By the Time You Read This (7 page)

T
he Sunday Corey’s dad drove off with him in the passenger seat, and headed for Eurostar, the sky was full of the promise of rain. Carla’s mom was dabbing at her own damp eyes as the car disappeared up the high street, past Lanes Fish Bar then the rec, our former stomping grounds. There was Carla, uncharacteristically upset at the departure of her brother, attempting to keep her tears locked until at least bedtime. Me, rubbing her back supportively as I waved him off, stiff upper lip, to the outside world merely wondering if the rain would hold off for another day, already “over” the departure of the first boy I’d ever kissed. Even my personal goodbye, the previous night during the hasty get-together Carla’s mom had arranged, was calm and accepting of the situation. Corey didn’t say much to me, busy with the rest of his family and assortment of invited friends, although he did manage something about keeping in touch. Writing. Which I dismissed straight away because as I said to the outside world—Corey included—I was already over him. Right?

“Be happy,” I said, because he looked anything but. He was about to reply, I think, before his tearful mother
whisked him into the kitchen for something to do with cake. Like my feelings didn’t matter. Like
I
didn’t matter.

As I said, I was over him already. Before that moment. Perhaps I had been on the day he kissed me for the very first time.

Not to worry, I still had my dad, stacks of coursework, driving lessons and thoughts of my future to be getting on with, which regularly alternated between going to university (no way) or securing a job with a half-decent wage.

I was already over Corey, I told myself again that night, as I sunk my tear-stained face into the belly of the one-eyed teddy.

I
got a job working at Freeman Hardy Willis shoe shop in Lewisham. The hours were regular and I was given a twenty percent discount that seemed to excite Carla more than me. Admittedly, the days were tiring. Stepping up ladders to locate “Miriam in red, size five” during a hot summer meant regular contact with smelly feet and prickly customers. But the independence that came with earning my own money outweighed any amount of bunions and foot fungi, and soon even Carla was a slave to that thing called a “work ethic,” getting herself a position with Marks a few doors down. We’d meet for lunch and ride the bus in together. And apart from launching into a progress report on Corey’s eventful life in Paris (which I really didn’t need, considering he’d managed one postcard since his departure) it was great.

After a few months and the day of my nineteenth birthday, I was promoted to supervisor at the shoe shop and Carla announced her resignation from Marks, citing severe boredom. Although there was never any fun in tearing down defaced pictures of myself produced by colleagues jealous of my swift promotion, this wasn’t what forced me to leave…

“I
can’t believe she’s leaving a good job to gallivant around America for three months!” whined Mom to anyone who’d listen. Carla’s mom was at our kitchen table painting her nails a bright red as Mom prattled on and I made a pot of tea, my mind wondering about what the next phase of my life would hold.

America.

Although this wasn’t the land I envisaged once I closed my eyes, it was the most affordable thanks to a charitable organization called Jump America that made it possible for students and young people to “explore” America. They’d fix me up with a three-month job too, and all for the price of a subsidized ticket, with food and lodgings thrown in. I posted my application, knowing I’d be turned down anyway, but hoping for one summer not filled with Mom and the Bingo Caller alternating between
Terry and June
and Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas from
The War of the Roses.

“I think it’s a great idea!” chipped in Carla’s mom, blowing on her newly painted red nails as Mom and I sat in her kitchen.

“Thank you!” I replied gratefully.

“If I hadn’t met the love of my life and had the kids so young, I’d have done the same. Traveled. That’s why I’m so pleased that Corey’s doing it—even if it has ripped my heart out.”

I lowered my eyes at the sound of Corey’s name being mentioned and Carla’s mom smiled a knowing smile in my direction, acknowledging our “little secret.” I really wanted Mom to acknowledge my dad by recalling their plans to tour Australia, but all she did was nod her head and pretend to admire her neighbor’s newly painted nails.

When my letter of acceptance had arrived, the shock was instant. I then went on to change my mind a million times, alternating between staying and going.

“But I had loads of stuff planned for us,” whined Carla. And, admittedly, the guilt waded in, evaporating as soon
as I heard Mom and the Bingo Caller having a row in the kitchen. I wavered again when Corey was mentioned, who by the sounds of it was having a ball in Paris.

But I wanted a piece of that.

Dad was right.

A
mong the confusion of delayed flights and changes to departure gates announced by a generic voice on a loudspeaker, I was still convinced I was doing the right thing. I just knew.

“I feel like I’m losing another one!” wept Carla’s mom as we hugged. She smelled of citrus and was wearing a tiny spotted red miniskirt, which even at her age turned heads for the right reasons.

“Take care of yourself,” I said, ruffling Carla’s hair. The generic voice mentioned another delayed flight to
Washington. I was off to New York and my flight was leaving on schedule according to the display screen.

“Bye, Lois. Bring me back something nice, eh?” said Carla.

“Like?”

“I dunno…” She actually scratched at her beautiful head like a cartoon character, but without the huge question mark hovering above.

“Well…?” I said with mock impatience.

“Sneakers?” she said as an afterthought. Her beautiful face then sprang out a mass of tears and sniffs. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her cry like that before. Not even when Corey left. Corey, who’d sent a grand total of two postcards and not bothered once to pick up the phone to call me.

