Fic: Baby Girl, I'm a Blur - Chapter 10, Part 1 (1/2)
Title: Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
Author: interpol_ice
Fandom: Skins - Second Generation
Pairing: Naomi Campbell/Emily Fitch
Rating: T (naughty naught-T! not exactly T)
Summary: Naomi Campbell and the complications of having a twin for a
girlfriend. Distracting flashbacks and a lovesick mind keep her from telling
the night's story straight.
In this comedy of errors, the first thing that got right was letting Naomi
narrate. [Pre-Season 4]
CHAPTER 1 - How We'd Be (You and Me)
CHAPTER 2 - Swim or Die Without
CHAPTER 3 - Try Me On To See If I Fit
CHAPTER 4 - Lover Undercover
CHAPTER 5 - Pretty ODDyssey (X, Y & Z Units Away From Home)
CHAPTER 6 - Pretty ODDyssey (Here, You Can Be Anything)
CHAPTER 7 - Strange Bedfellows
CHAPTER 8 - StrangeR Bedfellows
CHAPTER 9 - The Boys Are Back In Town
Author's Notes: This has been way overdue, I know. There's no excuse
as to why this got delayed to post. But that was the time that needed to
pass to make this story as real as it could possibly be. I hope you guys
understand that things like this take time.
I think I've even lost a couple of readers along the way because of it.
But oh well, you guys are still here with me, right? To the loyal LJ crew,
this one's for you!
So I’m giving you lot two parts for Chapter 10 to compensate for the
postponement. I’ll post the last installment on Christmas Day. Because Santa
put you all on the Nice List this year. God knows you deserve extra treats. ;)
Special shout-outs go to flister, who helped me get most of my ideas
together. Flis, I adore you like Florentino Ariza loves Fermina Daza. And
then to my twitter friends! To @vangoghgurrl, who’s the reason why this
chapter’s finally up (thank you so much for the pressure, bb) and to
portmanteau_ddl, who told me what a DUFF was. XD
And to everyone else who’s read this through thick and thin, thanks so much.
Without further ado, the first part of the last installment!
EXPECT: Naomi getting FIT and FITCHED. The gang’s dressing up whereas
Cook’s cooped up. Party at Freddie’s Shed! Birthday boy’s to be in a
birthday suit (but it’s not what you think!), getting birthday cakes from a
couple in a Cold War. Any guesses on which duo that might be? Join the gang
as they encounter a Sexxbomb, the art crowd, a ten-year-old’s idea of fun
and their most formidable opponent yet...crazy parents.
Baby Girl, I'm a Blur
by interpol_ice
Chapter 10, Part 1: We’re on a Sinking Ship (We’re Escaping It)
= = = *** = = =
*
= = = ** NAOMI ** = = =
*
I’ve got this alarm clock. It’s a plastic panda wearing the basic colours.
Yellow shirt, blue jumper, then the tacky red bow tie. Black ears, black
circles round its eyes. The clock on its tummy.
I actually got this from Panda (yes, I couldn’t have guessed it either).
Christmas 2009.
What’s rather stupid about it is that it has no hand that ticks by the
second. So primitive, that I would’ve been better off with a fucking
pendulum. But really now. Look at it. It’s adorable. Why else would it still
be on my bedside table?
Emily calls it ‘Mister Panda’ and when you actually wake up to it every day,
greeted by its cheesy open-mouthed smile, it’s kind of fucking awesome.
Now, I just got up with that all familiar morning sickness you get from a
night of major acetaldehyde intoxication and the first thing I do (after
checking my mobile, texting Emily: good morning and Freddie: your welcome...
because I stayed up ‘til midnight to greet him a happy birthday) is check
the time on Mister Panda.
Just stare at it. Blankly. In a way that you don’t see familiar things
anymore with your eyes because you actually start looking at those things
with your memory. If I close my eyes Mister Panda will still be black and
white. He’ll still be in yellow, blue and red.
When I open them he doesn’t turn purple or pink or whatever. He doesn’t pull
shit like getting a new hat or a tattoo or anything and it’s great, you
know. How you can count on some things to stay the same.
And it feels like days have passed as I lie there doing absolutely nothing,
thinking a thousand thoughts per second. When I do tell the time though, I
find out that only three minutes have passed.
Funny how time fucks with you like this on some occasions. As the saying
goes, it flies by when you’re having the time of your life. And then it
can’t fly fast enough when you’re almost dying of torture or its less
painful cousin, boredom.
Time dilation: how clocks appear to be ticking slower when you’re in motion.
