Read Online I Think I Love You by Allison Pearson - Free Book Online
Authors: Allison Pearson
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said.
Why? Please God, why? I’d never said “dunno” in my life before.
Dunno
was common.
Dunno
was the vocabulary of morons. My mother could drop down dead in the street if she knew she had a daughter who said “dunno.” The woman who devoured
Reader’s Digest
’s “It Pays to Increase Your Word Power” could not have produced a child who said “dunno.”
“Remember your manners, Petra, for Gott’s sake,” my mother would chide.
“Thanks a lot,” I tried again and nervously cracked a smile.
Steven picked up his red-striped Adidas sports bag and slung it over his shoulder as if ready to go, but then he stayed where he was, moving his weight from one foot to the other.
Was it a trap? I looked around to check if Jimmy and the other boys were lying in wait, but they were already a hundred yards down the path, booting their bags into the mud and falling on top of them.
“Thought you’d like to know—about the other Petra, like.”
“Thanks. I didn’t. Know. Rose-red city.” Which was the color of my cheeks by then, of course. The blush traveled faster than the feeling that was driving it; a feeling for which I did not yet have a name. One of the most powerful feelings in the whole wide world.
“So long, then,” Steven said, gesturing with his free arm to show me he needed to catch up with the other boys. He raised his eyes from the floor and smiled. The smile said the barking wasn’t going to stop, but that he didn’t agree with it.
“So long, then.”
I think we’d just had our first conversation.
“What did Steven Williams want with you, then?” Gillian demanded when I caught up with the girls in Needlework.
She put the emphasis on the
you
. As though I were the last girl in the world any boy would want to talk to.
“He had a book of mine by mistake,” I said.
I hated Needlework—or, rather, Needlework hated me. I’d been trying to put a zip in a midi-skirt for three lessons and Miss kept telling me to unpick it and try again. Each time I gently depressed the foot pedal on the little sewing machine I felt like a rodeo rider forced to ridea giant bee. Just the faintest touch on the pedal and the needle went crazy.
Bbbzbzzbbzzzzz
.
“Steven Williams can get between my covers any day,” Carol smirked, raising herself half out of the chair and making thrusting motions with her hips. Olga rolled her eyes at me. Unlike me, Olga actually wore her glasses in school and could see.
“Good-looking boy, fair play to him, keeps himself tidy,” Sharon said, licking the end of a piece of cotton before threading it through a needle. She began to maneuver a sleeve into place in the bodice of a pink satin bridesmaid dress that she would wear at her auntie’s wedding in August. It already had darts on the bust, an assortment of pin-tucks and an invisibly stitched hem. The long puffed sleeves, lying like amputated limbs on the table ready to be sewn in, had perfect crimped-pastry tops. What I am telling you is that Sharon’s dress looked like a
dress
. A feat more astonishing to me than writing a symphony or docking a spaceship. That dress was so professional Sharon could have sold it in a shop.
“Anyway, that Steven Williams is a terrible kisser. Bethan Clark ’ad him,” confided Gillian. “Spits in your mouth, he does.”
We were walking down the street, arm in arm, our group. Gillian was in the middle and that Saturday she allowed Sharon and Angela to link arms with her. The second favorites got to hold the arms of the girls holding onto Gillian. I was on the outside, but oddly exhilarated and grateful to be part of the lineup at all. Because the pavement was narrow, I had to let go of Olga’s arm every time we came to a lamppost, step into the gutter, then quickly hop back onto the pavement and grab her again. The conversation moved on, so I was always a beat or two behind. In my hurry, I failed to notice the dog mess.
“
Ach-a-fi
, Petra, is that you? Got something on your shoe?
Why? Please God, why? I’d never said “dunno” in my life before.
Dunno
was common.
Dunno
was the vocabulary of morons. My mother could drop down dead in the street if she knew she had a daughter who said “dunno.” The woman who devoured
Reader’s Digest
’s “It Pays to Increase Your Word Power” could not have produced a child who said “dunno.”
“Remember your manners, Petra, for Gott’s sake,” my mother would chide.
“Thanks a lot,” I tried again and nervously cracked a smile.
Steven picked up his red-striped Adidas sports bag and slung it over his shoulder as if ready to go, but then he stayed where he was, moving his weight from one foot to the other.
Was it a trap? I looked around to check if Jimmy and the other boys were lying in wait, but they were already a hundred yards down the path, booting their bags into the mud and falling on top of them.
“Thought you’d like to know—about the other Petra, like.”
“Thanks. I didn’t. Know. Rose-red city.” Which was the color of my cheeks by then, of course. The blush traveled faster than the feeling that was driving it; a feeling for which I did not yet have a name. One of the most powerful feelings in the whole wide world.
“So long, then,” Steven said, gesturing with his free arm to show me he needed to catch up with the other boys. He raised his eyes from the floor and smiled. The smile said the barking wasn’t going to stop, but that he didn’t agree with it.
“So long, then.”
I think we’d just had our first conversation.
“What did Steven Williams want with you, then?” Gillian demanded when I caught up with the girls in Needlework.
She put the emphasis on the
you
. As though I were the last girl in the world any boy would want to talk to.
“He had a book of mine by mistake,” I said.
I hated Needlework—or, rather, Needlework hated me. I’d been trying to put a zip in a midi-skirt for three lessons and Miss kept telling me to unpick it and try again. Each time I gently depressed the foot pedal on the little sewing machine I felt like a rodeo rider forced to ridea giant bee. Just the faintest touch on the pedal and the needle went crazy.
Bbbzbzzbbzzzzz
.
“Steven Williams can get between my covers any day,” Carol smirked, raising herself half out of the chair and making thrusting motions with her hips. Olga rolled her eyes at me. Unlike me, Olga actually wore her glasses in school and could see.
“Good-looking boy, fair play to him, keeps himself tidy,” Sharon said, licking the end of a piece of cotton before threading it through a needle. She began to maneuver a sleeve into place in the bodice of a pink satin bridesmaid dress that she would wear at her auntie’s wedding in August. It already had darts on the bust, an assortment of pin-tucks and an invisibly stitched hem. The long puffed sleeves, lying like amputated limbs on the table ready to be sewn in, had perfect crimped-pastry tops. What I am telling you is that Sharon’s dress looked like a
dress
. A feat more astonishing to me than writing a symphony or docking a spaceship. That dress was so professional Sharon could have sold it in a shop.
“Anyway, that Steven Williams is a terrible kisser. Bethan Clark ’ad him,” confided Gillian. “Spits in your mouth, he does.”
We were walking down the street, arm in arm, our group. Gillian was in the middle and that Saturday she allowed Sharon and Angela to link arms with her. The second favorites got to hold the arms of the girls holding onto Gillian. I was on the outside, but oddly exhilarated and grateful to be part of the lineup at all. Because the pavement was narrow, I had to let go of Olga’s arm every time we came to a lamppost, step into the gutter, then quickly hop back onto the pavement and grab her again. The conversation moved on, so I was always a beat or two behind. In my hurry, I failed to notice the dog mess.
“
Ach-a-fi
, Petra, is that you? Got something on your shoe?
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