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Fried Scampi From Hell
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6
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'Cool,' I shout back, because I can't think of anything else to
say but somehow it does seem cool that Hunky Phil who ate the same
macaroni in our school canteen would soon be driving around like he
was a grown up man. I look across at Vicky and now she is staring
straight at me as if I am betraying her with every word. The song
is nearly over so I lean in towards his neck and I ask him. I try to
make my voice sound light as if it is just a casual inquiry, a light
hearted suggestion. Like Frankenstein over the jewellery counter.
'What about this one? Would you like to give it a try Madam?'
But he is shaking his head.
'Naaa,' he says. He does not have to explain and I don't want him
to either. If Hunky Phil does not want to dance with my friend
then that is that.
'Hope you get a car soon then,' I say and raise my hand in an
awkward wave as I walk back to Vicky.
'What was he saying?' She has downed all of her cider during
the record.
'Och, nothing much really,' I say. I know there is no point in
telling her about the car. This time Vicky goes up to the bar and
gets another drink for herself. We sit and sip and I can't think
of any thing to say. I think of how excited we were earlier and
now there is only the flatness of a bad Sunday afternoon. A slow
dance record comes on and we exchange 'what now ?' looks. A lot of
the couples hug in close. Big Alan Johnson is wrapped around Jane
McKinley covering up her luminous bra. His eyes are closed and
I look at Vicky for her reaction but she is not playing any more.
She is just gazing at the lights and the badly painted sign that
says Disco Blue.
I see his hands before I realise it is him. Just these hands
clasping the cheeks of a bum in stretch Wranglers and as they turn I
see it is Gillian Stewart's bum. It is her shiny hair falling down
her back as she tilts her face up to his. And when Hunky Phil kisses
her I see a flash of his tongue and it looks greedy and passionate
like it does in the movies. I am wondering about the wetness of it
all and how it must feel to kiss a boy on top of the lip gloss,
or to kiss a boy at all, when I realise that Vicky has left.
And then I see her, making her way through the swaying couples,
her shoulders drawn in, in case she should touch any of them.
Like a dodgem car going the wrong way.
The sign on the toilet door says 'Ladies' and there is a brass
propeller above the door frame. One of the sixth form girls staggers
out, clutching a drink, her other hand tucking her blouse into her
jeans. I push the swing door and inside Vicky is standing before
the mirror. The sink in front of her is clogged with wet toilet roll
and cigarette ash. Her tears are making her mascara run and her big
red lips are quivering and turned down at the corners. For a moment
I have a strange thought that if she had a bowler hat and a flower
she'd look like one of those cry clowns at the circus. The crap
ones that are never even funny. I glance across at the cubicles.
One of the doors is half closed but I don't see any feet underneath.
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7