  'Isn't it his d r a m a night?' said Jules. 'Do you know when A Midsummer Night's Dream is going to be performed?'

  'Oh God, an all-boy Midsummer Night's Dream?' said J a k e . 'What's Carl playing? Please tell me it's not Titania.' He s t a r t e d r u n n i n g about t h e kitchen, flicking back i m a g i n a r y long hair a n d flouncing non-existent skirts, pro-claiming, 'Begone, proud Oberon. Where are my fairies?'

  'Do you really t h i n k you're funny, J a k e ? ' I said, and slammed out of t h e i r kitchen.

  I went and m a d e myself a sandwich at home and sent Carl a text.

  R U OK? HOW IS PAUL SITUATION? C U L8R. LOVE S

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  He didn't reply. I got a text from Miranda instead.

  RAJ JUST TEXTED ME THIS!!!

  SOME YR 9 BOY IS SENDING ROUND IMAGES OF YOU

  TOPLESS TO ALL HIS GRUBBY LITTLE MATES – WITH

  COMMENTS. SHALL I SUMMON FORTH HIT SQUAD

  AND EXTERMINATE HIM? LOVE R. P.S. HE'S ALSO

  STARTING GAY-BASHING YR NICE PAL CARL.

  I rang Miranda immediately.

  'Oh God, Miranda, what's he saying?'

  'I don't know exactly, something about me and my figure and w h a t he'd like to do. In his dreams, matie! As if I'd let him n e a r me now.

  Still, it's kind of weird being a telephone pin-up.'

  'No, n o — '

  'I know you told me not to, but t h a t was kind of like a dare. It was j u s t a bit of fun—'

  'Never mind about you and your silly photo!

  What's he saying about Carl?'

  'It's not silly. It's r a t h e r a good photo, actually.

  I'm not totally topless. I've got this silky little jacket and my boobs j u s t peep out. I tell you, t h e Sun would pay a fortune for it. Maybe this is the s t a r t of a whole new career—'

  'Miranda. Please. Tell me about Carl.'

  'Well, there's nothing to tell. Raj says they're j u s t all picking on him, saying he's gay. I m u s t admit, I have wondered myself, b u t you've always gone on and on about him being your boyfriend, you funny girl.'

  'You wanted him as your boyfriend!'

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  'Of course, because he's gorgeous and funny and imaginative – which, come to think of it, definitely makes him gay. Still, it's every girl's fantasy, isn't it? You're the one girl in the world who can make him change his mind. So, is he utterly gay, Sylvie, or simply undecided? And why do you think Paul has suddenly grown three heads and is acting so grossly? I mean, I u n d e r s t a n d if he w a n t s to send a photo of my tits to all his pervy little pals because they are pretty spectacular, b u t I never thought he'd be a creepy fascist fag-hater. They were best friends, for God's sake.' Miranda paused. I could hear h e r mind going tick-tick-tick.

  'Oh!' she said. 'Did he try it on with Paul?'

  I said nothing. I didn't need to.

  'So that's why they h a d the fight! Oh God, Paul's patheticl Well, I think we'll cross him off my list. To be honest, he always came a very poor second to Carl.'

  'How was Carl taking it? Did Raj say he seemed very upset? What exactly were they saying?'

  'I don't know. You know how stupid boys can be. Oh dear, everything's adding up now. Poor Carl. Shall I come round?'

  'No, no! He isn't at home anyway, he's out at his d r a m a club.'

  'Paul's in t h a t too, isn't he? Oh dear, they'll be acting out their own little drama. You go round later though, and give Carl a big kiss and h u g from me and tell him Paul's a little shit and 256

  I'm not having any more to do with him, OK?'

  I tried sending another text to Carl the moment Miranda got off the phone but he still didn't reply. I tried phoning him in case he was on his way home b u t t h e phone switched straight to his message service. I didn't know w h a t to say. I didn't want to tell him t h a t all these people were talking about him, he'd h a t e it so. In t h e end I j u s t said, 'Hi, Carl, it's me. I'm thinking of you. Phone me as soon as you can.

  Lots of love.'

  Mum was late getting home from the building society. I nibbled at a n o t h e r sandwich. I wondered if I should s t a r t getting anything ready for supper.
There didn't seem to be anything promising in the fridge. I found some old cheese, h a r d as a brick. I rifled through the cupboard to see if we h a d any macaroni but I couldn't find any.

  I h e a r d Mum's key in the door. She started talking to someone in the hall. Miss Miles was up in h e r room with 'Richard and Judy' – I could hear the faint buzz of her television.

  'Is t h a t you, Carl?' I shouted, wondering if he'd come straight round to talk to me.

  It wasn't Carl. It was a total stranger, a tall dark m a n limping towards me. Oh God oh God oh God.

