She’d said, calm, “’cos it can be confusing. Don’t you think?”
And she’d held my gaze, tested it, touched it quite lightly and pointed it back to the Globe, to the strobe-lighted sky that flicked on, off, on, off and I remembered I’d only had eyes for Miss Mint at the time.
It’s quite hard being fifteen.
* * *
Review’s coming up ‘cos the last day of term’s at the end of the week. Since we don’t know how long this life swap will last, we’ve decided we’d better get on with it.
Miss Mint’s ok. As a kid, you don’t have to join in with the annual Christmas humiliation assembly in front of the whole school, but surprisingly, she, Courtney, Rach (not Erin, she’s too cool and mourning Joe) have decided to dance. Something street. I looked at my feet when she told me and bit my lip hard ‘cos the thought of them all prancing round is hilarious. But I guess not as funny as me as Miss Mint doing Marilyn Monroe. Mr Morlis’ idea.
“Michelle Williams is hot,” he’d said. “Really.”
And something about it rang softly; appealingly. He’d said, “clearly you’d get your hair cut off and dyed,” and I’d thought of Kai and I’d tried and I’d tried to imagine short hair even as Miss Mint but said, “no thanks, I’ll just get a wig. And a really nice dress.”
At least it’s not street dance.
* * *
And she’d said something else, too. She’d said when she’d sat there at breakfast on Sunday with Kai, she’d said,
“I like you a lot and I think you like me.”
And he’d finished his doughnut and slooshed round his tea and said, “yeah, you know that.”
Then she’d taken a leap and asked him to wait. He’d looked quite surprised and said, “we’ve not been dating long, Lise, and besides, you’re only fifteen.”
And I’d smiled at her ‘cos I really love Miss Mint when she’s honest.
* * *
It’s Alicia’s controlled assessment in two day’s time.
I offered to mark bits of work here and there that she’s done; paragraphs on description and voice but she says she’s ‘ok, thanks’; she’s ‘well prepared’. Which, ‘cos it’s good English, I left at that.
Oh, and one other thing: my wardrobe’s slimmed down. ‘Cos I’m putting on weight. It’s Taff’s fault. Just two days of eating non-stop. It’s not much, I know, but the skinnies don’t fit ‘cos I’ve started to grow and I feel like Debono’s a waif next to me when we take orders for Review assembly.
But I’m safe in the knowledge that Miss Mint’s got loads of beautiful, delicate, exquisite clothes that will fit just fine. And when I dine each night with Taff, and share his delight in square meals and we settle on Posy to chat and he tells me all sorts of incredible, dangerous things about growing up, losing and winning and places he’s been that seem kind of fantastic, it’s worth it.
I even talk about boring old buying a house stuff, ‘cos Miss Mint wants to know that he’s doing enough to move forward with exchange, whatever that means. I just nod and smile and spoon out more Mints ‘cos he likes them.
* * *
When Mum was with Dad they’d take Em and me out to make a big deal of the fact they’d got laid. I’d know this from trembling floor boards in my room. I’m just saying.
Anyway, Miss Mint reckons Mum’s done it; doing it, ‘cos last night, when she came home from school, there was thumping and banging above. It’s a rule that we always say ‘hello’ when we both get back. Miss Mint says Mum didn’t; just stayed in the sack.
Is Mum seeing some internet date? Oh my golly, I think. GSOH.
Chapter 17: Tuesday pm, ninth night
The next night, we have Mr Morlis round to tea. Miss Mint wants to come but Mum’s seriously stressed about French oral next term, so she said, “j’amais l’esprit” and hopped off to help. To be honest, I just thinks she wants to show off ‘cos she’s been revising. Taff makes lasagne and I do the pud and although I wish Josh was here, ‘cos he’s well good at whisking the cream, I do manage to make a passable, lop-sided chocolate fudge cake.
Mr Morlis is early but we sit him on Posy and Taff pours the wine, a bit clumsy, and I glow. And I know it’s not real, all this; it’s surreal but I’m starting to hope it goes slow. Switching back, I mean. ‘Cos this is fun. As long as we do it by Friday, of course.
Mr Morlis has come to explain a bit more. He sits there in jeans and a checked shirt with paisley sleeves Josh would die for.