Don't Even Think About It (10 page)

Can you believe it? Chris texted me a while ago.

I was in shock when I got his message. After the way the date turned out, I was sure he’d never want to have anything more to do with me. And then, just as I was starting my homework, this text arrived:

Hi fncy pzza 2moro nite? Meet 7pm same plc?

Imagine – he actually wants to see me again. I waited fifteen minutes, just so it wouldn’t look like he was the only boy who wanted to go out with me, and then I texted him back:

OK C U then

So we’re going out for a pizza tomorrow night. I’m just beginning to have that sick feeling again. I thought it was only first dates that were terrifying, but it looks like I was wrong. Maybe it takes three or four of them before you stop wanting to throw up at the thought.

I’m wondering whether to tell Dad. Will he be cross if
he finds out that I’m going on dates without saying anything? Do fathers need to know about these kinds of things? Would he be horrified at the thought of his little girl having a boyfriend?

Yes, probably. Maybe I’ll say nothing just yet.

Oh and guess what else? Ruth Wallace came home from hospital yesterday, nearly a week after I went to see her. I happened to be passing the landing window as her Dad was taking the wheelchair out of the boot of his car, and I watched him opening the passenger door and lifting her out and putting her into the wheelchair very carefully, as if she was a china doll.

She had a red coat on, and nice black boots, and one of her dorky hats.

I’m not sure if she saw me. She looked towards our house for a second, and she seemed to be staring straight at the landing window, but she didn’t wave or anything, and neither did I.

I wonder if she’ll say anything about the magazines that appeared in her porch later on. I wonder if she’ll guess who left them there.

I’ve started the advanced swimming after school, and it’s great, much more interesting than the swimming we did in primary. Our coach is called Sandra and she gives everyone really individual attention, because there are only five of us in the class. She told us we’ll be having an exhibition before Easter for our parents, and I tried not to think about Mam not being there.

One more thing she’s missing out on.

Oh, and the big news from school is that our whole class is getting penfriends from France. Mr Geraghty,
our French teacher, has a friend teaching in Paris who’s going to get her class to write to us. We could get a boy or a girl, since the French class is mixed – we’ll have to wait and see when they write back.

Chloe and I have agreed that if either of us gets a boy we’ll both write to him, and hopefully he won’t mind being shared.

We have to write to them in French and they’ll write back to us in English, which could make things a bit tricky. I think I’ve already mentioned how awful my French is. Hopefully my penfriend’s English will be just as bad, and we’ll be quits.

And remember Henry, the gorgeous pizza delivery guy? Well, I asked him what his second name was, and it’s Morrissey, which is a bit of a disappointment. I had thought of much better ones for him, like D’Arcy or Montague or Fitzwilliam. Not that it matters really – as Granny Daly would say,
WHAT’S IN A NAME?

Someone must have given him gloves for Christmas. They’re black leather ones, so they go with his jacket. And he wears a hat these days too, a woolly green one with two blue stripes at the bottom, which I have to say looks a tiny bit girly to me, but I suppose it keeps him warm. He’s still the sexiest-looking boy I know. Chris is cute more than sexy.

Imagine if
Henry
phoned and asked me out – now
that
would be truly terrifying. I suppose I’d have to choose between him and Chris. Or we could meet in secret, to make it even more romantic. And then if Chris found out, they’d probably have to fight over me. Henry would probably win, because he’s older and taller. I just hope
he wouldn’t hurt Chris too much.

There’s been no sign of Bumble and Catherine around town. I suppose they’re still madly in love. I wonder if Bumble will ring me when she breaks his heart. Of course, I’ll be there for him, even if he has rejected my friendship, and I’ll never, ever say he should have seen it coming.

Maybe Chris and I could find him someone nice, to help him forget about Catherine. Chloe would be ideal if she’d only give up the garlic.

She’s coming over soon to help me decide what I’m going to wear 2moro nite, so I’d better stop. Wish me luck.

Well that was a big improvement, apart from the last bit.

We met at seven – actually ten past, because I dribbled toothpaste on my pink top and I had to change, but I think the girl being late is allowed. Chris was waiting for me at the same corner as before. (Maybe that’ll be our corner from now on. Maybe in fifty years’ time we’ll be showing our grandchildren where we used to meet for our dates.)

He had the gel in his hair again, which was a bit disappointing. But he looked glad to see me, and I was still happy that he hadn’t been put off me forever, so I decided I wouldn’t let it bother me.