How Cook managed to land six punches on Liam Picton in under two seconds.
Cook plays football. He got in eleven kicks before I could count to five.
Length contraction: how objects appear to be shorter the faster they move.
How it was so fucking hard to grab a hold of Cook. A shoulder was there one
moment and the next, it just wasn’t. The same thing went for his arm, his
fists. Until Freddie and I decided (on desperation) to pull him away by his
jacket.
Einstein’s theories of relativity, yeah? Bending my reality that day. All
applicable to the disaster two weeks ago that’s now morosely called “that
weekend”.
What I remember most about it was how the panic made everything feel like
we’ve been at it for hours. Keith says the brawl and the keeping the two
wankers off of each other lasted five minutes tops.
It all happened so fast. I’m not joking here or anything when I say that it
all felt like it happened yesterday. I’ve still got vivid images of Cook
smashing this guy’s face out of recognition. It’s kind of fucking impossible
to forget things like that so here I am, thinking about it, reliving it in
my head ever since.
The police came in and we shouldn’t have been so surprised that they were
going to come but lo and behold, there they were anyway. They dragged Cook
away and got him in a police car. That police car then took him to the
centre.
They banged him up (not literally though, just a fancy way of saying they
got him in a cell) and we haven’t heard from him until three days later. And
the news didn’t come from Cook himself, it was Freddie and JJ who relayed
everything to the rest of us.
So Cook had a legal brief. A lawyer and the works. Standard procedure for
the detained.
But Cook... He was sort of unlucky. Unlucky in the sense that he got a
defense attorney who had a sparkling record of a hundred percent conviction
rate. Mr. Duncan Moss, at your service.
So you can pretty much say my dear boy was shitted.
There were about forty witnesses in the pub that night and about thirty
swearing that Cook hammered the guy so hard that they were all willing to
testify against him.
It was kind of thoughtless for Cook really. To still plead “not guilty” even
though he obviously did that bloke in. He got off easy, though. The judge
called for an electronic tagging order. A month of being confined in his
mum’s mansion of sorts.
When you compare it to prison, house arrest doesn’t seem so bad.
= = = = = = = =
I’ve never gone grocery shopping with Emily before. You know, like together.
Emily leads the way, scouring the aisles like she knows them by heart. Knows
where everything is, just so wicked fast and efficient. I’m having a rough
time trying to keep up with her, seeing as I’m pushing a cart whose wheels
could use a little oiling.
It’s eight minutes of whipping through aisles, only stopping so Emily can
load the cart with various baking items. Chocolate in all sorts of forms and
sweetness. A bag of flour. Cartons of buttermilk and heavy cream.
Emily leans over the metal cage, checks to see if she’s missed anything.
“Okay, we’re almost through.” And with a final sweep of her eyes she says,
“C’mon, Naomi.”
Emily steps forward with a hand pulling at the front of the cart. She takes
us to the biscuits section and I slowly get weak. Not a sick kind of weak,
more of a swelled heart in a chest about to explode and butterflies in the
stomach. That kind of deal, you know. All because of this, Act 1: Emily and
the Garibaldis.
It’s fucking cute. She can easily reach it without standing on her tiptoes
(she’s tall enough, really) but there she is, doing it anyway.
I was nineteen a second ago. Now I’m twelve and falling in love all over
again.
Emily turns to face me and the look I’m giving her is probably sends her
into a pool of self-consciousness. “What?”
She chews on her bottom lip and she’s being too sexy and cute that I can’t
be held responsible for melting inside.
“Nothing,” I say, my grip on the cart’s handlebars tightening and flicking
forward and back, like I’m revving it up. “It’s just that I can’t believe
how much we’ve grown.”
= = = = = = = =
We take a taxi back to theirs. It’s cosy in the back seat with a paper bag
propped against me on one side and Emily on the other. I circle her with an
arm, keeping her head snug on my shoulder. The sun fights through the window
tint, making things warmer than they already are.
Emily and I stay like that, hypnotised by the way our fingers are restless
against each other’s, our fingerprints kissing, locked in a sensual haze.
Like waves building up from opposite seas, weaving into each other for the
very first time.
And we almost forget that the taxi’s pulled in to their street and I groan
playfully as she draws away from me to straighten herself out.
“Yeah, right there. Number 11,” Emily tells the driver and he a second after
he’s stopping in front of her house. Emily turns to me with this look that
says she knows that it’s up to here for me.
Before getting out, she kisses my cheek goodbye.
