Little Bang, page 4
Mum goes back upstairs with Dad’s tea and I slouch at the table as Smug Nigel comes down, dressed and whistling, just to remind us all that he’s a responsible drinker. Why does Smug Nigel have to exist in all the parallel universes?
“Two articles for the church mag, one job application and a healthy breakfast, and it’s not even lunchtime!” he says. “Getting a jump on the new year.”
“How productive of you,” I mutter. I feel like kicking him in the What Would Jesus Do? belt buckle he’s wearing. I want to stare nervously at my phone in peace.
He puts his hands on his hips the way he does when someone at Youth Fellowship isn’t being a team player. “And what have you achieved so far this year, Miss?” he says.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Nigel.”
“Not sure I would. I was young once,” he says, turning back to his Italian coffee maker that stinks out the whole house.
He turns on the radio for the morning news and I bury my thumping head in my arms, but it only muffles it.
… that 2018 could also be the year Ireland decriminalizes abortion. The Irish government say they will follow through on promises to hold a referendum to gauge public support for reforming Ireland’s abortion laws, which are currently among the most restrictive in Europe. After the success of the Same Sex Marriage Referendum in 2015, pro-choice campaigners are hopeful that…
Smug Nigel switches to some awful country station as Leah comes in with her breakfast plates and I almost feel a tiny bit of affection for him, because I know Leah can be unpredictably touchy about any subject involving babies at the moment.
But then he says, “I think we should go down.”
“Hmm?” she says.
“To Dublin. If they hold this referendum there’s bound to be protests. We could take a group down and help the protesters.”
Leah puts her plates in the sink and runs the tap, glancing at the clock. She works in a homeless shelter and, unlike pharmacies, they don’t close for bank holidays. “It’s only Ireland, isn’t it? It won’t affect Northern Ireland, even if it is passed.”
“Maybe not legally, but it’ll mean women crossing the border for abortions, won’t it? And it’ll be easier for them to argue for it here if it’s available in the South. These things end up happening because they get chipped away at, piece by piece.” He points a teaspoon at us. “We could get a big group from church to go down.”
“Sure, fine,” Leah says, but I get the feeling she’s not really listening. Some days she’s like that. I bet New Year’s Day is a tough day when all you think about is your biological clock. Or maybe the only way to be married to Smug Nigel is to check out periodically.
She turns to walk out as he says, “We’ll get a microphone rigged up. You could talk about our experience.”
She spins around. “What?”
“About infertility. And adoption.”
“You’re adopting?” This is news to me.
Leah just looks confusedly between me and Nigel. “No. Maybe. I mean, it’s an option. Nige, I don’t think… I’m not a public speaker.”
He comes over and takes her shoulders in his hands. “That’s exactly why people will listen to you, love. It’s personal stories that are going to sway this referendum.”
He walks back to the medicine drawer and takes out a packet of paracetamol. Not that responsible a drinker then. I hope he leaves some for me.
“Should we get involved though?” Leah says. “It’s not even our country.”
He snorts. “They’re not our wombs. Does that mean we just sit back and do nothing?”
“No, but—”
“All wombs belong to God, if you think about it. What right has anyone to go against His will for our bodies?”
He tosses two paracetamol back and shuts the drawer. “I feel like we should do something. We’ll make a weekend of it!”
“Right. Yeah.” Leah gives him a terse smile and walks out again as he starts prancing around the kitchen to Garth Brooks.
Leah’s never mentioned adoption before, but I guess she has to think about all the options. God, imagine giving your kid to Smug Nigel though.
“You can come with us, Mel!” he says.
“Oh. Um…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll talk to your parents,” he adds conspiratorially, like he’s doing me a favour.
I plonk a mug down for him to fill. I’ve decided the New Year Mel drinks coffee. The new hungover Mel definitely does.
I glance at my phone again. Still nothing from Sid.