We walked to the pizza place, and thank goodness there was no sign of you-know-who there. (I mean Catherine and Bumble, in case you don’t know who.) I ordered a small cheese and pineapple pizza because I
didn’t want Chris to think I was a savage – and also because I wasn’t sure how much of it I’d manage to eat anyway, with my nerves. He didn’t seem nervous at all – he ordered a medium pizza with pepperoni and onions for himself, so there wasn’t much wrong with his appetite. Maybe boys don’t get nervous about dating.

Anyway, it was fine – the date, I mean, not the pizza – although that was OK too. Not quite as good as the ones from Pizza Palace that Henry delivers, but good enough. Chris and I chatted away about school and stuff, and there weren’t too many embarrassing silences, and I actually managed to finish most of my pizza.

So everything was going fine until we began to walk home. Chris took my hand when we got outside the restaurant, which made me flutter a bit all over again, but it was kind of nice. And everything was going very well until we got to my gate.

And then I turned to him to say goodnight, and he lunged towards me and – how can I describe it? His face bashed into mine, and his nose jammed into my cheek, and he pressed his mouth up against mine for a second, and I could smell onions, and then it was over.

My first kiss – the thing I’d been half dreading and half hoping for since I was about eight. It took about three seconds, and all I remember is his nose shoved into my cheek and the smell of onions. I was so disappointed, I could barely say goodnight to him.

Aren’t kisses supposed to be wonderful, like in the films? Did I do something wrong? Or did I not do something I should have done?

Maybe we just need some practice. I’m sure it should be slower. They’re always much slower, in the films. And the boy should take the girl’s face in his hands, very gently, and sort of lean towards her, with a soppy look on his face. Chris did none of that. He mustn’t be watching the right kind of films.

I just know Chloe is going to call me tomorrow and ask me about kissing, since we figured it was going to happen tonight. I suppose I’ll have to pretend it was wonderful, so she won’t be disappointed.

Like I was.

A funny thing happened just now.

I met Ruth Wallace. I was walking past her gate on my way home from Chloe’s house, and she was wheeling herself down the path, and she had a red and blue hat on that her granny must have crocheted for her, and it was truly disgusting.

And she looked at me and nodded. And I looked at her and nodded back. And then, because she didn’t look like she was going to say or do anything else, I kind of smiled.

And she kind of smiled back. And then she said, ‘Your jacket is the colour of vomit.’

And quick as a flash, I said, ‘At least I’m not wearing a tea cosy on my head.’ It was the first time I’d ever said anything back to her.

She looked at me for a minute, and then she said, ‘That skirt must have been going cheap.’

And I said, ‘At least my granny didn’t knit it for me.’

It was fun, in a weird kind of a way. Not nasty at all, more like a game between us. And then she turned and wheeled herself back up the path, and I came in home.

She didn’t mention the magazines I left in her porch, and neither did I.

The colour of vomit, indeed. Shows how much she knows about khaki.

Mam just phoned, and we chatted for a bit, and just before she hung up, she said, ‘By the way, will you be at home tomorrow around two?’

And I said I would, and she said, ‘Good, because I’ve got a surprise for you.’

And I said, ‘What is it?’ which I know is a really dumb question, right after someone has told you it’s a surprise.

But all she’d say was, ‘Wait till tomorrow, and you’ll find out.’ She wouldn’t tell me anything else, even though I did my best nagging, which usually works on Dad.

I have no idea what it could be. It can’t be something coming in the post, because tomorrow is Sunday. I’ll just have to wait and see.

I love surprises.

I’m all cried out. I think the last time I cried like this was the day Mam left – or maybe on my birthday, when I opened her presents. And today she made me cry again.

Dad and I had sausage and mash for lunch, which we often do on Sunday. I must say mash is one of the few things that Dad gets exactly right, all buttery and fluffy. And I always cook the sausages now, and make sure they’re the same colour all over.

And all the way through lunch, I kept checking the clock on the wall, waiting for two o’ clock to come. I didn’t say anything to Dad about it, because we still don’t really mention Mam that much.

Anyway, we were just finished, and I was thinking about whether to have ice cream for dessert, or a slice of the lemon cake that Marjorie sent over the other day. I had just decided that I’d better have a bit of both when the doorbell rang.

Straightaway, I knew it had to be the surprise. I jumped up and ran to the front door, and flung it open.

And then I nearly fainted.

I actually had to grab on to the side of the door, because I thought I was going to slide down to the floor if I didn’t. I could feel my face getting cold.

And Mam said, ‘Hi Liz,’ and smiled a bit nervously at me.

