by Various
We wander through the Lanes, past the Pavilion and along the pier. It’s the dreamiest day ever. We ride the fairground attractions and I notice that Pierre always manages the seating arrangement so that he’s sat next to me. With his jean-clad thigh pushed up against mine, I completely forget that the waltzers usually make me feel sick.
We have so much fun shooting targets to try to win soft toys, scooping up rubber ducks and then buying doughnuts and ice creams. We share them – we actually feed them to one another, the way people do in films. I think it’s a French thing. And they taste so good, better than anything I’ve ever tasted before. Then we head to one of the dozens of grotty cafes that serve Coke and greasy chips with fried fish. Normally I’m really careful about what I eat in front of boys – I don’t ever want to look like a pig – but Pierre keeps saying how great it is that I’m not faddy (pronounced fadeeeee) and so I join him and the others as they dive into gigantic portions.
Afterwards, the boys club together to buy a Frisbee and a soft football. We laugh and play on the beach all afternoon. It’s pebbled rather than the white sands that I know Oliver and Zoe will be treading on in the Maldives on their holiday of a lifetime. But that doesn’t matter. I am having so much fun that suddenly I feel totally stupid for ever thinking I should be the one on holiday with Oliver. I am right where I ought to be, sat between my best mate and a cute French boy, watching the waves lap the shore. Pierre grins at me and I hope he’s thinking what I’m thinking. It’s the best day of my life.
Eventually, inevitably, the sun starts to set but the beach is still pretty busy. We watch people round up their cross kids – tired and burnt they cry and argue with their siblings. Older couples are walking their dogs. They’ve already been back to their hotels to shower and change into their pastel shirts and summer dresses. It’s getting late. Jaz is checking the timetable; we’ll have to get a train back to London soon. My dad is picking us up at the station and he’ll have a sense of humour failure if we’re late.
Pierre shivers.
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“Before you say to your friend I am hot?” he says, confusion flowing from him.
I blush; I hadn’t meant him to hear that and I certainly can’t explain it. Luckily he doesn’t expect me to. He smiles and then rubs his hands up and down my arms as if I’m the one who is cold. It feels so good. His fingers move up to my shoulders and then my neck. I close my eyes and therefore feel, rather than see, him move closer and closer until his lips gently touch mine.
It’s explosive. It’s vibrant, definitive, exhilarating. All I can think is that I’m no longer pleased this boy is one of my unobtainables, as Jaz likes to call them. I wish we could talk some more. Endlessly. I wish he was staying in this country. I wish I had time to get to know him. The kiss is sweet; it’s exciting; it’s perfect; it’s thrilling.
As I pull away I fully expect Pierre to look as content and excited as I do. For the first time in my life I am actually expecting a boy’s feelings to mirror my own, rather than just hoping and praying they will, so I am shocked to see that he doesn’t look excited or thrilled. He looks guilty and miserable. I can’t think why. I know the kiss was a good one. It’s impossible that it felt so wonderful for me and not good for him, so what can possibly be wrong?
“I’m sorry. I feel terrible. It wasn’t supposed to go this far. It’s over,” says Pierre as he abruptly pulls away and strides off.
Suddenly I’m aware of his mates whooping and laughing. I’d forgotten about their existence. I turn and see them point and jeer, like stupid boys do. Jaz looks as confused as I am. What’s going on? What went wrong?
Humiliation threatens to drown me. This is worse than anything I have ever experienced with Harry Kepal, Oliver Sutton or anyone. I knew getting involved with a real boy was a hideous risk. This rejection coming right on the back of the sweetness of his kiss is a thousand times worse than mooning over a guy who doesn’t know I care about him taking his girlfriend to the Maldives.
“Let’s go!” I yell at Jaz. I grab my bag and start to march off in what I hope is the general direction of the station and, more importantly, is in the opposite direction to where Pierre went.
“Wait up.” Jaz is by my side in an instant. She keeps pace with me, even though I’m striding. I’m keen to put some distance between me and the taunting boys. “What happened?” she asks.
“I don’t know.”
“I thought you were getting on.”
