Stereotype (11 page)

We go our separate ways, Shane to see his friends, me to my bus stop. He asked me if I wanted to hang around with them, but I said that I didn’t want to intrude. Which was true, and which means that I now get to go home and be reclusive.

And think about him. Should I have stayed in town with him? He did invite me to, but then again, maybe he was just being polite. He was really in there to see his friends, after all. But what if he thinks that I said no because I don’t like being around him? What if he thinks I hate him, and starts to feel resentful towards me because of it?

I muse about these things on the way home, coming down from the high of spending time with him and ending up feeling – well, extremely depressed. I write Shane’s initials in the condensation on the window, then rub them off angrily.

Is that Graham getting on? Oh, fantastic. Just what I need. Hopefully he’ll stay downstairs. No, of course he won’t, he’ll come up here.

Told you.

“Hey,” he says. “Can I sit?”

I shrug. “Sure.” It being a public bus and all.

“Are you OK?” he asks.

And oh god, it’s stupid, but the way he asks, with this gentleness in his voice, makes me want to cry.

“Yeah,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

I nod. “Positive.”

“Look, if you ever need to talk . . .” He sighs. “OK, I know we’re not on the best of terms at the moment, but I still want to stay friends with you.”

“OK, whatever,” I say quietly. I can’t do this now, Graham, I can’t argue with you. I’m just going to quietly agree with you and hope that you don’t press the issue, because I can’t handle it, I’m drained.

“Whatever?” he echoes.

“I’m agreeing with you, Graham, it’s a good thing,” I tell him.

We sit in silence for the rest of the bus journey, exchange “see ya”s, and then return to our lives.

I think about him asking me if I was OK, and how grateful I am to have someone caring about me.

Even if it is someone so incredibly evil. I shouldn’t forget that. I really shouldn’t.

Help me.

I find myself reading over my old journals, the diaries I kept when I was in Second and Third Year, before I became too lazy and unmotivated to continue. I read the one from when I first met Graham. The “wow” feeling of having such a great friend who you feel that you can trust completely.

And we
were
good friends, you know? He always cared. That’s the thing about him. He cares. He really –

What am I
saying?
This is Graham, the guy I’ve devoted so much time to hating.

Could I have been wrong? Maybe I’m too cynical. Just because I’m selfish and self-absorbed and horrible doesn’t mean that the rest of the world is.

People make mistakes. It doesn’t make them bad people.

I turn the page.

The sun started hiding behind the clouds, and I was getting cold, so he made me put on his jacket. I mean, he insisted. It was warm and soft and soothing, like being wrapped in a blanket. It made me feel safe and loved. He’d
given
me this feeling. It’s stupid, but I loved him so much at that moment. Not in a romantic way, because it’s
Graham
, you know, but in a friendly way, in the sort of way that tells me that I’m never going to let him out of my life, that we’re going to stay close throughout school and college and marriage and children and all that crap. There are so few people I feel that way about, and it’s just amazing to have one more in my life, you know?

There are too many Mondays. And I think that if a scientific study was ever done, they would find that Mondays take far longer to get through than any other day of the week, thus explaining the way that by Monday evening it feels like several more days should have elapsed.

On Monday afternoon I am doing something which I can’t believe I’m doing, yet seems to make sense.

I’m going over to Graham’s house after school.

I’m crazy.

There must be a part of me that knows what I’m doing is completely stupid, because I don’t tell Sarah about it.

Of course, it’s not like it’s a big deal, so why bore her with the details? Besides, it’s not like I have time to mention it at lunch or anything. Sarah and I sit outside with a big group, including Fiona, Caroline and a couple of the people who were at the party and who know the guys in the band. It’s fun. Emily, Hugh’s girlfriend, is one of those people who always have something intelligent to say but never make you feel inferior while doing so, and we talk about the human need to label people. She’s cool in that offbeat way that I long to emulate, and I get a kick out of the fact that we click right away. I start to feel like an interesting, worthwhile human being.

Can this really be happening? Am I actually feeling something akin to happiness and contentment while in school?

So between this and the thoughts of seeing Graham later, it’s a rather bizarre day.

We agreed on half four. I’m five minutes late, deliberately. Because, with the crazy attitude there is in this country about time, being on time would be considered being early. In fact, being five minutes late is considered being early. But far more acceptable than actually being on time, if you follow me. I don’t want him thinking that I was desperate to see him. Casual is the key-word here.

And what am I doing? I’m not trying to impress him. I hate people who change themselves in order to impress people, and here I am doing exactly the same thing. I’m such a hypocrite.

And I’m obsessing over five minutes.

He answers the door.

“Hey, come on in.”

When we are being civil to each other, it is so strangely like old times that it feels like we never fought. Being friendly, talking about our day, talking about mutual friends and acquaintances and enemies . . . it feels so weirdly
right
.

When he hugs me, I don’t want to let go.

When I “accidentally” push up my sleeves in a casual gesture and he asks about the marks on my arm even though it hits him instantly what they are, I love the concerned look on his face, I love that someone gives a damn, I love that he makes me feel special and worthy of attention.

And that’s why that, when he leans in to kiss me, I don’t turn away.

