Now, Maybe, Probably

by Dillie Dorian

  Me and the others mooched to PE. The lesson went by with as little pain as possible, physically. Chantalle and Keisha eyed us from the sidelines, glossed lips moving in their particular way which looked like it had been learnt from some sort of boy-alluring tutorial. Except they did it all the time, sort of, in case of boys. Danielle was slumped beside them, not really talking. From what I could gather, she was in a mood with them (quietly) but couldn’t let herself look at us either.

  I wondered what they were saying. I missed having just the one special friend to sidle away with in times of friction. There was always Devon, but she only cared about glittery stuff and rock stars, and she was no fun to bitch to about my brothers. To be honest, I found it almost sickening the way that she couldn’t take a joke where Charlie was concerned, despite him being legitimately annoying six out of seven days of the week. You would be able to laugh.

  After PE was Spanish, and most of the lesson was a prep for the visit in April. We were supposed to be really, really ready already to adopt our special Spanish person into our lives for was it four days? I hadn’t really been listening, seething as I still was about Chantalle and Keisha and Charlie. Gosh, he was actually such a meanie that he belonged in their little clique laughing at me with the appropriate audience. I would take Dani on a permanent exchange! It would be almost like having my cousin back, except not, because… she’s not. Great, now I was even annoyed that Chantalle got to keep her companion while mine had been unfairly whisked away. Of all people I needed someone to talk to.

  There was a knock at the door, and in trotted a Duty Pupil. She was the Fern type, knees slightly knocking at all this door-to-dooring at strange classrooms full of mostly older pupils and teachers she didn’t know. Year 8, definitely. The girl passed a note to Señor Campbell. A reflex look of surprise passed over his face, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. “Narinder, Mr Pringle wants you in his office.”

  “Oooooooooh!” came the obligatory whoop, Asta, Keisha and Chantalle at the helm.

  Señor Campbell had to be jumping to the wrong conclusions. Every other note he’d read out in our class had been for a bad reason, but that didn’t mean this one was. It was force of habit. Rindi was his star pupil, totally top of the class, and everyone knew that she wouldn’t say boo to a goose unless she was locked in a lift with only the goose and Fern who was even less mouthy.

  We’d been halfway through the lesson at that point, and when we’d made our way down the MFL block stairs afterwards, I heard a cough. She was sat on a blue chair under the stairs, waiting for us where the nosey people wouldn’t notice.

  Me and Fern slipped under and waited for Devon, who’d been waylaid by the brother who I wasn’t talking to. We waited and waited until everyone from the whole block had gone.

  “I don’t think she’s coming,” said Fern, softly.

  “Me neither,” I agreed. “What happened, Rind?”

  She didn’t look good. She seemed small, cocooned in her hand-me-down sweatshirt, the white peaks of her T-shirt inside pulled up to her earrings.

  “Mr Pringle was pretty cross,” said Rindi.

  “What did you do?”

  “I… didn’t. Not properly. But he believes Keisha.”

  I must’ve looked like a newborn mole, my face felt so scrunched up trying to decipher her words. I couldn’t, gave in, and had to ask another question because I knew Fern wouldn’t.

  “What are you… supposed… to have done?”

  Rindi swallowed. “It’s horrible. It’s not fair,” she managed, on the verge of tears. “Keisha said I’m a racist, because I called her shit!”

  My whole stomach turned over like a large turbot wriggling for its life. I’d seen that once when Andy’s dad took us all out in his fishing boat. I suddenly felt as outraged and helpless as Rindi.

  “But you didn’t just call her that!” I gasped. “You called her and Chantalle that, and we all know you didn’t mean it that way!”

  Of course she bloody didn’t. Apparently our school took racism so seriously that calling someone a poo word had to be because they were brown, even if you were also brown!

  “I know, and I tried to say that, but Mr Pringle doesn’t care. I’ve got detention for two weeks and a letter home, and my parents… I don’t even think they know enough about me to be sure I didn’t mean it that way!”