“We were. He kissed me.” I just can’t say it. I daren’t articulate my biggest fear. Did I do it wrong? I don’t have to; Jaz knows me well enough.
“He looked as though he was into you.”
“I am.” We both turn suddenly towards Pierre’s voice. It is his voice although it’s different. “I am really into you, but—”
“Where’s your accent gone?” demands Jaz.
“I’m not Pierre. I’m Peter. I’m not French. I’m—”
“A joke!” Jaz is there a moment before I am.
“My friends dared me.”
“You pig.”
“No, it’s not as bad as it sounds.”
I can’t imagine how this can sound anything other than terrible and I have a big imagination. I glare at him.
“We didn’t do it to be mean. I was practising.”
“What?” Jaz and I yell our indignation in unison.
Pierre/Peter, whatever he’s called, looks horrified. “No, I don’t mean you were practice. I was practising talking to girls, in general.”
“You are unbelievable!” yells Jaz, and she slips a protective arm round me.
“Oh no. You see, I’m no good at this. That’s the point.” He groans and runs his hands through his hair. He actually looks as though he wants to pull it out. I wish I could say I was no longer attracted to him but somehow, despite his nasty trick, I am managing to find his anguish cute. How is that even possible? Will I ever learn? “I wasn’t out to deceive you. I didn’t expect it to go on longer than the train journey. But, well, when we got here, I didn’t want to leave you…” He stumbles over his words and I notice a slight flush hover around his cheekbones; it could be the sun or he could be blushing. I was wrong, a guy blushing when he talks to you is actually very cool.
“What do you mean?” I ask. I think I know, but I want to hear him say it.
“Well, I like you. I didn’t mean to make a fool of you or trick you.”
“We’re out of here,” says Jaz firmly and loyally. She knows I can’t stand being messed around – which girl can? And she knows I live in fear of making a fool of myself. “You’re not her type. She only kissed you because she thought you were an unobtainable.”
Peter looks ashamed and upset. “What’s an unobtainable?”
“Librarian, teacher, someone’s dad, gay guys, jailbirds, French dudes.”
“That’s your type?” Now he looks distraught. Hearing it said out loud, I’m pretty distraught too. I sound clinically insane. “What can I say? At least I don’t pretend to be French.”
“I only did that because—” He breaks off, takes a deep breath and then spits out, “I’m lousy at talking to girls. I get tongue-tied. My mates thought that taking on a different persona might help me relax.”
“What?” demands Jaz.
I’m wondering how such a cute guy can possibly have a confidence issue, and I don’t know whether to trust him or believe him, but then he adds, “I guess I’m shy, a bit afraid that I’ll say something that makes me sound like an idiot.”
It’s too raw to be anything other than honesty. Jaz and I share a glance and I can see she believes him too.
“Yeah, pretending to be French doesn’t give us that impression at all,” says Jaz, but she’s smiling. It’s impossible not to smile at Pierre/Peter’s embarrassed but cute and a tiny bit hopeful grin. He hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He’s no doubt pleased that Jaz looks as though she might forgive him, but I have a feeling that what he wants to know most
is whether I understand him.
“Once I’d started the stupid French thing I didn’t know how to tell you that I wasn’t French. I thought you might lose interest.”
“I’ve been thinking about the types of guys I’m usually attracted to,” I say.
“Yes?”
“And all of a sudden I’m prepared to review.” Peter looks hopeful; Jaz looks curious. “I’ll add pathological liars to that list, or maybe guys with identity crises, or—”
I don’t get a chance to finish, because Peter pulls me close and silences me with a kiss.
Y ou’re my desert rain, You cool me down, ease my pain.”
I turn the radio off.
“Oi! I was listening to that,” pants Mum.
She’s smoking a ciggy while on the treadmill. She’s on this new health thing. New Body, New Mind, New Me, she says – but I suppose old habits die hard. Not that I’m complaining. At least she’s trying.
“I’m off,” I say.
“OK. And, Leona, love, make sure you eat something. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day, you know. There’s crisps on the counter.”
I smile and nod. Like I said, she’s trying.
“And turn the radio back on!”
