Wildlife

by Fiona Wood

  It makes me feel mad at Holly, mad at Ben, mad at myself for caring, and mad at my mother for being so tight about me going to licensed places.

  “You’re not mad, are you?” Holly knows me well enough to know that I am fuming. “I mean, poor guy—he deserves one night off the leash.”

  “He’s not on a leash.”

  “No, he didn’t act like he was.”

  A disturbingly electric kissing rendezvous with Ben makes me so dizzy in the pants I forget what I need to speak to him about.

  Note to self: talking before kissing.

  Now we have a small difference in body language—I’m trying to hold him at arm’s length, and he is maneuvering us into a horizontal side-by-side thing, which of course reminds me of the most pressing agenda item: backpedaling on the sex.

  So as I sit up, why is the first thing that comes out, “How come you didn’t tell me you were going to The Duke on exeat?”

  Ben sits up, too, with a groan. “Right on cue.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Holly said you were pissed off. Don’t make a big deal out of it, okay? It was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  I’m doubly annoyed. Not only was I not going to mention this at all, and yet have managed to blurt it out accidentally, but it sounds like Ben and Holly have had another conversation about me behind my back. And now I’m even more annoyed, because why shouldn’t they talk? They’re friends. And why should that make me cross?

  “You know me, I don’t like everything all locked down.”

  “I don’t want to lock anything down—I’m just saying, if we’re going out, tell me if there’s something on.”

  “What do you mean ‘if we’re going out’? Are you breaking up with me?”

  “Did Holly tell you that, too?”

  “She said you might find it all a bit too intense.” Now I must look as pissed off as I feel, but I manage not to say anything. “The Duke was just crossed wires. I thought Holly was going to tell you, and she thought I would, and when we got there, turns out you couldn’t have come anyway, because your mum’s so tight or whatever, so we didn’t bother calling you.”

  I try not to scream. “If you bothered coming over to my place you could have met my mother, and she isn’t even that tight.” Now I’m defending the person I have yelled at till I’m blue in the face for being so tight about the whole fake ID issue?

  “Thanks, but I already had my own family stuff—all I wanted was to go out, have a drink, and hear some music.” His face closes over, and I realize he’s never even told me about his family.

  “You sound like you’re angry with me—but what for?”

  “For making a big deal out of nothing,” he says.

  “It’s not nothing if I felt—” I don’t want to say “left out.” I feel like such a sad loser. “Look, I don’t want to fight. Just next time—ask me if I’ve got plans, will you?”

  “And—you’re getting ID?”

  “Yes. God.”

  He moves back within kissing range. “So now we can get on with it?”

  “Now all the annoying talking is done?”

  He sighs. “Is there something else?” he asks with exaggerated patience.

  “Are you expecting us to have sex now—here in the great outdoors?”

  “Well—kinda. Aren’t you?”

  He smiles his irresistible smile, kisses me on one side of my mouth, bends down farther, opens his mouth on my throat, and folds me into all that heat and hardness and muscle. Unfair. Unfair!

  “I’m going on my solo tomorrow—you won’t see me for two whole days.”

  I go into autopilot instruction to self, conserving language energy: Must retain cerebral presence. Must not let body take control. Time for the talk.

  So I try to explain that even though I am attracted to him in a very, very, very big way, we jumped into—we just skipped right over lots of things I wanted to do before we got into a full-on sleeping-together relationship.

  “Such as?” he wants to know.

  “Are we really any closer since we first decided to go out? Despite… you know. We haven’t actually spent much time together. Or talked that much. I don’t even know what your political views are. I don’t know if you have a pet, or if you ever broke your arm when you were a kid, or how you get along with your family, what you want to study after school, where your favorite place to spend time alone is, and even though I’ve seen you put away an awful lot of food up here, we’ve never even gone out for a single coffee together. I don’t even know if you drink coffee. I don’t. I mean, an occasional latte, but I’m more an herbal-tea person.”

  “This is all very boyfriend/girlfriend stuff—I thought that was the zone you weren’t that interested in.”

  “Based on what?”

  “I dunno. Like you forgetting anniversaries.”

  “That’s sort of the whole point. I’ve never had a boyfriend. I want to find out more—to start from scratch, properly, maybe even get to a year and have an actual anniversary, and, I don’t know, spend time together, kiss at the movies, read books, talk about stuff, listen to some music… It feels like we’ve skipped the prologue and we’re somewhere in the middle of things too soon.”

  “I don’t get why it can’t all happen together. Like while we’re gettin’ it on, I can sing you a song. Let’s not be all linear here.” He’s trying to make me laugh.

  “It’ll be a pretty short song.”

  “Ouch.”

  “But like even the sex thing. I know it’s something that needs a bit of time, bit of practice, but how do we even do that?”

  “Jeez, Sib, we can start right here, right now. How does anyone do it? Grab it when you can.”

  “But I don’t want it to be like that. Like people who have sex at parties and stuff. It’s too public.”

  “So you’re basically going cold on me.”