Emily’s already on the pavement, turning around to hold her arms out for the
bag. I’ve got it on my lap and it’s heavier than it looks and realise that I
have an opportunity here. I don’t want to pass up this chance to be gallant
and shit.
I hurriedly lurch forward to tell the driver to wait here a bit and I
clamber out awkwardly to join a surprised-looking Emily.
“Tell you what, I’ll walk you to your door,” I declare proudly. And if I
weren’t hugging this bag to my chest I would’ve taken her hand ages ago.
Emily’s eyes flutter and she bites her lip again, her pink cheeks betraying
her already. It still gets me every time she goes all shy like that. And
when she cocks her head to the side with a slight smile that’s all ‘Shall
we, then?’ it feels like I’ve won something.
She starts walking and I pad along with her all the way to their door,
fuelled up on courage inside of me I never even knew I had.
“Wow. You’ve made it to our doormat. Does this mean you’re ready to have
dinner with my parents now?” she teases.
My narrowed eyes tell her all she needs to know.
Emily grins anyway. And all of a sudden she’s taller than I remembered. And
then it’s her on her tiptoes. A second after, it’s her lips on mine.
I can hear the paper bag between us crinkling as we kiss.
“Pick me up later, yeah? Don’t be late,” she says with the breath she gets
after releasing my lips.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I say, still drunk on her magic.
“Go on,” she says taking the groceries from my arms. The metre’s running,”
Then she does this cute thing where she points to the taxi with puckered
lips.
I step back a little, get a proper look at her. She’s wearing a ‘barely
there’ skirt above lavender tights. Hair topped off by a plaid bow that
matches her plaid blouse. So fucking gorgeous.
“Bye, hot stuff,” I say, fixing her fringe a little.
Her eyes close at my touch. “Arse-licker,” she says and she’s smiling that
smile that makes the rest of her glow. She looks so happy right now. And I
could die at this exact moment because I know I can get her like this.
= = = = = = = =
I feel a bit ridiculous when I come back to the Fitches earlier than
expected. And I’ve spent quite a while standing there, in an outfit that
I’ve deliberated on a good three hours: a TopShop fuchsia pink tea dress
underneath my trusty vintage beaded cashmere cardi. I’ve put on the right
amount of make-up and I even did my hair and everything. My attempts at
dressing to the nines.
Not wanting to be a complete cissy princess, I chose to wear punk boots
tonight. And thank fuck my 8-hole Doc Marten 1460’s make me feel an
appropriate amount of tough.
Mum wouldn’t stop saying shit about how pretty I was and it was embarrassing
because Keiran was there and we both had to endure Mum’s comments about my
‘apparent womanhood’ or fucking whatever that I had to get out there as soon
as fucking possible.
Now I realise that it was only right for her to have given me praise.
I mean...
I did make a proper effort for this, if I may say so myself. I wanted to
look extra nice for this party because... well, I’m pretty sure it’s going
to be the last one I’m going to have with my mates from college.
And there’s just something about it that gives me the feeling that it’s
going to be a good night.
Right fucking eventful, yeah?
"Why, hello!"
Might as well scare my own fucking ghost out of my body. It's that distinct
Liverpool accent and if you could give any bloke's voice a testosterone
injection he'd end up sounding like Rob Fitch. I fucking swear. I was too
lost in my thoughts to notice their garage door opening. I turn to my side
and there he is, in a tracksuit and trainers.
I'm still a good deal apart from him so I let out a deep sigh while I still
have the chance. I like Rob... it's just that I've tried avoiding him ever
since Emily told me that he always gave Katie's boyfriends something to
'look forward to' if they ever crossed the line.
So since I apparently lack ninja skills and there's no way of escaping him
now, I'm pretty sure that tonight's going to be the night that Rob Fitch
gives me that death sentence.
“Don’t just stand there, dear. Come in, come in,” he beckons before walking
back into the garage.
Is that supposed to be an invitation or something? Seriously now?
“Kid, you know it’s chilly out there. In you go,” he calls from inside.
Okay. So he is serious.
With sheer will and determination I manage to drag my lead-heavy self into
the garage. Rob's wiping his hands with a towel when I stand before him.
He's so huge in person and I thank God that he didn’t pass his genes of
massive-osity to the twins.
My paranoia grows when he swings the towel around his neck. This means his
hands are free and he can now ball them into fists to hit me with. I know
it's kind of ridiculous for me to be thinking this but Rob Fitch is more
than a little intimidating. Emily's father might as well be Mike Tyson for
fuck’s sake.