I flip the switch. The lyrics of the song follow me out: “You’re my desert rose, As you unfurl, my love grows…” Seven weeks at number-one. Whoever’s buying it should be shot.
I walk down the cool, dark stairwell and out into the car park. The sun gleams off the satellite dishes and concrete blocks around me. Rows of square windows shimmer in the heat. Everything looks washed out. Even the sky, which should be blue, looks like a pair of jeans that’s been through the machine too many times.
Dog days, they’re calling them. Globally warmed days, more like. But no one cares about that. All that matters to people is that they can lie around half naked and get a tan. Not me. I’m so pale I don’t even tan. I just turn red – the colour of my hair – and then my skin starts to peel. It’s not pretty. And you won’t catch me in a bikini. Not with my scars. Lying around in the park all summer is boring anyway. I’d choose the animal sanctuary any day.
The only flash of colour on my way there is the spaceship sprayed across the side of the bookies. It’s tagged “WallBreaker” – our very own graffiti artist. Like most of his stuff, it’s a mad blend of colours – purple, pink, silver, orange. But its doorway is pure black, which makes you think there’s an actual hole in the wall and that any minute, an alien is going to slither out onto the high street.
I’m walking down the hall to the morning meeting when I see it. A pit bull. Amber eyes darting, claws skittering on the tiles, barking its head off. It’s pulling at its lead, dragging Faith – the vet who runs the sanctuary – behind it. I stumble back and press myself against the wall. I can smell the dog as it passes, see its incisors and the inside of its mouth, glistening pink.
It’s only after the dog’s gone, and I breathe a sigh of relief, that I realize the wall I am standing against doesn’t really feel like a wall. It’s breathing. I turn and find myself facing a guy about my age, with caramel-coloured skin and curly hair springing out of his head in all directions. His chest is wide and flat, but it’s definitely no wall. His dark eyes study me.
“All right?” he says.
My skin starts to burn, and I know I’m going red. I nod and walk away without looking back, but I can still sense him, leaning against the wall, watching me go.
Faith introduces him at the morning meeting.
“We have a new volunteer! This is Dominic. He’ll be here for…” But as usual, she doesn’t finish her sentence. She just turns and gives him a mini applause.
Dear God, I think, looking at Faith’s pregnant belly, you’re going to have the most embarrassing mum ever.
Dominic smiles and sits down.
I recall something I saw in Faith’s office a couple of weeks ago and it hits me that Dominic is not a normal volunteer like the rest of us. It’s supposed to be confidential, but Faith always leaves papers all over her desk, so you can’t help but read them. He’s a criminal, here on a community-service order.
“Any other business, or … or…” Faith says at the end of the meeting.
“Yeah. The pit bull that came in this morning – are you going to put it down?” I ask.
Pit bulls are illegal, so they have to be put down, but the sanctuary has a no kill policy.
“Oh no, Leona! I just examined it. It’s a Staffordshire bull terrier – a Staffie – trained to… No doubt because they can be confused with pit bull terriers, so…” And she’s lost her train of thought again.
Over the next week, Dominic and I mark out our separate territories. I watch him sometimes, from the window of the cattery, throwing sticks to the dogs. The tendons in his arm ripple in the sun. He never seems to get bored or impatient. The dogs keep coming back, sticks in mouths, tails wagging, and he keeps throwing. They love him. Then again dogs will drool over anyone who throws them a stick. They’re stupid like that. I prefer cats. They don’t trust just anyone. That’s why, statistically, they suffer less abuse than dogs.
There’s no denying that Dominic’s … cute. But I’ve been volunteering at the sanctuary long enough to know about pheromones. They make the animals do stupid things, like sniff each other’s bums. And they were probably responsible for making my mum fall for my dad and get pregnant with me when she was just fifteen. I’ve made it to the same age without smoking or getting distracted by boys – and I’m not about to start now.
One afternoon Faith calls me into the examination room. It looks like she’s prodding a small rock, but as I come closer, I realize it’s an intricately patterned shell – except it’s cracked and chipped, like a jigsaw puzzle with bits missing. It’s a tortoise, with its head and legs tucked inside its shell.
