Another Life Altogether_ A Novel

Chapter FIFTEEN



REVEREND MULLINS WAS ONE OF THOSE TRENDY VICARS, THE KIND I’d seen only on television. He wore his dog collar under a wrinkled corduroy jacket and atop a pair of carefully pressed jeans, and bore a fixed, beatific smile that made him look, in the words of several of the kids at the disco, “a bit retarded.” He wandered around, enthusiastically greeting the teenagers under his supervision, slapping backs, nudging ribs, patting shoulders, and infusing his conversation with liberal use of words like “cool” and “wow.” He was like a new kid at school, so desperate to impress that he was oblivious to the disdainful looks and mumbled insults he managed to provoke everywhere he went.
When Tracey and I finally arrived at the Reatton church hall, our ten-pence admission in hand, he greeted us with a painfully sincere smile, told us how wonderful it was to see young people turn out for a church event, and said how very much he hoped we’d make it to the Sunday service and the special teenagers’ Sunday school class afterward. “And maybe you two young ladies will consider coming on the trip to Lincoln Cathedral in January,” he added. “It has some amazing stained glass, and the choir is simply wonderful.”
“Right, I bet it is,” Tracey said, looking in my direction and rolling her eyes. I made a similarly scornful expression. From down the corridor, we could hear the thump-thump-thump of the disco music. Neither of us wanted to stay here at the door making polite conversation with the vicar.
“Oh, yes, they’re very cool,” he continued earnestly. “Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever thought of joining a choir yourselves, but I’m putting one together here in Reatton and I’m sure you two young ladies have angelic voices….”
Tracey gave another impatient roll of her eyes, then interrupted. “Look, Vicar,” she said as she crossed her legs and began shuffling about noisily in her immense platform shoes. “I’ve got to take a piss something rotten. And if I don’t get to the toilet right now, I swear I’m gonna wet myself. So, if you don’t mind—”
“Oh, no, by all means, you should …” he stuttered, his face turning a startling shade of crimson. “Erm … it’s down the hallway, through the cloakroom door, and then to your left.”
“I hope I can make it,” Tracey said, jigging about even more and pressing her legs together so tight that it looked as if her knees might buckle under her.
I concentrated on trying to stop myself from giggling, pressing my lips together and my face into fierce contortions until, thankfully, Tracey grabbed my arm and pulled me down the corridor after her. As soon as we plunged through the cloakroom door, she relaxed her needing-to-pee stance and spat out a loud wide-mouthed laugh. I laughed along with her.
“God, what a wanker,” she declared. “Who the hell does that bloody vicar think he is? Jesus bloody Christ himself?”
“He’s a f*cking poofter, that’s what he is.” It was Stan Heaphy. He leaned lazily against the cloakroom wall, gesturing with a lighted cigarette under a big, hand-lettered sign that read, “No Smoking, Please!” In his other hand he held a bottle of Johnny Walker Red Label whiskey. He tipped the bottle to his mouth, his Adam’s apple moving visibly in his throat as he glug-glugged the liquid down.
“You think so, Stan?” asked Greg Loomis. He stood among a group of boys assembled around Stan. He was dressed in a billowy orange shirt undone almost to his navel, a pair of trousers with an enormous, multibuttoned waistband, and platform shoes that made his legs look disconcertingly long. Upon catching sight of this paragon of male style, Tracey took a sharp breath and issued an elbow to my side.
I ignored her and instead looked about urgently to see if Amanda was there. Unfortunately, all I could see aside from the throng of boys surrounding Stan was a single empty bench in the middle of the room and the open door to the girls’ toilet beyond. Clearly, Amanda was elsewhere. Upon realizing this, my first instinct was to drape my coat on the nearest hanger and leave the cloakroom to Stan and his little gang, but when I turned toward Tracey to see her gazing at Greg with the most pathetically adoring expression on her face, I realized it was unlikely we’d depart the cloakroom soon.
“Tell them poofs a f*cking mile off, you can,” Stan declared, lazily wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his leather jacket before handing the bottle to Greg.
“Really? You think so, Stan?” Greg asked again. He grabbed the bottle and took an enthusiastic swig, screwing his face up and almost choking as he swallowed it down, prompting several of the boys around him to laugh. Tracey turned to scowl at them.
“Only a f*cking poofter would want to be a vicar,” Stan pontificated, sucking on his cigarette and then forcing the smoke out through his turned-down mouth. “I mean, who else would want to ponce around in a white dress on Sundays? What do you think he’s recruiting a choir for? So he can slip it to one of the choirboys afterward, that’s why. You want to f*cking watch him. Turn your back on him and he’ll stick it up your arse in a second.” He made a sweeping gesture with his cigarette and launched it toward the buttocks of a pudgy-faced younger boy. The boy had entered the cloakroom a few moments earlier and, his back to Stan, was hanging his coat on one of the hooks on the wall. The cigarette end landed against his backside, sending out a small shower of sparks and ash. Everyone around him burst into fits of bellowing laughter. I didn’t know his name, but I recognized him from school. He was a first-year, and I’d sometimes seen him eating at the same table as Malcolm and Dizzy in the dining hall.
