Donna Bruce nattering away, the same age except one of them was a child and the other one wasnât.
Next time I got a chance to talk to her was after lunch, passing her on the way to French.
âWhat was all that about this morning?â
âAll what? You just need,â patronising voice, full height âto remember that Iâm not actually a baby, Fiona.â
âYou know what I mean. With him. With Malcy .â I whispered that bit, didnât want to get caught saying his name out loud.
âNo idea what youâre talking about,â she said, peeling off and away from me, her hair whipping out behind her.
I wasnât even surprised when the knock on the door came that night. Dad was out at the shops and Rona was in the toilet, so I went, already half-knowing who it would be.
âEh. Is your sister in?â
He was wet through â it had just stopped raining â huddled up under a manâs coat too big for him. I looked down on him from our steps and thought it was maybe the first time Iâd ever heard him speak. I wasnât really sure what to do, so I just closed the door on him, softly, and went back into the living room, turned the telly up louder.
That was it, for Rona, though. I heard her new laugh in the corridors and on the bus, bright and healthy. From nowhere, she had boy friends and then boyfriends, mostly third years but once, for two terrifying, glorious weeks until the slaggings from his friends got too much for him, Chris Wood in fifth year, captain of the football team, lead actor in the school plays. Never Malcy Lamont, although Iâd sometimes catch him staring at her cheek on the bus, immobilised. She was untouchable for the likes of him now. She walked taller than me, bunched her school skirt into her belt, stretched her legs out at break times to pull her socks down into thick rolls over each ankle. She started staying out late, crashing home at one and three and four. Her clothes and makeup got much, much cooler than mine, quickly. Iâd pass her in the playground, screeching and flirting and petting with an entirely different set of friends from the ones sheâd had before. I just stood back and watched her, got my grades, told no tales to either parent. They were busy finalising the divorce then, anyway, didnât notice, didnât want to.
Forth
I am beginning to know this world, I think. Itâs like a soap opera. I tune into them every day, when I get home, when Bethâs fed and the telly is on. There they are, listed, all the women working in my city, reports on them, their own blogs, their new pictures.
I check the forum to see if anyone has posted a new field report any of the ones I follow, the ones who seem sort of famous with the men, the personalities. Sabrina. Tiffany. Casey. Shiny American names. Bubblegum exotica. I think Iâve found the blonde girl, the one with the piercings, from the protest. Anya. She calls herself âSonjaâ. Her website says sheâs Swedish, and specialises in fetish work. Her face is blurred out, of course, but you can still see the piercings. She has another one through her nipple, little silver bolt, the skin all bruised and puckered around it. Not for the first time I think how strange it is that most of these women will show every little part of themselves but hide their faces.
Holly has a new blog up; itâs short and boring, complaining about women in the game who lie about their age. Holly is nineteen, and she doesnât understand why anyone would ever want to lie. Whatâs the point, she says. When Iâm thirty-five, Iâm going to tell everyone Iâm thirty-five. Iâm going to be proud of it.
Holly is one of the ones who is either far too trusting or knows exactly whatâs sheâs doing; I havenât worked it out yet. Thereâs nothing blurred out here â there are only a few who do this, and theyâre mostly young, very young,
Next time I got a chance to talk to her was after lunch, passing her on the way to French.
âWhat was all that about this morning?â
âAll what? You just need,â patronising voice, full height âto remember that Iâm not actually a baby, Fiona.â
âYou know what I mean. With him. With Malcy .â I whispered that bit, didnât want to get caught saying his name out loud.
âNo idea what youâre talking about,â she said, peeling off and away from me, her hair whipping out behind her.
I wasnât even surprised when the knock on the door came that night. Dad was out at the shops and Rona was in the toilet, so I went, already half-knowing who it would be.
âEh. Is your sister in?â
He was wet through â it had just stopped raining â huddled up under a manâs coat too big for him. I looked down on him from our steps and thought it was maybe the first time Iâd ever heard him speak. I wasnât really sure what to do, so I just closed the door on him, softly, and went back into the living room, turned the telly up louder.
That was it, for Rona, though. I heard her new laugh in the corridors and on the bus, bright and healthy. From nowhere, she had boy friends and then boyfriends, mostly third years but once, for two terrifying, glorious weeks until the slaggings from his friends got too much for him, Chris Wood in fifth year, captain of the football team, lead actor in the school plays. Never Malcy Lamont, although Iâd sometimes catch him staring at her cheek on the bus, immobilised. She was untouchable for the likes of him now. She walked taller than me, bunched her school skirt into her belt, stretched her legs out at break times to pull her socks down into thick rolls over each ankle. She started staying out late, crashing home at one and three and four. Her clothes and makeup got much, much cooler than mine, quickly. Iâd pass her in the playground, screeching and flirting and petting with an entirely different set of friends from the ones sheâd had before. I just stood back and watched her, got my grades, told no tales to either parent. They were busy finalising the divorce then, anyway, didnât notice, didnât want to.
Forth
I am beginning to know this world, I think. Itâs like a soap opera. I tune into them every day, when I get home, when Bethâs fed and the telly is on. There they are, listed, all the women working in my city, reports on them, their own blogs, their new pictures.
I check the forum to see if anyone has posted a new field report any of the ones I follow, the ones who seem sort of famous with the men, the personalities. Sabrina. Tiffany. Casey. Shiny American names. Bubblegum exotica. I think Iâve found the blonde girl, the one with the piercings, from the protest. Anya. She calls herself âSonjaâ. Her website says sheâs Swedish, and specialises in fetish work. Her face is blurred out, of course, but you can still see the piercings. She has another one through her nipple, little silver bolt, the skin all bruised and puckered around it. Not for the first time I think how strange it is that most of these women will show every little part of themselves but hide their faces.
Holly has a new blog up; itâs short and boring, complaining about women in the game who lie about their age. Holly is nineteen, and she doesnât understand why anyone would ever want to lie. Whatâs the point, she says. When Iâm thirty-five, Iâm going to tell everyone Iâm thirty-five. Iâm going to be proud of it.
Holly is one of the ones who is either far too trusting or knows exactly whatâs sheâs doing; I havenât worked it out yet. Thereâs nothing blurred out here â there are only a few who do this, and theyâre mostly young, very young,
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