  Personally I thought that was a ridiculous notion. How could two Indian parents seriously doubt that their own daughter was not a racist, living in a town where 98% of people were white? Was I racist for thinking they’d think any differently? And worse, how much did they actually ignore her if there was a chance they’d believe Keisha? She’d said she was the least favourite, the Cinderella, but I’d never got the vibe that her parents didn’t love her!

  “Oh, Rind,” said Fern, stepping in while I gawped at what had been said. “I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “They don’t understand me at all,” choked Rindi, accepting Fern’s hug.

  I joined in awkwardly, because I didn’t know what to think, let alone say. God, I was an idiot. Of course anyone could have parents who didn’t get them or didn’t like them. Just because other races were no worse than us didn’t automatically make them any better. I was angered and confused for Rindi, and my own world of unassuming niceties had turned on its head. Perhaps no one was actually a good person, even me. Were we all lying?

  #14 No Doubt Started By Keisha

  It turned out that Rindi had nothing to worry about. At home, at least. At school, her reputation as a good Spanish student and decent everything else student had been tarnished with ever expanding rumours of vicious racism, no doubt started by Keisha – the only other person who definitely knew about this.

  At home, her parents had wholly believed that she wouldn’t call Keisha that word because she was black. They were still annoyed about her calling anyone that, because it’s not a nice thing to say, especially about someone you once got along with at Juniors. They weren’t the sort of parents who’d go marching up to the school with indignation, so it turned out that them believing her wasn’t worth much after all.

  Back at mine, I still felt a private sort of shame for not having realised that there particularly was any other kind of racism than the obviously atrocious white-people-against-everyone-else type. You never got to hear about it, unless it was happening in the adult world with firearms, and we never had the news on in our house because Kitty was too young for it. Harry read his papers and occasionally I’d see something, and then after that there were RS lessons. I started wondering if my half Irish was Irish enough to laugh at jokes about Ireland, and generally felt very negative about that until Wednesday when something even more personal came up.

  Wednesday, obviously, was the fourteenth, and your birthday – that overshadowed any Valentine’s excitement or disappointment as per usual. We rang up just the same as we had for Lioum’s, first thing in the morning before school. No one answered. The phone rang on and on before stopping. I know Sharon’s a chatterbox and probably chose a suspenseful phone on purpose so she’d have time to get out of the bath, but it just hurt more the longer we waited.

  I went to school and did all the school things and tried not to think about it. I tried again in the evening, around the time you’d have to be up in the morning on what was amazingly Thursday for you. I had to force myself not to feel bad for being a day late, because it was still your birthday in England where you belonged, and because it was your end that hadn’t picked up.

  The phone gave up after a ring and a half. There was no hour of suspense. I thought you’d picked up, but when I went to speak I realised that whoever had picked up had immediately hung up.

  It was OK, I told myself. Landlines don’t have caller ID. The morning after your birthday, why would anyone think it was us calling to wish you a happy one? I rang again, and the phone was picked up and what sounded like slammed down again.

  Oh, well. No caller ID… right?

 
; It put me on a low anyway. Not knowing was worse than knowing. At that point I could really have dealt better with someone telling me that you couldn’t or wouldn’t come to the phone, than having to wonder if there was an actual reason for any of this. When I got into bed, I wished seriously hard that we could be doing your birthday party this weekend and not Rachel’s. I barely liked Rachel at the moment, and the only thing making her seem bearable was the malignant presence of lying Keisha, sneery Chantalle, and my traitorous twin.

  Maybe we’d go to the cinema, have a sleepover with whichever girls weren’t being entirely horrible (all the more snacks for us), and get out my boxes of family birthday photos and relive the glory. Maybe I’d even forgive Charlie for ruining my social life if you were there – to tell the truth, I’d got nearly halfway to it, looking at how much worse had been done to Narinder. Maybe everyone wouldn’t niggle so hard if lovely bubbly Shelley was back in town…

  #15 Soppy Conclusions

  Thursday, Rachel’s birthday, wasn’t Rachel’s birthday for us.