“Bloody hell!” the boy yelled as he leaped away, dancing around the cloakroom while he brushed frantically at the seat of his pants. Stan, Greg, and the rest of their friends roared, doubling over and slapping one another on the back as they watched. Next to me, Tracey giggled, digging me with her elbow again as the boy tried to look over his shoulder to assess the state of his rear end. Though I was determined not to find anything that Stan Heaphy did amusing, I couldn’t help laughing. After all, the boy looked ludicrous, leaping around like a character in a slapstick comedy.
“Christ almighty,” the boy said when he’d managed to ascertain that his trousers weren’t on fire. “What the hell did you have to do that for? These are brand-new bloody trousers. If you’ve scorched them, my mam will kill me.”
His trousers, with their unfaded fabric and perfect creases, did look new. But the rest of his clothes—frayed denim jacket, shrunken sweater, and scuffed shoes—looked sad and worn. He didn’t look as if he came from the kind of family that could afford to replace clothes easily. I felt a fierce pang of guilt for having joined in his humiliation at the hands of Stan.
“Just trying to teach you a lesson, Ken, that’s all,” Stan said, stepping over to where the cigarette still burned on the floor and grinding it under one of his black Dr. Martens boots. “It’s for your own good. Got to keep an eye out for those poofter types. Can’t turn your back for a second. I mean, not with a delicious chubby little arse like yours.” There was another ripple of laughter. This time I did not join in.
Greg, whose laugh was by far the loudest, slapped Stan on the back. “Good one, Stan. Hah, that’s a bloody good one,” he brayed, hooking his arm over Stan’s shoulder and leaning into him so closely that he was almost hanging off Stan.
“Yeah, Stan, that was a good one,” Tracey echoed, gazing hopefully at Greg.
Grabbing the whiskey from Greg and shrugging him off, Stan took another long drink, removing at least an inch of the copper liquid from the bottle. As soon as he finished, he let out a theatrically loud belch and grinned proudly at the crowd assembled around him. Then he handed the bottle back to Greg, folded his arms, and regarded Ken with an arcing grin. “What’s up? Getting poked in the arse like that, did it bother you, Kenny boy?” The joking tone was gone from his voice, and his words came out in a slow and lazy snarl. I saw the muscles in Ken’s face tighten. He glanced at Stan’s face and then toward the door. I noticed how the air in the room felt stale with cigarette smoke and the heat of all those jostling boys’ bodies. Like Ken, I wanted to get out.
“More like nancy boy,” Greg Loomis crowed.
“Yeah, he’s definitely a nancy boy,” Tracey agreed, barking out an awkward, overloud laugh. “A fat little nancy boy.” Her eyes darted over to Greg, and for a moment her features seemed stung with intense neediness.
“Yeah, he’s got to be a f*cking poofter,” Stan said. “Doesn’t like me messing with him ’cause he’d prefer it up the arse from the vicar, wouldn’t you, nancy boy?”
“That’s not true,” Ken said, his voice flimsy and suddenly higher, precipitating an immediate chorus of vociferous laughter—the boys, mouths wide, lips curled, showing teeth and tongues and gums, and Tracey, clapping her hands together as she tossed her head back. I took a step back from the heaving circle, aware of how the stillness of my own face and my secrets set me apart.
“That’s not true,” Stan mimicked, making his own voice high-pitched and jiggling his head from side to side.
“But it’s not.” Ken seemed to find some anger within himself, raising his fists so that I thought he actually might try to hit Stan. I felt myself willing him to do it, even though I knew it would be a hopeless endeavor. At least then there’d be someone willing to defy Stan, to go down fighting. But Ken kept his fists clenched close to his chest, and under Stan’s sneering gaze he soon dropped them to his sides. “Just don’t do that again,” he said weakly, pressing his lips into a pout. “You shouldn’t do things like that. It’s not right.” Then he turned and scuttled toward the door.
I had already decided to follow Ken out. The little room felt as if it was getting smaller—I was dizzy with the bellowing laughter, with the smoke and sweat and alcohol smell. But just as Ken, head down, shoulders hunched, was pushing past one of the grinning boys, Tracey piped up.
“You hear that, Stan?” she said, her voice stark and bitingly shrill. “He went and threatened you. You’re not going to let him get away with that, are you?” Her features were fiery, animated. The desperate look I’d seen only seconds earlier was replaced by a glistening appetite in her eyes. “Go on, get him, Stan, teach him a lesson. Shouldn’t let a fat little fairy like him show you up.”
“She’s right, Stan,” Greg said, looking directly at Tracey. “We should teach the little dickhead not to talk to you like that.”
As Ken reached for the door handle, one of the boys closest to him grabbed his hand and jerked it away. Then, in a single movement, he twisted Ken’s arm around his back. Ken gasped, grimaced, and cried out. The blood drained from his features like liquid poured away.