He scans me from head to toe and he's back to my head again, looking at me
with scarily bright eyes and I'm feeling sorry for myself because all my
neurotransmitters are having a fucking panic attack or something.
"Emily's still getting ready," Rob says with that permanent Cheshire smile
of his that gives one the impression that the nitrous oxide administered to
him one dentist appointment long ago has done him irrevocable damage.
This is what's weird about Rob. You can't really tell if he likes you or not
because he smiles like that at everyone and for all I know he really fucking
hates my guts even though Emily assures me occasionally that "he doesn't and
if you must know, he actually thinks you're sweet."
It sounds more than I could ever bargain for so I'm not totally buying that
yet. No, not when Rob is wearing his too-happy psycho poker face that I just
have to get used to because I need to get on with her family.
To my relief he rests his hands on his hips. There I hope they'll stay. But it
really hasn't helped because he's increased his authoritative vibe and
now I'm back to freaking out again.
"She said you'd come around by six," he says with a “why are you early?”
undertone.
"Oh, well. You know me," I say trying my fucking hardest to not be so high-
pitched. I'm fucking fake-fanning myself, giggling nervously going, "I can
get awfully excited about... your daughter."
Rob’s eyes widen and I immediately deduce that I’ve just said the wrong
thing.
What the fuck? What was that shit you just came up with, Campbell? Excited
about your daughter? Great... You’re just great at making a horny twat of
yourself in front of her dad now, aren’t you?
Oh, fuck this. I was never good with dads. It could’ve helped me if mine
stayed with me but no. He just fancied fucking off and now that bastard’s
still out there, probably fathering more lesbians.
“What was that?”
“Nothing. I mean, I couldn’t wait to see her, sir.”
In fact, at this very moment I’m willing so hard for her to materialise
already and save me from this torture.
Rob’s face softens. “Sure, you can’t,” he says in what I like to believe is
a humourous tone.
“My Emsy,” he goes, affectionately. “She’s my special little soldier, that
one. Lovely, lovely girl.”
The way he says it. It’s priceless. Emily’s always said she liked her dad
better. Now I know why.
“I couldn’t agree more, Sir.”
“Please don’t call me Sir,” he answers promptly.
“Mr. Fitch?” I try.
And then he starts laughing at me.
“Really, Naomi, love,” he says, shaking his head and laying an oddly
comforting hand on my shoulder. “If you want to win me over you better start
calling me Rob.”
“Okay, then... Rob,” I say, giving it a go.
His face then shines of approval and I feel like I’m actually scoring some
points here. And Campbell’s back in the game!
Rob lets go of my shoulder and resumes back to packing some things into
boxes. Their garage is full of all sorts of shit and this tiny, cramped
space is a china shop and I feel like a fucking bull.
“Just clearing some stuff out,” he says while wrapping some old teacups with
newspaper and then stacking the carefully wrapped china into a box labelled
‘Fragile’. Then he steps over to the shelves to get a rackety old toaster.
“Probably hand this in to Oxfam or something.”
Usually, I’d have so much more to say about Oxfam. Enough to be able to go
on a long-winded discussion about it, mind you. I’m all about fighting
poverty and injustice and Oxfam fits the bill. Get me pissed on a good night
then I’ll talk.
But as of now, the only thing I can come up with is this:
“Yeah, Oxfam sounds... great.”
And then Rob looks at me like I caught a bug or something and I decide from
then on that I’ll have to excruciatingly go over my answers in my head
before I actually voice them out.
I maintain my silence a good two minutes, just nodding my head politely at
everything he says, thinking, “thank fuck he won’t shut up.”
That is, until he asks...
“So... You’re taking my little champion to Mexico, eh?”
The question makes my ears ring. “She told you that?” I croak awkwardly
before clearing my throat.
Rob stops fidgeting with a broken coffeemaker to give me his full attention
as he nods. “She’s right excited about it too. Nothing has put that smile
off her face in days.”
I try my best to not look so smug about it so I manage to tame my big, goofy
grin into a more polite smile. “Yeah, I am,” I say softly, looking him in
the eye. I think he can hear the pride in my voice.
We stare at each other for a bit. And I don’t know what to fucking do or
say. Does he want to know more? I don’t want him to know that I plan on
making love to his daughter every time a Mexican tries to cross the border.
Because that’s a lot of times, you know what I’m saying?
“Right,” Rob goes, getting back to his work and for a second there I thought
I was off the hook. But then, of course, he’s a fucking father so he drops
the coffeemaker back onto the shelf hastily and turns to me with a fucking
purpose.