  She’d clearly chosen to spend it with her J-band friends, and lurking anywhere near her scheduled classes to give her our well-thought-out birthday cards would’ve brought me and Devon dangerously close to Jordy territory.

  We hadn’t been talking about the Jordy thing – we both knew it would only lead to the inevitable bust up over whether Charlie was to be forgiven. Seeing him pout sickeningly at me over dinner, loom near my bedroom like he wanted to talk, and nudge the last packet of Walkers towards me on the counter had only brought me closer to the soppy conclusion that blood was thicker than water, and the only thing thicker than that was Jordy himself. Hey, perhaps he didn’t even absorb the facts of my attraction for any longer than a goldfish!

  But then again. The way that school was now extra awkward made it hard to quite pardon my brother for what he had done. It hadn’t been funny, and it definitely wasn’t kind. There would be no more sneaky glances at Jordy in the canteen for fear of him chortling to even more of his friends about what happened. No more loitering in the kitchen on occasions where Charlie had him in the lounge. No more even thinking about him in lessons without physically burning up. It was the end of an era as far as crushes went, and my inner problem page goddess was begging me to choose someone, anyone else.

  So Thursday became not so much about Rachel as my own feelings. I didn’t talk to Devon, because I still felt nervous about the Jordy/Charlie issue, and slightly because any conversation we had about crushes quickly descended into my brother having his praises sung – that or her rock star of the month.

  That suited Dev fine, because no sooner had she realised we weren’t going anywhere near J-band, she’d schlepped off with Charlie who was not seeing much of Jordy at school either. Even if I’d been over the betrayal, nothing could’ve brought me within a mile of him in case it was a day where they did talk.

  With Keisha, Chantalle, Dani, Rachel, Devon, Charlie, and obviously you struck off my list of companions, there remained only Fern and Rindi. It almost worked out perfectly, considering that virtually no one other than me and Fern wanted to speak to Rindi at the moment, so selfish as it was, I was quite content. They’d recently shown themselves to be the only people I’d got halfway close to who weren’t secretly self-centred little rats, and maintained the ability to talk about both boys, and anything-but-boys, as and when suited.

  That meant that on the stairwells and in the loos and anywhere there was anyone, we didn’t talk about Jordy. Both of them were too nervous about people finding out who they liked to even consider crossing that line. Then, after Rindi’s detention, we both went back to hers which was closest for tea.

  “It was horrid,” mumbled Rindi on the way back. “Everyone in there spits on the floor and wears trackies to school. I think it’s what they were in for.”

  Not exactly The Breakfast Club then? I was sure it wasn’t everyone, but hers was a fair approximation of how much naughtier at least half the school was than us. There had probably been much, much worse – the sort of things none of us would feel OK talking about, like boys with wriggly hands.

  “Aww,” said Fern, quietly. “Just another week…”

  “Week-ish,” I corrected, absently.

  Both of them twitched a little, and I instantly regretted it. They were both more sensitive than Devon – I couldn’t just be sarky and expect them to get it, or even accept it. I couldn’t be minorly annoying in any normal way that I’d got used to, what with a twin brother.

  I let them both talk all the way back to Rindi’s, and then when we’d closed the front door behind us and been attacked by fat and lonely tabby cat, we all heaved a quiet sigh of relief. Just being indoors in Rindi’s quiet, chilly house was perfect right now. ’Course, it was never cold as such, but not heated up to the eyeballs like Devon’s gran and such other people who can afford to like to do. No one was in because both her parents worked. School had finished nearly an hour ago properly, but her little sister had been playing out in the street with scooters and friends, and her big sister was probably still at sixth form, miles across town.

  We went up to Rindi’s room anyway. Her situation is one I now know so well. While most people (read: people with less than two siblings) cherish the odd moments they can get alone in the living room while everyone else is out, we have to wait sometimes weeks for time alone in our bedrooms.

  In her room, we had use of a full-length mirror. It was technically Nadine’s, but Nadine was out, and we didn’t need to touch it to use it.

