LITMIR.BIZ

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thing about fantasies. If there’s a part you can’t work out, you just skate over it and move on to the next bit.

      It was still a fantasy. But growing more and more real, every day.

      Next morning, at school, Marnie comes up to me and says, “Hey! Wanna know something?” So I’m like, “Yeah, what?” She tells me that this boy, Rory Mansell, that’s in Year 10, has a thing about me. She knows this cos she’s going out with Jason Dobbs that’s also in Year 10. She says Rory told Jason in the hope that he would tell Marnie and Marnie would tell me, and then maybe I would—

      Would what? Marnie giggles and says, “Ask him if he’d like to go on a date?”

      I think to myself that if Rory Mansell wants to go on a date he could ask me himself, but Marnie says he’s too shy. I say in that case he’s a wimp.

      “He’s not a wimp,” says Marnie, “he’s just scared you’ll turn him down.” Then she tells me off for being prejudiced and says, “He’s actually quite nice.”

      He’s not bad, I agree, but as I explain to Marnie, I don’t really fancy him. Marnie says, “So who do you fancy? You haven’t been out with anyone for ages! You’ll get out of the habit if you’re not careful. People’ll start thinking you’re a lesbian!”

      I say, “Now who’s being prejudiced?” And then, without any warning, I hear myself blurt out, “There is someone I fancy!”

      “Oh?” Marnie spins round. All ears. “Who’s that, then?”

      “This boy I met. In Birmingham. Me and Honey, we bumped into them, there were two of them, they were down here from Glagow and we all got talking and—”

      My voice burbles on. It’s got a will of its own. I can’t control it, it’s gone mad! Now it’s telling Marnie how me and this boy have been speaking on the phone every week. We’ve been texting, we’ve been emailing. We fancy each other like crazy.

      Marnie says, “Wow! What’s his name? How old is he? Gimme, gimme, I want to know!”

      I say that I can’t give her his name. “It’s a secret!”

      Marnie says, “Why? Is he someone famous?”

      I struggle with a momentary temptation to say yes, but manage to resist it. I say no, he’s not famous, he’s just an ordinary boy.

      “So why’s it a secret?”

      “Cos he’s a secret! I shouldn’t ever have mentioned him. I don’t want Dad finding out! You know what my dad’s like. He nearly went ballistic that time I went out with Soper. He did go ballistic!”

      Marnie says, “Yeah, well…Soper.” She then agrees with me, however, that my dad is impossible. “I’m surprised he even lets you have a mobile phone.”

      I say, “He wouldn’t, if he had his way. It’s only cos of Mum.”

      “I bet he checks on your calls!”

      I mutter darkly that nothing would surprise me. “It’s like living under a dictator.”

      “So what you gonna do?” says Marnie. “About this boy?”

      I tell her that I don’t yet know. “But if things get much worse, with my dad—”

      “What? What?” She’s all breathless and eager. “What d’you reckon you’ll do?”

      I say, “Something desperate!”

      I spend the rest of the day trying to decide whether I’ve finally flipped and started to believe my own fantasies, or whether I’ve just been laying more bread crumbs. I decide that it’s got to be bread crumbs. It’s part of the trail! If Honey and me do run away–when Honey and me run away–the police will be bound to talk to Marnie. She’ll be one of the first they talk to. And she’ll just be bursting to tell them about “this boy she met that lives in Glasgow”. I begin to feel rather pleased with myself. I’m obviously good at this sort of thing!

      I do a bit of thinking about Rory, wondering whether he’s really a wimp or just that mythical creature, a boy that’s sensitive. But no, that’s truly sexist. I’m sure there are boys that are sensitive, they just don’t like to show it. Soper wasn’t, of course. He’d have bashed someone’s head in, if they’d suggested he was sensitive.

      I think for a while about Soper. I try to remember what his first name was, but I can’t. He was always just Soper; he was that sort of boy. The sort of boy that Dad thought should be locked up and the key thrown away. I know he was a bit mad and bad, but it was just totally humiliating when Dad actually chucked him out of the house. It was like, “Never darken my door again”. We had the hugest row of all time over Soper.

      That was when I finally rebelled and said I wasn’t going to his stupid church any more. I did it to pay Dad out! I knew if there was one thing that would really upset him above all else, it would be having to admit that he’d lost control. That one of his daughters was leaving the Family. That was like heresy! That was like denying God.

      The church thing had happened just a month ago; things had been getting steadily worse ever since. Dad was cold and tight-lipped, I was defiant. Sometimes I thought he hated me. Sometimes I thought I hated him. He was convinced I did things for no reason than to annoy him, and I have to admit that he was partly right. But I had to assert myself! I mean, otherwise I would just have been ground down.

      Later that day I gaze at Rory across the assembly hall. He catches me at it, and blushes. I think to myself that Dad would probably approve of Rory–well, as much as he’d approve of any boy. But even if he did, we’d still fall out. Dad and I are fated to disagree about pretty well everything. In any case, he’s not my sort. Rory, I mean. He’s too nice! How could I go out with a boy that Dad approved of??? It’s not worth staying on to be oppressed and humiliated just for the sake of going out with any stray male that happens to be available. I have more pride than that!

      On the other hand, as Marnie reminded me, I haven’t been out with a boy for simply months. That’s not normal! Leave it too long and people will think I’m not interested. Plus I shall forget how to do it. How to talk to them. How to be with them. Cos being with a boy is definitely not the same as being with a girl.

      It’s Dad’s fault. It’s all Dad’s fault! How can I ever hope to grow up sane and well balanced with him thwarting me at every turn? I feel in such a muddle!

      When Honey asks me, on the way home, whether we are still going to do it–“That thing that you were talking about?”–I tell her yes, I’m working on it. Honey says, “So when do you think it will be?”

      What does she expect me to say? It’s not something you can put in your diary, like a dentist appointment. I tell her that I’m waiting to see what happens. “I’m giving him one more chance.”

      “Oh.” Honey nods. “All right.”

      I say, “Why? You didn’t want to go right now, did you?”

      “I just thought you’d decided.”

      “I haven’t decided anything! Have you?”

      “No. I thought you had.”

      I tell her that I haven’t made up my mind. Yet. “But if he comes on heavy just one more time—”

      “That’ll be it?” says Honey.

      I say that that will definitely be it. “Cos I have had enough!”

      three

      Sunday was looming, with its roast and two veg. Dad insists on his roast and two veg, even in the height of summer. He sits there, sweating, and forcing himself to eat, like it’s some kind of holy ritual. Like God has spoken to him. “And on Sunday, thou shalt consume flesh.” Just so long as he didn’t expect me to consume it. Dad, I mean, cos I don’t believe in God. At least, I don’t think I do.

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