Sid
“God, I remember my sixteenth,” Lucille says, yawning. “We were supposed to go bowling, but there was a bomb scare in the city centre so we ended up watching the controlled explosion and chatting to the soldiers. I think one of them kissed one of my mates, sleazy bastard.”
“Do I need to know about this?” I stare into a bowl of cereal I don’t want. If your household plumbing was making the noises my stomach is making right now, you’d cordon off the building. I could’ve sworn I wasn’t that pissed last night.
“Back then I couldn’t imagine being in the twenty-first century, never mind 2018. 2018!” She shakes her head. “When I was wee, I thought 2018 would look like a sci-fi movie.” She glances at the wine-sodden paper streamers and overflowing ashtrays littering our house. The curtains are still shut and the air smells like morning breath. “Isn’t that weird?” she says.
“Everything you do is weird.” I need to go to bed and die, but there are still drunk women in my room. There are drunk women all over the house. Lucille doesn’t look much better than me, but she’s made an effort with the make-up. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her without make-up. My own mother. I’ve been waiting forty-seven minutes for her to go away so I can text Mel in peace. If she doesn’t go soon, I’m going to evict Amy and Jenny from my room and do it there.
She pours herself more herbal tea. It smells rank. “So. Big sixteen!” she says, sitting across from me. “New year, new you. Any resolutions?”
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
She shrugs innocently. “Nothing. Just thinking. Employers have to pay you more when you’re sixteen, you know.”
Typical.
“Yeah, I’ll get right on it,” I mutter.
“Jenny says the garage are hiring. Night shift, but there’s a panic button.”
“Jesus, Lucille! It’s Day 1! I am sixteen and” – I glance at my watch – “like, ten hours. Let me catch my frigging breath.”
She sighs. “When I was your age, I had two jobs. I was determined to make something of myself even then,” she says. “And if you think I’m going to watch you drop out of school and sit around here doing nothing while I support you, you can catch yourself on. It’s for your own good.”
Aye, right. She’s just desperate for me to earn some money so I can move out as soon as possible and she can turn our upstairs into a yoga studio or something.
At lunchtime I give up and take my phone to the living room. The living room isn’t comfortable; it’s full of fake leather and marble and it’s always cold, but at least Lucille won’t bother me in here.
I sit there and stare at the phone screen.
Mel and I walked home together this morning. The whole way in almost total silence. Apparently 2018 looks exactly like 2017, except with empty streets and tumbleweed beer cans. And sixteen-year-old Sid feels exactly like fifteen-year-old Sid, except hungover. It was kind of disappointing.
I wanted to say something, but I really, really didn’t want to say the wrong thing. If I said I hadn’t meant for things to go that far, did that sound like regret? If I acted like I’d expected it, did that seem like I thought she was a slag? If I said it was good, did that sound full of myself? If I said it was lovely, did that sound soft? If I took her hand, did that seem clingy? If I asked if our date was still on, did that sound like I thought she’d do it with a guy she wasn’t planning to date?
Doing it was a lot less complicated than talking about it afterwards.
Becca and Mac said they’d come back for the tent in daylight so we scarpered early, before they arrived, though we never let on to each other that that’s what we were doing. I didn’t want her to think I was embarrassed. But I couldn’t help wondering if she was embarrassed. Or if she thought I thought she should be embarrassed? Oh, for God’s sake.
“Next New Year’s, I’m getting DM boots,” she said when we got to the corner of her road, where she made me stand behind a hedge in case her dad was watching through a window. “My socks have lost all structural integrity.”
I laughed, mainly with relief that someone had broken the silence. “You’ll probably get pneumonia and not live to see next New Year’s,” I said.
“Yeah. Pity. This one was fun.” She gave me a tiny, shy smile that turned into a shy giggle, and then we both laughed. Maybe no one needed to say anything.
“I’d better go,” she said.
“Yeah. OK. Well. Text you later?”
She nodded, we backed away awkwardly, and that was it. I probably should have kissed her but my mouth tasted minging.
