by Juno Dawson
Nico had it even worse. He was sitting his real mocks, the ones that would form his predicted final grades. Over the holidays, as I lay naked in his arms – the only way you can in a single bed – we finally discussed his plans for next year, aka ‘When Nico Will Leave And Tear My Heart Out’.
‘There really isn’t a plan,’ he told me. ‘I left it way too late to do anything next year anyway, so I’ll take a year out and get some work.’
It took a superhuman effort to refrain from a crazy jig o’ smugness. ‘Yay! Will you stay here?’
‘Yeah! I want to spend some proper time on the band while we’re still young enough to get signed. And the band is here … and so are you …’ He kissed me.
I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. ‘Well, I approve one hundred per cent!’
He kissed me tenderly on the lips. ‘Don’t worry. You can’t get rid of me that easily.’
Six exams, one timed Art practical and two packets of Imodium later, the exams were done, thank god. I don’t test particularly well, but having survived Polly Bootcamp I felt better than I ever had done after exam season. The weather had turned arctic and it was way too cold for even us to brave the golf course, so to celebrate the end of exams I suggested a trip to Pizza Delisiosa, the cheaper of the two pizza places in town.
‘I can’t do Friday night,’ Polly said.
‘Why?’ said Beasley, crunching through a bag of crisps as we sat in the common room. In this weather it was at capacity, steamed up like a sauna. It smelled of boys – Lynx deodorant and feet – and salt and vinegar. ‘Clearly we don’t have plans.’
‘Actually, ************, I do.’
‘Are you cheating on us with other friends?’ Beasley feigned hurt.
‘It’s my dad’s birthday. Sucks to be me. What about Saturday?’
It all became too much of a fiasco to do Saturday, so, with regret, we had to go without Polly. As we hurried down the high street, powdery, gravity-defying snow whirled around us. I’m of the opinion that snow before Christmas is magical and enchanting, snow after Christmas is annoying as hell. We were cold and wet and slipping in slush all the way to the restaurant.
Being somewhere inside where we had to be vaguely quiet felt sophisticated and grown-up. When Nico ordered beers we weren’t challenged and it didn’t feel naughty any more; it felt right. We were old enough to be drinking. Sort of. I would be seventeen next week. I learned very young that no one gives much of a fig when your birthday is on 19 January – everyone is still hungover from New Year.
Garlic butter greased the air as ragged-looking waiters ferried sparkler-infused sundaes to an eleventh birthday party in the window. The lights were dimmed and we all joined in singing ‘Happy Birthday’. Beasley and Daisy shared a pizza. It would be fair to say that Beas ate the vast majority of it, but Daisy did eat a couple of slices and I’m ashamed to say I monitored her to make sure she didn’t sneak off to the bathroom as soon as she’d eaten.
We somehow got into a debate about vegetarianism. ‘I just don’t think you should eat little baby animals!’ Daisy said, gesturing smugly at their margherita. ‘It’s mean and cruel and God totally told Adam and Eve to look after the animals, not eat them.’
‘Bitch, please!’ Beasley exclaimed. ‘When did you EVER believe in God?’
Daisy pouted. ‘I could believe in God if I wanted to.’
I reached for my temple. ‘Oh – oh wait … I’m getting a psychic message from Jesus. He’s saying … “There was this one time I catered a party for five thousand people … AND I SERVED FISH.”’
Everyone laughed and I felt pleased with myself. It was weird. Without Polly I was sort of in charge: splitting the bill and talking with the waiter. Perhaps I was the second-most dominant one in the group. After we’d gone mental on the ice-cream machine, so much so that we’d all abandoned grotesque bowls full of sugary multi-coloured goo, I suggested we head to The Mash Tun to catch whatever band was playing that night.
‘Sure. It’s The Gash though. Siobhan, the guitarist, is amazing, but they suck.’ Nico finished his beer.
‘“The Gash?”’
‘Lesbian punk-ska band.’
