Fic: Mistaken for Strangers - Part 2
So I dig caves in every mountain in search of your soul
And then, when I’ve found you with my fingers all stiff and cold
I’m gonna kiss you on the forehead and do all I can
To bury you deeper this time to look for you all over again
- Paper Bird, “Matchstick Man”
* * *
“Matty’s having a gig later tonight,” Nick says to you all in the common room. He’s also handing out free apples. His eyes scan the room like a hawk, looking to grow his audience. He finds one of his mates who’s still on the rugby team and points at him to get the guy’s attention.
“Oi, Darwin. Matty’s on at Toxic Amplifier later. Tell your boys!” he says, crossing back over into his Captain mode. Nick throws him an apple and the guy misses it and gets hit in the face instead.
Nick holds his hand up apologetically but Darwin’s already walking away. Nick sniggers and like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he puts his arm around Liv.
“He was always shit at receiving,” he tells us. “It’s a wonder he’s still on the line-up.”
“Yeah, that’s what you say…” Liv turns to the lot of you, announces, “His aim was totally off.”
Nick turns to Liv. “You’re mean, you know that?”
“I’m mean? I’m not the one hitting people in the face with fruit.”
They share a laugh. Liv smiles, despite herself.
If those two are getting on again, there’s no reason why you and Franky shouldn’t be either. So you try to catch her eye.
Problem is… she just won’t let you.
* * *
You’re late on purpose, not excited about this at all. You get there and Matty’s already at the front with his keyboard. Grace says they’re just about to start. The sound checks are dying down and Matty speaks into the mic, working the audience.
“This first song goes out to the light who never goes out…”
He’s looking at her and, well, yeah… Basically everyone in the fucking room knows how he feels.
It’s not fair. Because there isn’t any skywriting big enough to tell the world, tell her how you feel, while he’s here, doing all this insufferable crazy-eye-shit and fucking hell, why is it so easy for him?
Right now, you want the deepest oceans to open and swallow you up.
* * *
The song is about wanting and things you can’t have. Full of metaphors that are supposed to be sad but très très romantique.
It gets Franky to blush. His voice breaks a little, at this extra emotional part, and you can’t help notice how much Franky looks like a girl right now, her eyes taken by him completely.
* * *
“Mins, you alright?”
She hasn’t spoken to you in days and all of a sudden she’s asking you if you’re okay. Well, apart from the fact that you can’t write a fucking song about her, yeah, you’re fucking fantastic.
“Actually, I think I’ll be going out for some air…” you say, already getting off your seat.
* * *
Outside, the brick walls of Toxic Amplifier are lined with posters and stickers of bands you don’t recognise. Even the big trash bin has marks of obscure names in their music scene. You feel it all the more, how you don’t fit in this world.
Rich also happens to be there. He’s speaking with who you believe to be the owner of the club. His name’s Bob, Toxic Bob, and aside from owning the club he’s got a record shop hidden somewhere in South Bristol. You’ve heard from Liv that it was Rich who helped Matty get the gig so this might be why he’s out here, chatting Toxic Bobby up like they’re really great bowling buddies or whatever.
Toxic Bob pats Rich’s back a couple of times before passing you and giving you a look that tells you that he’s surprised to see a girl like you at a place like this. He shrugs his shoulders and gets back inside. Then Rich sees you and you give him a polite nod. He comes a little closer.
“That was Bob. He owns the place. They think Matty and his guys are good… for progressive indie drum and bass, I mean.”
His hair’s long enough to earn him immunity from Justin Bieber jokes and it’s taking a while to get used to.
“And am I supposed to call Matty’s progressive indie drum and nonsense music?”
Rich rolls his eyes. “Yeah, whatever.” He shoves his hands into his pockets before walking away.
God, must you be such a bitch?
He’s grabbed the door open and he’s already ducking through the doorway but instead of disappearing in completely, he turns around and quickly makes his way back to you.
“Alright, out with it.”
“What?”
“Well, something’s obviously bothering you. You’re out here. All alone. No posse.”
When he says ‘posse’, you almost can’t tell whether you want to A) laugh in-or B) punch-his face.
“What is it then?” he says, looking concerned… Amazingly.
So when did he get so fucking sensitive? You sigh. Figure it wouldn’t hurt talking to him. “You and Grace. Have you ever wondered…”
“Why we’re together?”
You nod sheepishly when he leans back, possibly offended. He examines you, trying to figure out your intentions. Like fuck he’ll understand where you’re coming from.
So you laugh a bit nervously, not wanting to seem so desperate for an answer. Like this conversation isn’t a big deal. “Yeah, because you’re both so-”
“Bizarrely different, I know.”
Today you find out that Richard Hardbeck is your soul mate. He’s finishing your sentences like the two of you were separated at birth.
“Of course I wondered. Grace and I had nothing in common…”
“So how did it happen? What did you do?”
Rich smiles and it’s not like him. To be smiling. Especially at someone like you.
“I guess I just let it happen. Opposites attract, McGuinness. Think magnets, yeah? They’re always going to need to be together and you could try and keep them apart, but that pull between them… You can’t make that go away.”
* * *
There’s a distance. A strain with her. It gets to you and that’s why you put sugar in the salt-shaker and get stuck in the fucking revolving door (on your way to Maths) for an extra round and forget that your bicep curls go for five reps. Not four.
Dying to see her. This is what it’s called.
You’re Mini McGuinness. You don’t wait around and let fate work its lazy course. You make things happen.
* * *
She picks up after the eighth ring.
“Hello?”
“Can I come over?”
* * *
You’re in her inner sanctum and it’s so nice and cosy in here. Her attic, where it’s closer to the stars.
It’s your first time here and when she goes downstairs to get something, you whizz around the room and scrutinise everything with so much concentration, it’s kind of retarded. Franky’s got her decks by the window and her walls have posters of movies and bands from every decade.