Maybe I should wait until tomorrow to text her. Does texting today look desperate? Does texting tomorrow look fake-casual? I’ve no idea. The only thing I know is I like Mel. A lot. Like text her today a lot. I spend ten minutes working up the nerve – don’t say the wrong thing, don’t say the wrong thing – and tap on the picture I took of her last night, blinking her sea-glass green eyes at the camera.
Sid: If you do manage to invent time travel, can you tell 2017 Sid to stop drinking around 10 p.m. please?
Then I wait, chewing my leather bracelet. Anything under ten minutes is a good sign, I reckon. Anything under five is a New Year’s miracle.
She gets back to me in two.
Mel: I will/did/will have done. Don’t you remember?
Sid: Gagh! Don’t fuck with my head right now – it’s fragile.
Mel: Me too.
Mel’s so uncool she still uses emojis. I kind of love it.
Sid: And Lucille’s not helping. Bloody melter.
Mel: Why do you call your mum Lucille?
Sid: She just doesn’t suit Mum.
It’s true; she doesn’t. But I just got used to calling her Lucille when I was wee because everyone else did. I had no brothers or sisters to copy, so I copied the people in the aerobics classes she taught, which I had to go to until I was old enough to go to the roller rink by myself. I was the fittest eight-year-old in Northern Ireland, and to this day when I hear Britney Spears, my muscles twitch like I have PTSD.
Mel: I’d never get away with that. “Janet, Ted, I won’t be home for dinner. I’ll be out with my boyfriend”!!! Maybe it’d take the focus off the *boyfriend* bit.
Sid: Boyfriend? 2018 just gets better and better.
Mel: Is that OK?
Sid: That is very OK. (And also, do your parents not want you to date?)
Mel: They’re a bit old fashioned. What about Lucille?
Sid: She’ll just be well jel. She hasn’t had a boyfriend in months. Or *partner*, as she calls the poor sods. Sounds like they’re applying for a loan.
Mel: It’s probably really embarrassing to say boyfriend when you’re past thirty.
Sid: Which is why old people shouldn’t date.
I love that Mel and I never get to the point. We can just talk rubbish for hours.
Well, we can if we’re not interrupted.
Mel: I have to go. Mum’s looking for me.
Sid: OK. But, hey, before you go, I just wanted to ask…
Sid: …
Sid: …
God, I should have rehearsed this. She’s about to go and I’m about to say the wrong thing.
Mel: Meet me at the petrol station? Half an hour?
I exhale.
Sid:
Mel
If nothing changes, we can’t identify what is “past”, “present” or “future”. So it could be argued that time only exists where change occurs.
“Look at my photos from New Year’s Eve!” Becca thrusts her phone in my face as she opens her front door to me. “They’re rubbish!” She laughs. “Everyone looks like a ghost.”
We go up to her room, kick our shoes off and settle on her Riverdale duvet cover. “Perfect” by Ed Sheeran comes on her playlist, because she’s obsessed with him. It’s not Sid’s style of music at all, but it’s romantic and it reminds me of him. I smile. We’ve seen each other every day since. Which is five. Five days since. I wonder if everything in my life from now on is going to be measured in days since. If you were going to pick a date to lose your virginity then New Year’s Day was a good one. It’s not like I’ll ever forget.
“Look.” Becca flicks through her phone gallery. The first few are of the outfits she considered wearing for the party, but the last four are over-exposed, blurry shots of the sixteen of us huddled in the tent, bonfire-bright faces, eyes gleaming in the camera flash. The most unlikely group of people to ever have their arms round one another on the last night of the year. There’s the glint of a bottle, the blur of a hand and, in the corner, Sid grinning at me, me grinning at Sid.
“How much did you drink?” I ask, squinting at the blur.
“So annoying! Not one decent photo to remember the coolest party I’ve ever been to.”
“You think you’ll forget?”
She shrugs. “I’d still have liked a souvenir. Of the night I met Mac. To show our kids someday.”
