It’s great. Seriously. If you get in — I mean,
when
you get in — we can hang out in London. In Covent Garden. Or Camden. It’ll be just like Churchtown.”
I smile. “But without the rain.”
He laughs. “Or the tractors.”
“Or the cows.”
“Or Emily Applegate.”
I look over at her, lying on Blair’s lap, hair fanned out, Smirnoff Ice in her hand. His arm slung over her shoulder. Hand on her tank top. Can see Stella watching them too. Smoking a cigarette with artful detachment. Vodka already a quarter gone.
“Yeah,” says Ed. “Or the Plastics . . . or Blair Henderson.”
I laugh and lean on Ed, his body warm under the black of his T-shirt. And I feel safe. And strong. Not the fragile way I feel with Stella, the way that needs bravado, defiance. Just a kind of calm. Ed kisses the top of my head. And I don’t move. Just lie against him. Peaceful. Then it’s gone. The moment is over. Because Matt has finished skinning up and has handed the joint to Ed.
I’m cold all of a sudden. I sit up and hug my legs, goose pimples stippling the skin. I think about getting my jumper out. But I know what Stella will say.
I watch Ed inhale and wonder how far I can go in this charade.
“Going to offer me some?” I say.
But he doesn’t. Instead he laughs, coughing out lungfuls of sweet, heavy smoke. “Your dad would kill me.”
And then I know he isn’t fooled. Not for a second. I’m still just a kid to him. Always will be.
“Whatever,” I spit. I pull the beers out of my bag and open one.
“Easy, Jude,” he says.
“Who put you in charge?”
He shakes his head. “Forget it.”
I drink long and hard to punctuate the silence.
“Just be you,” he says finally.
And I want to say, I am. This
is
me, the new, improved Jude.
But he’s known me too long. So I tell him the truth. “That’s the last person on earth I want to be.”
I WAKE up on the floor, doing that whole “Where am I?” thing in my head. Then I see the Doors posters, the shelves with the tacky swimming trophies and Harry Potters. And I remember.
Ed is in bed, asleep, one arm trailing on the floor. I am hot. Too hot. I try to stand up, but for some reason I can’t move. Then I realize I am straitjacketed into a brown nylon sleeping bag. The same bag I’ve slept in a hundred times. The same floor. The same room.
Not like waking up in a stranger’s bed,
I think. But we’re not kids anymore.
I feel inside the bag to check my clothes. I am still dressed. Can’t remember going to bed, though. Can’t even remember how I got back here. My stomach churns. I’m going to be sick. I manage to squirm out of the sleeping bag, like I’m emerging from a cocoon. But I’m not a butterfly. I am vile, a crawling insect. I lurch across the room and out of the door, praying that Mrs. Hickman is already gone. The bathroom is at the end of the landing. I make it in time to throw up across the closed toilet seat.
The next three heaves actually go into the toilet. I clean up with someone’s washcloth and a bottle of bleach, then rinse the washcloth and put it back on the edge of the bath. Then think better of it and drop it in the bin, covering it with a toilet-paper roll to hide my crime. My legs are shaking. I pick a toothbrush and turn on the taps. Leaning against the sink, waiting for the water to run cold, I look up into the mirror. My face is pale, my eyes ringed by dark circles, hair messy. The confidence that filled me last night is gone. I am ugly. I am nobody. I clean my teeth and creep back to Ed’s room.
He’s awake. Sitting up against the headboard. A mirror of Jim Morrison on the wall above.
“Why, Miss Polmear, you really are beautiful,” he says. But it’s not like when Stella said it. And I don’t know if he’s laughing with me or at me. So I just crawl back into the sleeping bag and close my eyes. Like it will all go away. But it doesn’t.
“Don’t you want to know what happened last night?”
And I don’t.
when
you get in — we can hang out in London. In Covent Garden. Or Camden. It’ll be just like Churchtown.”
I smile. “But without the rain.”
He laughs. “Or the tractors.”
“Or the cows.”
“Or Emily Applegate.”
I look over at her, lying on Blair’s lap, hair fanned out, Smirnoff Ice in her hand. His arm slung over her shoulder. Hand on her tank top. Can see Stella watching them too. Smoking a cigarette with artful detachment. Vodka already a quarter gone.
“Yeah,” says Ed. “Or the Plastics . . . or Blair Henderson.”
I laugh and lean on Ed, his body warm under the black of his T-shirt. And I feel safe. And strong. Not the fragile way I feel with Stella, the way that needs bravado, defiance. Just a kind of calm. Ed kisses the top of my head. And I don’t move. Just lie against him. Peaceful. Then it’s gone. The moment is over. Because Matt has finished skinning up and has handed the joint to Ed.
I’m cold all of a sudden. I sit up and hug my legs, goose pimples stippling the skin. I think about getting my jumper out. But I know what Stella will say.
I watch Ed inhale and wonder how far I can go in this charade.
“Going to offer me some?” I say.
But he doesn’t. Instead he laughs, coughing out lungfuls of sweet, heavy smoke. “Your dad would kill me.”
And then I know he isn’t fooled. Not for a second. I’m still just a kid to him. Always will be.
“Whatever,” I spit. I pull the beers out of my bag and open one.
“Easy, Jude,” he says.
“Who put you in charge?”
He shakes his head. “Forget it.”
I drink long and hard to punctuate the silence.
“Just be you,” he says finally.
And I want to say, I am. This
is
me, the new, improved Jude.
But he’s known me too long. So I tell him the truth. “That’s the last person on earth I want to be.”
I WAKE up on the floor, doing that whole “Where am I?” thing in my head. Then I see the Doors posters, the shelves with the tacky swimming trophies and Harry Potters. And I remember.
Ed is in bed, asleep, one arm trailing on the floor. I am hot. Too hot. I try to stand up, but for some reason I can’t move. Then I realize I am straitjacketed into a brown nylon sleeping bag. The same bag I’ve slept in a hundred times. The same floor. The same room.
Not like waking up in a stranger’s bed,
I think. But we’re not kids anymore.
I feel inside the bag to check my clothes. I am still dressed. Can’t remember going to bed, though. Can’t even remember how I got back here. My stomach churns. I’m going to be sick. I manage to squirm out of the sleeping bag, like I’m emerging from a cocoon. But I’m not a butterfly. I am vile, a crawling insect. I lurch across the room and out of the door, praying that Mrs. Hickman is already gone. The bathroom is at the end of the landing. I make it in time to throw up across the closed toilet seat.
The next three heaves actually go into the toilet. I clean up with someone’s washcloth and a bottle of bleach, then rinse the washcloth and put it back on the edge of the bath. Then think better of it and drop it in the bin, covering it with a toilet-paper roll to hide my crime. My legs are shaking. I pick a toothbrush and turn on the taps. Leaning against the sink, waiting for the water to run cold, I look up into the mirror. My face is pale, my eyes ringed by dark circles, hair messy. The confidence that filled me last night is gone. I am ugly. I am nobody. I clean my teeth and creep back to Ed’s room.
He’s awake. Sitting up against the headboard. A mirror of Jim Morrison on the wall above.
“Why, Miss Polmear, you really are beautiful,” he says. But it’s not like when Stella said it. And I don’t know if he’s laughing with me or at me. So I just crawl back into the sleeping bag and close my eyes. Like it will all go away. But it doesn’t.
“Don’t you want to know what happened last night?”
And I don’t.
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