Mom appeared. “I’ve bought you some hard candies for the journey. They’ll help with the ear popping.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Take care. Make sure you eat properly. Not too many hot dogs. And you call me as soon as you get there.”

“Yes, Mom, I will,” I said, actually meaning it. I noticed how haggard she looked and silently cursed the Bingo Caller for putting Mom through the daily ritual of an argument. Only last night I’d caught the tail end of a huge row over something that Mom “needed” and the Bingo Caller replying heatedly with something about “risks.” With a sincere kiss on her cheek, I mumbled goodbye, hugged Carla and her mom once more and slid my pull-along through to the Departure Lounge and into the unknown.

Searches, passports and a boarding gate followed. Apart from one trip to France with school pre-Eurostar and a flight to Barcelona a few years ago with Carla’s family, I
should have been nervous at the thought of my first trip alone. Even more so as I strapped myself into the seat, with any remaining thoughts of England and Corey wafting away with the candy floss clouds. But the line between nervous and excited had been crossed, and after the first in-flight meal I drifted off into a welcome sleep to dream of Dad and how proud he would be of me at that precise moment.

A
s the bus moved away from the airport and headed toward our hotel in Manhattan, I was astounded by how different and unusual everything seemed. Huge roads, huge cars and traffic lights with “Walk” alerting pedestrians to cross. Every corner you turned, shops. So many different places to eat. A man walking his dog; an old lady pushing a wonky cart. Everyone pushing forward.

The driver announced “Welcome to the Big Apple” and the bus full of those inches away from an adventure burst into rapturous applause.

I had never felt happier.

I knew I wouldn’t be making enough money that summer to sample much of New York’s delights, but just being a part of something only ever glimpsed on TV shows would be enough. For now.

Jump America placed me and a few others in a swanky Manhattan hotel, throwing in a hearty breakfast of pancakes and waffles the following morning. Naively, perhaps, I assumed the remainder of my three months would be spent identically—in pure luxury on the edge of a fast-paced metropolis. But the next day we were ferried by an incredibly hot coach, over the Hudson River and into New Jersey. Which was hours away from New York and its
striking skyscrapers. Instead, I was faced with the stench of cow manure and masses of greenery. A tiny woman with the teeniest glasses perched on a button nose, and a pair of khaki shorts that sat just above her knobbly knees, walked toward me as I got off the bus.

“Well, hi there. Welcome to our farm!” she squeaked, as if announcing my million-dollar win.

“Thank you,” I said as the driver dumped my cases beside me. I struggled up the endless “driveway” as she babbled in a Michael Jackson on helium voice. The history of the “farm” (a lump of wood set in a trillion acres of nothing) was that it was home every summer to around a hundred kids sent over by their parents. Summer camps were really common in America, but as she showed me around what was to be my home for the next three months, my heart sank a bit.

The “dorms” were dark, functional, and the bed felt like the bark of a tree against my backside.

“That okay for you?” she squeaked.

“Yes. Thanks.” I stifled a yawn.

“You’re the last to arrive,” she said in her high-pitched voice as I opened my suitcase. “I’ll leave you to unpack, but make sure you’re downstairs in fifteen to eat dinner.”

I gazed around my new surroundings: simple décor and a light musky smell that I was sure would soon begin to irritate me. I lay back on the world’s most uncomfortable bed and looked to the ceiling, noticing at least two cracks. I pulled out
The Manual
from my hand luggage and, hugging it close to my heart, I instantly knew I’d be all right.

Actually, I was wrong.

The first morning was awful. I had to stand up among twenty or so others and say my name, my favorite animal
and why I’d chosen to come to summer camp. Some of the answers (especially from the Americans) were so detailed, so “feely,” I felt totally embarrassed with the clichéd “spreading my wings” bit. Worse still were the introductions to the children, ninety-nine percent of them rich brats whose parents had dispatched them to the camp for a bit of peace—and I was soon able to see why. The constant bickering and tantrums the camp “counselors” had to deal with were endless. Luckily, my unique role was confined to the admin office, my days spent away from the mayhem, answering calls, placing orders for food, that type of thing.

From the nineteen or so camp counselors the only two that I bonded with were Greg from Bolton and Erin from Seattle.

Two weeks into my stay, Greg and I were on washing-up duty.

“Is this all you thought it would be?” he asked, in that weird northern twang I’d quickly grown used to.

At first a bit stunned at this question, I gave it some thought as I scrubbed a pot. “Not really. For a start, I hadn’t expected all the cleaning! But it’s all right!” Actually, if I were honest, I’d been having the time of my life while at the same time secure in the knowledge I was following Dad’s advice by doing stuff many people my age (scrubbing pots excluded) only dreamed of. And hey, at least it was an
American
pot. Plus—and I hated to think it—Carla’s absence had given me valuable space to obsess about what I wanted to do with
my
life. The job itself was eight to five in the office and evenings spent helping out the camp counselors, which at times meant trying to decipher the rules of softball and roasting marshmallows—s’mores—with the kids on an open fire.