‘I should have guessed.’ We slipped and slid back down the high street and there was just enough snow on the car windscreens to make tiny snowballs. We were silly and noisy – those teenagers that the tabloids love to hate, screaming and cackling in the street late on a Friday evening. I was tipsy and I tore my tights. I thought it was sometimes OK to be like that, to be the cliché. This was when we were supposed to do that, and, after all, we weren’t hurting anyone or taking anything that wasn’t ours to take.
Our impromptu snowball fight ended when Beasley shoved snow down Alice’s coat and she got the hump.
We arrived at The Mash Tun soaked and shivering. We almost fell into the pub and made our way to the toilets to dry off under feeble hand dryers. Nico ordered us more beers – although I was aware that this needed to be my last one. Beasley, Alex and Nico were already at the bar when me, Daisy and Alice joined them.
‘Look who it is,’ Beasley said, nodding through into the back room with the stage. Polly and Zoë were down the front pogoing to the band, who were, as Nico had predicted, an angry racket with shaved heads and neck tattoos.
‘And look who she’s with,’ I said, going from merry to livid in point five seconds.
‘Is she on a date with Zoë?’ Beasley said. ‘Nico, did you know about this?’
‘Don’t look at me.’
Oh that stung. I was hurt Polly hadn’t felt she was able to tell me, especially when I’d been so open about Nico and me. ‘That shady bitch. She is so busted. Let’s go over.’
Nico gave me what I had learned was his doubtful face – a slight dip in the middle of his brow. ‘Maybe they didn’t tell us for a reason …’
‘Well, if you’re going to be all logical, that’s no fun. I’m going over.’
‘It’s your funeral …’ Beasley added.
‘I’m not scared of Polly.’ I took my bottle of beer and started to weave through the sweaty, moshing crowd. When I reached the front I gave Polly a tap on the shoulder. ‘How’s your dad’s birthday going?’ I said. ‘I had no idea he was such a fan of The Gash.’
Polly looked utterly caught out for a second before remembering herself and rolling her eyes. ‘Ha ha. Very funny.’
‘Why didn’t you tell us you were going to be here?’ I shouted over the music in her ear.
‘****! I don’t have to tell you my ******* whereabouts. I’m not tagged.’
I didn’t reply, choosing to stare her down. I figured that most people would have backed down by now, but I didn’t want to be most people. It’s like with dogs, they respect you if you show them who’s boss.
‘Let’s go for a fag,’ Polly said, backing down. She whispered something in Zoë’s ear and I followed her into the beer garden. It was freezing, but it was under an awning with heat lamps so it could have been worse. In fact, directly under the lamp, it felt like my hair was toasting.
‘Polly, I’m not cross,’ I lied, suddenly aware I was breathing some killer garlic-breath in her direction. ‘I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell us.’
‘Because why should I?’ She was on the defensive.
‘Are you seeing Zoë?’
Polly took a deep drag on her cigarette. It was minty menthol. ‘Kind of.’
‘And it’s a big secret because …?’
‘****, Tor! Look, I didn’t want it to be a big drama.’
I laughed, exasperated. ‘By keeping it a big secret you’ve turned it into a drama!’
Polly seemed to consider this. ‘To be honest, I didn’t want you all sticking your noses in. It feels like nothing’s private. Not all of us like sharing every ******* gory detail.’
Well, that was definitely aimed at me. ‘I don’t do that.’
‘Yes you do,’ she fired back. ‘And I don’t need to hear it, OK? You’re not the first ******* g
irl in the world to get laid, Tor.’
‘Fine.’ I whirled away, aware I was behaving like a brat. ‘I’ll go talk to the friends who do want to talk to me then.’
‘Jesus Christ! You started this! I just came to see the ******* band!’
I was already slamming the door behind me.
That night I lay in bed, wide awake. It felt like there was a huge lump of especially sour apple stuck in my throat. Like Granny Smith sour. Tossing and turning, my head was full of churning, ruminant thoughts of Polly. I don’t need to hear it. What did that mean? Maybe I’d been overdoing it. Everything was so new and exciting with Nico that I’d assumed it would be exciting for everyone else too. I was probably wrong about that.
I was too hot. Why was the central heating on in the middle of the night? Was Mum actually trying to bake us as we slept? I kicked my duvet off and resigned myself to insomnia.