In one corner there’s a miniature cardboard street. It has small-scale buildings, lampposts and buses and everything. Like a recycled town. And standing a few feet away from the set-up is a tripod. You’re going to have to ask her about that sooner or later. So you have something to say those times you feel like striking up a random conversation with her (which, by the way, was all the time).
Then you spot a sewing machine and of course a wizard like her, who makes all these unconventional fashion pieces, would have something like that in her room. You pause and see it in your head. Franky in a reality show competition. Something like Project Runway or Work of Art. It intimidates you, that those aren’t total impossibilities.
Franky, she knows how to do most things. To make most things. She’s so handy. You could picture living in a small house, just you and her. And she’ll know how to do everything. She’ll fix shit if it’s broken and she’ll screw light bulbs in and she’ll spoon-feed you chicken soup when you’re down with a nasty cold and she’ll even fucking walk the dog, a Scottish Terrier that you’ll dress in these tiny chic doggie dresses and name Cher.
She’ll make you believe that you won’t ever need anybody else in your whole life.
The door swings open and she’s back. She has a bottle of vodka in one hand and Apple Sourz in the other. She holds the Apple Sourz up. “Heard it’s your favourite.”
You laugh. “Well, you’ve heard right.”
She smiles. “Good.”
Good.
* * *
For a moment there, you feel like a tit for forcing this. The two of you talk but it’s mostly about nothing and it’s quiet and not the good kind. You want to say something one second but you stop because you feel like she wants to be saying something too. So you’re just there, feeling all sorts of silly and asking yourself, “What the fuck am I doing?”
She reads you something from The Little Prince. It’s the chapter with the Little Prince and a fox and a rose. It’s about taming things. And how you’re responsible for the things you’ve tamed. And the time you spent on something, that’s what makes it unique and special.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” she says, the book still open on her lap, the illustrations upside-down from where you are.
It’s a kid’s story and it’s almost too simple that you can’t understand it… But yeah, if it makes Franky’s eyes light up like that then you suppose it is.
* * *
She’s a little stoned. So are you. And the both of you spend the rest of the afternoon lying on her bed, talking and listening to La Roux and it’s so nice that you don’t mind that there’s this big space and an empty bottle of Sladki between the two of you.
Franky scoots in a little closer to light your second spliff. She stays there, next to you and you’re there wishing something would fucking happen. You take a drag and blow the smoke out into her face because you reckon it’d be erotic or whatever. And it kind of is, really, because her eyes slowly flutter shut when the smoke drifts over her… and when they open again they show you the most comforting kind of brown.
And then something does happen…
“Touching,” she says, face sad. “I don’t like it much.”
Minutes pass. So do some other words. Even then, she still hasn’t stopped dancing her fingers across your skin.
* * *
It gets better since you more or less do everything with her now. You’re at her house almost every day and you’ve gotten to know her dads. You don’t have a dad. She has two. And you want to steal one away from her but you don’t know which because they’re both so lovely.
Jeff teaches you how to bake and he’s always on about baking being a ‘science, not an art.’ And you don’t exactly gorge down on his cakes and pastries but you get a real kick out of the smells, especially when something comes fresh and hot out of the oven.
And then there’s Geoff. And he’s just so old and spirited, someone you should’ve known when you were a kid. He’s always telling you stories about his life, and he tells them in this corny theatrical way that you’re kind of looking forward to every visit.
(Though you still absolutely detest that he thinks there’s nothing wrong with wearing wifebeaters over t-shirts.)
You start joining them for tea and you have them both there, sat across their marble tea table. The teasing, the anecdotes, the knowing smiles, the way they always have to be touching somehow. And you kind of envy how they play against another. Like how two people in love should be. And Franky’s there, absently popping hors d’oeuvres in her mouth, and you think I fucking want this for us too.
* * *
Roundview plans to revive the Love Ball tradition for Valentine’s Day and you’re absolutely delighted about this. Any chance to dress to the nines give you the fucking butterflies.
Blood calls on you to organise the whole shebang of course. Parties and social events are your thing, and he knows this. Through the months, Blood’s always been asking your opinion on things. Sometimes you find yourself in his office, picking out which bowties went best with his Italian suits.
It cracks you up because he honestly thinks you know best. It’s not that you don’t. Really, it isn’t. It’s just that… this, all this fashion stuff… it’s not all you know.
* * *
You’re pure perfection in an ivory Grecian dress and your hair, loose curls, all held in a pretty updo.
The ball’s in the college Main Hall and when you walk in, you’re not exaggerating or anything, but everyone drops what they’re doing just to look at you. Even the fucking music dies down a bit. You’re a fucking show-stopper, exactly as planned.
Franky sees you and she’s just as stunned as the rest of them. She’s looking at you in that way you’ve only dreamed about and what makes it even more perfect is that she’s there, across the room, in this sleek black tuxedo. Thin lapel tie, tapered slacks, hair extra neat, looking so fucking killer that when she comes over, you have to remind yourself a bazillion times to keep your fucking cool.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
You can barely get your words out.
* * *
The highlight of your night is when she asks Alo if she could cut in and dance with you. The song’s slow. Arms-around-her kind of slow. You’re absolutely thrilled.
You’re taller than her, more so with your heels on, but it’s still pretty sweet. You worry that she can hear your heart. Her head’s just about where it is, beating like a crazy bastard.
* * *
Doug comes on stage a little late into the night and he holds his hands up to the DJ to stop the music. He tells everyone Nick’s won an award. A Prom King type award. “On this day of hearts, I’m happy to crown the king of them all! Roundview College, say hello to your new King of Hearts…”
He’s corny as fuck but he’s got everybody in the mood and they start cheering and all. Nick gets so many pats on the back as he walks through the crowd and Doug shakes his hand when he steps onto the stage. He gets a tacky looking crown with a tacky looking sceptre and he’s standing there with a faux-nervous expression, waiting for the next winner.
