Shining On (4 page)

Yeah, that's just what you'd like me to do, wouldn't you, Tiffany? Cry until my mascara runs (ha, as if: I totally have waterproof on) so you can tell the squad I'm too “emotionally unstable” at the moment to make any decisions about the choreography for State. So not going to happen, Tiffany. Number one, because I will never cry over a mere GUY, and number two, because I'd sooner die than give you the satisfaction, you shallow cow.

Then Tiffany had to start in about how maybe the rea-son I wasn't crying was because what Steve Dewitter's little brother was going around saying was true—the thing about me and Greg, I mean—and that maybe the reason I wasn't more upset about Cal was because
I was in love with Greg Harding.

Instead of the truth, which is that I'm not more upset because I got freaking tired of being asked to
Touch It
all the time.

Fortunately Tiff's statement got quite a laugh from all the other girls on the squad.

Except that I could tell Tiffany was totally serious.

What is her GLITCH, anyway?

The worst part was,
I didn't say anything.
I didn't say, “Um, excuse me, Tiffany, but Steve Dewitter's little brother is right.” I didn't say, “You know what, Tiffany? Yeah, I did make out with Greg Harding. And it was
great.
And if the squad—or you—has a problem with that, you can all kiss the back pocket of my True Religions.”

I don't know WHY I didn't say anything like that. Espe-cially when Tiffany started in about how, in my e-mail to her, I'd almost sounded like I
LIKED
Greg Harding. She said she'd almost expected me to start spouting off about how we need to end nerd persecution in our lifetime, or something.

It was right about then that I decided I'd had enough party fun and started looking for a ride home (obviously, I had to find my own way, since Tiffany said she wasn't ready to leave yet).

I had a choice between Dan Friedman (“Yeah, sure I'll give you a lift. Hey, my parents are out of town—have you ever gotten high on a water bed?”), Bill Stoddard (“What? No, I'm totally OK to drive. I've only had, what, like six beers.”) and Chad Harlowe (“I've got a plasma screen in the backseat.”
Wink. Wink.).

So I decided to call Greg on the off chance he was home. Not because I LIKE him. Well, not like that. But he
lives right around the corner from Kimmy, and I know it would be totally easy for him to come and pick me up.

And it turns out he WAS home, hosting a Dungeons and Dragons party, or whatever they call them. Meetings? Seminars?

Anyway, he said it was OK for him to take a break because he was the Dungeon Master, whatever that is, and everybody had to obey his commands. He told me he'd be right over.

But I told him I'd come over to HIS house and meet him there instead.

I swear it wasn't because I didn't want Tiffany and those guys to see me getting into his car, or anything. I really just wanted a breath of fresh air, to sort of clear my head.

Then when I got there and found him waiting for me in his driveway, I don't know what came over me, but before we even had our seat belts on, I was like, “Greg, thanks so much for driving me home. You must really think I'm
obtuse,”
and he was like, “Why, Allie, I don't think you're
obtuse
at all.”

And then of course I couldn't help myself, I had to kiss him again. This time with tongue.

So I guess the truth is, I DO like him.

That Way.

A lot.

So then while he was recovering from my tongue being in his mouth, which sort of seemed to send him into a
coma, I decided to give him The Speech … you know, about how any guy who wants to be Allie Finklestein's Boyfriend has to:

To which Greg replied he'd never in a million years look at Tiffany Haynes, whom he finds obtuse … which I'm pretty sure he didn't say just to get me to kiss him again. Even though I did. I mean, he can't KNOW what that word does to me … can he?

And then after we'd kissed for a while, he was like, “Touch what?”

Oh, God. I can't believe this.
Greg Harding might be the perfect guy for me.

Note to self: Febreze Betsey Johnson blouse. Something at Kimmy's party was RANK and got into clothes. Possibly Bill Stoddard. Smell, not Bill. Got into clothes, I mean. Duh.

I
'd come home early from school. It was a hot day. I let my-self in and went to the kitchen to get some juice out of the fridge. As I stood there swigging orange out of the carton, I looked out the kitchen window. There, tucked down be-hind the shed, was my mum having a snog with some bloke. They were dappled with shadow from the trees. Her blouse was unbuttoned, hanging open. They were kissing each other very hard, and he kept crushing her up into his chest and sliding his hands under her blouse at the back.