He takes in a deep breath, like he doesn’t want to be doing this to me. I
feel sorry for him a little. This is the obligatory ‘father-must-scare-
daughter’s-boyfriend-(in this case, girlfriend)-into-a-very-nice-state-of-
shitless’ and God knows how hard that must be on any bloke.
“Okay, Naomi,” he starts strictly. “Don’t think you’ve got it easy because
you’re a lady and all that, but if anything happens to my girl... You get
the drill, kid?”
I gulp audibly. “You’ll hunt me down like a dog?” I say, trying for humour
but my quavering voice just makes me sound like a terrified mouse.
Rob presses his lips together, and for a second there, I can almost see
Emily in him. And he nods sympathetically.
Then he stares me down with frenzied eyes, completing his mission.
“That all, Mr. Fi-umm... Rob?” I ask quietly.
It’s almost kind of amazing, you know. How his face transforms from being
ultra-cross to being warm again.
“I’ve gotta say, you look beautiful tonight, Naomi. I like what you did with
your hair,” he says in earnest. He’s making wavy motions around his head and
now I’m liking Rob more than I thought was possible and oh, fuck he’s making
me blush.
I look away shyly and mutter my thanks. Rob’s actually kind of lovely, you
know.
“All right then,” he says, clapping his hands together energetically. “Sorry
to have kept you. Emily’s probably in the kitchen. You know her, she makes a
right fuss about her cakes.”
I break into a snigger. “Tell me about it. She wouldn’t even let me help her
bake it. Scared I’ll add too much flour or something.”
“I did that once. She didn’t talk to me for three days,” Rob says, pensive.
And then we share a little laugh. And I never imagined that I would ever have
this kind of fun with any of Emily’s parents.
The chuckling dies down and then I finally manage to say, “I should get going,”
with a regret that surprises even myself.
“Yeah, you should... Oh, and Naomi?”
I turn around and give him my utmost concentration.
“You bring her back home in one piece, all right?”
There’s something about the way he says it that makes me think that he
doesn’t only mean tonight. That makes me think he means Mexico even more.
= = = = = = = =
I come across Katie as she’s speeding down the stairs.
She hits the bottom step and she stays there. It gives her a little height
boost so now we’re more or less level (seeing as I’m not a munchkin),
putting her in a favourable position to inspect me.
“You look...nice,” she notes, like she feels as if admitting it makes her a
lesser person. That’s Katie for you. And that’s what makes me appreciate the
comment even more.
“Thanks. You look ‘nice’ as well,” I say with a smirk that Katie just
obligingly rolls her eyes at. “Just had a chat with your dad,” I add,
following Katie into their living room where she checks herself out in the
big mirror across the TV.
She’s got her hair in a tamed bun and she looks more mature than I’ve ever
seen her. Like you can mistake her for someone’s mum or something. And Katie
still has her eyes on her reflection as she says to me, “Did he say he’d
hunt you down like a dog?”
I laugh. Katie seems to be very experienced with this, you know, on account
of her never not having a boyfriend since she was seven. I reckon that’s ten
years of Rob giving the same speech over and over again.
“He did. But he was actually pretty nice about it,” I say with a smug smile
that Katie catches in the mirror.
“Alright,” she says, turning around to face me with her hands on her hips.
“He’ll go golden retriever on your arse, then. Consider yourself extremely
lucky.”
Katie looks me up and down but the way she does it is just the right amount
of concern and critical that I’m not offended by it at all. She comes closer
and picks a piece of lint on my off my cardigan.
We stare at that bit of lint floating between us for a while. Down, down,
down it goes. Until it hits the carpet. Then I lift my eyes back up to
Katie. I find her with a ghost of a grin on her lips.
“Don’t look so fucking worried, Campbell,” she says, slapping me playfully
on the arm. “We’ll work on getting Mum around.”
Am I hearing right? Did Katie just offer me her assistance? No way...
“You’re shitting me, right?”
Katie shakes her head in this sad, mock-sympathy kind of way. “Afraid not,
babe.”
Wow. She’s not joking. Fucking hell.
“So does this mean you like me now?” I say suggestively. I bat my eyes for
effect.
“I guess...” she says. Then she thinks about it a little more and finally
figures out what context I meant and now she’s got that oh expression of
clarity on her face.
“Not in a lezza way though!” she says hotly. “So don’t get any fucking
ideas.”
= = = = = = = =
“That’s quite a heavenly-looking cake,” I say into her red hair after I came
up from behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist.