And it’s no surprise or whatever, when Doug calls out your name. Queen of fucking Hearts. Try putting that on a fucking resume. Still, you’re smiling wide and giggly. It’s stuff you can always fall back on whenever you get an inferiority complex when you’re older, when you have a shit job or something. You can always tell people that you won Queen of Hearts during your days at Roundview.
* * *
The King and Queen are supposed to have the first dance because that’s how it goes. Nick’s fast on his feet but he carries you okay. He knows his shit. He twirls you round and the both of you sway to the edges of the crowd and then back to the center of the dance floor and then back to the edges of the crowd again. They all go nuts and the girls, you can hear them sigh. The spotlight’s on you and him and you’re supposed to be bathing in its glory, really in the fucking moment and whatever… But every spin, every turn, you’re looking for another face.
And when you don’t find it, your thoughts fly.
Next thing, it’s all questions and worries. You want to stay still and get mindfucked in peace but your situation won’t allow for it. So you keep moving along. Clumsier. Like a giraffe on stilts. It’s a good thing that Nick doesn’t complain every time you step on his toes.
* * *
You dance with some people with half a heart. You’re trading moves with Alo when Liv bursts into the scene, all troubled. She drags you to the side and tells you where Franky is. “I don’t know what’s up. Even Grace can’t get her to talk.”
Liv looks at you, expectant. “Do something.”
* * *
Matty’s there with her. He’s cleaned up and you don’t remember seeing him inside. You believe he thinks these school functions are a joke and a waste of money or something. But yeah, he’s here and he’s dressed decent, very different from his shabby, usual self. They’re not speaking, you notice, and that’s when Matty spots you.
His face darkens and he gets up. He leaves her without saying good bye and he slows down to a stop in front of you to say, “Well then, bodyguard,” clearly bitter about something. He’s got this dangerous tongue so you only glare at him because you aren’t really in the mood for a verbal spar.
Matty shrugs his shoulders and looks over his shoulder, taking one last look at Franky. “Go on, try your luck,” he says icily.
Franky’s sitting on the curb, hugging a half-empty bottle to her stomach. Her little puffs of breath are visible in the air, in the February cold, and she’s on that fucking curb and it makes you feel so awful. You want so desperately to rush to her now-now-now but there’s something stopping you and you wait until Matty’s out of sight before you do anything.
He’s gone and you take in a big breath. Then you walk.
“Babe.”
You don’t know why that came out of your mouth, it just sort of did. The pavement is dirty and your dress is cleaner than Snow White’s fucking face but you sit down next to her anyway. “What’s going on?”
You feel pretty stupid, asking it. They, Liv and Grace and Matty… They’ve probably asked the same thing.
“I dunno. I just feel shit. Really, really shit.”
You’re hyper-aware of everything. The dust in the air, the colours of cars driving by. The sound she makes when she’s screwing the bottle cap open. The stench gives the vodka away. It’s always vodka. You should’ve guessed.
Franky passes the bottle to you and you take a swig. You keep the bottle with you because you think she’s had more than enough.
She keeps poking and bumping into you. Like a puppy or something. “Give it back. Give it back.” She’s got a hand on your shoulder and that’s her mantra as she shakes you. She’s moving you harder, thinking you’ll drop the fucking bottle and when your stupid crown falls off you decide that her antics are annoying the shit out of you.
But then Franky gives up. She starts touching your face with clumsy fingers, they’re tracing all over. Your nose, lips, your eyelids.
“Why are you so goddamn beautiful?” Franky says, so goddamn drunk.
And you don’t know what to say to that. You just don’t.
“I’ll take you home,” you finally settle on, after a pained bout of silence.
* * *
“Franks, hey.” You shake her a bit. Try to be as gentle as you can. “Franky, wake up. We’re here.” You pat her head one more time before exiting the cab and stepping onto the pavement.
A second later, her head juts out. “Where?” she says sleepily.
You step aside, so she can see her front door. And when she does, her eyes kind of widen really quickly and suddenly she’s all alert now and everything, you couldn’t believe she spent the last half hour being such a magnificent twat.
“Shit. I can’t go in there. I’m not… I’m not right… proper… whatever.”
She’s right. She is a mess.
Well, that’s twenty-five quid of taxi money down the drain. You put your hands on her hips and stare down at her hard, deliberately patronising.
“My dads’ll kill me,” she says in this miserable tone and she doesn’t know that she’s doing it but she’s asking you for something and she has no idea what that is. So you get back in the cab and spell it out for her.
“We’ll go to my place then. Mum’s out all night anyway. No one’s going to be there. How does that sound?”
She stares at you blankly for a bit, and you’re about to repeat the question but then she starts nodding her head furiously and muttering, “Yeah, yeah. Your place. Better.”
You shut the door, not exactly ecstatic about taking her home. You hated bringing people over. Your house is fucking tiny and your mum is fucking embarrassing ninety percent of the time.
The driver gets your address and the cab starts moving again. You imagine Franky in your cramped house, knocking things over because she had no room to move. You feel the makings of an anxiety attack.
But then Franky drops her head on your shoulder but she sort of misses so she nuzzles further into you, into your tits and everything. It tickles and you try very hard to keep still and breathe slow so she’d stay like that, exactly like that, against you.
You’re not that scared anymore. And maybe it won’t be so bad, having her in the house.
The radio’s on. Franky knows the words. Well, the choruses mostly. At some of the verses, she just hums. The windows are rolled down and the night chill rushes inside as the taxi moves in and out of a thousand streetlights.
It’s like one of those rides. The ones in amusement parks that give you this clawing feeling at the pit of your stomach. It’s like that right now and you don’t want it to end.