“Not so bloody fast, you chubby little poof,” Greg said, striding toward Ken. As he moved past Tracey, he handed the whiskey bottle to her.
“Show him, Greg,” Tracey said, almost breathless. She looked utterly focused, gleeful in her rage. “Show him that he needs to watch what comes out of his big fat gob.” She gestured toward Ken with the bottle.
Greg took over the hold on Ken’s arm from the other boy and marched him toward Stan. Across the room, Stan took out another cigarette, lit it with a flourish, and tossed the burning match to the floor. He took a long, languorous drag, the calm in his movements belied by the greedy anticipation in his eyes.
“Stop it, stop it,” Ken wailed, squirming loosely against Greg’s grip. “I haven’t done anything to you.” His body contorted, with his arm still twisted high up behind his back, he looked awkwardly at the gawping crowd. All the boys, leaning into one another, were a single shuddering wall of laughter, angled limbs, blotchy skin, and oversized hands. When I caught the eye of one of the older boys—long-faced, with a strand of greasy hair falling over his forehead—I felt the cold heat of his stare press into me and I looked away, knowing that he could see my fear.
Having marched Ken across the room, Greg released his grip and shoved him toward Stan. “Hello there, Kenny boy,” Stan said. “Back so soon?”
“Just … just, let me go, Stan. I’m sorry—really, I am. I … I … didn’t mean to bother you.” Ken’s voice was so shaky he was almost stuttering.
“But, see, there’s your problem right there, Ken,” Stan said, shaking his head and letting out a long sigh. “See, fat little poofs like you—well, they always bother me. I know you can’t help it, Kenny, but the trouble is, no matter what you do you just get on my f*cking nerves.”
“Yeah, you get on everybody’s nerves, actually, Ken,” Greg agreed.
“So, Ken,” Stan said, sucking on his cigarette and then waving it in the air over Ken’s head. “What do you think the right kind of punishment for you would be?”
Ken, looking upward at the cigarette, didn’t answer.
I wanted to rescue him. I really did. I wanted, more than anything, the courage to speak out, to release my fury against Stan. But I also knew that speaking out would make me a target. And perhaps then they would somehow see all the things about me that had so far gone unnoticed. After all, if I stood up for Ken, who everyone thought was a fat poof, a hideous little nancy boy, what did that say about me? In my panic, I looked at Tracey. Perhaps this was enough for her, too. Perhaps she hadn’t thought that things would go so far. Surely, now she saw that Stan might really hurt Ken, she would want it to stop? But when I looked into her face her features were energized, ravenous, like someone watching a late-night suspense film, utterly transported, thrilled. She put the whiskey bottle that Greg had handed to her to her lips, tipped it back, and took a swig. Her face twisted as she drank down the copper liquid, then, as she let the bottle drop to her side, her eyes blazed wider and her cheeks were bathed in a sudden flush.
Stan took another puff on his cigarette and then, this time, as he exhaled a breath of thick gray smoke, he moved the cigarette deliberately, slowly, until its burning end was just a couple of inches from Ken’s cheek. “Feel the heat, Kenny?” he said, easing the cigarette closer still to Ken’s face.
There was a single snort of awkward laughter among the surrounding boys, and then an empty perilous silence against the insistent beat of disco music coming from down the hall. The beat merged with the throb of my pulse in my temples. My mouth felt dry, my whole body frozen and breathless, as I watched Ken’s horrified eyes blinking rapidly, his eyelashes fluttering like tiny, nervous wings.
Stan pulled the cigarette away and everyone sucked in a breath. As he took a drag, I noticed a couple of the boys shuffle awkwardly, eyeing Stan and then the door. “Hey, Stan,” one of them said warily, “maybe you should take it easy. I mean, the vicar’s only just down the hall.”
“Yeah, Stan,” said another. “You don’t want him to chuck us out.”
Ken, apparently sensing a shift in the mood of the room, began to back away.
“Like I give a f*ck,” Stan said as he reached out and grabbed Ken by the arm. “Not so fast, Kenny boy.” And then, in a swift and unexpected movement, he plunged his cigarette toward Ken’s face.
I stood motionless, unable to move. Ken let out a sound like a bleat, and, his face crumpling like a piece of balled-up paper, he stumbled backward and began to heave out jagged, thunderous sobs.
“Shit, Stan,” one of the boys said as the room was filled with the acrid scent of burned hair. “Did you burn his face? You’ll get the f*cking cops on you if you burned his face.”
For a moment, Stan’s face was a mask of joyous fury, his eyes narrowed and still and filled with delight. Then, as if pulled from a dream, his expression changed. “He’s all right,” he said, eyeing Ken. “You’re all right, aren’t you, Ken?” He put his hand on Ken’s shoulder and pulled him upward. “See, I didn’t touch him,” he said, pointing at Ken’s damp but apparently undamaged cheek. The cigarette must only have burned a wayward strand of hair.
At that moment, the door swung open and everyone turned to see who had come in. Even Stan bore a look of alarm. I had a sudden jolt of hope, desperate for rescue by the vicar or one of the other adults supervising the evening’s activities. My hope plunged as Malcolm and Dizzy walked into the room.
