Drop (19 page)

I pick up my pen, write the date on the lined pad and draw a perfectly straight line under it. I check whether the biro has made a dent in the page below. It has. Of course it has, you idiot.
Notes. Got to make notes.
I read the first paragraph, absorbing nothing into my supposedly sponge-like young brain and have to read it again. My phone vibrates in my pocket. Text from Finn, sitting a metre and a half away. Still staring.

Good work, tiger. Havelock totally believed u. Meet up tomo? xxx

I look up, fighting the urge to climb over the table so I can be nearer to him. I quickly construct a reply under the desk, glad of my fast texting fingers.

Maybe do sumthin in the eve? School tomo! xxx

I’ve barely sent it before the reply buzzes back:

And? xxx

I finally manage two pages of half-arsed paraphrased plagiarism. The mild sense of achievement this brings is dangerous. I deserve a reward. Breaking from the notes, I let my mind wander. Finn and I have seen each other almost every day since Citrus. He’s told his mates I’m his girlfriend. It feels fluid and easy, as if it’s always been “us”. Will bunking one day really matter? In the great scheme is it really
that
important? Probably not.

So what if I’m a little late to class because I’m talking to Finn or if I take a day off here and there. I can still get the grades. That’s all that matters as far as I’m concerned. At school, after only a few months, I’m someone else. A new me. A tiger.

After school we go to Finn’s to do some revision, supposedly, but instead watch
Avengers Assemble
and eat peanut M&M’s.

In the kitchen, I pour some juice and Finn nukes a bag of popcorn. As the microwave dings, alarm bells begin to chime in my head. I look out the window at his neglected lawn. My stomach flips at the thought of all the work I need to catch up on. Xylem. Phloem. Biology. Bowlby. Baudrillard. Psychology… Exams looming…

“Catch!” Finn chucks the popcorn at me and I empty the packet into a bowl.

I gear up to tell him we have to see each other less and revise more.

“Um, right… So … we should really get the Psych done now,” I say, a little tetchy with him for the first time. “The Bowlby presentation is Monday.” I give him my best sickly sweet, do-it-for-me smile. I hold his hand as he shuffles his feet, undecided, swinging his gorgeous, strong arm to and fro. “Pretty please. Let’s just get through the first bit.”

But then he kisses me, sending a shockwave through my nervous system and I sort of forget…

In his room, as the seventeenth peanut M&M ricochets off my forehead, I realize we won’t be getting any work done today. Finn is wearing his black Fenchurch T-shirt that says “I should wear a crown because I’m royally f#*ked up.” His arms look toned and strong, like a swimmer’s or gymnast’s. Contrasting with his bear-like forearms, his biceps are smooth and not
too
big. My eyes wander over him until he flicks another chocolate peanut in my direction.

“Oi, kiddo! I’m trying to work here,” I exclaim, cutting him an icy glance. “Stop this tomfoolery at once!”

“Tomfoolery, eh?”

“Yup.”

“Who is this Tom? I’ll have him! Only Finnfoolery allowed here!”

“There’s no Tom. It was said purely for your amusement. An underused word. We should bring it back. Like ‘rad’. I want to bring rad back.”

“Let’s bring in Finnfoolery, too. It’ll be rad,” he suggests.

“OK,” I agree.

“Rad.”

“Cool.”

“Rad.”

“OK.”

“Rad.”

“Stop this Finnfoolery!”

“But it’s totally rad!”

“Stop it.”

“OK, rad.”

“Stop it!”

“Rad.”

“I’ve changed my mind. Let’s leave the word rad in the past, where it belongs. Send it to Room 101, with blancmange and hair scrunchies and—”

“I think I’m a little bit in love with you,” he says.

Ohmygod.

Tingles. Check. Skipped heartbeat. Check. Heart stopping altogether. Check.

“I’m a little bit in love with you, too.” Flatline. Get the defibrillator.

His kiss resuscitates me.