The next morning, having barely slept and what sleep I did get filled of dreams of Polly and me arguing, I vowed to fix things. I went for a course of action that I’d appreciate if the tables were turned. I dragged myself out of bed, got dressed and walked to Polly’s via Costa Coffee. I knocked on the door and Mr Wolff answered in a paint-splattered tracksuit. It was disconcerting to say the least.
‘Hello, Toria. You’re up nice and early.’
‘Is Polly up yet?’
‘She ought to be if she isn’t. Go on up.’ I sometimes find Mr Wolff so handsome I don’t know where to look, so I shuffled awkwardly past him and hurried upstairs.
I tapped on her bedroom door. ‘Polly, it’s me.’
‘Are you ******* kidding me?’ came the muffled response.
‘I come in peace. You can either have the big Jammy Dodger or the big custard cream …’ She opened the door, blue hair and mascara all over her face. She looked like a Monster High doll some kid had scribbled on.
‘I didn’t take my make-up off last night. I regret that now.’ She let me into her room, which was murky and smelled of night breath. ‘Get comfy, I’ll go have a shower.’
She did and when she returned, she looked like a human again. ‘Let’s wrap up and go play golf in the snow,’ she suggested and I took that to mean my strop had been forgiven.
Polly had the custard cream as we walked (carefully) down the hill towards the beach. ‘I should have told you about Zoë,’ she finally said after we’d discussed what the ultimate biscuit was (answer: plain chocolate digestive). ‘I was being ***** but I didn’t want to jinx it too. I don’t know if I really fancy her or not so I didn’t see the point in announcing it to the whole world. We’re just … seeing how it goes.’
‘Well, I’m glad I know because now we can, you know, talk about it and stuff.’
‘That’s true. I suppose it is my turn.’
‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘So how long has it been going on …?’
Polly filled me in. They’d fooled around consistently and quietly ever since the first time they’d dated. ‘Nothing serious,’ Polly said. ‘But I’m kind of getting used to having her around. You know what I mean?’
I could see how you could get hooked on the intimacy as much as the sex. Arms wrapped around you like a life jacket. ‘I get that. Have you always fancied girls?’ I asked, sipping on my now tepid coffee.
‘I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to. I never had any brothers so I was like nine before I realised boys and girls were even different.’
‘Wow.’
‘No, I think it’s a good thing. I don’t think we are different. I don’t see penises or vaginas, I see hot people or not hot people. It’s pretty ******* easy if you ask me.’
Worded like that, it did sound easy. We reached the bottom of the hill and started to make our way past the pier towards the arcades.
Polly went on. ‘I don’t know why people find it so hard to believe. I find different things sexy. Like with Nico, for example, it was his dimples, his teeth, his arms. With you it was your lips.’
‘Me? My lips?’ I was suddenly very aware of them as I sucked foam out of the little opening in my coffee cup.
‘You have sexy lips.’
Even in the cold, I felt hot. ‘Well, thank you. You have good lips too.’
She laughed. ‘But do you see what I mean? I don’t think I could ever say “Oh I fancy this about girls” or “I fancy this about boys” because boys don’t all look the same and neither do girls. And they’re very different in bed. Different but good.’
‘Oh really?’
‘Oh really!’ Then the smile fell from Polly’s face. The colour drained from her cheeks, panic-stricken. ‘****. **** **** ****.’
‘What? Polly, what is it?’
‘Holy ****. Look.’ Polly pointed to the crazy-golf course. The gates were chained shut and there was a huge red blister of a sign attached to the railings. The sign said FOR SALE.
Chapter Twelve
No
Polly Wolff on a mission is a scary, scary thing. I’d only ever seen such determination on the faces of women with prams outside a Black Friday sale. When we couldn’t find anyone within the sealed-up golf course – and god knows we screamed enough and tried to force entry – Polly set off along the coast.
Eventually we reached the static caravan site on the edge of town. ‘Polly, are you bringing me here to murder me?’ I asked, out of breath.