Oblivious at first to the scene they had intruded upon, they were talking in fast and excited tones, their features animated. They were all blazing color, Dizzy in a knee-length red velvet dress that settled over her body like a billowing crimson cloud, Malcolm in a pair of pastel blue trousers and a shocking-pink satin shirt. In that first moment I saw them, I felt a streak of envy as bright as their clothes—for the normality that they still occupied, while I stood there horrified. But I saw their faces plummet as they took in the scene around them, and I felt the dread inside me swell.
“Oh, look,” Tracey sneered. “It’s four-eyes and her little fairy friend. What you two doing here? Close the freak show early, did they?”
Greg chuckled. “Hah, freak show—yeah, that’s a good one.”
Tracey beamed. Malcolm and Dizzy exchanged looks.
“You all right, Ken?” Malcolm asked.
“He … he … he tried to burn me. With his cigarette.” Ken gestured shakily toward Stan.
Malcolm looked at Stan, his expression a mixture of confusion and anger. “Jesus Christ!” He began to move toward Ken, past the line of silent onlookers. “Come on, Ken,” he said, his voice soft and soothing. “Maybe we should get you out of here, eh?”
“Mind your own f*cking business, you f*cking fairy,” Stan said.
“Ken’s my friend. It is my business,” Malcolm said. “And if you tried to burn Ken, that’s the police’s business.”
Stan laughed, but this time he seemed uneasy, taking a hasty drag on his cigarette. “Who the hell do you think you are? Policeman Plod? More like Sergeant Fairy. Look at you—you’re a f*cking embarrassment.” He reached over and tugged on one of the flouncy sleeves of Malcolm’s shirt. “Who the hell bought this? Your mummy? Maybe next time she can send you out in a nice frilly little dress.” At this, the other boys sniggered. “But for f*ck’s sake don’t take any fashion advice from this ugly slag,” Stan continued, nodding toward Dizzy. “Put a paper bag on her head and even Greg here still wouldn’t shag her. Right, Greg?” He slapped Greg across the shoulder.
“Of course I wouldn’t shag her,” Greg huffed.
“You’re both f*cking weirdos,” Stan said.
“Nobody asked for your opinion,” Malcolm responded.
“Nobody asked for your opinion,” Stan imitated, making his voice high and flapping his wrist. He began mincing about the room. “Because I’m a little poof,” he continued in the high, ridiculous voice. “And I’m just here to spoil everybody else’s fun.” He stopped and leaned his face into Malcolm’s. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he said, resuming his normal snarl.
“I’m taking Ken here into the other room,” Malcolm replied. “And I think it’d be wise to let me. Otherwise, we might have to talk to the police. With your reputation, Stan Heaphy, I doubt they’d show much sympathy for you.”
Stan seemed jarred. As Malcolm edged past him, Stan didn’t even try to stop him. The boys gathered around were nervous again, cowed by the mention of the police.
I was amazed at Malcolm’s daring. A reedy wisp next to Stan’s leather-clad bulk, he was defiant, propelled by something that seemed to make him impervious to fear. When he reached Ken, he put an arm around his shoulder and began to guide him toward the door.
“Aw, isn’t that sweet, they’re giving each other a girlie hug,” Greg sneered. Tracey giggled.
“God, what is wrong with you?” Malcolm said. His eyes swept the room. “Is this funny to you? Scaring people? Hurting them? Making them cry? Calling them names just because they’re different, because they’re not like you? It’s pathetic!” I looked away, my fear almost completely replaced by shame.
“No,” Stan said, stepping in front of Malcolm again. “You’re pathetic, you scrawny little poof. You and blubber-faced fatty here. And you’ll be even more pathetic once I’ve beat the f*cking shit out of you.” He took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it over his shoulder so that one of the boys behind him had to duck to avoid getting hit in the face by the still burning butt. Then he rolled his right hand into a fist and pressed his left palm over his folded fingers so that his knuckles sounded an aching crack.
I could see now the fear in Malcolm’s features—in the clench of his jaw, the taut skin around his mouth, the bloom of sweat across his forehead. I was amazed that he didn’t flinch or try to get away. Instead, he kept looking steadily into Stan’s face and pulled himself broader, taller, announcing his bright and satiny presence without shame.
“Get him, Greg,” Tracey urged, gesturing toward Malcolm with the whiskey bottle.
Greg puffed up his chest and curled his lip. “You’re in for it now, you little poof.”
Tracey beamed proudly at Greg, and then, as if toasting his bravado, she lifted the bottle to her lips to take a swig. Unfortunately, she tipped back the bottle with a little too much force, taking in a larger mouthful of whiskey than she’d anticipated, so that almost as soon as she tried to swallow she choked, coughed, and sputtered out most of the liquid in Greg and Stan’s direction.
“F*cking hell!” Stan shouted, jumping back as a shower of Tracey’s whiskey spittle hit him. “Christ almighty, don’t drink that f*cking stuff if you can’t take it.”