  I wish. I look at him and truly part of me just wants to jump him and skip this conversation, but the romantic me wants to be wooed, to walk together nowhere in particular, watch some bad TV, have a song, confide in and be confided in.

  “Tell me, for instance, who is your favorite poet?”

  He’s trying really hard not to be impatient. Even while I’m pushing him away, I feel half sorry for him. “I haven’t given it a lot of thought—maybe William Blake. Now, can we…”

  “You can’t see how I’d want to do things in a more chronological way?”

  “Actually, no. Isn’t this like the age of multitasking, three screens, parallel universes…?”

  He looks at me, getting glummer as it sinks in that I am talking to him from a different country. “You know, what you’re describing, the take it slowly, the talking, and books… that sounds pretty much like what you and Michael have already got going. So maybe you’re nearly at the stage, after what? Ten years?…”

  “Twelve.”

  “… where you want to fuck him.”

  “Wow, that’s mean. What’s Michael got to do with this?”

  “Yeah—shit, nothing, I guess.” He stands up. “Just let me know if you have a change of heart.”

  Heart? How can he even say the word?

  “The door’s open,” he says. “My body is yours,” extending his arms, turning, walking off.

  I lie back down, watching the blue sky burn through the light and dark of green leaves as tears slide out sideways, running hot through my hair to the ground.

  How do you feel, Sibylla? What can I say to make it okay? Of course we can put the sex thing on pause. I will do whatever it takes, seduce you as slowly as you like.

  I will court and spark you. I will wait till we can catch up on the other stuff. I will wake you with an enchanted kiss at just the right time. I will sing to you on a starlit night. I will savor you like the first peach of the first summer.

  He’s walking back. I sniff and wipe my face, but he just comes close enough to say, “Wu-Tang Clan.”

  He turns away, not noticing�
�or “not noticing”—the tears. Which is either heartless, or sensitive. And surely you don’t sleep with a guy unless you know him well enough to know if he is being sensitive or heartless, right?

  As he leaves, he says, “So, music, that’s a start, yeah?”

  After he’s gone I say, “The Lucksmiths, Patsy Cline, the Velvet Underground, Chairlift. This week. Thanks for asking.”

  I tell myself that people have disagreements when they’re going out. I tell myself that the perfect boy exists only in imaginary land. I tell myself how lucky I am that Ben Capaldi chose me. I tell myself to relax, anyone can have a bad day—it’s not like we broke up.

  Turns out none of these is the off switch for the tears.

  friday 23 november

  On this black day Holly has surpassed herself.

  Dinnertime. Friday. Friday frittata, which is bad enough.

  Priscilla chops up all the leftover vegetables she can lay her hands on and constructs an eggy cheesy housing for them, which she brownifies until rubbery and cuts into slabs that we try to digest.

  Holly had the letter.

  I’m not sure what her plan was; why bring it out right now? It’s a couple of weeks since it went missing.

  So she was—I still can’t believe the nastiness of it—reading bits aloud without saying who had written it, or to whom it was written.

  Everyone was enjoying the performance, laughing along as she fed them little morsels of poison.

  You are my rock, my center of gravity.

  You guide me through planet normal on which I am ever an alien.

  There was general scoffing and derision at every line. I was ignoring it, just trying to finish dinner and get out of there, when I looked over and saw Michael. He was white.

  He was watching Sibylla laughing with the others. It was his letter.

  Who’s your mystery lover, Holly? Sibylla asked.

  I wind up your strands of magic hair and swallow their innocent power.

  Oh, you’ve got a hair-eater? Sibylla said. That’s new. Where did you find him? On the internet?

  It was like watching someone about to be hit by a car, but being four lanes too far away to prevent it. Holly was ready for the kill.

  You think he sounds strange? Holly asked.

  More than strange. Weird. Sibylla laughed.

  Not the sort of attention you would want?

  Are you kidding? said Sibylla. Would I want someone to eat my hair? No. Thank you.

  Well, that’s back luck, because it’s for you, not me. From your friend. Holly pointed at Michael and handed Sibylla at least ten handwritten pages, saying snidely, Like you said, weird.

  All eyes went to Michael.

  He looked only at Sibylla.

  At that moment she could have saved him. But she hadn’t even processed this. Her face was a picture of embarrassment, horror, disgust.

  As she held his letter, she denied him.

  This is not about me, she said. Michael and I…? We’ve never gone out. That’s ridiculous. She was vehement, but also flustered, so that anyone might believe her discomfort was due to being found out.

  Michael had insulated himself from the general ridicule and abuse that was flying around the room, and had just been waiting for, was only interested in, Sibylla’s verdict. He accepted her position with a look, and left.

  That guy is such a freak! said Holly.

  Ben, who had been holding Sibylla’s hand under the table, looked pissed off. Could he think that Sibylla and Michael have some secret history?

  He gave his neutral smile, the one he produces when he’s angry. Oh, boy, has that boy had some practice at covering up his feelings.

  Sibylla was left holding the letter. She looked at it, still not sure what it was and why she was standing there holding it. Someone snatched it, and she grabbed it back.

  Ooh, look, Sibylla doesn’t want her secret relationship revealed, someone said.

