Read Online I Think I Love You by Allison Pearson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Allison Pearson
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For God’s sake, girl.”
Gillian said I could catch them up once I’d gotten the poo off my shoe.
“Come up my house after, okay?” yelled Angela without looking round. My friends moved off, not breaking formation, their backs like a wall.
I found a lolly stick in the hedge and started to flick out the claggy orange shit from the sole. It took ages because the smell kept making me gag; the last bits were stuck deep in the rubber criss-cross pattern, and I tried to rub them off with a dock leaf. God, my hands really stank and I didn’t have any tissues. It was okay, though, because I could wash them at Angela’s house in her downstairs cloakroom. I ran my fastest up the hill to catch them up and I got a stitch; the pain ripped into my left side and I had to sit on a wall for a while till it died down: then I picked the wrong turning, didn’t I, and I had to go back to the main road again to get my bearings. I was so late. The pungent, gritty smell of melting chip fat started to come from the houses where the women were putting dinner on. The girls’d be worrying and thinking I’d gone home or something. Eventually, I found the horseshoe-shaped close of detached houses where English Angela lived. It was lovely, really new with all these young trees planted in circles of soil cut in the front lawns. The trees were just sticks tied to a post really, with a single branch of pale pink blossom like the kind of feather boa I always wanted. Angela’s place had a patio and a cloakroom and everything. Lucky I remembered the number. I was so relieved and happy that I knew which house was Angela’s I almost started crying when her mum opened the door.
The woman was carrying a baby girl who had damp ringlets stuck to her head and looked grumpy, like she’d just woken from a nap. Angela’s mum seemed surprised when I said why I was there.
“Oh, sorry, love, the girls aren’t here. They’re over Gillian’s tonight. Bit of a party. Forget, did you?”
I did forget something. I forgot to tell you my favorite David song. It wasn’t “Could It Be Forever,” not even with that gorgeous, sexy dangling
but
. It was “I Am a Clown.”
The single made it only to number three on the U.K. charts, but it was always my personal number one tearjerker. I loved it because it was so sad, so soulful, so sensitive and deep all at the same time. Probably what I thought I was. David sang about being a clown in a circus sideshow. He had to keep smiling no matter what, even though it was killing him on the inside. The first time I heard “I Am a Clown” I gotthe shivers. Honest to God, I felt that he was speaking to me in code. David felt lonely and trapped in his pop-star life and only I could hear him. And you’d never have guessed it, but being able to feel a bit sorry for him was even better than thinking he was perfect. It was like noticing he had bad skin and not minding. (Which he did, as it happened, and I didn’t mind because David’s spots came up when he suffered with his nerves and all that makeup he had to wear for filming. It wasn’t acne or anything. He was just sensitive, that’s all.)
If David could be pitied, it meant that he needed me. I had a role to play in his life. Despite all of his wealth and fame and all the millions of girls he could choose from, he needed
me
.
David Cassidy was lonely. The thought was strangely thrilling. With me he would not be lonely anymore.
That’s why I never revealed my favorite song to the other girls. If I told them, then they could copy my idea. It might cost me some crucial advantage when David and I finally met. He was going to be so impressed I hadn’t chosen one of his obvious hits, wasn’t he?
“Gee, that’s amazing, Petra. You dig ‘I Am a Clown’? Wow. No one else ever noticed that song and it means so much to me. It happens to be my personal favorite.”
And what would I say back to him?
Believe me. You really don’t have to worry. I only want to make you
Gillian said I could catch them up once I’d gotten the poo off my shoe.
“Come up my house after, okay?” yelled Angela without looking round. My friends moved off, not breaking formation, their backs like a wall.
I found a lolly stick in the hedge and started to flick out the claggy orange shit from the sole. It took ages because the smell kept making me gag; the last bits were stuck deep in the rubber criss-cross pattern, and I tried to rub them off with a dock leaf. God, my hands really stank and I didn’t have any tissues. It was okay, though, because I could wash them at Angela’s house in her downstairs cloakroom. I ran my fastest up the hill to catch them up and I got a stitch; the pain ripped into my left side and I had to sit on a wall for a while till it died down: then I picked the wrong turning, didn’t I, and I had to go back to the main road again to get my bearings. I was so late. The pungent, gritty smell of melting chip fat started to come from the houses where the women were putting dinner on. The girls’d be worrying and thinking I’d gone home or something. Eventually, I found the horseshoe-shaped close of detached houses where English Angela lived. It was lovely, really new with all these young trees planted in circles of soil cut in the front lawns. The trees were just sticks tied to a post really, with a single branch of pale pink blossom like the kind of feather boa I always wanted. Angela’s place had a patio and a cloakroom and everything. Lucky I remembered the number. I was so relieved and happy that I knew which house was Angela’s I almost started crying when her mum opened the door.
The woman was carrying a baby girl who had damp ringlets stuck to her head and looked grumpy, like she’d just woken from a nap. Angela’s mum seemed surprised when I said why I was there.
“Oh, sorry, love, the girls aren’t here. They’re over Gillian’s tonight. Bit of a party. Forget, did you?”
I did forget something. I forgot to tell you my favorite David song. It wasn’t “Could It Be Forever,” not even with that gorgeous, sexy dangling
but
. It was “I Am a Clown.”
The single made it only to number three on the U.K. charts, but it was always my personal number one tearjerker. I loved it because it was so sad, so soulful, so sensitive and deep all at the same time. Probably what I thought I was. David sang about being a clown in a circus sideshow. He had to keep smiling no matter what, even though it was killing him on the inside. The first time I heard “I Am a Clown” I gotthe shivers. Honest to God, I felt that he was speaking to me in code. David felt lonely and trapped in his pop-star life and only I could hear him. And you’d never have guessed it, but being able to feel a bit sorry for him was even better than thinking he was perfect. It was like noticing he had bad skin and not minding. (Which he did, as it happened, and I didn’t mind because David’s spots came up when he suffered with his nerves and all that makeup he had to wear for filming. It wasn’t acne or anything. He was just sensitive, that’s all.)
If David could be pitied, it meant that he needed me. I had a role to play in his life. Despite all of his wealth and fame and all the millions of girls he could choose from, he needed
me
.
David Cassidy was lonely. The thought was strangely thrilling. With me he would not be lonely anymore.
That’s why I never revealed my favorite song to the other girls. If I told them, then they could copy my idea. It might cost me some crucial advantage when David and I finally met. He was going to be so impressed I hadn’t chosen one of his obvious hits, wasn’t he?
“Gee, that’s amazing, Petra. You dig ‘I Am a Clown’? Wow. No one else ever noticed that song and it means so much to me. It happens to be my personal favorite.”
And what would I say back to him?
Believe me. You really don’t have to worry. I only want to make you
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