* * *
She’s in your room. The girl you jerk off to in the cover of these very four walls. She’s in here, sat on one corner of your bed, looking like a dashing, windswept prince and it’s a little hard to believe.
“Mind turning around?”
Franky picks a spot on the floor and stares hard at it. That’s good enough for you and with your back to her, you change out of your Grecian dress and into a chemise. You do it quick and when you whip around, lo and behold…
She’s staring.
You want to, but you won’t call her on it. She’s blushing hard enough already.
“I need to use the-”
“Second door on the right,” you say before she could finish.
Franky bolts out of there for the bathroom and while she’s away you start thinking about all the ways this night could play out. You’re so hot and bothered by the time she comes back that you casually suggest that she should take her clothes off.
“C’mon, let’s get you ready for bed,” you say, not meaning to make it sound wrong. But it kind of did and at this point, you expect her to run off again. But by some twist of fate… that or she’s probably too pissed to notice your advances, she stays where she is.
You hesitantly reach for the lapels of her jacket. Let your fingers curl around them. You take the jacket off of her and the wind the movement creates lets you catch a hint of her perfume mixed with spilt alcohol in the black satin. You hang it up so it won’t get all wrinkled, inhaling it deeply one last time.
She’s waiting for you to finish and she’s just keeping still and watching you do all this. It’s kind of like having a ghost in the room. The thought’s amusing so when you walk back to her, you feel less tense. More capable of chit-chat.
“You looked pretty sharp tonight, Franks,” you say, loosening her tie.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
The tie slides off around her collar as you pull at it. After this, you make the mistake of looking into her eyes. You’re a fucking goner again.
It becomes hard to speak because your brain really can’t handle that right now. It’s too much fucking effort, trying not to pass out in front of her and your hands are shaking as you undo the buttons of her blouse.
You’re halfway down when she realises what you’re doing and that’s when she makes you stop. She says, “No,” and your hands still immediately.
And she’s looking at you and you’re looking at her and all you want to do right now is rip this shirt right down the middle and do to her what you always thought of doing to her when you had your hand in your knickers all those nights you couldn’t sleep. And you’re not so sure about what to do with your fingers but you’re going to pry her open and try to twist and bruise her insides. Fuck her so hard and so good she won’t be able to take it the next time.
You’re filthy. Disgusting. And you might just go through with it. How can anyone think of that and not do it? She’s practically at your mercy and you could have her any way you wanted tonight.
Control. Repression. Moderation. You don’t know what these words mean anymore.
So it’s kind of impossible, what you end up doing next.
It’s at the open collar where you reach for first. Your fingers are on her neck then slipping into the inside of her shirt and smoothly, ever so smoothly, you part your hands to opposite sides. They slide across and away on her shoulders, carrying the fabric with them. Her shoulders, they’re now bare, and the skin you feel here makes you wish nobody else has touched it before because it’s smooth and incredible and oh, God, you should be the only one.
Franky watches you in some sort of mellowed surprise. And you try to keep your eyes trained on hers. Try to tell her things. Quietly.
You love how she’s so warm underneath your hold. How your fingertips graze over her bra-strap, picking up sweat along the way. You even love the way your thumbs climb the slope of her collarbones. She’s that small, that you can get a hold of everything all at once.
And slowly, you move your right hand aside and kiss her where it used to be. She draws in a breath and her shoulders rise. Your lips are pressed on her skin and you think yes when she tips her head back so you could, maybe, touch her everywhere else.
So it’s kind of impossible, what you end up doing next.
You pull away and pull the fabric back up. She blinks disbelievingly as you button her shirt to the top with a dexterity that baffles even you. She’s fully-clothed but you get her into your bed anyway then you wait until she falls asleep.
You have never slept on the floor of your own room before. Ever. But you close your eyes happily. You’ve got her and you’ve got that dizzy-good feeling.
* * *
There’s a note on your bed the next morning. You fucking hate notes in the mornings.
Had to go. Thanks.
- F
That’s all it says. After everything you did, that’s all she has to say.
So you cry a bit.
Actually, a lot.
Then you go to the gym.
* * *
So you freaked her out.
At college, save for English and Psychology, you don’t see much of her and you work out that she’s purposively avoiding you because Grace and Alo and Rich have all said that they’ve seen her around.
Franky doesn’t answer your calls. Or your texts. Two days ago, you crossed Pero’s Bridge, about to throw your fucking mobile into the waters because her name never-ever-ever shows up. But then your mum calls to ask you where you left the 5-pound weights because her biceps are bordering jello and you end up talking to her until you reach your house and by then you’ve already forgotten that you wanted to get rid of the blasted thing.
You feel so fucked.
* * *
Your mum takes you out to dinner one night and asks you how you are. The entire time you’re rearranging your food, piling them up together so it’d look like there are spaces on the plate. So it’d look like you’ve eaten some. Your mum doesn’t notice. She never notices when something isn’t right.
She never notices that something isn’t right even when you say, “I’m living the fucking dream, Mum.”
* * *
You tell her that same night. Just after she takes her coat off and pours you some late night tea. You tell her.
Mum, I’m in love with a girl.
Then you sort of, sob in her arms and tell her everything else until you fall asleep.
She doesn’t say anything the entire time. It’s like she knew all along. And it’s nice. Your mum being like a real mum.
* * *
It’s been two weeks and today, you wake up wanting some fucking explanation. You hunt Franky down at college after third period and you get her into the closest room where you could lose your shit in private. That room, in some perfect coincidence, happens to be the Drama Room. Where the walls are soundproofed and without the spotlights, the stage is dark. This is your chance to just go ahead and use the energy of the place to knock yourself out.
You make her sit down. You want her to look smaller than she already is. So you can gather enough courage to say what you need to.
“You can’t keep doing this!”
“Doing what?” she says, hysteric.
You want to slap her for playing dumb. You want to, so fucking bad.
