by Juno Dawson
‘I’m going nowhere if it doesn’t have running hot water and a flushing toilet.’
‘We camp here.’ Alice peeped over her John Lennon sunglasses. ‘You can go in the house.’
I guessed I could get on board with that. ‘OK then. That doesn’t sound too bad.’
‘Yay! New sleeping bag!’ Beasley clapped like a sugared-up seal.
‘Cool. Ghost stories,’ Alice said.
It was too late. A new thought occurred to me. What if I had to share a tent with Polly? NO WAY was that happening. NO WAY. You might be thinking I broke up with Nico because of Polly, but you’d be wrong. They lived in different zones of my head. What I needed right now, with all this extra free time I suddenly had on my hands, was mates. Not messed-up masturbating police-cell mates, just mates.
It was at times like this that I missed Daisy most of all. I loved Polly, clearly, but since the kiss in the toilet, things weren’t the same. I couldn’t properly relax around her. I wondered if I’d ever truly been able to relax around her. I supposed, like any stick of dynamite, a certain degree of caution always had to be taken.
A week later and I was back on the Imodium for the English Language exams. Four hours in a sweltering room, with a small square desk and a ticking clock for company. Time flies when you’re not having any fun. As the fortnight progressed the only saving grace was that I think the system finally broke me. After so many gruelling hours of regurgitating old exam papers the way we’d been taught, I could no longer find the energy to be stressed about exams.
We had to sit a General Studies mock for some reason, I guess to prep us for the real deal next year. It was multiple choice at least, although that made it feel too much like a CosmoGirl quiz for my liking. One’s future should never hinge on a CosmoGirl quiz.
The paper was on crime and punishment:
Read paragraph 6 of the article. The author suggests the goal of incarceration is:
A – Perpetrators are unable to commit further crimes.
B – To give perpetrators time to reflect on their actions.
C – For perpetrators to be actively rehabilitated.
D – All of the above.
Twiddling my thumbs after whipping through the test, I couldn’t help but wonder why, in real life, ‘all of the above’ is never an option.
You identify as:
A – Straight.
B – Gay.
C – Bisexual.
D – All of the above.
I saw Polly and Beasley in the row ahead and smiled to myself. A secret smile.
After the last exam, a new nervousness set in. After the End of Year 12 Tests, I’d have only one set of mocks next January and the big final, real exams and then it would be over. I really would be free-falling. Education is so easy – you get dropped off when you’re five and leave when you’re eighteen. Every single minute of the day is timetabled – a zombie would manage. In one short year, I was going to be free of the conveyer belt and I’d have to make some DECISIONS.
TERRIFYING. DECISIONS.
My dad, who has had two careers – one as a journalist and one as a lecturer – has told me that you don’t always get it right first time but I suppose I should really think about WHAT I WANT TO BE WHEN I GROW UP.
I like books but I can’t think of stories. I like art but don’t want to be a starving artist. I’m a poet but no one knows it. I love the internet but everything’s been done. I had an idea, more of a vague whim – but I’d started to think about design. It came about when I was surfing Tumblr and saw people redesigning covers of their favourite books. I gave it a go, reimagining the cover of The Bell Jar after that disastrous chick-flick version came out. I’d never thought that it’s someone’s job to make things like that: book covers, film posters, illustrations.
Art and books, you say? Sounded like something I could get on board with. I hadn’t told anyone yet, but with that free fifteen minutes I always seemed to have at the end of exams, the gaseous idea was solidifying.
Then there’s this of course – writing. Imagine if this was an actual proper book. That’d be cool. I mean I don’t even know what this is … Is it a journal, is it a novel, is it a memoir, does it even matter? Probably not. I’m seventeen after all, everyone knows we’re K E R R R R A Z Y. Woo-hoo! Look at me! I’m poking my tongue out and sticking two fingers up! Mad! Zany!
Kill me now.
The night before our Literature exam, Polly came to mine to do some last-minute revisions. I was grateful that she was ruthlessly focused on cue cards and all talk of Nico or police cells were off the agenda. We talked about Paradise Lost and The Dubliners, her seated at my desk, and me Buddha like on my bed. Safe distance.
