how to stand. But this was the day I realised it.
Dad lived at the last stop before the bus turned and ploughed down the bypass. It usually filled up at the five earlier stops and we almost never got a seat together. Not that Rona would mind that day. After a few seconds she got up and marched down to the verge, glaring into the road, hood of her duffel coat pulled up in the sunshine, shooting the odd glare back at me. Still all pissed off because Iâd tried to take her hand. Oh, get over it, you stupid kid, I muttered at her in my head.
Just the two of us there, that day. Looking up the hill again, I saw him coming.
Malcy Lamont. He was in my year, but we never spoke. What would we say? Heâd been in trouble ever since he arrived, just turned up one day about six weeks into second year. I think it was just the way he looked at the teachers, default expression of solid, nasty insolence. Eyes deep set with a shock of long fantasy girlâs eyelashes, greasy gingery curtains over a round head, fat lips always wet and half open. Not sixteen and already sexed, sizing the female teachers up when they told him off, just standing up there, itemising them â breasts, legs, back up to the crotch, where he stopped â till they backed down, every one. There were whispers about who heâd poked round the back of the science building, who had let him get three or even four fingers up, who heâd gone all the way with. Nobody really mentioned whether the girls had had much say in the matter. It was Malcy Lamont. He just happened. My plain girlâs invisibility cloak didnât work on him, either â Iâd had to pass him in the corridor on the way to PE once and heâd put his arm up, not let me through till heâd had a good, slow look. No words. Just letting me know that he would, if he felt like it. You dreaded getting anywhere near him during country dancing, in the progressive numbers, but you dreaded it silently.
Malcy Lamont was coming down the hill to the shelter now.Soft flop of cock at the crotch of his tracky bottoms, sour smell coming off him downwind. Malcy Lamont was only physical. The times before, when weâd made the bus, hulking Jenna Anderson and her brother had been there, the two of them like a barrier, soaking up some of Malcy. Not today. And he was coming over. I curled into the wall of the shelter, carried on staring out of the window frame, ready to flinch, wondering after what neverending length of time the bus would come.
He didnât come into the shelter, though. I turned around, and saw him standing in the grass, him and Rona facing each other. Her hood was down, the coat open and slipping off her shoulders, her hair blown back from her face. Just staring right back at him, eyeballing, keeping his sightline level with hers. Her jaw was set; not the way it would be when she was going to start a fight.
I didnât understand what I was seeing, really. Iâm not sure I do now. No idea what their two bodies were saying to each other, what sort of silent conversation happened there. Malcy Lamont didnât move. I didnât move. The bus came and Rona broke it, stepped past me and told me to come on, commanding, making her point. Schoolies spilled and burst all over us, jeering across the aisle, warmth and the fart stink on my skin. Somebodyâs tinny transistor playing that Robert Miles song, âChildrenâ, scratching and fuzzy at the strings. Rona was three paces ahead of me, cutting briskly through the tangled limbs of the aisle. She got a seat beside a smaller girl in her year, turned to her and started chatting.
âAre ye getting on, then, son?â the driver was asking.
Malcy Lamont walked quickly down to the back seat, where his mates were whistling at him. Head down. Didnât stop to brush his groin up against any outstretched knees, didnât look at Rona. I looked at her instead, through the seat behind. Her and thin, lank
Dad lived at the last stop before the bus turned and ploughed down the bypass. It usually filled up at the five earlier stops and we almost never got a seat together. Not that Rona would mind that day. After a few seconds she got up and marched down to the verge, glaring into the road, hood of her duffel coat pulled up in the sunshine, shooting the odd glare back at me. Still all pissed off because Iâd tried to take her hand. Oh, get over it, you stupid kid, I muttered at her in my head.
Just the two of us there, that day. Looking up the hill again, I saw him coming.
Malcy Lamont. He was in my year, but we never spoke. What would we say? Heâd been in trouble ever since he arrived, just turned up one day about six weeks into second year. I think it was just the way he looked at the teachers, default expression of solid, nasty insolence. Eyes deep set with a shock of long fantasy girlâs eyelashes, greasy gingery curtains over a round head, fat lips always wet and half open. Not sixteen and already sexed, sizing the female teachers up when they told him off, just standing up there, itemising them â breasts, legs, back up to the crotch, where he stopped â till they backed down, every one. There were whispers about who heâd poked round the back of the science building, who had let him get three or even four fingers up, who heâd gone all the way with. Nobody really mentioned whether the girls had had much say in the matter. It was Malcy Lamont. He just happened. My plain girlâs invisibility cloak didnât work on him, either â Iâd had to pass him in the corridor on the way to PE once and heâd put his arm up, not let me through till heâd had a good, slow look. No words. Just letting me know that he would, if he felt like it. You dreaded getting anywhere near him during country dancing, in the progressive numbers, but you dreaded it silently.
Malcy Lamont was coming down the hill to the shelter now.Soft flop of cock at the crotch of his tracky bottoms, sour smell coming off him downwind. Malcy Lamont was only physical. The times before, when weâd made the bus, hulking Jenna Anderson and her brother had been there, the two of them like a barrier, soaking up some of Malcy. Not today. And he was coming over. I curled into the wall of the shelter, carried on staring out of the window frame, ready to flinch, wondering after what neverending length of time the bus would come.
He didnât come into the shelter, though. I turned around, and saw him standing in the grass, him and Rona facing each other. Her hood was down, the coat open and slipping off her shoulders, her hair blown back from her face. Just staring right back at him, eyeballing, keeping his sightline level with hers. Her jaw was set; not the way it would be when she was going to start a fight.
I didnât understand what I was seeing, really. Iâm not sure I do now. No idea what their two bodies were saying to each other, what sort of silent conversation happened there. Malcy Lamont didnât move. I didnât move. The bus came and Rona broke it, stepped past me and told me to come on, commanding, making her point. Schoolies spilled and burst all over us, jeering across the aisle, warmth and the fart stink on my skin. Somebodyâs tinny transistor playing that Robert Miles song, âChildrenâ, scratching and fuzzy at the strings. Rona was three paces ahead of me, cutting briskly through the tangled limbs of the aisle. She got a seat beside a smaller girl in her year, turned to her and started chatting.
âAre ye getting on, then, son?â the driver was asking.
Malcy Lamont walked quickly down to the back seat, where his mates were whistling at him. Head down. Didnât stop to brush his groin up against any outstretched knees, didnât look at Rona. I looked at her instead, through the seat behind. Her and thin, lank
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