“For fuck’s sakes! Making me feel like I’m the most special girl in the world… Like I’m more than what everyone else thinks of me…” You’re crying. Go figure. Well, at least her eyes are watering up as well. At least she fucking feels a tiny bit guilty.
“…and then you take it back,” you say, spitting out the words. “You can’t just do that. Say all this nice shit and not mean it.”
Her cheeks are wet too right now and you’re so satisfied, seeing her like this. That you can hurt her just as much as she hurt you. She gets up and she moves for you, tries to grab at your arm but against every instinct, you step away.
She didn’t expect that at all. You didn’t either. And she just looks at you, stunned. You turn away.
“I didn’t take anything back. I meant it all.”
You wipe at your eyes, try to control your breathing, needing your voice back. “You haven’t looked at me properly for days. And not a word. You’ve been ignoring me.”
“Mini, I wasn’t ignoring you.”
“Then what the fuck are you doing!”
She’s got her head down. When she speaks, it’s different but familiar. “I dunno. I just… didn’t like, I don’t know how to be around you anymore,” she says lamely. “Don’t get me wrong, I want to… but…”
“But what?”
“It’s all just too much, okay?” Franky says, voice all raised and fuck. She’s looking at you now and you notice that she’s stopped crying. “You’re the most gorgeous girl I know and you…” She hesitates. Breathes heavily for a bit. “And you want me. That shit just doesn’t happen in real life. What did you expect me to do?”
She’s standing there, honestly waiting for you to answer that stupid, stupid question and it breaks your heart.
You can’t believe yourself. You’re always chasing after the wrong people.
“Fuck, Franky. This isn’t fair.”
And you leave her there that day. You feel absolutely horrible about it, but your only other option would have been staying. And staying? Staying would’ve been worse.
Only God knows where you’d be if you stayed.
* * *
Sometimes, it escapes your mind. For an hour or two, you’re lost in reruns of Countdown and telly-surfing. The emptiness, the freedom from feeling. It’s so safe and undemanding that you think you can actually pass for a sane person.
But sometimes, you step out into the sun and remember that you hate her.
You really hate Franky Fitzgerald.
* * *
Liv helps. She was never keen on sushi but she goes to Masa with you anyway, because she knows that sushi’s the only food you eat three pieces of in one sitting. On those afternoons you wield chopsticks and pick out food from a conveyor belt. Then you and Liv check out the stiff people in suits having their corporate lunches. You pick out the fuckable ones and Liv smiles wickedly when you gesture discreetly at the brunette with these heels you’d kill to have.
* * *
Your mum helps. She takes you out shopping every other day and you don’t know where she gets the money but so far, your wardrobe has undergone a massive growth spurt with six new dresses, three new skirts, four new extra-sexy tops and a pair of black, sparkly flats from H&M.
At night, when you’re doing coursework, you put Madonna on. When “Material Girl” starts, you get up and dance around in your room.
’Cause we are living in a material world and I am a material girl.
You see all these price tags you still have to cut off and you’re as giddy as Rebecca Black on a fucking Friday.
* * *
Alo helps. He says you should smile more often.
So you do.
* * *
Prince William and Kate were spotted in some charity event and there are photos of them looking good-natured and the very vision of propriety alongside Becks and Posh. Next page. Daniel Radcliffe holding hands with Emma Watson. Then, a zoom-in of their linked fingers. There’s a diamond ring on Emma’s. The text surrounding the pictures are outrageous. Half the world is rejoicing and the other half is going apeshit. Next page. Lady Gaga claiming Amy Winehouse possessed her and wrote a song. “I just woke up and I didn’t even remember doing it. Then I saw it on the walls. In Sharpie. Crazy. I feel blessed.” There are shots of a hotel room’s ruined paint job. A mess of lyrics in permanent marker.
Funny how shit like that is going to sell for, like, a billion dollars one day. That’s how it works in the modern world and it’s hard… getting your head around that.
You look up from your copy of Heat and you catch Franky Fitzgerald looking at you. You glare back at her and she doesn’t look away… which is a first… but still, she should seriously stop looking at you so tragically. She’s sitting there, staring, doing absolutely nothing about anything and what? You’ll have her fucking babies now?
She makes you sick so you get up and read Heat somewhere else.
* * *
“I’m over her.”
“Yeah, sure you are,” Liv says.
“Bitch. I fucking am.”
“Okay, you’re over her. Happy?”
* * *
Nick and Alo are always around. And when Nick’s busy cracking shit jokes and stealing glances at Liv from the corner of his eye, you and Alo get along marvellously. He’s like this big, tall kid and being around him gets you wearing bright colours again.
He’s always calling you Minerva, though. It’s so archaic, it just might catch on.
* * *
Alo puts his arm around you and greets you by saying, “Farm-fresh eggs, you can’t go wrong.” He’s having a fantastic morning, that much you can tell. Then Alo does something that he’s never done before. He kisses the top of your head.
And the thing is… Everyone sees him do this.
The common room stops for a second and all eyes are stuck and curious on you and him. You catch Franky straightening up, looking at the two of you with a growing interest.
Alo notices every one staring. His arm slowly slides off your shoulders. “What?” he whines. “I showered this morning!”
* * *
So there’s a fucking rumour now. That you’re dating Alo.
At the hallways, you pass by each other and some arseholes are being so obvious as to slow down and wait for something to happen between the two of you.
His messenger bag strap is slung across his chest and he grabs at it awkwardly, frowning as he walks. Everyone starts leaning against their lockers, expectant. Fucking bastards wanting to see you eat his face on the way to the college green. What else do they want? Popcorn to go with the show?
Alo looks up in time and you manage to hold his eyes. He shrugs apologetically. He knows what’s going on and he knows it isn’t true. Knows it doesn’t amount to a discussion.