On a scale of one to ten, with one being completely sensible-decisions sane, ten being completely are-you-out-of-your-mind insane, how would you rank what you did today, Abi?

A part of me says that it’s somewhere around a fifteen.

Another part of me says “Hmm. Two?”

Monday night is when I lie awake contemplating the events of the day. Tuesday morning is pretty much the same, only sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair instead of lying in bed.

Am I just doing this because Graham stepped into my life just when I was moping about the Shane situation and I feel like he’s my rescuer? Or does this actually make sense? Do I actually like Graham?

Kissing him wasn’t unbearable, which is a point in his favour. I don’t particularly like kissing anyway. I mean, it’s pointless, it really is. There is so much more intimacy in little gestures, the fingertips running along your arm, the teeth nibbling on your neck. Kissing is just . . . well, not bad, but not brilliant, let’s put it that way.

But if I really hated him, then I wouldn’t have been able to go near him. Unless of course it’s just that I’ve been so love-deprived for so long that I don’t care who it is who’s kissing me.

I’m not that sort of person, am I? Physical contact should not be
that
important to me. Only somehow whenever it happens, it becomes important.

We’re really nothing but animals, when it comes down to it.

I wonder what would have happened if Anna hadn’t arrived home and we decided to go out for a walk. (Holding hands.) How far it would have gone.

And what am I doing? There’s one part of me that shudders at the memory of the two of us sprawled out on his couch making out, and another that loves it. It’s Graham. And then it’s
Graham.

He
cares
. And that makes me feel worthwhile, relevant, fabulous.

“I can’t believe it’s only Tuesday. How the
hell
is it only Tuesday? Are they playing some horribly cruel joke on us or something?”

Fiona is spending her lunch-time ranting about the injustice of the working week. Sarah and I nod in sympathy.

“Come on, at least we’re off on Friday,” Sarah reminds her.

Easter holidays. Ah. Bliss.

“Speaking of which, we really should do something this weekend,” Fiona says.

“Girly sleepover fun?” Sarah grins. “Awful cheesy teen movies and an unhealthy amount of chocolate . . .”

“Mmm,” she says. “
Or
. . . we could go out.”

“Go out?
Out?
Into the real world? Are you serious?” Sarah kids.

Fiona smiles. “I know, it’s all terribly exciting and daring. But seriously, Saturday night, what d’you think?”

“Sure,” I shrug. I suppose it won’t be
that
bad . . . will it? And it’s good to try new things, right? Try to experience as much as you can when you’re young? I haven’t gone out to a club in nearly a year, since last summer.

“Sarah?”

“Sure, where? Bearing in mind that you’re the only one of us with an ID, by the way.”

“Well, if we bring Hugh along, we can go into town – he knows one of the bouncers at some club. Plus he’s kind of cute.”

Sarah and I stare at her.

She giggles. “Oh, come on, he is.”

“Yeah, he is, but he’s with Emily,” Sarah reminds her.

“I know, I know,” she sighs. “He’s still fun to look at, though.”

I grin. “So we’re dragging him along, yeah?”

“Yes, we’re going to shamelessly use him,” Fiona says. “Some of us more than others.”

“Well, if he’s coming, then Emily’s coming,” Sarah muses. “Shane might want to come along, too . . .”

The mention of his name makes me feel strange. Very strange. I’m not sure why. It’s not jealousy, is it? No, it can’t be. I’m over him. I must be. Graham. Think of Graham. I like him. He’s soft and safe and soothing and comforting. Shane is unfamiliar territory. Shane has too much power over me. Shane makes me insecure and anxious and I worry about every little thing I do when I’m around him.

“Can I ask Graham?” I ask.

“Sure,” Sarah says automatically, and then both she and Fiona stare at me. “Wait.
What?”

“He might like to come,” I say.

“Since when are you two even
speaking
to each other?” Sarah enquires. “I thought you hated him with a passion.”

I shrug. “We were hanging out yesterday, and it was . . . just like old times.” If the ‘old times’ had involved tonsil tennis, that is.

“So you’re friends with him again?” Fiona says, looking bewildered.

“Yeah, pretty much.” I shouldn’t have mentioned him. They both think I’m out of mind. I probably am.

“That’s great.” Sarah smiles. “Ask him about Saturday, anyway. It’ll be more fun if there’s a big group of us going.”

Even though she’s smiling, I know she’s wondering what’s going on, why I’m suddenly friends with someone who I’ve professed my undying hatred for many times. It doesn’t make sense. I
know
it doesn’t make sense. Chalk it up to living in a crazy mixed-up world, I guess.

I see him on Tuesday evening. Wednesday evening. Thursday evening. It always begins with a hug. Then we talk. Hug. Curl up together and kiss.

It’s safe. I have his arms around me and I’m leaning against him and I can feel the warmth of his body and I know he likes me and wants me . . . and it’s fantastic.

And I don’t tell Sarah, or Fiona. I don’t tell Jess, not that she’d care. I don’t tell Sharon when I email her. I don’t feel like talking about it.

I don’t know why. Is it because I’m scared of what they’ll think? That they’ll judge me?

Why would they judge me? Am I doing something wrong?

I really don’t want to think about it, any of it.