“Mac?!”
“What? He’s well fit.” She giggles.
“This one’s not bad.” I scroll to the photo with me and Sid looking at each other.
“I’ll send it to you,” Becca says. “That was the last one before midnight. And then this” – she swipes to the one of us all standing round the bonfire holding up our drinks – “is after.”
Before and After. Yep. That about sums it up. The After photo is the most blurry of them all but I can make out Sid’s arm around my waist as I stand in front of him holding up my nth Bacardi Breezer.
Becca catches me smiling at photo-Sid. “Everyone knows, you know.”
My stomach drops. “Knows? Knows what?”
She laughs. “We all saw you kiss him at midnight. It wasn’t that dark.”
“Oh.” I smile, relieved.
“Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Are they?”
“What else is there to talk about? Wait till everyone at school hears. You and Sid McKee. Jeez, what will your parents say?”
My smile fades. “They don’t know yet.”
“I guessed that. You know how? Because you’re still allowed out of the house.” Then she gasps. “What will Matt say?”
I tut. “I am not going out with Matt. I was never going out with Matt.”
“Tell him that.” Becca sprawls on the bed so her cheek rests on her fist. “So. What happened after we left?” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively.
“Um…” I tilt my head, blushing and grinning.
“You didn’t!” She punches the duvet.
“Weeeeell…” I’m never the one with gossip to impart.
“Oh my God, did Melanie Watson finally lose it?” she squeals, and I shush her. Her parents are downstairs.
“Well…” I try not to look smug and fail miserably.
“Which one?” she says.
“W-what?” My confidence falters.
“Which virginity did you lose?”
I frown, back on the familiar ground of not knowing what she’s talking about.
“There’s more than one?” I say helplessly. Am I still a virgin? Do I have to do it again?
Becca just smiles pityingly. “There are loads. In no particular order, there’s your finger virginity, your penis virginity, your naked virginity, your skin-you-wouldn’t-show-your-Dad virginity, your tongue virginity, your drunk virginity, your sober virginity, your gay virginity, your straight virginity and your love virginity.”
I stare at her. “Is it just me or has the word ‘virginity’ lost all meaning? Sounds like a character from Harry Potter.”
“Well, I’ve done four,” she says. “I’m not saying which four.”
She doesn’t need to say. I already know. Not because she broadcasts it, but because these things have a habit of becoming common knowledge. I know that her “dictionary-definition virginity” at least is intact, whatever the state of the rest of them. All the girls in our little group are virgins. There are a few girls in our year who aren’t, and everyone knows who they are. Suddenly, I feel unsure about telling anyone what happened that night.
Anyway, I can’t find the words. Or I can, but the words seem embarrassing and silly compared to how it felt. That feeling as Sid slid his hand down over my stomach… I keep having flashbacks of that feeling. Is there a word in the English language for that feeling? There might be a word in German. Or a note in music or a colour in art or a movement in dance, but I’m pretty sure there isn’t a word in English.
Anyway, if Becca’s right about all the virginities, then most of mine are actually still intact. Love virginity? I suddenly wonder which virginity, if any, I was for Sid.
I muster a smile for Becca. “It was mostly kissing. Then we walked home. Got soaked.” I roll my eyes. She laughs, disappointed, but she believes me. Why wouldn’t she? It’s me.
She scrolls to the first photo of 2018 again and sighs. “Nothing really does change, does it? At New Year. Big countdown to bugger all. Just back to school on Monday.” She snorts and holds the photo up to me. “Look. We’re all exactly the same.”
CHAPTER 4
Mel
On our first day back, everyone lingers in the playground in the mizzling rain before the bell. Sid’s mates hide cigarettes in their curled palms and glance over at my friends, who pretend not to notice them. And then Sid arrives, bounces straight over to me and sweeps me up in a bear hug that makes the entire school stop to gawp at us. I can almost hear, You two? Really?