You smile at him. A small smile.
And he smiles back. It’s smaller.
* * *
You’re in the library, revising for a pop quiz in Economics that Grace was kind enough to warn you about. It’s quick since you’ve actually listened during the lessons and you’re pretty sure you’ve got the concepts down. European Economy, your professor’s favourite reference is such a boring read that you spend a full minute staring mindlessly at a fucking pie-chart.
You don’t notice someone taking the seat next to you.
“Hey.”
You pretend you didn’t hear. She’s been gone for a long time and this just might be another one of your hallucinations. Another one of your episodes.
Out of the corner of your eye you can see her brown boy-hair, a maroon jacket, her braces shimmering with her own spit.
You turn a page with purpose and once again, it’s chock-full of lines and bars you don’t understand. She hasn’t taken the hint to fuck off yet and you don’t want this at all, being able to smell her again. It reminds you that you always used to be with her. That she always used to be this close.
“So… you and Alo?” she says, being really subtle.
“Oh, so you give a shit now?”
“Mini…”
You’re shoving pens and notebooks back into your bag like a madwoman. You get to your feet and shut European Economy close, picking it up with shaky hands.
You leave violently, like a fucking whirlwind.
* * *
So what the fuck was that all about?
It makes you furious, how it’s so easy for her. To sit down next to you, act like nothing happened, and ask if all the lies were true. Jesus, what an insensitive dick.
You sink yourself deeper into your couch. You’re watching Clueless again, in a bathrobe, and telling yourself that the encounter with her yesterday was nothing. It’s nothing and she doesn’t want you.
There’s popcorn and a pizza box on the coffee table where your feet are propped. You’ve taken enough slices to leave a Pacman shape inside the carton. You’re bloated but determined to make yourself feel more awful.
You’re downing Diet Coke (like it makes a fucking difference) and there’s a gossip magazine in your lap that you look down at every ten minutes, circling all the sweat stains (with a pink marker) all while listening to Cher’s troubled soliloquies about being young, loaded, and being unconsciously in love with her ex-stepbrother.
Clueless always manages to make you feel better and as the credits roll, nearing its end with the official soundtrack list, you catch a glimpse of one of the prominent songs in the movie. It was your anthem back when you were like… eight or something.
You’re going to be a supermodel and your hair’s going to shine like the sun. You’re going to go by your real name. Minerva. And all the boys will want you but you’ll be fucking their girlfriends behind their backs and life’s going to go by so fast, so meaninglessly, that one day, it’s not going to matter to you anymore. That there was this girl at college who missed out on what the both of you could have been.
* * *
Monday morning, you get a note. You hate notes in the morning.
Nick flicks it over so that it lands on your desk. You look to him and cock an eyebrow and he just grins back. He’s probably asking to copy your Maths coursework so you unfold it slowly, expecting his chunky penmanship and a seemingly innocent suggestion that he borrow yours so he can ‘countercheck’ it with his.
So the note’s staring you in the face and it’s the last thing you expect it to be.
I’ll make your week. I promise.
- F
You read it again. Twice more. Another time. Then another. It’s very short so you lose count over how many times you’ve read it.
Your hand balls up into a fist and the note’s as good as trash right now.
She can’t possibly be serious. What’s she playing at?
You’re sat at the front (you’re that type of girl) so you turn around and she’s there, two rows back, steadily returning your gaze.
Franky starts smirking quizically like she’s so fucking determined about whatever she’s got in mind and you’re about to mouth a pretty nasty ‘fuck off’ but then think it better to just not give her any type of satisfaction.
You face forwards again, feeling dizzy and troubled all of a sudden. Even though Josie and her sock puppets aren’t exactly the greatest show on earth, you still try your hardest to pay attention and not glance behind you for the rest of the period.
* * *
Tuesday.
You wake up to a thumping sound and after you check the clock and discover that it’s three in the fucking morning you realise that someone is throwing fucking pebbles at your window.
You make the mistake of drawing apart your curtains. Franky sees you and you immediately step back, further into the darkness of your room.
The bed’s still warm when you return and slide underneath the duvet. You take your pillow and cling at it, not really knowing what to do. You’re still groggy from sleep but you’re already this unbearable mix of scared and nervous.
It’s quiet for a bit and you’re biting into the pillow, trying not to feel anything. You want her to go away. To stop playing with your fucking mind.
Franky is certain you’re awake so she starts reciting these lines and you don’t know much about literature so you really hate it because you happen to actually know they’re Neruda and for fuck’s sake they’re already gorgeous on their own, but when she reads them they become a million times lovelier.
There are so many things you’re pulled into doing right now and it takes all of your willpower to stay where you are. You pull the sheets tighter against you, imagining a python coiled around a dying animal. How that animal shouldn’t be able to move anymore.
You have to keep where you are. You just have to.
So you lie there and she goes through six or seven sonnets and it’s like listening to a dream.
She gives up after half an hour. Then she throws a couple more stones at your window, an effort to coax you out. After that, nothing. The silence makes you get up and peek through your curtains. The sinking feeling you get when you see the empty street hits you so hard, you’re disgusted with yourself for being so affected.
* * *
On Wednesday afternoon, it’s raining hard. The kind of weather that starts off apocalypse movies. History is being a boring fuck and you keep looking out the window and the parking lot’s outside and you watch all the cars getting drenched, dazzled by comparison.
The professor, one of those oldie-disciplinarian types, calls for your attention and you apologise and make a show of scribbling furiously in your notebook, hoping to appear that you’re very much in the mood for the rest of the lecture.
Next thing, there’s a song playing somewhere. It’s drowned out by the rain so you can’t tell what it is. Heads are turning left and right, trying to locate where the music is coming from and it’s not long before Alo points outside and says, “Where the fuck did she get that ghetto blaster?”
