Love Bomb

by Jenny McLachlan

  Anyway, me and Mrs Miggins (my hamster) waited and waited for the big day. Finally, when I was about one week off my fifteenth birthday I saw a tiny brown spot in my knickers. YES!!!! I rushed out of the toilet and got my hamster. Now Gramps had made a complicated living arrangement for Mrs Miggins: two double-storey cages joined by a tunnel. Laboriously, I moved her home into the toilet then squeezed in next to the cages.

  Mrs Miggins climbed to the top of one of her cages and hung by two paws, swinging and watching me with her beady black eyes. She was making me feel self-conscious so I gave her some toilet paper to distract her. She started shredding it and stuffing it in her cheeks. I squeezed down on to the floor next to her and watched her for a while. Then I picked up my mum’s ‘Take a Break’ magazine. I was starting to feel relaxed … maybe that tampon lady knew what she was talking about.

  When we emerged from the toilet an hour later, I’d had zero tampon success, but Mrs Miggins had made a huge nest and I’d read about a woman who had a growth removed from her stomach. The growth was exactly the same shape as Italy!

  On to the main event. Kissing. When I was sixteen and a half, my Sixth Form had a Christmas party. I was certain that every girl in my year had been kissed by now and I was getting desperate. I decided that, no matter what, I was going to kiss someone at the party. Unfortunately, there was no one going who I wanted to kiss. This didn’t put me off. My best friend, Julia, decided I was more likely to be kissed if my legs were perfectly smooth. She got a tube of her mum’s depilatory cream and told me it would dissolve all my unwanted hair. We sat on the edge of the bath and smothered our legs in it. This stuff was slippery, and we were using a lot of it, and at one point I slipped into the bath. Julia told me to stop mucking around and in the general confusion (we were listening to Guns ’n’ Roses and putting on mud face packs) neither of us noticed the blob of cream on my head.

  I only lost a small patch of hair – about the size of a 50p – and Julia quickly rearranged my hair into a very unfashionable side bunch. I looked in the mirror. The overall effect wasn’t great – a white patch of scalp still gleamed through my hair, but Julia swore no one would notice in the darkness of the club. I didn’t want to go, but Julia said she’d kill me if I abandoned her, so we set off across town, dressed up in our coolest clothes (DMs, black tights, flowery dresses) and drenched in Bodyshop Dewberry perfume.

  As we queued to get into the club, I started chatting to a boy from my history class – I didn’t fancy him or anything, but I was thinking, ‘You’ll do’. He was telling me about his Saturday job when he suddenly stopped talking and gazed intently at my head.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, pointing at my hair.

  ‘What?’ I felt the smooth bald patch with my fingers and quickly pulled my hair back over it. ‘Oh, that’s just my … scalp spot. All the girls are doing it. It’s like being blood-brothers, but instead we’re scalp sisters.’ He frowned and glanced around at the other girls standing near us in the queue. ‘Most of them have got one,’ I said.

  When we got in the club, I told Julia that she was getting a scalp spot tomorrow, or I was going straight home. She agreed, but to be honest she’d have agreed to anything by then because she’d drunk two bottles of Blue Raspberry 20/20 and was very overexcited. Giggling, she dragged me over to a booth and soon I found myself sitting next to History Boy. We smiled and shouted at each other for a few minutes and then he moved towards me, getting closer and closer, until I went cross-eyed trying to focus on him. The next thing I knew our lips were touching and, amazingly, I was being kissed! I sat there with my mouth slightly open and it was just about bearable until he started pushing his tongue in and out of my mouth. His tongue tasted of Twiglets.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, gasping for fresh Twiglet-free air, ‘but I feel sick.’ Then I hid in the toilets until Gramps arrived to take me home.

  If I’d thought things through, I wouldn’t have had a disastrous first kiss with a boy who I then had to sit next to in history on Monday morning … and for the next two years.

  Now I’m going to tell you a BIG secret. A few months later it was Carlo’s birthday. Being an all-round wonderful person he was having a bonfire on the beach to celebrate. It was a cold night and a few people had ducked out, including Eleanor, so by the end of the evening, there were only a handful of us sitting round the glowing embers.