Her hands still and she sighs happily. She places a lid over the cake box in
one delicate motion before tilting her head back into me. I nuzzle myself
into the column of her sweet-scented neck.
“So you’re going to carry that if you want me to add your name on the gift
card,” she says, going over the plan again. I love how she likes getting
trivial things like this absolutely perfect.
“Is this how couples do gifts?” I mumble into her jaw and she hums at the
feeling.
“Yeah, it works like that. I make the cake. You make sure Cook doesn’t eat
it.”
On a normal day this would’ve been funny. But Cook isn’t going to be at
Freddie’s later. Emily realizes this a little too late and the immediate
drop of her mood indicates her guilt.
She parts from my relenting hold and grabs the roll of blue ribbon off the
counter.
Emily has a conscience. It’s one of the things I admire about her. How she
honestly cares for other people. How she hates hurting anyone. But she
didn’t mean it like that and it was only a joke. So it’s my job to make her
feel better.
I move forward and stand by her side in front of their kitchen marble. I
watch as she pulls out a lengthy strip of sapphire. My hand is already
around a pair of scissors before her fingers can even stretch for it.
I snap the scissors open, blades at the ready and Emily, taking advantage of
my assistance, holds up the ribbon with two hands in between the area I’m
supposed to cut.
Snip.
Now, that wasn’t so hard.
“Oh, the perils I have to go through to get my name on the gift card,” I say
dramatically, brandishing my lethal pair of scissors like a bevvied medieval
bastard.
Emily catches fire slowly. It takes a while but she laughs in spite of
herself, shaking her head at me as she hands over the cake.
I take it but put it back onto the counter. She’s confused at first but then
I take her hands and slowly turn her until we’re full-frontal. It’s the
first time she’s really looked at me tonight.
Oh, Christ... She’s looking at me in this way I think I can’t possibly ever
deserve.
“Naomi, you’re...” she starts, voice so awe-struck.
I cut her off with a kiss.
“As are you, babe,” I say breathlessly, after I pull away.
I step back to take the sight of her in. Oh, fuck. She’s gorgeous in this
silky, pink party dress she’s wearing over her favourite black tee. The
dress covers most of the shirt’s design but I know that it’s the one that
has letters encased in hearts that spell:
W E
W I L L
L A S T
Her hair smells of her coconut shampoo (the one she uses for special
occasions) and here it is before me, looking so soft, lustrous and
touchable.
“Jinx,” I call, moving my head from side to side, showing off my waves.
She doesn’t laugh, really concentrated on pulling me over to her with
smouldering eyes. I go closer, ever so closer, until I can feel her exhaled
air landing wonderfully warm on my skin. And just like that, we’re kissing
again.
I’m too caught up in Emily to give a fuck about anything else. A moment ago
you could still call us ‘decent’. Now we’re pretty much ruining each other’s
lipstick. But before we try anything more daring we hear the sound of a
throat being cleared.
My head whips to the source and just as my dread predicts there, at the
doorway stands Jenna Fitch. This is all my worst nightmares rolled into one.
I need not say more.
Emily and I break apart and pretend that we weren’t just snogging in the
kitchen. And you can pretty much figure out that this plan of nonchalance is
rather fucking useless at this point.
“Why, if it isn’t Naomi,” Jenna says in that God-awful Scottish accent of
hers that I sometimes hear when I’m about to go to sleep at night.
“Mum,” Emily says as a warning. She hates it when Jenna sticks her nose in
our business.
“Hello, Mrs. Fitch,” I say, willing myself to keep my shit together.
Jenna gives me a predatory top-to-bottom sweep of her eyes. Emily hurries as
she wraps the blue ribbon around the cake box. She shares my sentiments,
wanting to get out of here as soon as possible.
Shit. This is just fucking great now, isn’t it?
Jenna crosses her arms. “The girls tell me you got 3 A’s.”
“Excuse me?” I say. I heard what she said, but I just don’t understand why
Jenna’s bringing this up in the first place.
“Katie also says you’ve got a place at Oxford,” she continues, so fucking
malicious about everything. “On a scholarship.”
It’s true, I do. Keiran pushed me to apply for that new Margaret Thatcher
scholarship at Somerville. I figured, ‘fuck it, what the hell’ so I wrote
some essays, sat some interviews, got myself some decent grades. But I never
counted on being one of the ten grantees so I didn’t find it worth
mentioning. Not even to Emily.
I don’t know how Katie came upon this information though. I haven’t told
anyone that I got it.
Anyone except...
Effy. I’ve only told Effy.