Everyone whips their heads to where Alo’s pointing and Jesus Christ, it’s her again. She’s standing on the back of a pickup truck in combat parking, holding up a boombox that’s just about half her size. The sight of her, under the rain, eyeliner fucked and smudged. She looks like a raccoon and you can see her teeth chattering like mad. The sight of her like this does something to you.
The professor frets about and mumbles expletives under his breath before opening a window and shouting at her. “You think it’s funny? Oh, you have nerve, you punk! I’ll report you and Blood will have your head, young man.”
And of course the History professor, presumptuous twat he is, mistakes her for a boy.
He rushes out in a huff, leaving the room. This prompts the rest of the class to open the other windows and after that, the song’s audible enough to be recognised. It’s from that nineties movie, Can’t Hardly Wait.
Yazoo’s “Only You”. A classic from 1982.
Boys cheer her on and some girls don’t even bother concealing their desire. They start chatting amongst themselves, speculating and jealous. They’re dying to discover who Franky is doing all this for. Alo leans in and catches the bulk of their conversation and while he’s towering over them he shoots you a knowing look.
You want to kick him in the nuts.
When you poke your head out of the window, Franky brings the boombox down and sets it on a raised knee. She cranks the volume up and then thrusts the boombox out again, higher above her.
All I needed was the love you gave
All I needed for another day
And all I ever knew
Only you
* * *
Thursday.
You’re rushing past people in the courtyard and Liv’s trying to keep up with you. This is normal on Thursdays, on your way to your next class. You’re running late again because you and Liv got carried away, practising for the weekly Spanish oral.
You get held up by a commotion in the courtyard. People are pointing at the sky and cupping their hands over their eyes so they can see despite the glare of the sun. Following suit, you spot a miniature plane flitting across the bright blue.
Trailing behind the plane, like a paper snake, is a banner. It’s too far to read and all this fanfare loses its appeal to you because you have Spanish in five minutes. Liv follows your lead and the two of you cut the crowd in half and you’re surprised at just how easy that was.
Turns out, the crazy toy plane lowered altitude and that’s why they were getting out of the way. Now, you’re not hallucinating or anything, but you swear to Christ that it’s going straight at you. You’re rooted to the spot by fear. If that thing ruins your hair or what, you will blow this fucking school up.
But something changes within you. The plane’s zoning in closer and you don’t know why but you’re not so scared anymore. You trust it not to hit you and you just stand there, sort of daring the damned thing to do otherwise.
Go on. Go on, hit me.
The plane turns at the last possible second and it goes on and makes lazy, teasing circles around you. You can make the banner out now. The letters were cut out from cardboard and they’re big and painted white. This close, they’re impossible to miss and your heart stops after you’ve read them all.
I MISS YOU.
The roof. Something tells you to look up, to the roof. You squint and tilt your head back and there she is, on top of the P.E. department. She’s holding a big controller, with an antenna and everything, and she’s grinning down at you, braces glinting in the light.
“You’re blushing.”
You steady your breathing and ignore how weak your knees are right now. Franky’s still smiling at you. Crazy and hopeful. It kills you.
You glance away, dismissive. The crowd gasps. (They really fucking do.) So you walk on, heels clicking dangerously on the concrete. You remind yourself that you’re over this and watch the plane one more time before turning to Liv. “Don’t, okay? Just don’t.”
Liv doesn’t stop smirking. She says something in Spanish. She says it fast so you don’t quite catch it.
“What did you say?” And Liv knows every time you ask that, you mean a translation.
Liv leaps in front of you, stopping you in your tracks. “I said,” she starts, pausing emphatically to spread her arms out.
“Love is in the air.”
* * *
Friday.
You reckon that she saved the big finale for today. What else could possibly be left up her sleeve? You’re distracted and restless the whole morning, on the lookout for more surprises. By the afternoon, right after the last bell rings, you’re a bit hysterical because nothing has happened the entire day and you’re walking the hallways slowly, knocking into people by accident. Stalling. You don’t want to go home yet. You want to wait some more.
For what? She’s been trying to win you over all week, what else are you asking for?
Exactly. You’re a fucking fool.
The exact moment you realise this, the fire alarm goes off. You panic and run as fast as your heels will allow. Then the floor gets too slippery and you’re tottering gracelessly down the hall. You don’t want to risk a faceplant so you’re forced to move more cautiously. With your pace slower, you notice something.
The walls (which you swear were white a minute ago) are stained a light green. You’re stood there, smelling the air. The sweet sting. And then you start tasting your fingers.
It’s not water.
It comes back to you in waves. That night, in her room. The way she laughs, the way she speaks, the way her eyes close. The way your heart shook when she touched you.
You remember how she came bursting back into the attic with drinks. Eager to please.
Heard it’s your favourite.
You’re all alone and wet and sticky. You cup your hands to catch the liquid and the clear green that pools up delights you in a way even rocket scientists can’t explain. Outside you can hear delirious screams and people barking out orders and sirens blaring. Background music of a riot. There might be a fire somewhere inside the building but you don’t really care.
In fact, you haven’t smiled this big in weeks.
* * *
Back when you were younger your mum always used to take you out for picnics at Brandon Hill. She liked the high places so she could look down at all the people. She always brought you back to the same hill, to the same spot. And when she wasn’t watching over you, her eyes were on strangers. What they were doing. What they were wearing. Who they were with.
Just one look at a person and she thought she had them down.
A little older, a little wiser, you realise that it’s not always like that.
Sometimes, to get to know someone, you’ve got to split them open. See their insides.
* * *
Not much has changed when you were seven. People who visit Brandon Hill are still up to the same things on the weekends. Children are either chasing each other around or trying to skip stones in the ponds. There are middle-aged men running, shirts flapping against the curve of their beer bellies. Women are walking their little dogs. Teenagers pass, haggard pictures rubbing at their temples, obviously hung over from last night.
