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Fried Scampi From Hell
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5
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'Oh my God, don't look, don't look, he's here.' says Vicky, staring
hard into her lap. I look up and he is standing at the bar with
his top lip hovering over a full pint glass. He's wearing a checked
shirt with his new denim jacket and jeans and he looks like a cowboy
without the hat.
'It's okay,' I say, 'He's staring at the dance floor,' and she
allows herself another sneak glance.
'Ohhhh,' she sighs. Like a kind of baby-animal-is-injured sigh.
'He's gorgeous, he's completely and utterly gorgeous. Look at his
hair. I wish I could remember how to dance.'
'Course you can,' I say. 'Let's wait till the start of the next
record.'
I know what she means though. When we walk on the half empty
dance floor I feel as if everyone is looking and suddenly I feel
awkward and strange. Like we are astronauts who can't get used
to gravity again. She shouts something in my ear, still dancing,
her hand swaying like she is beating an invisible egg.
'Yeah,' I shout back, smiling, cause she is smiling and I don't hear
what she said. Another record comes on and suddenly I feel happy.
I am okay, I can do this stuff too. I like the feel of the music
and the feel of my skirt as I'm dancing. I risk a little twirl,
and then another. I want to close my eyes and sing the words but I
have to stop myself. It is as if I am singing them under my breath.
And I have to keep a look out. For us both.
When he asks me to dance, I don't see him coming. I feel a tap
on my shoulder and he nods at me, eyebrows raised. Vicky gives me
that big wit-tee-woo smile but it doesn't reach her eyes. She sits
down, sips her drink and looks into the middle distance as if she
is waiting on someone or some thing.
'How's it goin' up at Alcatraz ?' Hunky Phil shouts, leaning
in to my ear and I get a breath of after shave. A sort of fresh
pine smell.
'Oh, just the usual rubbish,' I say, although I don't mind
school. Sometimes in double English I even feel content. Like I want
to take my shoes off and get comfy while I watch the rain outside and
listen to Mr Dawson's deep voice as he reads Shakespeare. I don't
really care if I don't understand it all. I just feel like I'm where
I should be. Not like the shop. In the shop I'm scared. Scared of
Frankenstein and the customers and scared of getting the till wrong.
'Thank God I've left that dump,' he says. 'I'm saving up for a
motor now.' His hoop earring is glinting in the light like those
little minnows you see in the shallows.
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6