Then Emily turns to me with this ‘fucking explain yourself’ expression, eyes
shaded with a quiet rage.
And Jenna, she’s got this plastic smile on that’s so awful I’d be so happy
if I shot myself to be rid of it. I don’t know what Jenna’s playing at but
if it’s her intention to get Emily mad at me then she’s doing fucking swell.
“You must be terribly excited. Oxford in the fall, hmmm?” Jenna asks me and
just... FUCK HER, you know? She has no business prying into my life like
this.
“Mum,” Emily says angrily, banging a fist to the counter. “I told you, we’re
going travelling this year.”
Jenna turns to her daughter. Looks at Emily as if she’s sorry for her. This
whole exchange makes my fucking blood simmer.
“Emily, Are you even sure that’s what Naomi wants?”
It’s kind of alarming. The question catches Emily completely off-guard. Her
posture’s recoiled. Eyes wide. Jaw clenched.
Something in me snaps, seeing her like this.
Then both of them turn to me expectantly. Here I am again. Damned if I do,
damned if I don’t. Fucked either way.
I hate how Jenna of all fucking people has to be the one who spotted this
loophole, this chink in my armour.
Fucking bollocks.
I can’t lie... and I don’t exactly have a truth to tell.
Sorry for being anti-climactic but I don’t have any answers to that at the
moment.
I can’t face Emily. I know that I’ve just broken her heart in some way. I
know her enough to know I’ve hurt her just now.
She won’t show it to Jenna though. Jenna who’s looking more satisfied by the
second for successfully driving me into a very tight corner.
Emily won’t give her mother the satisfaction. “We’re leaving,” Emily says,
picking the box up off the counter with this finality. She storms out
without another word leaving me all alone with Jenna.
Jenna and her twisted lips.
“Goodbye, Mrs. Fitch,” I say, aiming for polite but missing it by a fucking
mile. I suddenly feel sick. Like my stomach spliced open and now I had all
my guts pouring out.
I get out of there, chasing after Emily’s wake.
= = = = = = = =
Emily and I don’t speak all the way to Freddie’s. I don’t feel like I look.
I don’t feel good.
So it’s Katie’s endless chatter, filling up the taxi for most of the part.
Now I know she hates CSI (because she finds it very hard to understand,
apparently) and that she took forever to adjust her bra straps just right
(“else my tits would’ve looked uneven. Imagine lopsided tits… fucking awful,
that”).
When we get there, entering Freddie’s almighty shed of skater memorabilia,
party décor all around, the mood lightens up considerably. JJ, Freddie and his
older sister, Karen are gathered around a little cargo crate playing Ace of Truth.
I take a second longer while looking at Karen. Apart from that Johnny White party
at the Thekla, I’ve never bumped into Freddie’s sister ever again. And I’m
sort of embarrassed to say that I almost forgot
what she looks like.
As she’s sitting there with the boys, she’s got a pink feather boa that’s
draped around her neck. It would’ve been ridiculously out of place if it
weren’t for her white and pink dress combination. Besides her overly
feminine and showy style, she’s actually very gorgeous.
Just like Freddie. He’s as fit as they come but we don’t tell him that.
Because, really. That would be weird.
Pandora and Effy are settled on the couch, taking turns poking each other’s
face with noisy, unrolled party blowers stuck to their mouths. Thomas is at
one corner, working with some sound equipment that he probably got to borrow
from the club he works at.
Freddie bounds up to us rubbing his hands together excitedly. He opens his
arms wide, inviting the twins for a hug. It’s cute, really. Because he’s so
big and they’re so small. He releases them and he motions around. “Welcome
to my shed,” he says, this place his pride and fucking joy.
I hand over his cake, say a quick, “Happy birthday!” and he fucking beams
like it’s Christmas times five.
“Emily made this,” I say.
“I know,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Freddie
opens the box, revealing its chocolate glory to the world, and goes,
“Fucking fantastic, Ems! Thanks!”
He gives Emily a grateful look before bounding over to the table where all
the food is and places the cake there.
I turn to Emily. I say to her, in a very accusatory tone, “I thought this
was a couple gift?”
“It is,” Emily says, casually. “You weren’t supposed to say I made it.”
“But you did,” I say plainly.
“We made it. I thought that was the lie we agreed on? That we made this
together?”
Together, Naomi. That’s what you and Emily are. Please get that in your
fucking head.
“Oh... Right,” I say in all its hopelessness.
And it isn’t enough for Emily. No, not right now.