“The children it belonged to tried to get the shell off it like they’d seen on some cartoon. Can you believe the…? Trying to take the shell off a tortoise is like trying to take the skin off a…” she says.
Luckily, the kids only damaged the carapace, which is the very outer layer. We have to patch the shell up, though, so bacteria can’t get in and infect it. Faith moulds patches out of this special acrylic material and then I hold them in place while she glues them on. We’re about halfway through when Debbie comes in to say that one of the sanctuary’s sponsors is on the phone.
“Hold that, I’ll be…” Faith says, dropping the tube of glue and leaving.
We wait, the tortoise and me, both still, silent. I can hear Roger the rat grinding his teeth in his cage on the other side of the wall. Rats’ teeth never stop growing, so they have to wear them down to control their length.
I begin to wonder if Faith has forgotten about me. She’s always forgetting her purse or her keys, or her words, mid-sentence. God knows what’s going to happen when the baby comes. I wouldn’t be surprised if she leaves it behind in the supermarket or forgets to pick it up from nursery.
The door opens. It’s Dominic.
“Hey, I just bumped into Faith. She said something about…” He tails off.
Christ, being unable to finish your sentences must be contagious.
“Hold this,” I say.
His hands are big, with scrapes and pen marks on them. He has to put them over mine to take my place. I can feel the heat from his body; smell this fruity scent that I recognize from the hallway; see the curve of his biceps beneath his T-shirt. I skirt around him quickly to pick up the glue before I go red again.
Moulding the patches isn’t as easy as it looks.We circle each other in silence. Occasionally, one of his curls brushes my forehead as we bend over the shell. After a while, we fall into a rhythm. Finally, we step back and look at our handy work. The shell, once beautiful, is covered with white patches of different sizes and shapes.
I cross my arms over my stomach.
“It’s not that bad,” he offers.
“I’m never going to make it as a vet.�
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“Isn’t it tricky, being a vet, if you’re scared of dogs?”
My first instinct is to deny it, but then I remember the scene in the hallway. He knows. I glare at him and see that he isn’t teasing or anything. He’s genuinely curious.
“Yeah, I mean, I could specialize, but at some point I’d have to deal with dogs.”
“I’ll teach you if you like,” he says.
I start to shake my head, but something about his steady gaze and dark eyes pulls me in. Maybe it will be all right. Maybe this could be my chance to get over my fear, and make it as a vet.
“OK,” I say.
I have no idea why I agreed, because by the next day I’m regretting it. I go about my cage-cleaning duties as usual, then I visit the cats. I play with Dara, a white kitten with only one eye. It’s blue. The other eye remains closed, like she’s permanently winking. She’s my favourite cat. I named her. Sometimes when a new animal comes in you get to name it. I give them proper names, names that you would give human beings, not like Debbie, who gives them silly names like Fluffy and Jelly – or Faith, who gives them Greek names like Psyche and Athena.
It’s Dara’s lucky day, because I play with her for longer than usual. Then I check on Roger and the tortoise that doesn’t have a name yet. According to his notes, he hasn’t come out of his shell since he arrived. Finally, I stop at the doorway to the yard where the dogs are kept.
Dominic and Clive the behaviourist stand chatting in the sun. I can hear the dogs panting in the heat. I’m about to turn round and walk off when Dominic looks my way.
“Cool. Leona. You came,” he says. The way he smiles and says my name makes my stomach flip.
Clive says he’s got a troublemaker to deal with and wanders off. I head towards the kennels with Dominic. As we pass through the yard where the dogs are brought out to play, I feel the urge to bolt it back to the building. I only resist because I don’t want him thinking I’m more of a scaredy-cat than he already does.
All of a sudden, we’re at the kennels. I study the cracked earth and tufts of yellow grass, hoping that if I don’t look at the dogs, they’ll ignore me. Fat chance. One of them starts going ballistic and out the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of movement. I look up just as a greyhound pounces at me – but is held back by the fence of its kennel. Dominic is speaking, but all I can hear is the thudding of my heart. I stand there, as taut and trembling as the fence, convinced that any minute now, the fence is going to give in to the weight of the hound.