A smile tugged at the edge of my lips as I watched Stan brush at the spatters on his jacket and Greg frantically wipe the whiskey that had hit him in the eyes. For a second, I looked across at Malcolm. Our eyes met only briefly, but in that moment I felt as if he saw into me—my hatred of Stan and the agony I felt at witnessing this scene. He looked away toward Dizzy. She was moving slowly backward, toward the door.
“God, I’m sorry, Stan, I really am,” Tracey said, trying to help wipe his jacket.
Stan pushed her away. “Stupid f*cking bitch,” he muttered.
Tracey stepped back, swinging the whiskey bottle in my direction. Without even thinking, I reached for it. “Here, Trace, I’ll take that for you,” I said. I grabbed the bottle with loose enthusiasm, swinging it widely so that, with the bottle’s mouth pointed outward, whiskey splashed in a wide, liquid arc around the room.
“Jesus! F*ck! Shit! Christ almighty!” A chorus of expletives sounded as everyone around me was doused with a generous spray of whiskey. And then a chaos of churning bodies and flailing limbs as boys wiped dripping liquid from their faces and pushed wet hair out of their eyes.
“Jesse, you idiot!” Tracey yelled, rubbing at the splotches darkening the fabric of her blouse.
“Yeah, she’s a f*cking idiot, all right,” Stan barked. “There’s hardly any f*cking drink left, and that fat bitch has got away.” In the anarchy prompted by the whiskey shower, Dizzy had fled the cloakroom.
“You think she’s going to tell the vicar, Stan?” Greg asked.
Stan rolled his eyes. “Where do you think she’s gone, you f*cking bonehead? To powder her f*cking nose? Of course she’s gone to tell the vicar.”
“Christ,” Greg said. “I hope he doesn’t chuck us out.”
“I’m not worried about that,” another boy added. “I just hope he doesn’t phone my dad.” At this, a disconcerted mumble traveled around the room.
“I’m sorry, Stan,” I said. “I didn’t mean to …” I let my words fade as Stan turned to look at Malcolm and Ken.
“You breathe a f*cking word about someone trying to burn you, Kenny,” he snarled, “and I promise you that I will make you sorry you were ever f*cking born. Besides, everybody here will say it was you that was causing trouble, right, lads?”
Everyone around me nodded.
“I won’t say anything, Stan, I promise,” Ken said. “Malcolm won’t say anything, either, will you, Malcolm?” When Malcolm remained stonily silent, Ken tugged on his arm. “Don’t say anything, Malcolm. Please. I don’t want any trouble. And Stan didn’t really hurt me. It was just an accident.”
“All right, Ken. For you, I won’t say anything.”
Relieved, Ken scurried toward the exit. But Malcolm paused before he made to leave, sweeping the room with a look of disgust. When his eyes finally met mine, I thought I detected a subtle shift in his expression—a hint of curiosity and, possibly, recognition—before he turned away and marched out the door.
THE ROOM IN WHICH the disco was held had that oppressive, institutional feeling that comes with khaki-green walls and narrow windows that have been painted forever closed. It was stuffy and crowded and its innate dust and disinfectant odors blended with the smell of bodies and breath. In the front, on a stage backed by a banner that read FRIDAY NIGHT IS BINGO NIGHT: JOIN US AT THE REATTON DERBY AND JOAN CLUB, the dj stood behind a console of three colored lights that flashed in rhythm to the thumping music. Most of the dancers were girls assembled in little circles on the dance floor. The boys flanked the walls, their hands stuffed into their pockets, their heads bobbing with the music’s beat.
Tracey and I wandered out of the cloakroom and found the Debbies sitting on a row of chairs near the stage. Dressed in full Bay City Rollers regalia (tartan-trimmed jackets and half-mast trousers, tartan socks and shiny platform boots), they were easy to spot. “Where the heck have you two been?” demanded Debbie Masters.
“Getting a bloody lecture from the vicar,” Tracey responded, plunking herself down in one of the empty chairs. I sat down beside her.
“Why? What happened?” All three of the Debbies looked eagerly toward us.
Tracey rolled her eyes. “This idiot,” she said, sticking her elbow in my side, “managed to spray whiskey round the entire room. So when the vicar comes in it smells like a bloody brewery. God, you should have heard him go on and on.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” I protested. “And it wasn’t me who brought the whiskey here in the first place. Besides, the vicar was just as bothered about the smoking—”
“Oh, shut up, Jesse,” Tracey snapped.
I felt stung. “No need to be like that. If Stan and Greg hadn’t started trouble in the first place, if they hadn’t been picking on Ken—”
“Don’t you say a word against Greg! Him and me were getting on great until you went and ruined everything.”
“But I didn’t mean to,” I said weakly.