  Carlo and I went down to the water’s edge to have a pebble-skimming competition. The moon was low and full, and it shone a silver path across the sea. A thousand stars were scattered across the sky. What I’m saying, Betty, is that it was romantic. Carlo and I looked at each other. He put his hands on either side of my face and I slipped mine round his waist. Our whole bodies were touching and I could feel his heart beating fast. He kissed me and I kissed him and I never wanted it to end. The sea rolled and crashed, again and again, and I melted into our kiss, and although I was drifting off on a cloud of happiness I managed to notice that Carlo’s mouth tasted of Werther’s Originals. That was my first real kiss. History Boy didn’t count because I didn’t kiss him back.

  I’m not sure what my message is here, Plumface. Perhaps I should summarise the key points for you:

  • Don’t take Nanna bra shopping.

  • Never try to use a tampon if a live animal is in the same room.

  • Kissing someone you like is as natural as laughing. Kissing someone you don’t like is as unnatural as putting your tongue into a stranger’s mouth. (And letting them stick their tongue into yours.)

  Actually, toddler-you is sucking my chin right now, so I’m going to have to stop writing. If your kissing technique doesn’t improve in the next few years, when you do kiss someone for the first time, aim a little higher. And don’t suck.

  Love you always,

  Mumface xx

  That’s the longest letter Mum’s written me. I press the sheets of paper out flat and put them into Dennis. If Mum had never died, if she was downstairs in the kitchen making me dinner, would she tell me these things?

  I’ve got no photos of Mum in my room so I go into the hallway and take my favourite one off the wall. She’s standing under a blue sky and the wind is blowing back her blonde hair. She’s wearing a stripy polo shirt, unbuttoned, and looking off to one side, smiling her big smile. I used to imagine she was looking at me, but she looks too young. I put the photo on my bedside table, next to my fox necklace, and that’s all it takes to make my mind fly back to Toby and his curving smile and wild black hair.

  After turning Mum’s photo slightly away so I’m not being watched, I lie face down on my pillow and practise kissing. I try really hard not to suck. After a while, I realise I can’t breathe so I come up for air.

  No way am I eating Twiglets at Toby’s party.

  When I come down to breakfast on Saturday morning, I find Poo sitting in front of a big stack of pancakes. She’s been round here a lot this week and now she’s wriggled her way into breakfast as well. I sit at the other end of the table and get out my phone.

  ‘Put it away,’ says Dad.

  ‘Hang on,’ I say, ‘just got a message.’

  A shiver of excitement runs through me when I see Toby’s name. I open the message: Looking forward to tonight … x He’s attached a photo, but as usual my antique phone is letting me down and I can’t see it yet. It’ll probably appear in a week.

  ‘Betty!’

  ‘One minute.’ Me too x B, I reply. I drop my phone on the table and glance down at Poo’s feet. Good. She’s wearing shoes so she’s only just arrived. So far, they haven’t subjected me to Poo staying the night, but I can sense they are building up to it. Actually, their gross middle-aged lust might help me out …

  ‘Dad,’ I say, as he passes me my pancakes, ‘can I stay at Kat’s tonight?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says, then I’m sure I catch him flicking Poo a look. I force myself to smile at her. She’s already looking at me, with her calm, knowing look.

  ‘Nice pancakes?’ I ask sweet
ly.

  ‘Lovely,’ she says, taking a bite and smiling, all at the same time.

  *

  ‘So, I’ve got a pair of pyjamas, a toothbrush, hairbrush, deodorant,’ I say to Bea, pointing at each item in turn, ‘and Cheerios.’ I give the Tupperware box a shake and the cereal rattles around.

  ‘Why’ve you got Cheerios?’ she asks. She’s rolling a seamed stocking up her leg, busy transforming herself into a 1950s starlet for Hollywood Night at her jive club.

  ‘For breakfast,’ I say. ‘In case Toby only has stuff like Shredded Wheat.’ I start to pack all my things back into my duck rucksack.

  ‘So you’re really staying the night?’

  ‘Yep, it’ll be fine. His mum’s going to be there.’ Bea pulls on a purple dress and starts to do her make-up. I squeeze next to her so I can share her stuff. I’m round here because it’s on the way to Toby’s and Dad would have got suspicious if I’d got all dressed up to stay the night at Kat’s. I decided it was too risky to tell him I was sleeping at Bea’s because she’s incapable of lying.