Only I’d made a terrible mistake. I realised too late.
‘What’s this? It’s sexy.’ Polly picked up my poetry book and stroked the leather cover.
‘Don’t!’ I almost leapt off the bed.
Polly’s eyes widened and she held the book out of my reach. ‘****, is this your secret diary? Dear Diary, today Polly flicked her bean in a police station …?’
‘Ha ha, very funny. No, it’s not a diary and it’s very arrogant of you to assume that you’d be in it if it was.’ She opened it. ‘Polly, don’t!’
She closed it. ‘Sorry. What is it?’
My heart chundered. ‘Don’t … it’s really embarrassing.’
‘Is it a Burn Book? I used to keep a list of everyone I wanted to kill at school.’
Big sigh. ‘Worse. They’re my poems.’
Polly cartoonishly blinked. ‘What?’
‘Awkward. Yes, I write poems sometimes. Go on, tell me I’m a cliché.’
‘I don’t think that’s cliché,’ she said with a tilt of her head. ‘I think it’s cool. Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Because it’s lame.’
‘**** off. Poetry isn’t lame. I love Emily Dickinson and Kate Tempest. Ooh and Christina Rossetti.’ I did too. ‘May I?’ I grumbled. ‘Please?’
‘OK. They’re not very good though, and I’m not just saying that to be all humblebrag. I didn’t even show Nico.’
Saying no more, Polly flicked the book open and leafed through the pages. I couldn’t look; it was excruciating, as if she’d split my skull like a bin bag and was picking through the trash. After a few minutes, her hand flew to her chest and she looked at me, eyes damp. ‘Holy ****, Tor. The one for Daisy. I’m slayed.’
‘I’m sorry …’
‘**** off, it’s beautiful. They’re all beautiful. You are … you write beautifully.’
My face flushed. ‘Really?’
‘Yes! I don’t know why you were hiding this. You shouldn’t ever, ever hide this.’
I could only shrug. Polly’s eyes were fixed on mine and the world waited. I broke first and looked away.
The other good thing about exams of course, is that if you don’t have a morning exam you can have a tiny little lie-in before your mum forces you out of bed to do last-minute revision. It was something. By the end of the fortnight, I knew at least one (French) had been an absolute disaster – and I would definitely drop it next year – but others I could make my peace with. I’d pass. Beasley was less confident and Polly turned up five minutes into her Sociology exam because she’d been convinced it was in the afternoon. They let her sit it after she cried and said she was on her period, but she was told she wouldn’t get a Get Out of Jail Free ever again.
Nico and I were still unwinding. Slowly, our daily texts were becoming weekly. If love is measured in time and thought, our supply was running out. The last bits of sand trickling through the hourglass, as it were. He remembered when my exams were but I had already lost track of his whereabouts. In quiet times I did think about those ‘early adopters’ and whether he’d turned his attention to them. Such thoughts left a bitter, leafy taste in my mouth. Now his exams were over, he was living with Etienne full-time in Haggerston.
On Friday, the final day of the exams, we had our camping
session. I was pleased to learn it was a partner-free zone as Alex was on an Oxford University open weekend thing. Well, of course he was. So it was just the four of us – Beasley, Polly, Alice and me. We erected the tents efficiently, something I was almost disappointed about – I’d envisaged some sort of farcical slapstick moment, but Beasley and Polly were experts.
I noted that sleeping arrangements were yet to be pinned down. ‘Beasley, are we sharing?’ I decided to get in early.
‘Yeah, can do. Don’t suppose it really matters.’ If Polly picked up on it, she didn’t make a fuss.
It stayed light until well after ten and it was a balmy night, but it was still fun to keep the fire going. We had some wood from Mr Wolff’s shed, but it was way more fun to creep around the neighbour’s garden trying not to activate the security lamp to find loose sticks and twigs to burn. After an hour or so of that, I decided I’d be a pretty good burglar.
It grew cooler and we wrapped ourselves in our sleeping bags in front of the fire. By this time we’d made our way though quite a lot of beer. The fire made me woozy, my eyelids were heavy. I was drunk and content. I sat next to Polly, snuggling for heat. After six beers, who cared?