“You’re quite funny,” said Greg, drying the last pot, which effectively was my job. He’d really begun to grow on me and I loved the way he asked me about my feelings and in turn was really passionate about stuff like politics and whether the National Lottery had bred greed among the social classes. I thought he was what Carla would term “deep.” He wasn’t particularly good-looking, but that didn’t matter, as his smile felt genuine, warm. A bit like Corey’s but minus the dimples.

“Lois…”

“Yep?” I replied, crouching down to place the pot in the cupboard.

“I—” he began as Erin appeared.

“Hey, hurry up you two! I’m gonna read the kids a story in five,” she said, all blonde hair and teeth. I imagined Erin to have won a dozen or so beauty pageants in her time.

“Do we have to listen to another tale of blood and gore?” I mock whined.

“No, this one’s a love story,” she said with a cheeky wink in my direction. “See you guys later!”

Before I had the chance to process Erin’s wink, she left.

“I like you, you know, Lois,” said Greg.

“I like you too.” I folded the
huge
towel on the edge of the
huge
sink. Everything was
huge
in America.

“You’re different,” he said.

“So are you. In fact this whole experience is different!” I enthused, gesticulating wildly with abandon. I suddenly felt so free, so happy to be standing in a large American kitchen washing and drying for a bunch of people I hardly knew. It was the one place I wanted to be out of anywhere in the world at that moment and that time. Greg turned to me and placed a soapy hand on my chin and I didn’t mind.
Not for one moment. And that’s when he did a really weird thing; he moved his head toward me and planted a huge wet kiss on my lips. I was surprised at first because it felt strange. Not as lovely as with Corey and no tongues, but so comforting.

“Sorry…” Greg shot back as if electrocuted.

“No, it’s okay,” I said, a smile spreading across my face.

M
ornings were always hard to wake up to. Exhausted from the night before. Up at six. Preparing breakfast with Chef for the kids. Helping to prepare “fun” activities like canoeing and basketball for an array of superbrats used to getting their own way (I knew if I ever saw a kid again, it would be too soon) and then back to the office job, delivery men and invoices. But by the end of the first month, the farm became home to me—Erin and Greg a huge part of my circle of friends. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to see as much of America as I’d hoped. My one day off a week was spent traveling by Greyhound bus to New York for window shopping and a burger.

“So you really like Greg, huh?” asked Erin as we relaxed one evening after a grueling day canoeing with thirteen teenagers including a premenstrual drama queen. Greg had snuck back to the storeroom to fetch snacks.

“He’s okay…” I drawled in embarrassment. I fingered the postcards I’d written the day before. One to Auntie Philomena (it felt rude not to, even though I’d only heard from her about twice a year since Mom’s wedding), one to Granny Bates (it felt like the right thing to do), one to Mom and one to Carla “and family.” And yes, that included Corey.

“Are you over him then?” she asked sheepishly.

“Who?”

“The one with the American name who lives in France!” “Corey? I am soooo over him it ain’t even funny!” We straightened up as Greg returned with cookies and potato chips.

“So, I was saying,” he began as Erin tore open the cookie packet. “It’s all a government conspiracy to enable control over the masses. We’re slowly becoming a big-brother nation. We’ll get it in England soon, you’ll see.”

I stuck a cookie in my mouth, gazing at Greg. Half the time I wasn’t sure what he was talking about, but it sounded important, plus he made me feel things I hadn’t felt since being with Corey.

I
barely had time to read
The Manual,
mostly too tired or too busy having fun or laughing off the thousand or so comments regarding my “cute li’l accent.” One night, though, for the first time in about two weeks, I realized I’d missed it. I missed hearing from my dad. So, in an oversized “I Luv NY” T-shirt, feet tucked under me as I sat on the bed, I brought out the familiar green manual, ready to sink into the words, laugh, maybe even cry at whatever my dad had to say to me. Five minutes in, a knock on my dorm door interrupted our moment.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Me. Greg.”

My tummy muscles squinted in response to his voice. I shaped strands of hair into place and slid
The Manual
under my pillow.

“Come in.”

Greg was in a pair of boxers with nothing on top. Tufts of
hair poking out of a very skinny chest, knees almost as knobbly as the director’s. He sat beside me and immediately started to kiss me, this time a little more passionately than the first time. I didn’t know what to do or say, so just went along with it because it felt nice. But when I felt something hard pressing against my thigh, and noticed a tent pole of an erection staring back at me, I knew I needed Dad’s help.

“Greg,” I said breathlessly.

“Yes?”

“Can we just talk?”

“Course we can.”

That night I ended up telling him all about Corey, while he spoke about an old girlfriend he used to date back in Bolton.

“Well, if you ask me, Corey’s an idiot. Letting you go.”

A part of me wanted to defend Corey. “Well, it’s all ancient history now.”

“At least we agree on that.” There was a moment of silence before Greg moved in for another kiss.

I turned away. “Sorry…I’m a little tired.” And scared and confused and awkward and naive. “Almost twenty years old and a virgin!” I wanted to scream, but kept quiet as he made for the door flanked by an air of disappointment.

“Okay, Lois, I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

I flipped back the pages of
The Manual
a few years.