She looked pretty much the same as I remembered. Her hair was a bit longer, but still the same colour red. She hadn’t any new holes in her ears, but she was wearing a chunky orange cardigan I’d never seen, and grey jeans, and a silver bracelet that jangled when she lifted her arm to tuck her hair behind her ear.

And suddenly I really, really wanted Dad to be there.

And then finally, after about a million years, Mam stepped towards me, and at the same minute I moved towards her, and we met somewhere in the middle, and she still smelt the same, and I’m pretty sure she started crying a second before I did.

And she was saying something about missing me, and telling me she was sorry, so sorry, and I was saying nothing, just hanging on to her as if I’d never let her go.

And some time during the past year I’d managed to grow as tall as her. And I just kept hanging on and hanging on.

And when we managed to stop crying at last, when she was dabbing at my eyes with a tissue and telling me how pretty and grown-up I’d got, Dad appeared. He was quiet, but very polite. He invited Mam in, and we all sat down at the kitchen table, and Mam gave me a
pink South Park t-shirt and a new box of watercolour paints.

She didn’t bring anything for Dad, which wasn’t surprising, but still a bit embarrassing. He didn’t seem to mind though. He made coffee, and Mam looked surprised when he gave me a cup, but she didn’t say anything.

After a bit of talking about nothing – the flight home, Granny Daly, the weather in San Francisco – Mam asked if I wanted to go for a walk. I looked at Dad, because it all felt a bit weird, but he just nodded and said he’d wash up and see me later.

Outside the house I looked for Mam’s red Clio, but the only car around was a green Micra. Mam told me she’d sold the Clio before she went away, and the Micra was just rented. I know it was only a car, but I felt a kind of stab when she said that – another bit of our old life that was gone forever.

I wondered if Marjorie was looking out as we walked past her driveway. I wondered if she’d seen Mam getting out of the green car.

It’s funny to think that Mam and Marjorie used to be pretty friendly, once upon a time.

Anyway, we walked to a little park about ten minutes from the house. Mam seemed a bit quiet on the way, so I told her about Bumble and Catherine Eggleston, and about secondary school, about Henry the pizza delivery boy, and about Ruth Wallace going into hospital for an operation on her legs, and about Dad’s disastrous birthday dinner. I didn’t talk about the things I really wanted to:

1. The milk attack

2. Chris Thompson

3. How to kiss boys properly.

And I certainly didn’t ask the questions I was dying to ask – how long she was staying around, and whether she was thinking about moving back to Ireland. I was afraid to ask, in case the answers weren’t the ones I wanted to hear.

When we’d walked about halfway round the park, Mam said, ‘Let’s sit for a minute,’ and when we’d found a bench near some bare-looking trees she took hold of both my hands and told me that she and Dad were going to get a divorce.

And even though it wasn’t such a big surprise, even though I’d pretty much stopped hoping that she’d ever come back home, even though I knew deep down that things could never be the same again, it still sounded horrible when she said it. Horrible and empty and – finished. As if a big sign saying ‘The End’ had suddenly appeared in front of us, like in the old films.

Except that it wasn’t a bit like that really, because in the old films people always lived happily ever after.

Luckily, there weren’t too many people around to see me crying again, just one old man on another bench who didn’t seem to notice, and a couple of little kids who stared at me until their mother called them over.

On the way back from the park, Mam answered the questions I’d been afraid to ask. First she told me she’s staying with Granny Daly for three days, which was all the time she could get off work. And then she told me, very gently, that she wasn’t planning to move back
home for a while yet, but that maybe I could come out and visit her in the summer.

So I had to be happy with that. Funny that the thought of going to America doesn’t make me all excited like I thought it would. Maybe when she’s back there, it will.

When we got home, she collected her bag from the house, and then she and Dad said goodbye in that same sad, polite way, and I walked back out to the rented car with her.

She hugged me tightly, and whispered that she’d miss me so much, which of course started me crying all over again. I waved until the green car was out of sight, and she hooted the horn as she drove around the corner. I felt so alone, standing there on the path. So empty and alone.

And then I walked back into the house, and I could still smell Mam’s almondy smell in the hall, and Dad called out that he was in the sitting room, so I went in because I didn’t want to be alone.

We watched some old black-and-white movie on TV that had a lot of hats and singing in it, and we finished off Marjorie’s lemon cake, and afterwards Dad gave me €20 to buy myself something nice next time I was in town.

We didn’t talk about the divorce. What was there to say?