“I mean it.” Finn speaks to my eyes, my cheeks, hair and mouth, scanning all of me. “OK, then,” he says, plonking himself on the bed and leaning forwards, assaulting my body and senses with his eyes and gorgeous musky man scent. “Let’s do the revision, but to compensate for this wholly uncharacteristic burst of nerd-dom, I expect you to wear a fabulously low-cut dress on Friday.”

I push him on the shoulder, provoking a yelp. “Oi, mister, that ain’t rad!”

“All right, all right,” he concedes. “It doesn’t have to be low-cut. Wear a short skirt. I’m easy. Whatever you want, tiger!” He recoils, anticipating another assault. I draw back my hand, for effect. “Not the face!” He laughs. “I’m teasing you! You’d look hot in a brown paper bag.”

“You’re unbelievable!” I say, eyes wide, heart pumping fast. He leans back onto the pillow, nodding in agreement. “What’s Friday, anyway?” I ask.

“Violet’s having a select few over. Nothing big, just a cheese board and a bottle of red,” he says, grinning. Definitely won’t be cheese, that’s for sure.

“Ha. Sounds delightful,” I mock.

My heart races. I try to concentrate.

“OK,” I begin.
“Attachment is an emotional bond to another person,”
I read from my crib sheet.
“Psychologist John Bowlby was the first attachment theorist
…
”
Finn sits up. Edges closer. I try to focus.
“His psychological model…”
He kisses my neck. The words blur.
Connectedness. Support. Trust.
I put the paper down to give Finn my attention.

All I can think is,
He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

My brain has decided to no longer accept information about Biology. An invisible anti-Biology force field bounces it off my head. Not even in-one-ear-and-out-the-other. This is a dangerous condition considering I have:

1. a test next Monday

2. coursework due in a month

3. total lack of interest.

Give me Rothko, Vermeer, the beautiful mess of a Jackson Pollock or the cut-and-paste prints of Jamie Reid. Not Energy Flow Through Ecosystems… What has that got to do with Thermodynamics? I don’t get it!
Ugh.

“I don’t understand this,” I tell Miss Tillsman after Monday’s lesson. “I’m really worried about the exams.”

“Carla, you just have to give it some solid attention. I know you’re bright. Self-discipline. Put some effort in if you want results.”

“I’m trying.”

“Not hard enough, it seems. I know what you
can
do. Your early coursework was superb. What’s happened? Are you having problems at home?”
Cringe.

“No … I’m just tired, I guess. I’ll try to keep on top of it.”

“Come to Biology Club on Fridays. It might help.”
Biology Club?
Is she nuts? I might as well tattoo
NERD
on my forehead and give myself a wedgie.

Friday. Violet’s get-together…

“I have plans this week.”

“If you’re serious about passing, Carla, you need to come – if only to catch up.”

Well, I’ll skip it this week. Already made plans. It’d be rude to cancel. It’s only a test. I’ll be totally clued up for the exams, no problem.

The rest of the week is a whole bunch of nothing. Boring crap. It’s all about the weekend. Friday’s finally here and I’m
so
excited. I survey the contents of my wardrobe, and toss a few new things onto the bed, ready to road-test them. Finn’s iPod is in the sound dock. I click onto Traction, select “Water”.

The song starts slow, quiet, then builds, and the beat kicks in.

Like a breaker I could carry you, thrill you, together we’d ride. Or I could draw you under, let you drown in my depths. Fill your lungs with me, drink me in and never leave.

After Traction, I listen to a set by a DJ I’ve never heard of, but the bass reminds me of that first wonderful night, and the feelings come rushing back, flooding my senses … the incredible highs… In a few hours, I could feel that way again. It’s exhilarating just thinking about it.

I turn up the music. It thumps.

I find some ripped black tights, a lace of ladders down one leg. OK. I pull on a new skirt and T-shirt, and start on my make-up. I want big eyes – big smoky eyes – and a flash of red on my lips.

There’s a knock on my door.

“Come in,” I say, still looking in the mirror. I see Dad in the doorway, reflected.

His eyebrows do their thing. I get the message, and reduce the pounding bass.

“Thanks. Where you off to?”

I consider my answer.

“Cinema.”

“Who with?”