People still prefer hogging entire benches which explains why half of them in the park are occupied by one person.
Case in point: the old lady reading on the bench at the base of Cabot Tower. Her glasses perch low on her nose and they’re about to fall off. As you approach her, with plans of sharing the bench, you steal a glance at the cover of the book in her lap and discover that it’s Nicholas Sparks.
You try to suppress a snort but fail at that fantastically. She looks up from The Last Song to give you a massive glare for disturbing her. You want to flip her off and you toy with the idea for a second or two before turning directions and walking until the urge to offend the ancient sap disappears. You sit on the grass instead.
Now, you look up to watch the clouds sail over and cover the sun so that its beams come down in different intensities. Your eyes start to hurt so you close them. Feel the warmth hit your skin. The anger subsides, little by little, and is replaced completely with a strange surge when you see Franky Fitzgerald making her way up the hill.
The moment is absolutely perfect. Every step she takes, you imagine a planet falling in line. Birds are sounding off, the light goes soft and the breeze rustles through everything and carries scents of trees and flowers.
You breathe deeply and you finally get it now. That story she read to you. About the little prince and the rose and the fox. All along, it was about how people became important to each other.
* * *
“I found you,” she says. With a relief that tells you that she’s been looking all day and she’s from Oxford and it’s just so easy to get lost in Bristol. Because of this, you allow her a slight nod.
And she senses your reserve. “Right,” she says, walking up to you. “An apology is in order.”
You’ve got your legs stretched out on the grass and she gets down, to one side of them. “You see,” she begins, on her knees in front of you. “I was overwhelmed. Like I said, you’re too pretty for me.”
That’s bullshit but you keep your mouth shut. You wanted an explanation and now that you’re getting it so no matter how ridiculous it is, you decide it’s best to just listen.
“But then, I mustn’t look that bad, right?” she says, your silence not seeming to faze her. “Since you fancy me and everything…” she mumbles, ducking her head down shyly. And then she turns to you, mock-serious. “You do fancy me, don’t you?”
Fucking adorable wanker.
You love it and because you can’t help yourself, you smile. Still, you refuse to speak. Not until Franky starts saying things you need to hear.
But you have to hand it to her. She knows just how to charm you, going on ahead and laying on the grass, just resting her head on your lap. The weight of it, of everything she knows, pleasant. Your eyes trail over her entire length. Her chest rises and falls. She’s got her hands clasped together, on top of her stomach. Her legs are crossed at the ankle.
Franky’s got Top-Siders on. Something dads would wear on Sundays when they were out with their kids and not arsed enough to wear socks. And she’s moving, jerking them around to some jaunty song in her head. Her feet seem to be in a good mood and you think you want to remember this forever.
In the distance a boy buys balloons for a girl. They’re your age and they’ve got balloons. They let them go and watch as the balls of colour scatter in the sky and it’s amazing. They laugh. They kiss.
Then Franky’s shoes stop dancing. “I really am sorry, you know.”
You’ve always had a standard reply to this. No one has ever been an exception. Not your mum. Not even Liv.
Show me how sorry you are.
But you’re better than that. You’re different now and she’s played such a huge part in that, so instead, you say, “I know.” You tear your eyes away from the floating reds, yellows, greens and blues to smile at her. “Next time don’t be such a shithead, yeah?”
She laughs softly. “Right. That’s a deal.”
When they’re too high up, the balloons start bursting, one by one. The couple is gone and it’s only now that you feel the grass tickling the back of your calves. She gets a hand to her hair, fixes her fringe. Sweeps it down in feathery wisps so that it covers her eyes.
“And you do know that you deserve so much better than me, don’t you?”
You reach out with a tentative hand. Get the hair out of her face. And… there.
There she is again. A handsome girl. A beautiful boy. She’s a little bit of everything, made out of so much. You think you can fit the whole world inside her heart because, yeah, maybe it’s just that big.
She trembles when you touch her. You grin, pleased that you also have this power over her. Your fingers make lazy lines on her face, grazing her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her lips. And you breathe in big and deep before you tell her, “What we deserve, what makes us happy… Most of the time they’re not the same things.”
Her eyes water up and she draws her lips in after you say this. Her brow creases and she shuts her eyes angrily so the tears come out. “But if you really knew me. If you knew everything, all the shit I’ve been through. I’m messed up, Mins.”
She says this like getting each word out hurts her and her hands fall to her sides and they’re making fists and she’s clenching them so hard, they’re turning pink. It’s hurting you too and everywhere you look, it’s all blurry now because you’re about to cry.
Your tears fall at the same instant you wipe hers away.
It was supposed to be easy. It was in the air, that you were going to make it out of this alive, without a scratch. The pad of your thumb is wet and you’re cupping her face with the same hand. The back of your other hand rubs at your eyes. At your face. You’ve gotten so skinny over the past weeks that there’s a sound your knuckles make when they bump over your cheekbones.
The things you should be saying are lodged in your throat and they’re metaphorically choking you. You snap yourself out of this paralysis and gather yourself before speaking. “I’m ready for anything, Franky. But only if you promise me that you are too. You’re not the only one with secrets.”
Will she laugh when she finds out you grew up listening to whales having sex?
The question is just the first in a series of what-ifs and you’re thinking deeply as you stroke the side of her face. The action soothes yourself more than it does her and you think she notices this because soon after, Franky turns her head on your lap. Presses her lips against your knee. She kisses it and the gesture is absolutely the most searing, most thrilling thing in the world right now.
She turns back and her stare carries something so heavy and so strong in it, you have a feeling that the brown of her eyes will be the first thing you’ll want to see in the mornings.
“I love you,” you say to her. Because if it were to anyone else, it wouldn’t be the truth.
The look on her face afterwards. The recognition in those eyes. This is her, meeting you for the first time.
* * * fin