‘This is where Jamie lives.’ Polly’s legs were easily twice as long as mine and I felt like a pug scurrying at her heels, trying to keep up. I was probably just as squashed and snotty too.
We stopped at a caravan that seemed to be held together with gaffer tape. ‘This is where Jamie lives?’
‘I told you you didn’t want to end up like him.’ Polly banged on the door and a white man with dreadlocks answered. I think we all know there’s a special place in hell for them. ‘Hey. Is Jamie home?’
The white Rasta checked her out for a second. ‘Heeeeey, Jammer,’ he called to the back of the caravan. ‘There’s some kids here to see you. You dawg, man. They is like little girls.’
‘Oh **** off.’ Polly went for him and he ducked back into the gloomy little box. Jamie appeared in the entrance wearing a onesie and looking very stoned indeed.
‘What do you want? It’s well early, man.’
‘Why aren’t you at work? What’s happening with the golf course?’
He rubbed the back of his head. ‘They’re closing it, man.’
‘What?’ both Polly and I exclaimed.
‘That dump isn’t making any money. They wanna sell it to developers or something. I dunno. I basically got fired, like.’
‘****!’ both Polly and I exclaimed.
‘What’s it going to be instead?’ I asked. ‘Or will they keep it as a crazy-golf course?’
‘I dunno. I’m going back to bed, yeah.’ Jamie left the door ajar. ‘You can come and skin up with us if you want.’
‘We’ll pass,’ I said definitely. I looked to Polly. ‘What are we going to do? This sucks so hard.’
Polly kicked a stone clean across the park where it barrelled into a neighbouring caravan. Her fists were tight angry wrecking balls. ‘No. No way. They can’t do this. They’re not taking away our crazy golf. Come on.’
Two hours later we were in Polly’s bedroom. All of us. It had taken time and a lot of screaming down the phone but we’d gathered everyone. Beasley was supposed to spend the weekend at his dad’s (although he didn’t seem to mind being summoned), Daisy had skipped a family trip to Grandma’s. Alice and Alex were presumably working on their tedious ‘Look at Our Faux Vintage Life’ Instagram account, Freya had brought her very own book and Nico and Zoë were missing rehearsal.
When we’d first got home, Polly had practically thrown herself at her father who was reading the paper at the kitchen table. ‘Dad! They can’t close the crazy-golf course!’
‘Well, if it’s not making any money they can.’
‘We go there all the time. I spend half my allowance there.’
‘That’s because it needs some work. Like painting and stuff. You and Mum have loads of money …’
‘Polly, you’re not actually suggesting that we buy a crazy-golf course, are you?’
‘Well, why not? What’s the point in sitting on a giant pile of money if you’re not going to spend it?’
‘And what would I do with a golf course?’
‘Uh, run it, obviously. We’ll do it. We’ll run it,’ Polly said, pointing between the two of us. I didn’t remember signing up for golf-course management, but why not.
Her dad actually laughed. ‘You’re going to drop out of school to run a golf course? Polly, that “giant pile of money” you so optimistically speak of is for your tuition fees and, one day, a deposit on a house. Isn’t that what you want?’
‘No!’
‘Oh for crying out loud, it’s like talking to a four-year-old. You’ll have to find somewhere else to haunt.’ He wasn’t going to budge.
Back to the summit in Polly’s bedroom. We filled them in on the day’s news. ‘That’s awful!’ Daisy said, eyes wider than ever. ‘We’ve been going there since we were, like, three. What’ll happen to the Disapproving Seal?’
‘This sucks. They’ll probably build another arcade or something equally lame,’ Beasley lamented.
‘Not so,’ Alex said with authority. ‘My pater works for the council. I happen to know that space has been earmarked for food and drink premises.’
‘You knew about this?’ I asked. We turned on him like a pack of angry wolves.
‘Not at all.’ He held his hands open in peace. ‘I just know Burger King tried to buy the land a couple of years ago, but the owners wouldn’t sell.’
‘Maybe they finally caved in and sold?’ Beasley said.
Nico didn’t seem nearly as troubled, but then it took quite a lot to ruffle him. ‘I guess we could start hanging out at The Mash Tun. They never ID you guys there.’