  ‘It’s just,’ she says, looking at me in the mirror, ‘you could always change your mind.’

  ‘I’m not going to change my mind. It’ll be fun,’ I say. I stand up and give her a twirl. ‘Do you like my kissing outfit?’ I’m wearing yellow DMs and a knitted dress with skulls all over it. It’s not as scary as it sounds because the skulls are smiling.

  ‘I’d kiss you.’

  ‘Thanks!’ I look at the time. I can’t go yet – it’s too early. ‘I wish I had someone to walk in with,’ I say.

  ‘As soon as you see Toby, you’ll be fine,’ she says. She starts to make her lips bright red. ‘So, tonight could be the night.’

  ‘The night I am kissed,’ I say, my voice a bit flat.

  ‘Excited?’

  ‘Yes … definitely excited.’ I lean over her shoulder. Our faces are close together in the mirror. ‘Can you do that on me?’ Bea gets out a tiny pencil and draws an outline round my lips. Then she fills it in with a brush. I watch in the mirror as a sweeping red smile appears on my face. I’m wearing my hair down, and my only other make-up is eyeliner and mascara. My long, straight fringe hides the top of my eyes.

  Bea sits back and studies me. ‘It looks nice,’ she says. ‘It goes with your freckles.’

  Suddenly, a warm little hand pats my leg and I look down to see Emma lying on the floor, staring up at me with a crazy look in her eyes. She’s wearing a curly blonde wig.

  ‘Emma’s into creeping up on people at the moment,’ explains Bea. ‘The other night she got into the shower with me and I only noticed when I trod on her.’

  ‘Hello, Betty,’ says Emma, stroking my leg. ‘Your tights are soft.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. I pull on my panda hat. I’ve decided I’m going to walk to Toby’s very slowly.

  ‘Will you suck my finger?’ Emma asks, sticking her finger up at me.

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t suck her finger,’ says Bea.

  ‘I think I’ll pass tonight, Emma.’

  ‘Why?’ She looks at the end of her finger, tying to work out what’s wrong with it.

  ‘Because I’ve got a very important date with a first kiss,’ I say. Then I smile a brave red smile and wave goodbye.

  I take my time getting to Toby’s, making a little detour to the park, where I go on the swings for a while. I swing really high to get my adrenalin levels up and to keep my smile in place, but by the time I’m walking down Toby’s street, the smile has disappeared and I’ve developed total kissing-fright. I pass dark houses, sweeping drives and high metal gates. My footsteps echo on the pavement and my stomach churns. To distract myself, I think about Kat and Bill, wondering how her windsurfing lesson went and if they’re having their barbecue by the beach. I imagine the coals glowing, their cold fingers wrapped round sizzling food.

  Too soon, I’m standing outside Toby’s front door. It’s huge, like the door to a giant’s castle. I can hear the distant thud, thud, thud of dance music. I pull off my hat and sort out my hair. Then I take a deep breath and ring the bell.

  There’s no answer. I try the door and it swings open.

  Even though we’ve had rehearsals in the garage, this is the first time I’ve ever been inside Toby’s house. In front of me is a shining wooden floor and a wide flight of stairs covered in a deep red carpet. Cinderella could sweep down these stairs. There’s even a chandelier hanging above me, filling the hallway with a warm glow.

  I dump my stuff by a pile of coats and head towards the noise. I walk into a lounge heaving with teenagers. A few I recognise from school – Jess Cobb is laughing hysterically at something a boy in a rugby shirt is saying – but most of them I’ve never seen before. I guess Toby’s mainly invited friends from his old school. I spot him in the corner of the room, fiddling with his iPod. His hair is carefully styled and he’s wearing a shirt with half the buttons undone.

  Bea’s right. I do feel fine now I’ve seen him. Better than fine. Quickly I work my way through a group of dancing girls.

  ‘Hey!’ I say, standing in front of him. He looks at me and grins.

  For a moment I feel shy, but then he clutches me to him and says, ‘B-Cakes!’ into my hair. Keeping me squeezed against his chest, he starts dancing with me and singing along to the music. I laugh and just as I’m wondering why he’s being so affectionate I see the beer bottle in his hand.