Of course, Stan and Greg hadn’t been very happy with me, either. As soon as Malcolm and Ken left the cloakroom, Stan commanded me to put the top on the whiskey bottle and hide it, saying, “I don’t f*cking care where you put it—up your bloody arse, for all I mind. But if I get the blame from the f*cking vicar, you’ll be getting the blame from me.” Almost tripping over myself, I’d scrambled to find somewhere to stow the bottle. The only real place to hide anything in the otherwise bare cloakroom was among the coats hanging all around the wall, and I’d shoved it into my own coat pocket and then pulled the other coats over it to hide it from view in time for Reverend Mullins’s entry. Not that I needed to be afraid, since Reverend Mullins’s idea of discipline was to subject us to a cheery little pep talk about how turning to God would provide us with far more solace than could ever be found in alcohol and how, though smoking might seem “cool” to us teenagers, it really wasn’t “cool with Jesus.” He delivered his lecture to a chorus of scornful snorts and barely suppressed giggles, and, upon suggesting that we might want to attend the Christmas Day service, by Stan’s bellowed, derisive laughter. At this, the vicar seemed finally to understand that he needed to take a firmer hand and concluded his chat by telling us, “If I hear so much as a whisper of trouble tonight, I’ll have the police down here as fast as you can say ‘Jack Robinson,’ and your parents on the phone within five minutes of that.”
Fortunately for me, the vicar had prattled on for so long that by the time he was finished, everyone seemed to have forgotten that it was my apparent clumsiness that had saddled us with this lecture. Spirits deflated by the prospect of having the local constabulary swoop down on them, Stan, Greg, and the rest of the boys drifted sulkily out of the cloakroom into the main hall.
“I’m sorry, Trace,” I said, pressing my hand against her arm. “But, really, don’t you think things went a bit too far with Ken? I mean, he really could’ve got hurt.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Jesse, don’t be so bloody stupid. I mean, what kind of idiot cares about pudgy-faced little Ken? Never mind that ugly pervert Malcolm Clements. Me and Greg were getting on really good in there. Didn’t you see? And then you had to go and spoil it.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again, terrified of the anger that showed in Tracey’s face. “I didn’t mean to.” I tugged against her sleeve and looked at her imploringly, but she simply pressed her eyes into burning slits and turned away.
For most of the evening, Tracey and the Debbies ignored me. When they got up to dance with all the other girls, I wasn’t invited. When Tracey went to buy pop and crisps, she asked the Debbies what they wanted but didn’t even look my way. While the four of them huddled together to chat, not only was I not included but, from the way the Debbies kept snickering in my direction, I got the distinct impression they were talking about me.
This was it, I realized. I had fallen from grace. I couldn’t believe how stupid I’d been. If I’d only stood by and done nothing, Tracey wouldn’t be angry at me. She was right—why should I care about Kevin or Malcolm? They weren’t the people I wanted to be my friends. I could see them now, across the dance floor, in their pathetic little group. Dizzy and Malcolm dancing together, as mismatched and comical as Laurel and Hardy—Dizzy gyrating around in her big velvet sack while Malcolm, head thrown back and eyes half closed, pranced about like a pixie. From the sidelines, his eyes still swollen from crying, Kevin watched them enthralled. Everyone else thought they looked ridiculous. Being laughed at like that, being made the butt of everybody’s jokes, was awful; it was the worst thing I could imagine. Except, I thought as I watched Malcolm spinning round and round, what if you really didn’t care? What if you were somehow able to let the mocking slide off you? What if it made no difference to you at all? For a moment, I felt the possibility touch me, the idea of that solidity, that confidence—knowing you were different but embracing it, occupying it, and being utterly immune to the derision or hatred of anyone else. But then, when Malcolm toppled outward, fell against another boy, and the boy shoved him away so that he staggered back and hit Dizzy, I felt that possibility fall away. No matter how carefree you might be, there was always someone on the sidelines wanting to push you around.
SHAKEN BY THE SCENE that had played out in the cloakroom and cold-shouldered by Tracey, I felt my longing for Amanda’s presence intensify. I watched the entrance of the dance hall, willing her to arrive. When she finally entered the room, she looked stunning, wearing a calf-length emerald-green dress made of a thin, silky material that draped itself in shiny folds over her frame and infallibly outlined her impressive curves. Her hair, styled so that it rippled back from her face in shiny waves, was crowned by a tiara she’d fashioned out of silver Christmas tree tinsel. Even in the dimly lit hall, her features were bright and flushed, as if she had only just come in from the cold. My stomach turned somersaults at the sight of her. The air seemed to crackle around her, as if charged. As she moved, all the eyes in the room followed her.
“God, look at the bloody state of her,” Tracey said. “She looks like a bloody Christmas tree gone wrong. Should stick some bloody ornaments on her fat backside—that’d complete the picture perfectly.”
“I think she looks fantastic,” I said.
“Fantastic? Maybe to an idiot without any fashion sense,” Tracey huffed.
I felt myself shrink, but then my heart began to race as Amanda veered away from her friends and toward us.
“Don’t bother us, Amanda,” Tracey said. “We’ve got better things to do than talk to you.”