I ducked out of sight. I felt a bit like James Bond, hiding there with my back to the wall, the carton of juice in my hand like a gun. Then I peeped round again to have an-other look. I wanted to see if he was going to take her clothes off.

They were smiling now. She put her hands round his face and kissed him in a way I never saw her kiss my dad. It was like a film. It was so unreal, it made me think of fairies at the bottom of the garden. I felt that if I took a picture of it, it wouldn't come out. He pushed her up against the shed wall and slid his hands down to her bum. I could see her hands stroking the back of his neck.

I walked back to the front door, opened it, slammed it hard, and then wandered about shouting, “I'm home, Mum, I'm home! Mum, I'm home!” at the top of my voice. I went back into the kitchen and pretended to get the juice out of the fridge again and didn't look out that window.

“Mum, I'm home!” I bellowed. I went into the sitting room and turned on the TV. There was nothing on. It was only half past two. We'd been let out of school early. Mum should have been at work. There was a school program about geology and I watched that.

They came into the house a couple of minutes later. I could hear their voices.

“… yes, nice to see you.”

“And you. We'll get that trip organized, then.”

“OK.”

“Right…”

“Cup of tea?”

“No, better go …”

They walked down the hall and stopped outside the door. Mum's head popped in.

“You're home early, Laurence,” she said.

“So are you.”

“They let us off early.”

“Same here.”

Outside the door a voice called, “Hi, Laurence.”

“Oh, hi, Nigel.”

Nigel Turner. Mr. Turner. Someone from her school. There was a pause and then he said, “I better be off, San-dra.” She walked him to the door. I ran to the window to see him. I caught him standing right next to his car, and he looked over his shoulder full into my face, but I didn't run away or even flinch. We stared at each other for a second; then he opened the car door and got in, and I went back to the TV.

Mum came back and said, “Hello, darling, good day?”

“Sure.”

She said, “How did you know I was home, Laurence?”

“Dunno,” I said.

I could feel her staring at me. “Must've seen your bag or something.”

“You're home early,” she said again.

For the first time I looked up at her. She tried to smile. I smiled back, but my face must have looked like a cartoon. I looked back at the telly and waited while she left the room.

I thought, she knows I know, and I know she knows I know. I expected her to have a little talk with me, which is what usually happens in our house if there're any problems,
but she never said a thing about it. She was scared…. You see? Chicken.

My sister, Gill, came home later and we sat and watched TV and ate crisps together, but I never said any-thing to her about it. She's sixteen, two years older than me, and she's always giving me advice about girls.

Once I said to her, “What do you know about girls?”

And she said, “I
am
a girl.”

“Not a proper one,” I said.

She got up in a huff. “Can't you take anything seriously?” she snapped.

“Only if it's worth it,” I said, and she rolled her eyes and stamped out. But I was being serious, she
doesn't
know any-thing about girls, not the kind of girls I want to go out with. The kind of girls I want to go out with would
like
me talking like that.

I once caught my mum and dad having sex, you know. I went into the room without knocking and she was sitting on top of him. I hadn't thought at the time, but looking back I could hear her making pleased-sounding noises be-fore I went in. I didn't really know what it was at the time, but Gill told me. She said it must have been. It didn't look anything like what Mum was doing with this other bloke, though.

The day after I saw her and Nigel Turner, I remember standing by my bedroom window, which is above the
kitchen, looking down into the garden where they'd been and saying to myself, “She has a lover,” but I still couldn't make it as though it had really happened. I said, “Sandra,” to myself. We always called her Mum. Even though that woman down there with her blouse open had been my mum, it wasn't the same person who cooked and worked and shopped and woke up every morning smelling of Dad.

When I was younger, a few years ago, I used to try to see my mum with nothing on. I used to peep through the key-hole of the bedroom…. Well, I'd never seen a real woman in the nude. I hadn't done it for years, but now I wanted to see her like that again. I was handing the dishes to her after dinner a few days later. I was fed up thinking about it when-ever I saw her. She still hadn't said anything to me. She was bending over, putting the plates in the dishwasher, and I was looking at her back. I was wondering what was it that made Nigel Turner so turned on. She had on this slightly transparent blouse—you could see her bra strap under it, and where the flesh squeezed out on either side. I reached down, I took the strap in my fingers and I snapped it.