  'This is Gerry, Sylvie,' Mum said brightly.

  I glared at her but reluctantly held out my hand. Gerry shook it enthusiastically, smiling at me. His h a n d was damp, as if he was nervous.

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  'Why didn't you tell me Gerry was coming round, Mum?' I said.

  'I didn't know! He came to pick me up from work as a surprise,' said Mum quietly. 'I thought it would be nice if we all had supper together.'

  'We haven't got much in,' I said. 'I hope you like bread and cheese, Gerry.'

  'No, no, we stopped off at Marks,' said Mum, lugging carrier bags into the kitchen. 'Take a look at this!'

  Gerry obviously h a d a large wallet. There was smoked salmon, chicken, salads, rolls, peaches, cherries, white chocolate, fruit juice and wine.

  'Feast time!' said Mum, happily unpacking.

  'It looks fantastic,' I said. 'I hope you both have a lovely supper.'

  'It's for you too, silly,' said Mum.

  Gerry was giving h e r a hand, unwrapping all the food carefully to show he was a well-trained new m a n .

  'No, I've said I'm eating next door,' I said.

  'Sylvie,' said Mum. She took a deep breath.

  'Eat with us. You've eaten round at Jules's enough recently. Come on, help lay the table.'

  'Well, I'll j u s t nip next door to explain—'

  'For heaven's sake!' said Mum. She rubbed h e r forehead for a moment. 'Lay the table, please.'

  'I can lay—' Gerry started.

  'No, Sylvie can do it. She knows where the plates and knives and forks and everything are kept,' said Mum.

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  'OK. I'll lay the table. In a minute. I have to see if Carl's back.'

  'When will you learn to stop r u n n i n g after Carl?' said Mum. 'Where does it get you?

  Honestly! Stop behaving like a five-year-old, please.'

  I laid t h e table, slamming the plates down and rattling the forks and knives. It was so unfair. She didn't understand – though there was enough t r u t h in w h a t she'd said to make my eyes sting. It didn't get me anywhere. But I was still Carl's friend, no m a t t e r what. It sounded as if he'd h a d a terrible day. He needed me.

  But Mum wasn't going to let me go. She made me sit down with h e r and Gerry and we ate the salmon and the chicken and the salads and the rolls and t h e fruit and the chocolate. Well, Mum and Gerry ate. I j u s t picked at the food, a forkful of chicken, a tiny tomato, a bite of roll.

  Mum kept looking at me reproachfully, h e r eyes bright as if she was n e a r tears. I wasn't picking deliberately. I was j u s t so h e t up and anxious t h a t I could barely swallow.

  ' E a t some cherries, Sylvie,' said M u m , pushing t h e plate towards me.

  'No thanks.'

  'Well, w h a t about a peach?'

  'No, really'

  Mum looked as if she'd like to r a m t h e pound of cherries and all four peaches down my throat.

  Gerry tried to make polite conversation, asking 259

  me questions a b o u t school a n d favourite subjects and friends and hobbies. My answers were monosyllabic. He changed gear a n d c h a t t e d about his job a n d shopping and swimming while I shifted around in my chair, barely nodding. He eventually ground to a halt, exhausted.

  There was a long silence. I wondered if I dared ask if I could go next door again.

  'Would you like a cup of coffee, Gerry?' said Mum.

  'I'll make it,' I said. 'You two go and sit in the living room. I'll bring it in.'

  Mum hesitated. It was the first move I'd made towards being a good daughter.

  'All right,' she said.

  They took their glasses and w h a t was left of the wine into the living room. I heard Mum m u r m u r i n g and Gerry saying, 'No, no, she's lovely. I expect she's j u s t shy, that's all.'

  I didn't want him to defend me in t h a t patronizing way! Why did Mum feel she h a d to p a r a d e me for his approval? He was nothing at all to do with me. I didn't mind Mum having a boyfriend. She could keep company with an entire football team if she was so inclined. It was fine with me, j u s t so long as I didn't have to meet any of them.

  I got the coffee percolator out and started shoving coffee grounds in. I knew Mum would fuss if I made His Lordship a quick mug of Nescaff. I piled the dishes in the sink, leaving 260

  the water running. Then I cautiously t u r n e d t h e key in the back door and inched it open. I couldn't risk going out of the front door. Mum would be bound to h e a r me, no m a t t e r how engrossed she was with Gerry, but hopefully she'd not know I was sneaking out t h e back with all the kitchen noises going on.

  I crept furtively down the d a r k garden, dodging round t h e old apple tree, stumbling over a little pile of flowerpots, till I got to t h e hole in the fence. I edged through it into the Johnsons' garden, jagged wood catching at my school cardigan.