“Didn’t come to talk to you, did I?” Amanda said. Her words slid together, and she had a glazed, loose look on her face. “Came to see Jesse.” She turned to look at me, and as she did, her dress swished around her, a glossy emerald wave. “Having a good time?” she asked, giving me a broad but slightly slack smile.
“Yes, it’s all right,” I said, barely able to get the words out.
“Good, that’s good.” She wrinkled up her nose and moved her head up and down in a jerky nod.
“Yes,” I agreed, searching desperately for something interesting or amusing to say.
“You had a dance yet, then?”
I shook my head. “I can’t really dance.”
“Can’t dance?” She furrowed her brow. “Don’t be daft!” She batted at the air with her hand, stumbling forward slightly.
“You’re drunk!” Tracey declared, flashing Amanda a contemptuous look.
“No, I’m not. And it wouldn’t be any business of yours if I was. Anyway, Stan already told me you had a go at his whiskey earlier, so don’t be such a bloody hypocrite.”
“At least I didn’t spray most of the bottle around the room.”
Amanda laughed. “Yeah, I heard about that, Jesse. Managed to piss Stan off, you did. Don’t worry, though. I told him not to get his knickers in a twist. He’s got a couple of dozen more where that bottle came from. Got them dead cheap, from a mate of his. He brought three bottles with him tonight. Stashed the rest outside near his motorbike. We’ve been having a bit of a booze-up outside. Had to come in, though. It’s bloody freezing now out there.”
I wondered if Stan had told Amanda about the rest of the happenings in the cloakroom, about his efforts to burn Ken with his cigarette or his threats to Malcolm and Dizzy. I wondered what Amanda would think if she knew. She’d been quick to jump to my defense when Tracey and the other kids at the bus stop had been tormenting me; maybe she would be angry at Stan for being a bully, too. For a moment, I considered telling her. But while I wanted nothing more than to convince her of Stan’s unworthiness, the experience in the cloakroom had left me fearful of him. He was capable of really hurting someone, and capable of enjoying it. I didn’t want to give him a reason to want to burn me with his cigarette.
Abruptly, the music changed. Apparently, the dj, whose last several records had been a series of chirpy melodies, had decided on a change of mood, and the booming bass of the Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction” sounded out across the room.
“Oh, come on, Jesse, you’ve got to dance to this.” Amanda gestured toward me.
“Me? Dance?”
“Yeah. Come on,” she said, reaching over to grab my arm. “Don’t be shy.”
“But I can’t, I …” I wanted to explain that, after my parents, I was one of the most inept dancers in the world, that I’d only embarrass myself beyond hope if I were to try to get up and follow her. At the same time, though, I longed to glide onto the dance floor with Amanda. Hadn’t I written about it in my letter to her? Surely I wasn’t going to let this chance go by?
“Oh, come on, don’t be daft.” She pulled on my arm, moved backward unsteadily, and I let her drag me after her, into the crowd.
She pulled me into the center of the floor and, letting go of my hand, closed her eyes, tossed back her head, and started to dance. While the music pulsed and swam, I stood there watching her. She moved within a shimmering sheen of green, clapping her hands, swaying her hips, moving her feet in time to the music’s rhythm, her face—eyes still closed—rapt. She was utterly mesmerizing.
“Come on, Jesse,” she said, opening her eyes, looking indignant. “You can’t just stand there, you’ve got to dance.” She moved closer.
“I can’t dance, I—”
“Everybody can dance!” she yelled over the pounding music. “Come on!” She grabbed my arm and started to swing it.
I wanted to do this, but at the same time I had never felt so self-conscious in my entire life. I started to sway unsteadily from one foot to the other. “That’s it,” Amanda said, smiling enthusiastically. She dropped my arm and I moved beside her, all uncoordinated limbs. I knew I looked completely ridiculous, and right then I would have run from the dance floor if I’d thought I could do it without her noticing. Except, after a minute or so, I felt something shift. The dance floor had become more crowded. We were surrounded by dark and moving bodies in a flashing half-light. No one was paying attention to either me or Amanda. Within that hot cavern of energy and bodies, it was almost as if we were alone. I felt myself begin to loosen as the bass flowed through me, and, as I did, I remembered the way Malcolm had danced—unrestrained, oblivious to everyone around him even though he clearly had no rhythm at all. As I thought about him, I found that I, too, could let myself fall into a similar oblivion, into the sensation of Amanda beside me, the brush of her dress against my hand, the enraptured expression on her face.
When the record ended, she fell against me, laughing and panting. “See, I knew you’d like it,” she said, wrapping an arm around my shoulder and leaning into me. Her breath was hot; it made me shudder, a thread of electric energy that bristled through me. “I knew you’d like to dance with me,” she said, pushing her lips closer, so that I felt them brush against my ear.
As I made my way back through the crowd, I felt the urge to throw my arms in the air, to yell, to celebrate. I had danced with Amanda. I felt light, buoyant, as if my body were made of nothing but air.
“What the heck are you grinning about?” Tracey demanded as I took my seat beside her once again.
“Nothing,” I said, “I just … I just really like this song.” The dj was playing something raucous, with a lot of crashing guitars.