  ‘Where’s your mum?’ I ask.

  ‘Decided to go out,’ he says. ‘But she took me shopping first so we’ve got everything we need. He waves his bottle around.

  ‘Toby!’ yells a voice from the door, and he lets go of me.

  ‘Get a drink,’ he calls over his shoulder as he goes to see his friend.

  Everyone in the kitchen seems to know each other. I try to be smiley, but they’re heavily into a conversation about someone called Sophie the Slagasaurus and a stolen lipgloss and they all ignore me. I search through the half-empty plastic bags that are stacked along the worktop and grab a bottle of watermelon Bacardi Breezer.

  By the time I get back to the lounge, Toby is dancing in the middle of the room with a group of girls. Just by looking at them, I can tell they’re different to me. Everything about them shimmers – their hair, their lips, their clothes. I take a sip of my warm drink and force myself to smile. Why should I worry? I’m Toby’s B-Cakes, the singer in his band, the girl he buys jewellery for.

  I give the pointy nose of my fox necklace a stroke and drop down on a huge white sofa. The Bacardi Breezer tastes like cough mixture and is making me feel sick. I shouldn’t have skipped dinner tonight. I’ve only drunk a couple of times before – at a party Ollie had and Gramps’s seventieth. When Dad caught me drinking sparkling wine at Gramps’s, he said I was poisoning my body, so I don’t think he’d be too happy about this.

  ‘Hello,’ says a voice from my side. I turn round. I do know someone else at this party. Pearl is sitting next to me on the sofa, half buried under scatter cushions and discarded cardigans.

  ‘Hey,’ I say cautiously. I’m so desperate to talk to someone that I’m almost pleased to see her … Not something I’ve felt a for a long time. She’s got a heart-shaped cushion clutched to her stomach and her feet are up on a coffee table. She looks at me through her thick black eye make-up, a bored expression on her face. Her skin and lips are as pale as the sofa we’re sitting on.

  ‘You alright?’ she says.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I say, then we both go back to watching the dancers. ‘How come you’re here?’ I ask after a minute. ‘I didn’t think Toby was your favourite person.’

  ‘I think he’s a dumbass,’ she says, ‘but I don’t like hanging around at home.’

  ‘So where are Lauren and Holly?’ The three of them are usually joined at the hip, but, come to think of it, Pearl’s been on her own a bit recently.

  ‘They’re mad with me. I signed Mrs P up to a cougar date site –’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Cougar �
�� a dating site for men who like mature ladies, like Mrs P.’

  ‘That’s quite funny,’ I say.

  ‘Well, they didn’t think so,’ she says, rolling her eyes. ‘I used Lauren’s school account … and Holly’s name.’

  ‘Still quite funny.’

  ‘They got excluded from school for a week.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And there was some other stuff … on Facebook. Stuff I wrote about them.’ Pearl has a small pile of peanuts on the cushion. She starts flicking them across the room. One pings off a girl’s skinny-jeaned bottom and Pearl sniggers. ‘Urrh,’ she says. ‘Look at that loser.’

  ‘Who?’ I say, following her eyes. ‘Toby?’

  She grins and looks at me sideways. ‘Now why would I be talking about Toby? You fancy him so much!’ Then she points into the crowd with a bottle of WKD. ‘No. That’s the loser … my brother.’

  I see Pearl’s older brother, Alfie, at the edge of the room. He’s got a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and he’s dancing on his own. It’s hard to see what’s annoyed her so much, but when he sees her watching him his eyes narrow and he stares at her. Then, still staring at Pearl, he stubs out his cigarette on the side of the mantelpiece, leaving a black circle.

  I haven’t had anything to do with Alfie for years. When we were little, he was always freaking out at us for touching his dinosaurs. He loved dinosaurs. Then I think of something Pearl and I did to Alfie. Something so funny I have to share it with her. ‘Pearl, do you remember when we stapled Alfie’s clothes all over your house?’

  She thinks for a moment then snorts and clutches her hand to her mouth to stop herself from spraying drink over the sofa. ‘You stapled his pants to the stairs!’

  ‘And his socks to his bedroom door and we filled them with his dinosaurs,’ I say. ‘We’d never used a stapler before. It was fun.’