“Finn.”

“Oh.”

“Problem?”

“No. No problem. Just asking.”

“OK, then.”

“I hear the door.”

“That’ll be him. See ya.”

I take a last look in the mirror.
Here I am, world.

Outside, Finn wraps me in a hug. Isaac is loitering with Slinky and Fat Mike, leaning against the front wall. Slinky’s already smoking a joint. I only hope Dad doesn’t smell it. Isaac looks as sullen as ever, kicking at the moss between the bricks of the wall.

As we walk away Mike hands me a beer. It hisses as I open it. Finn offers his hand and I go to take it, but in his palm I feel something. He says nothing, just kisses me on the cheek.

I wait until we’re out of my road before putting the pill in my mouth, as subtly as I can, then knock it back with the beer.

I bet Violet lives in a palace. I bet she has her own pet white tiger and a staircase of gold and fifty servants catering to her every whim.

As we turn off the high street, I realize I’m mistaken. She lives in one of the chocolate-box houses. Pale blue, Violet’s house sits between a pink one and a yellow one. Window boxes burst with floral colour. The epitome of picturesque – well, as picturesque as they come in South London, twenty minutes from the city. It’s not a big house by any stretch, but small, perfectly formed, bijou. To one side, down an alley, I make out a distinctly normal-looking back garden; patio, slightly overgrown grass, sagging clothesline, even a few gnomes dotted about. I
did not
have Violet pegged as a gnome person, but it’s her parents’ house after all. They probably do the accessorizing. And she thought my butterfly sketches were cutesy?

I finish my beer, crunch the can in my hand, and place it in the bin outside her house.

Mike raps the door. Violet appears.

“Hey,” she says, “you’re all here.” She smiles and comes in for a hug. Not like her, but I go with it.

“Carla, let’s find Georgia. She’s around here somewhere.” Violet pulls me from Finn, towards the kitchen. I follow her, feeling torn. Torn from Finn, torn between him and the chance to connect with these new mates.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” she says, “but I’m glad you’re here.”

In the kitchen, Georgia throws her arms wide. “Heeeeey!” She pulls me into a hug. “Want a drink?”

“Yeah. What is there?”

“Vodka.”

“Sounds good. You’ll have to let me go to get it.”

“Nooooo! Hugs are soooo good.” She twists to whisper in my ear. “Double-dropped, he he!” she titters, full of warmth and childlike wonder.

“I’ll get it,” Violet says.

She returns with a full glass, complete with lime wedge and mini-umbrella.

Georgia releases me. I wince as I sip, but drink it anyway.

Definitely more than vodka. OK. It’ll help me get in the mood.

“So tell me all about you and Finn.”

I lose track of time talking with Georgia and Violet. It’s like … I don’t know … a blind spot. One minute we’re talking and then… No, it’s gone.

I sit at the kitchen table, empty glass in hand. Georgia and Violet have moved on.

Then I see it. The music is hurtling towards me. A stream of sound coming right at me. I can see it. Did you ever see
Donnie Darko
? – that’s what I’m talking about. I
see
ripples of music.

I stand up, wobbly, and go into the lounge.

The music’s thumping, curving, twisting, bending. I can
see
it.

I need to sit down again.

There’s a free seat on the sofa, next to Isaac.

“Isaac, Isaac, Isaaaaaaaaaac! Can you see that right there can you see that it’s weird ripples floating around the place. I think I can move them sort of like when I look at them they change direction or are they moving in time with the music I don’t know it doesn’t matter really so how are you?”

Silence.

“Of course I know it’s just my imagination. It’ll pass I just thought maybe you might have … never mind. Ignore me. How are you?”

A wall of silence fifteen metres thick.

I light a rollie, inhale and get a rush.
Happy, this is what happy feels like.

“Can’t smoke in here, Carla,” he says. “Garden.”

“Oh yeah, course.” I go to stand up, but stumble backwards, circling my arms for balance in classic comic style. Isaac isn’t laughing. I steady myself, finessing the move with jazz hands and a muffled
ta-dah!
, the rollie stuck between my lips.