“It’s rubbish. And if he keeps playing all this loud stuff I’ll never get a chance to dance with Greg. Of course, with you messing things up with him, Jesse, he’ll never ask me to dance.”
“Tracey, I’m sorry.” I put my hand on Tracey’s arm. She shrugged it away.
I felt a flash of hatred—for Tracey, for her stupidity for caring about an idiot like Greg Loomis, while she found it so easy to cast me aside. But, almost as soon as the hatred came, I felt a surge of desperation. I needed Tracey.
“You’re not being fair, Trace,” I said, detesting the whine in my voice, wanting, in fact, to slap some sense into her, to tell her to stop being so petty and cruel.
“Life’s not fair, Jesse,” she said.
For the rest of the evening, I sat nursing the hope that Amanda might ask me to dance again. My hope finally expired, though, when the dj switched to playing slow songs, and I saw Stan swagger across the room, take Amanda’s hand, and pull her onto the dance floor. Then, together, they shuffled about, Amanda’s arms around Stan’s neck, her head resting dozily against his shoulder while he wrapped his arms around her waist and let his hands rest on the curve of her buttocks.
I couldn’t stand to watch them, and for a moment I let myself imagine stomping across the floor, pulling Stan away, kicking him, knocking him down. But this fantasy was just as futile as all my others, and so, rather than torture myself further, I stood up and threaded my way through the dancing couples toward the cloakroom. When I stepped inside, I was surprised to find Greg Loomis sitting on one of the low benches, smoking. He rolled his eyes when he saw me. “You! Thanks to you, I still smell like a f*cking booze factory. Ruined my bloody chances with the lasses, you have. I should give you a f*cking good hiding. I should—”
“I didn’t think you’d be so brave without Stan Heaphy to back you up,” I said. Instead of feeling afraid, I just felt irritated. The things that were bothering me were far more significant that Greg Loomis.
“Hey, if you don’t watch it—” He began to rise from the bench.
“God,” I said, past caring, “you think you’re such a big, bloody man. And you can’t even see what’s in front of your face.”
“What you talking about?”
“My friend, that girl that was in here earlier. Tracey Grasby. She really fancies you.”
He dropped to the bench again, taken aback. “Really?”
“Yes,” I said, wanting to add that he had to be blind as well as vain and immensely stupid if he hadn’t seen it himself.
He took a thoughtful puff on his cigarette. “This your idea of a joke? Because if it is, I’ll—”
“Look, all I know is she might stop her nonstop talking about you if you just go out there and ask her to dance.”
“Oh.” He took another drag on the cigarette, held it in, frowned deeply, then blew the smoke out in a fast stream. “Well, maybe I will, then,” he said, dropping his cigarette to the floor and standing up to make his way to the door. Before he left the cloakroom, though, he stopped to look in the mirror at the end of the coat pegs. He patted his hair smooth with both hands, straightened his eyebrows with a moistened finger, and turned his face to admire his profile. “All right, Greg,” he said, smiling at his reflection. “Go out there and knock her dead.”
When he was gone, I sank to the bench, listening to the music echoing down the corridor and realizing that the outcome of this evening had been inevitable from the start. It was stupid of me to even think that I could fit in here. I was a misfit and a failure, and even when I tried my best to buy the right clothes and be like the other girls it was still obvious that I didn’t belong. Tracey hated me, Amanda was dancing with the hideous Stan, and here was I, again, pathetic and alone.
When I heard the music stop, I stood up, pulled on my coat, and pushed my way into the corridor. Staring glumly at the linoleum floor, I didn’t notice that someone had just stepped out of the door that led into the boys’ toilet until I almost bumped into him. When I looked up, I found myself face to face with Malcolm. Still flushed from all his exertions on the dance floor, his hair was damp and plastered across his forehead, and I could see tiny beads of perspiration at his temples.
“Excuse me,” I said instinctively as I started to edge around him.
“Hey.” He grabbed at my arm.
“What?”
“I just wanted to say, well, thanks for helping out earlier—you know, in there.” He gestured toward the cloakroom door.
Just then, I heard a loud peal of laughter echo down the corridor. I looked over to see Tracey marching toward us.
“That was really quick thinking, I—”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I interrupted.
“But you … I saw you.”
“I said, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I repeated, pulling my arm out of his grip.
Just then, Tracey reached us. “Out of my way, poofter boy,” she said, barging into Malcolm and pushing past him. Then, much to my delight, she leaned into me and hooked her arm through mine. “Did you see, Jesse? Did you see?” She was bouncing up and down beside me. “Greg likes me! He likes me! He’s going to give me a lift home on his motorbike!” She looked about as thrilled as someone who’d won a ten-thousand-pound bingo prize. “And he told me, Jesse, he told me that you said he should ask me to dance. God, I’m sorry I wasn’t very nice to you earlier on because, really, you are absolutely the best bloody friend in the world.”
“Thanks, Trace,” I said, beaming at her, only noticing, out of the corner of my eye, Malcolm turn around and stalk off.