  There is no relationship. He is not my boyfriend.

  But you’re nice to be so protective of the letter, said Holly. It’s a laugh, truly, I haven’t had so much fun since we got up here.

  I’ve never met anyone I dislike as much as Holly.

  Sibylla wants to be alone to read, or decide not to read the letter.

  She wants to go after Michael.

  She wants to be Ben’s girlfriend.

  She wants to be one of the relaxed and popular girls.

  She wants to see if Michael is okay.

  She wants to be cool about this, and not to look foolish.

  She wants not to drag Ben into her embarrassment.

  She wants Ben to know he has nothing to worry about.

  She stuffed the letter in her pocket and said, all very funny, but I’m so starving, I could even eat some Priscilla frittata.

  Holly looked at Ben, what did I tell you? And he shrugged back. Whatever game Holly is playing, it is not a nice one.

  Time to say good-bye, internal journal. Time to enter the fray, and speak some sense to Sibylla.

  I nab her later, on her way back into the house.

  Have you seen him? I ask.

  Not yet.

  How could you do that to him, Sibylla?

  Me? He wrote the letter.

  It wasn’t supposed to be sent.

  How do you know about it?

  I suggested he write it.

  How come?

  You know how he feels about you; it’s a way of getting something like that off your chest.

  Dumb idea.

  It’s an okay idea, I say. It’s a standard therapy thing. The problem was Holly. She shouldn’t have stolen it. I cannot believe she read it out loud, made fun of it.

  No. Did you speak to him?

  I haven’t seen him.

  I’ll talk to him tomorrow.

  Will you read the letter?

  I don’t know, would you?

  I… probably, to be honest, I say.

  But if it’s not meant to be sent…?

  It might help you understand him a bit better.

  It’s kind of annoying, you telling me what I’m doing so wrong with my oldest friend, she says.

  No one else is telling you. You sure don’t have much time for your oldest friend. You seem to care more about Ben’s idiot friends. Since when are they more important than Michael?

  You’ve known me for less than a term. You don’t get to ask since when? What was I supposed to do? What would you have done?

  To me it’s obvious: I say, I would have acted like it was a joke between us. Like we have a whole history of silly letters we write to make each other laugh. That’s it. Nothing to it. And then I would have turned the heat up on Holly. How did she get the letter? What was she doing snooping?

  You’re quicker on your feet than I am. I have to mull over stuff before I know exactly what to do. I’m still mulling. I’m still on he eats my hair? she says.

  Can you stop obsessing about yourself, and think of Michael? He must be feeling like shit.

  I let him down tonight. Fine. Sure, she says. But it’s off the back of picking him up and looking out for him for the last twelve years. Do I never get a day off?

  He hasn’t got anyone else to rely on, I remind her. From what I can see, it’s just you and me. Or is it just me?

  A shot rings out in the dark, making us both jump. It is a noise that seems much closer in the dark. Another shot bites blind into the blackness.

  Sibylla is giving me a long look: should she trust me, Michael’s other friend, the quiet nerd, the person she less than half knows in the next bunk bed along?

  She asks, when are you the girl in the photo? Is that just with your friends, like your ex?

  I give her the condensed version: the girl in the photo died when the boy in the photo died.

  She wants to know more, but I’ve kept her just out of reach for so long that she won’t ask.

  I’m sorry, she says.

  She looks so lost; I step across the gap.
>
  Sometimes I think I see you, Sibylla, but then you get all blurry about what people think about you, how you should act, what everyone expects of you, who you are pleasing, or not, should you say what you think, or not, is Holly onside, or not, do you really belong, or is it just because of Ben, or because of the billboard… The only person you should be is yourself. You can’t control perception. All you can control is how you treat someone else.

  I didn’t mean to make her cry.

  I say, tomorrow, you’ve got to show all those idiots that you’re his friend.

  She’s still crying; I hope she’s more relieved than pissed off to hear someone telling her the truth.

  Strangely, I feel relieved, too, to find myself at this tipping point where it’s taking more energy to withhold than to give.

  So I give her a hug, and feel some hard knots untying themselves in my chest.

  As much as I want to see Michael and try to make things okay, it’s not going to be possible to have any boy house contact until tomorrow.

  So I tackle the other conversation.

  Back in Bennett, with a stomachful of home truths from Lou, I ask Holly to come with me to the laundry/drying room. We’ve got ten minutes till lockdown.

  It feels like so much longer than seven weeks ago that we had our first toasties here. I didn’t know if I’d be going out with Ben. Everyone was all ooh and aah about the dumb billboard. We were excited about the idea of camp and dreading it in equal measure.

  Now I can run. My face still turns into a tomato, but I’m fitter and stronger. I’ve had sex, and decided to backpedal on that because it feels like the right thing for me. I’m still not one hundred percent sure if I am right, but I have to trust my gut, or it’ll stop working.

  And I’ve kept believing that Holly would come back to me, that we’d get back to the good place in our friendship. Now I don’t even know if we can recover, or even if I want to. Lou was right, I need to grow a backbone.

  “How did you get the letter?”