‘So,’ Polly continued her story. ‘The guy refreshes Grindr and the profile with the skull picture is now at ten metres, and he realises whoever it is must be inside the house. His phone bleeps and the message says, “Look under the bed.” He refreshes the app again and the skull is only three metres away. He gets down on his hands and knees to look under the bed.’
On the other side of the fire, Beasley and Alice gripped one another.
‘Using his phone as a torch, he peeps under the bed and that’s when he sees it …’ Polly paused for dramatic effect. ‘His own body, grey and rotten, is under the bed!’
We all pretended to scream (despite a warning twenty minutes earlier from Polly’s mum) and fell about laughing. ‘Ooh that one was scary!’ Beasley laughed.
I told my one about a demonic rocking horse that eats dads and Alice told a truly scary one about a train passing her bedroom window every night with only a single passenger watching as it went by.
Beasley felt sick from too much beer or too many marshmallows or a combination of the two. Alice took him inside to be near the toilet, leaving Polly and I by the fireside. We were letting it die down now, the feeble flames sputtered and coughed.
‘I think,’ Polly said, ‘that you should come in my tent.’
My head was boozy, resting on her shoulder. ‘Polly … I can’t …’
‘Why not?’
I realised I had run out of excuses. ‘I just can’t.’
‘It’ll be fun. We can make out a bit. Nothing serious.’ Her lips found my lips. After the initial shock wore off, I returned the kiss. It was even more fun after a few drinks and I lost myself in it. This was a proper kiss and it was good. For a couple of seconds, the feeling muted the voices in my head and it all felt right: the garden was silent except for the crackle of the fire and noisy, colourful thoughts of Polly. My body galloped away with itself. I wanted more.
BUT I AM NOT A LESBIAN.
I pulled away. ‘Stop. Polly, I didn’t break up with Nico so that we could make out in a tent!’
She laughed. ‘I know, but now there’s nothing stopping us.’
‘I am stopping us. Polly, you’re my best friend …’
‘I know! We can still make out though. You’re overthinking this. Making out is fun and we’re both hot and single so we might as well while we’re young.’
I tried to sober myself up. ‘I don’t kiss any of my other friends.’
Polly grinned like a Cheshire cat. ‘Well, that’s why we’re best friends!’
‘Oh that’s cute!’ I smiled. ‘But, I’m sorry, I don’t feel that way about you.’
Her smile fell. ‘OK, well, that’s a lie. That kiss didn’t lie.’
Uh. Why was she harshing my high? ‘God! What do you want me to say? I want us to be friends. Not friends with benefits, just friends!’
Polly held her hands up. ‘OK, OK, calm yourself! I’m sorry. I just really like kissing you. You’re the best kisser ever.’
Flattery gets everyone everywhere. I peeked up at her through my hair. ‘Thanks. It takes two to tango.’
Polly’s smile returned. ‘I think we owe it to kissing personally, but I’m not going to beg, Toria. I’m not that ******* desperate!’
Beasley and Alice appeared in the kitchen doorway and I shushed Polly. I so, so wanted to go into the tent and see what happened. I wanted to let go, be young and free and wild like in the way music videos seem to think my life should be. Even drunk, I couldn’t let it happen. It was all too big, all too much, all too scary.
Monster
There’s a monster in the garden
Beyond the flowers and weeds.
He’s made of tar and rusty nails
And lurks below the reeds.
There’s a monster in the garden.
I plant another rose.
The thorns distract my fingers
While he’s gnawing on my bones.
There’s a monster in the garden.
He’s up in every tree.
He swings his tail around my throat
And smiles as I can’t breathe.
There’s a monster in the garden
A cancer in the roots.
The leaves are ash and charcoal
And I gorge on rotten fruits.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Truth
Whatever Polly said, after the camping night, I got the distinct impression she was avoiding me. ‘I’m helping Alice with some prom stuff’ became a familiar excuse, or she’d fail to show up for school altogether. Now that exams were over, lessons did seem a pretty pointless charade.
