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Authors: Anne Enright
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face on and then I just sit there, looking at myself in Mrs Casey’s mirror. After a while there’s nothing for it except put on the damn dress. Then I sit on Mr and Mrs Casey’s bed, and look at the wallpaper. The bed isn’t made. The sheets are a really dark green. I lie down for a moment – just for two seconds, I lie down. Then suddenly everyone’s arriving, so I jump up and stuff all the gear into my bag, and I make my grand entrance, sweeping down the stairs and into the hall.
Natalie jigs up and down and screams, and she hugs me from four feet away, not to muss. Then we go into Billy’s front room, and his father takes a picture, and then she’s there– Mrs Casey. I was wondering what the silence in the house was, but there she is, flattened against the wall. Actually she swings in round the door frame like a broken gate. She holds the door frame with one hand and slams the other one flat against the wall. Then she goes rigid, and looks to the left, as if there’s someone after her, and they’re in the hall.
‘Hi, Mrs Casey,’ I say.
She’s really drunk.
‘Hiiiii,’ she says.
‘What do you think?’ I do a pathetic little twirl and she lowers her head at me and gives a sort of grunt of approval, then she swings her head around to find Natalie.
She looks at the dress.
‘Hnnnn,’ she says – which is, actually, the way it comes out of her, quite a friendly and ironic sound. It’s a ‘White? Interesting choice!’ sort of sound, but Natalie just looks at her.
Then she picks up her white skirt with her Rouge Noir nails and ‘Billy!’ she says, like he’s a dog or something. She doesn’t look to the left or the right. She puts that nun’s smile on her face, walks past Mrs Casey and keeps walking until she is out the front door.
‘People die,’ that’s what Natalie said to me on the phone. Because of course, we had a big surge when we got to the hotel and the boys got really trashed. At least, I got really trashed so I assume the boys did too, and I ended up snogging – not Billy, thank Christ – but someone else altogether. There’s a little splash of puke on the back of my mother’s silk skirt, and I’m pretty sure the guy got sick over my shoulder, and Natalie must hear it in my voice on the phone, the way I blame her for all this. Because when she picked up her white skirt and walked past Mrs Casey, something broke. Something between the four of us broke, for good.
‘And anyway she’s not dying,’ says Natalie, who has no intention of dying, ever. ‘She was just drunk.’ Which is true.
Like we weren’t drunk?
Which I don’t think of saying, at the time. I think of saying it later, though – in the middle of the night, when I’ve justwoken up in a sweat of pure shame. Apart from anything else, it’s so gay – this trailer fantasy I had of me and Natalie swapping mascara, and spraying each other’s hair, and fixing the boys’ ties. Mrs Casey, downstairs, being tough and smart about my dress; giving me a tough, smart kiss on the cheek before we go. And it’s a while before I realise that a) it isn’t hairspray that makes you gay, it’s sex that makes you gay, and b) I don’t even like hairspray.
So that’s all right, then.
For a while I just lie there and let all the little moments fly round in my head. Like months ago in the chipper, when Natalie said, ‘There’s not much point getting in a fizz.’
And I think that Billy’s mother will live or die whether or not we get in a fizz. So I say, fizz away . You might as well play it as it feels, Natalie .
My sister’s night light thinks about shifting from blue to lilac, and then seems to change its mind. What do I tell her – precocious brat that she is – what do I tell her, at the age of twelve and a half?
We are not connected .
Because this is what Natalie is saying, isn’t it? That we are alone. That there is no connection between me and her, or between Billy and me, or between any of us and Mrs
Natalie jigs up and down and screams, and she hugs me from four feet away, not to muss. Then we go into Billy’s front room, and his father takes a picture, and then she’s there– Mrs Casey. I was wondering what the silence in the house was, but there she is, flattened against the wall. Actually she swings in round the door frame like a broken gate. She holds the door frame with one hand and slams the other one flat against the wall. Then she goes rigid, and looks to the left, as if there’s someone after her, and they’re in the hall.
‘Hi, Mrs Casey,’ I say.
She’s really drunk.
‘Hiiiii,’ she says.
‘What do you think?’ I do a pathetic little twirl and she lowers her head at me and gives a sort of grunt of approval, then she swings her head around to find Natalie.
She looks at the dress.
‘Hnnnn,’ she says – which is, actually, the way it comes out of her, quite a friendly and ironic sound. It’s a ‘White? Interesting choice!’ sort of sound, but Natalie just looks at her.
Then she picks up her white skirt with her Rouge Noir nails and ‘Billy!’ she says, like he’s a dog or something. She doesn’t look to the left or the right. She puts that nun’s smile on her face, walks past Mrs Casey and keeps walking until she is out the front door.
‘People die,’ that’s what Natalie said to me on the phone. Because of course, we had a big surge when we got to the hotel and the boys got really trashed. At least, I got really trashed so I assume the boys did too, and I ended up snogging – not Billy, thank Christ – but someone else altogether. There’s a little splash of puke on the back of my mother’s silk skirt, and I’m pretty sure the guy got sick over my shoulder, and Natalie must hear it in my voice on the phone, the way I blame her for all this. Because when she picked up her white skirt and walked past Mrs Casey, something broke. Something between the four of us broke, for good.
‘And anyway she’s not dying,’ says Natalie, who has no intention of dying, ever. ‘She was just drunk.’ Which is true.
Like we weren’t drunk?
Which I don’t think of saying, at the time. I think of saying it later, though – in the middle of the night, when I’ve justwoken up in a sweat of pure shame. Apart from anything else, it’s so gay – this trailer fantasy I had of me and Natalie swapping mascara, and spraying each other’s hair, and fixing the boys’ ties. Mrs Casey, downstairs, being tough and smart about my dress; giving me a tough, smart kiss on the cheek before we go. And it’s a while before I realise that a) it isn’t hairspray that makes you gay, it’s sex that makes you gay, and b) I don’t even like hairspray.
So that’s all right, then.
For a while I just lie there and let all the little moments fly round in my head. Like months ago in the chipper, when Natalie said, ‘There’s not much point getting in a fizz.’
And I think that Billy’s mother will live or die whether or not we get in a fizz. So I say, fizz away . You might as well play it as it feels, Natalie .
My sister’s night light thinks about shifting from blue to lilac, and then seems to change its mind. What do I tell her – precocious brat that she is – what do I tell her, at the age of twelve and a half?
We are not connected .
Because this is what Natalie is saying, isn’t it? That we are alone. That there is no connection between me and her, or between Billy and me, or between any of us and Mrs
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