  “Let’s do your hair first, Fern,” suggested Rindi. I felt comforted by normal everyday playing hairdressers, even if we were getting a bit old to do it for no reason at all. I quite liked that Fern and Rindi didn’t seem to notice what age you were “supposed” to be for simple girly magazine tutorial fun. To tell the truth, it had been driving me nuts having to hang around Chantalle and Keisha who already thought getting dressed up with nowhere to go was pathetic.

  Fern obliged and sat down at the end of Rindi’s bed so that she could just see into the mirror. There was an awkward silence while she flicked through a mag and selected an updo. It went on and on, and I could feel the three of us desperately cultivating something to say to save us all.

  “I’m worried about something,” said Fern, first.

  “What’s that?” I asked, rapidly, jumping on the question with a level of frantic intrigue that startled her. I straightened up from my position on the carpet and fixed my eyes on Fern’s mirror image, since it was easier to monitor than her actual face from where I was sitting.

  Mirror Fern took a deep breath and spoke. “I think I’m going to stay in this little girl’s body forever!”

  I had to stifle a laugh. It wasn’t the sense she meant it, but the way I saw it, there was nothing little about Fern. She was quite a bit taller than either of us, and that was all as far as I was concerned.

  “Of course not!” I said, cheerfully.

  Mirror Fern sighed. “You two have boobs,” she pointed out, and ducked her head, embarrassed.

  OK, perhaps she had a point. Anyone who thought me and Rindi counted as having boobs yet definitely had a lot of growing ahead, themselves.

  “Not really,” said Rindi. “Sorry, Harley.”

  Sorry, Fern. Surely admitting we had nothing on top was making her feel positively inverted by comparison.

  “I mean, my dad treats me like I’m stuck in Primary school forever. Girls in Primary school have more than me.”

  I thought about it. All of Zak’s girlfriends were quite developed, but wasn’t that just how it was? Growing boys got interested in girls who were growing up the most, and not the stragglers like us who would probably be ID’d at the club when we finally were eighteen, and yuck, that’s my brother.

  Rindi shrugged, still plaiting Fern’s hair. “I had to wear my sister’s old training bras for two weeks before my mum realised. I wasn’t going to talk to her about that.”

  “At least…
you have a sister,” Fern pointed out. “But it’s not about my boobs – it’s my dad. He doesn’t let me do anything and he treats me like a princess. He always comes with me when I get new clothes, and even if I did buy something behind his back, he’d see it in the wash and ask questions.”

  Would he? I couldn’t stop myself thinking Oh boo hoo, you have a dad. And he treats you well! even though that wasn’t sensitive or helpful.

  “Your dad’s lovely,” I said, instead. “Just talk to him. Get him to let you go shopping without him and stuff, and he’ll probably loosen up.”

  Well, that was my opinion. He was lovely, after all. Lovely, not controlling, and even though he probably didn’t like the idea of her doing some things, that wasn’t weird. He’d probably be thrilled to realise how much he could trust her, because trustworthy she definitely is. Before she knew it she’d be in the Cinders camp with me and Rindi and probably wish she’d gone the Paris Hilton route instead with her lovely, friendly, pushover dad.

  “Yeah,” said Rindi. “If you don’t, you’ll be wearing a crop top beneath your prefect badge.”

  Mirror Fern bit her lip. “I know… maybe if I force him to admit I’m not a little kid, it will make things easier. I can’t be a princess forever.”

  “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with being the princess,” giggled Rindi, finishing up the coiled and very princesslike hairstyle Fern had chosen. “Natalie’s the princess in our house, and she-”

  “Is eleven,” I butted in.

  We all laughed. Then I felt bad, and added. “Not that there is anything wrong with being his princess. At ours it’s Aimee, and believe me – the Disneyland daytrip stage grows into the credit card stage, and that one could well last forever unless you do something horrible. We have yet to find out.”

  “And by the way,” tittered Rindi. “Natalie’s actually still ten.”

  #16 Unberelala

  I’d walked home with Fern after tea, right into the crossfire of screamed accusations in our house.

  “CHARLIE’S BEEN IN MY MAKEUP BAG!!”