I wished I had someone to talk to, but I was scared that if I put my feelings into words it would all become real. However I said it, people would assume I was a massive gay. That’s how it works, right? Gay OR straight, male OR female, black OR white, good OR bad. People online joked about ‘bi now, gay later’ or ‘lipstick lesbians’ or ‘fauxmosexuals’. I wanted no part of it; it was all hateful.
Oh, it was a mess. I wanted a Hermione Granger time-turner. I wanted to go back in time and stop that kiss in the toilets from happening. Everything was fine before that. Or I could go even further back and help Daisy before she went past the point of no return. I wanted everything to be back the way it was at the start of the year when I was crazy about Nico and he was crazy about me based on nothing but how we looked.
I want, I want, I want, I WANT.
How spoiled I must be, making all these demands of the universe.
I thought a lot about New Year’s Eve. The golf course, Nico, Daisy, Polly. I’d been so close to Happy I could taste it.
That bitch Insomnia was back. Every night was a countdown: If I fall asleep now, I’ll get six hours sleep … If I fall asleep now I’ll get five and a half hours sleep … and on and on. I’d stare at the ceiling on one side of the bed until it got too warm, toss and turn to the cold side and lie awake there until I reversed the process. Getting through the day was getting hard. Just because I was awake didn’t mean I was awake and the feel of furry coffee teeth was starting to repulse me.
To make things worse, Nico was back in town for a couple of days. The band was doing a huge gig at the town Summer Fayre to mark their ‘local boys done good’ status. I did and didn’t want to see him. I missed him so much, but I was genuinely worried I might dissolve and beg him to take me to London with him. I could be his full-time groupie and he could look after me forever and ever. It would be so much easier than all these choices. Choices are hard.
He took me to Pizza Delisiosa and with greasy fingers we shared a huge Meat Feast and a cheesy garlic bread. ‘They’ve brought the release date forward,’ Nico said through a mouthful of stuffed crust. ‘Didn’t I tell you? They want to release a buzz single before Christmas and then do the proper first si
ngle in February.’
‘That’s amazing, which song?’
‘We’re not sure yet. Maybe “Invisibility Cloak” as the buzz one.’
‘Oh, cool.’
We munched for a while.
‘How are you anyway? You look knackered.’
I almost coughed my pizza up. ‘Gee thanks, Nico!’
‘You do! I worry about you all the time. I still feel shitty for pissing off.’
‘Don’t be insane. I’m fine. I’m just not sleeping very well.’
He downed his Diet Coke and beckoned the waitress over for his free refill. ‘Why? Have you fallen out with Polly?’
‘What?’ I said way too quickly. ‘No. Why?’
‘I met her for a milkshake this afternoon. She wanted to apologise for being such a dick with the whole Zoë situation. I mean, I’d forgotten all about it to be honest.’
I picked a stray bit of pepper out of the dish and popped it in my mouth. ‘By the by, Zoë hasn’t. She’s basically taken out a jihad against you.’
‘Ha! Fair enough, I suppose we deserve it.’ It was nice. There we were, chatting away, and it wasn’t at all weird. I also no longer wanted to do sex with him, as easy as it would be to fall into old patterns. But the thought of it was alien. He went on. ‘But anyway, Polly was in a weird mood. She was kinda quiet and she barely had any rage at all. She didn’t even seem bothered when we went past the building site of the new diner place. I wondered if she was ill.’
I shrugged, suddenly not feeling like the oily pizza. ‘Nope, we’re fine. The exams kicked our butts. When we break up for the holidays, I’m going to sleep for a fortnight. I’ll somehow feed myself through a drip and get a catheter.’ He chuckled and I changed the subject. ‘Are you all ready for tomorrow?’
As he spoke, hardly able to contain his excitement, I began to worry about Polly. No, worried wasn’t the right word … more like pissed off. She hadn’t told me she was going for a milkshake with Nico. Where was my bloody invite? A new thought occurred to me. What if rejecting Polly saw me exiled from the group? No, that wasn’t fair … and it was pretty much sexual blackmail in fact. There was no way I was letting her take my friends. If need be, I’d fight her for them.