She walks away, goes to where Katie is, by the punch bowl. And I feel like I
was a second too late from stopping the world from ending.
= = = = = = = =
It’s a fucking surprise, really. When Thomas finishes setting up and
provides us with surround sound, Freddie and Karen immediately break into a
K-Pop inspired dance number. I don’t know what Freddie did but he was
obviously blackmailed into doing this. Knowing Freddie, he’d never jump into
a tight-fitting dress suit (complete with a fucking fedora) to bust a move
to some Korean boy band song he didn’t understand a word of.
It would’ve been fucking hilarious, you know. How horrible Freddie looks as
he messes up the dance steps that Karen’s contrastingly executing with all
the energy of Michael Jackson and the eerie precision of a drill team.
It would’ve been fucking hilarious if Emily wasn’t fucking mad at me. We’re
seated next to each other on the couch, watching the McClair sibling
display, and it’s like there’s this fucking wall between us that doesn’t let
her see me.
We’re touching.
Our arms. Our shoulders. The fabrics of our skirts. They’re all touching
I feel us touching. But it’s as if Emily doesn’t.
So I will myself to concentrate harder on how Freddie’s failing at shaking
his fucking bon-bon. I will myself to think it the funniest fucking thing to
ever grace the earth.
I’m fucked, really. I can’t even fake a laugh.
So I move onto Karen. And yeah, she’s fit as fuck with her skin wet with
perspiration, her exposed areas commanding everyone’s attention, her hair
whipping around like a proper whore. The tone of her arms, of her stomach...
Wish she were smaller though. Wish her face was softer.
Her skin, paler.
Her voice, lower.
Her hair, red.
I’m fucked, really. I can’t even fake liking someone else.
So I go back to how idiotic Freddie is, forgetting Karen easily.
Wish I could do the same with Emily, though. Wish I could forget her. Even
for a while.
Fat chance, that.
= = = = = = = =
An hour later Freddie has already opened all his presents, everyone has got
to taste and praise Emily’s (our) cake and the party’s basically peaked
early.
Everyone is already in some level of ‘pissed’ or ‘buzzed’ or ‘brooding’ or a
combination of the three. Emily and I still aren’t speaking. Katie, Effy and
Panda are off on one corner fooling around and making what Panda calls
Le Whizzer Musique Magnifique.
I’m dead serious, you know. She really fucking said that.
It’s a mystery how, but Panda’s managed to bring in some of those native
instruments from her Interpretative Dancing class. She’s more than happy to
make Katie bang on a xylophone-looking contraption and Effy shake a maraca
all while she’s pressing keys to this weird Japanese techy synthesizer
thing.
Karen and Emily are having an animated chat about fuck knows what near the
snack table and I find myself having to block out the sound of Emily’s merry
bursts of laughter every now and then. Karen seems to really fascinate her.
You know, all that shit I said about Karen’s hot body? I’d like to take that
all back now.
I’ve been openly staring at them a while now. I’m here with the boys at
Thomas’ fortress of sound. Freddie and JJ are dropping song requests in a
‘top of the head’ fashion and they’re being such twats, unable to decide on
the songs that Thomas ignores them mostly.
Being stuck with them is better than being obviously moping and alone while
my girlfriend’s there, being chatted up by a Sexxbomb. There! She’s doing it
again! Laughing at Karen’s cleverness or whatever.
This is fucking torture. She won’t even look at me!
“Cook likes that song,” JJ says, hosing down my jealous streak by the mere
mention of Cook’s name.
“Right, ‘Ace of Spades’. Really got him in the fucking mood,” Freddie says
quietly, mostly to himself.
I get back to Emily and Karen. Karen’s whispering something to her and Emily
gets this really cheeky look on her face and my hands instinctively ball up.
I seriously consider going over there to show Karen a piece of my mind... or
like, you know, a piece of my fist.
What I wasn’t expecting is Freddie and JJ busting into a serious sing-along.
It steals everyone else’s attention because they’re doing air guitars and
some really ridiculous head banging. Some point along the dork dance, JJ
manages to get his shoe tangled in a web of cable and one swift jerk of his
foot unplugs the power and puts the music to an abrupt halt.
Then Freddie speaks up, breaking the awkward silence and ironically making
it more awkward. “It’s my fucking birthday. I want to see my best mate.”
Wait, he’s not serious, is he? It’s not like we’re going to actually leave
this party to go visit Cook. No way in bollocks that’s going to happen.
But when Effy takes out her keys, she’s already single-handedly sealed all
our fates.
(2/2) found here:
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