  I looked up at Carl's bedroom. There was no light on, but t h a t didn't necessarily signify anything. He could well be lying there in t h e dark.

  Then I saw a dim light in the Glass H u t window. I r a n across t h e grass a n d tapped our Morse code password on the door. I waited.

  'Carl?' I whispered. 'Carl, can I come in?'

  He didn't answer me. I stood listening, waiting for a rustle, a sigh, a sob. I could h e a r a distant dog barking and the faraway s t r u m and wail of J a k e playing his guitar in his bedroom.

  'Carl, I'm going to come in,' I said, and I turned the h u t handle.

  I opened t h e door and stepped into t h e h u t .

  Something crackled under my feet. I stared around, blinking in t h e light, catching my breath. The five shelves were heaped with shards and fragments, a grotesque kaleidoscope of colour. The little glass animals were all 261

  m u t i l a t e d . The e l e p h a n t was m i n u s his trunk, the giraffe's head missing, the pelican beakless, the rabbit lop-eared, the crocodile without its tail.

  The drinking glasses were keeling over drunk-enly, t h e stems snapped off. Two vases rolled on the floor in a jumble of red and blue glass. The ashtrays were chipped, a paperweight smashed, millefiori flowers scattered like confetti. And the Glass Boy, oh the Glass Boy, Carl's special irre-placeable Glass Boy was smashed into splinters, his beautiful glass face gone, his arms shattered, his legs stumps, one bare glass foot still fixed on his glass plinth, uselessly poised on tiptoe.

  I reached towards him with one trembling finger. I touched a jagged edge. I didn't know I'd cut myself until the red blood started pooling on the pad of my finger. The pain made me see it was real, not a terrible nightmare. Someone had smashed Carl's glass, t h e beautiful special pieces he'd collected for years, the glass he dusted so carefully. He knew each swirl and bubble, every mark. He'd held each piece to the light and marvelled at it. He'd searched endlessly in charity shops and jumble sales. He'd spent every penny of his birthday and Christmas money on his collection. It m e a n t t h e whole world to him.

  Someone h a d smashed it all.

  Who could have done such a terrible thing?

  Who could possibly h a t e Carl so much?

  I was sure I knew.

  I started running up the garden, screaming.

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  Mick came rushing out of t h e back door.

  'What in God's n a m e . . . ? Sylvie? What's happened?'

  He tried to catch hold of me but I pulled away from him. I r a n through the door and there was Jules in t h e kit
chen and J a k e leaning against the fridge, drinking from a carton of milk. He stopped in mid swig and stared at me.

  'Sylvie!' said Jules, seeing the blood on my cut hand. 'Come here, over to t h e sink.'

  'Who h u r t you, Sylvie? Tell me!' J a k e said urgently.

  'No one. It's not me. It's the glass. It's so awful.

  It's smashed, all Carl's collection – all of it –

  even the Glass Boy.'

  'Oh my God,' said Jules. 'What about Carl?

  Where is he?'

  'I don't know, I don't know!' I sobbed.

  She h a d hold of me, keeping my h a n d u n d e r the cold tap, doing all the careful motherly things – b u t she started shaking too.

  'Jake, you take care of Sylvie. Oh God, w h a t can have happened to Carl? Mick?' She went to the back door. 'Shall I call the police?'

  Mick came back in from t h e garden. 'Yes, right now. Sylvie's right. Everything's smashed. I can't u n d e r s t a n d it. How did anyone know the glass was in there? It j u s t looks like a garden shed from t h e outside. We know about Carl's glass, Sylvie does – but no one else.'

  Jules was looking at me. 'Who else knows, Sylvie?'

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  'Paul,' I whispered.

  'Carl's friend.'

  'Not any more. He h a t e s Carl now. He's saying all sorts of hateful stuff about him at school.

  He's been so horrible. But I never ever thought he'd do this.'

  'There now, Sylvie,' said J a k e , patting me.

  'You think he crept into the garden and smashed everything?' said Mick. 'For God's sake, is this boy some kind of psychopath? How did he get into our garden?' He peered out into the d a r k and then suddenly lunged forward.

  'Bloody hell, he's still there! Look, over by the bushes!'

  Mick started running. J a k e followed him.

  They pounced on t h e figure hiding in the bushes, dragging him out.

  'Oh God,' Jules whispered.

  It wasn't Paul. It was Carl. He was muddy and dishevelled, stumbling and shaking his head. His sleeves were covered in something dark. Mick and J a k e tried to help him up the garden. He was crying, his nose running, and he was holding out his a r m s oddly. The d a r k stuff was blood.

  He struggled to get away when he saw us staring at him. He ducked his head desperately.

  'Carl! Let me see your arms,' Jules said. She took one look at his blood-soaked sleeves. 'Right.