protest foolishly, though my face is red hot.
“Are you
sure
you didn’t do anything else but kiss?” says Nadine.
“Sure!”
“What’s he like at kissing?” asks Magda.
“Good!”
“Mmm—that sounds heartfelt. Better than Dan?”
“I’m sure
Eggs
is a better kisser than Dan.”
Dan was never a real boyfriend anyway, whereas Russell . . . Can I call him a boyfriend yet? I know one thing, I simply have to see him tonight—and there’s nothing Anna can do about it.
It’s hard all the same. Anna has a lovely little snack of fruit bread and soft cheese and plums waiting for me when I get back from school. We have a little munch together while she tells me all about Eggs’s new little girlfriend in Year Three—an older woman! Eggs gollops down half a bag of plums and smiles smugly whenever Mandy’s name is mentioned.
“It was a bit bold of you to chat her up, seeing as she is in the juniors,” I say.
“
She
was the one who chatted
me
up,” says Eggs, biting into another plum. “She thinks I’m sweet. She wants me to play with her every day.”
“She won’t think you’re sweet tomorrow when you’re stuck in the boys’ bogs with terrible diarrhea after eating all those plums,” I say.
“It’s Saturday tomorrow, so I won’t
be
at school, ha ha ha,” says Eggs, and he puts an entire whole plum in his mouth.
“Eggs! Don’t be so greedy and disgusting. Oh God, you’ll choke,” says Anna, leaping up and bashing him on the back.
The plum flies out of Eggs’s mouth and lands with a messy
phut
on the kitchen floor.
“My plum!” Eggs protests, about to pick it up.
“It’s all grimy now,” says Anna, whisking it away.
“So is Eggs,” I say. “Look at him, he’s
filthy
.”
“He had finger painting today,” says Anna. “Only in Eggs’s case it was more like entire-body painting. Shall we give you a bath, little chap?”
“Oh, I want a bath,” I say quickly.
Anna looks at me. I usually have my bath late at night. I only have a bath early if I’m going out. She hesitates. We haven’t even referred to the tempestuous events of last night and this morning. I can see her struggling, not wanting to spoil our friendly time unless it’s absolutely necessary.
I whiz out of the kitchen before she makes up her mind—up to the bathroom, where I wash hurriedly, glad that the hot bath has steamed up the mirror. After my stupid anorexic bulemic blip I’m trying hard to accept my body the way it is—but the way it is is P-L-U-M-P. When you’re about to go out on your first serious date you’d
so
much rather look skinny! I pull on my best trousers and a lacy top, decide they look way too tight (why did I have three slices of fruit bread?), put on my baggy trousers and a shirt, decide I look too casual, put on a dress, which looks much too
dressy,
stand in my knickers and search my entire wardrobe, and
eventually
shove my best trousers and lacy top back on.
Time is tick-tocking faster and faster. I do my makeup, doing a serious cover-up job of every weeny snippet of a spot. I outline my eyes to make them look big and beguiling and put mascara on my lashes so I can flutter them provocatively. I leave the lipstick out altogether as I don’t want to smear it all over Russell. Then it’s hair raking time. I flex my muscles, brandish my fiercest hairbrush, and do my best to tame it—though it’s curlier than ever from getting damp in the bath. I still hate the way I look when I’ve finished, but I looked
worse
yesterday and yet I was the one Russell sketched. Not Magda, not Nadine. Me.
That’s still so amazing I can hardly take it in.
“Me me me me me!” I sing, sounding like an opera singer warming up.
Then I go downstairs, steeling myself. I
could
just charge up the hall and out the front door without saying anything. Maybe it would be easier all round?
“Ellie?” Anna calls. She comes to the kitchen door. “You’re going out!”
“Bye, Anna,” I say, trying to
“Are you
sure
you didn’t do anything else but kiss?” says Nadine.
“Sure!”
“What’s he like at kissing?” asks Magda.
“Good!”
“Mmm—that sounds heartfelt. Better than Dan?”
“I’m sure
Eggs
is a better kisser than Dan.”
Dan was never a real boyfriend anyway, whereas Russell . . . Can I call him a boyfriend yet? I know one thing, I simply have to see him tonight—and there’s nothing Anna can do about it.
It’s hard all the same. Anna has a lovely little snack of fruit bread and soft cheese and plums waiting for me when I get back from school. We have a little munch together while she tells me all about Eggs’s new little girlfriend in Year Three—an older woman! Eggs gollops down half a bag of plums and smiles smugly whenever Mandy’s name is mentioned.
“It was a bit bold of you to chat her up, seeing as she is in the juniors,” I say.
“
She
was the one who chatted
me
up,” says Eggs, biting into another plum. “She thinks I’m sweet. She wants me to play with her every day.”
“She won’t think you’re sweet tomorrow when you’re stuck in the boys’ bogs with terrible diarrhea after eating all those plums,” I say.
“It’s Saturday tomorrow, so I won’t
be
at school, ha ha ha,” says Eggs, and he puts an entire whole plum in his mouth.
“Eggs! Don’t be so greedy and disgusting. Oh God, you’ll choke,” says Anna, leaping up and bashing him on the back.
The plum flies out of Eggs’s mouth and lands with a messy
phut
on the kitchen floor.
“My plum!” Eggs protests, about to pick it up.
“It’s all grimy now,” says Anna, whisking it away.
“So is Eggs,” I say. “Look at him, he’s
filthy
.”
“He had finger painting today,” says Anna. “Only in Eggs’s case it was more like entire-body painting. Shall we give you a bath, little chap?”
“Oh, I want a bath,” I say quickly.
Anna looks at me. I usually have my bath late at night. I only have a bath early if I’m going out. She hesitates. We haven’t even referred to the tempestuous events of last night and this morning. I can see her struggling, not wanting to spoil our friendly time unless it’s absolutely necessary.
I whiz out of the kitchen before she makes up her mind—up to the bathroom, where I wash hurriedly, glad that the hot bath has steamed up the mirror. After my stupid anorexic bulemic blip I’m trying hard to accept my body the way it is—but the way it is is P-L-U-M-P. When you’re about to go out on your first serious date you’d
so
much rather look skinny! I pull on my best trousers and a lacy top, decide they look way too tight (why did I have three slices of fruit bread?), put on my baggy trousers and a shirt, decide I look too casual, put on a dress, which looks much too
dressy,
stand in my knickers and search my entire wardrobe, and
eventually
shove my best trousers and lacy top back on.
Time is tick-tocking faster and faster. I do my makeup, doing a serious cover-up job of every weeny snippet of a spot. I outline my eyes to make them look big and beguiling and put mascara on my lashes so I can flutter them provocatively. I leave the lipstick out altogether as I don’t want to smear it all over Russell. Then it’s hair raking time. I flex my muscles, brandish my fiercest hairbrush, and do my best to tame it—though it’s curlier than ever from getting damp in the bath. I still hate the way I look when I’ve finished, but I looked
worse
yesterday and yet I was the one Russell sketched. Not Magda, not Nadine. Me.
That’s still so amazing I can hardly take it in.
“Me me me me me!” I sing, sounding like an opera singer warming up.
Then I go downstairs, steeling myself. I
could
just charge up the hall and out the front door without saying anything. Maybe it would be easier all round?
“Ellie?” Anna calls. She comes to the kitchen door. “You’re going out!”
“Bye, Anna,” I say, trying to
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