Still Falling Read online

  ‘Like what?’ His shoulders have relaxed and his hand comes up and rests on my arm. My hand slides from his shoulder to the back of his neck.

  ‘Well – like this.’ I lean in and nudge his lips with mine.

  His body stiffens and for a split second I think, Oh no! I have read this wrongly, Sassy Girl has plunged me in way, way out of my depth, and then his hand tightens on my arm and he’s kissing me back.

  Luke Bressan is kissing me.

  Something sings inside me. I can’t believe I’m kneeling here, at the school war memorial, holding this beautiful boy, who is kissing me back as if he really wants to, as if what he feels for me is the same as I feel for him. I feel so brave – I, who’ve never been kissed by a boy, have made the first move. Luke pushes my hair back from my face and looks straight into my eyes.

  From inside the building, the bell blares out.

  Luke

  Sandra dries her hands on the towel hanging off the front of the cooker and goes to fill the kettle. The cat, now named Jay by me because, like Gatsby, he seemed to come from nowhere, meows up at her. ‘How was the rugby?’

  ‘Rugby?’ I’ve forgotten. ‘Oh! Hopeless.’ I hang my schoolbag over the back of a chair.

  Sandra gives me a quizzical look. ‘You don’t seem too bothered. Tea?’

  ‘Yes, please. No, I don’t mind. You should have seen the rugby players. Morons. And the coach is a fascist.’

  This is possibly the most I have ever said to Sandra in one go, and she looks delighted and sets out two mugs on the table. I want to go straight upstairs and lie on my bed and think about Esther – relive that incredible moment when she curled her hand round my neck and kissed me.

  We hadn’t said anything – the bell went, and we sat up, and she pulled at her hair, and we walked back to school, and I wondered if I should take her hand, but the drive was suddenly invaded by home-going juniors, jostling and texting and grabbing each other’s schoolbags, so I didn’t.

  ‘Luke?’ Sandra waves a hand up and down in front of my face. ‘I said do you want a Hobnob? Tea won’t be for a bit.’

  We’d separated at the girls’ changing rooms, and she’d stood for a moment at the door and said Well, and I’d said Well. And she’d said, See you tomorrow then, and I’d said, Yeah, and that had been that.

  I don’t even have her number.

  ‘I’ll take the tea up with me,’ I say. ‘I have loads of maths to do.’

  I sit in the bedroom which is starting to feel a bit more like mine. Bill’s put up the shelves he’d promised, and they are full of my books. I’ve spent ages arranging them properly.

  It doesn’t matter that we haven’t said anything; I’ll see her tomorrow in tutor group. Only – the room will be full of people; the whole day will be full of people.

  I lay my maths book on the desk, well away from my mug, and turn to a clean page in my notebook. I read the first problem, but the words and figures dance around on the page and in my head. I stare at it until the tea scums over and my neck cramps with tension. I knead it with my fingers and remember the pressure of Esther’s hands there. My hands can’t produce the same feeling hers did.

  Maybe the maths will make sense after tea – a meal that used to be called dinner at Helena’s. Meanwhile I can read over the economics. It’s very boring and very complicated, but at least I understand the words. There’s an English essay – I’ll leave that until the weekend, but I can go over my notes. As soon as I start reading the biographical notes on Fitzgerald I remember copying them down from Esther. Even though I’m looking at my own neat writing, I’m seeing her loopy, girly script.

  It’s no good.

  I can’t wait until tutor group. I could look up her landline number in the phone book – but there must be hundreds of Wilsons, and her dad might answer. But I have Toby’s number and Toby, surely, must have hers. I text him before I can change my mind.

  My phone pings back immediately. I look at the screen for ages and think about my message. I don’t want to sound desperate. Maybe I shouldn’t bother.

  You definitely shouldn’t bother.

  It’s a voice in my head I haven’t heard for years. For a moment my brain doesn’t even recognise it. My guts, turning to ice, are quicker.

  Shut up, I tell it, and tap out a text:

  Hope you don’t mind me

  getting your number off Toby.

  Just wondered if you

  are free on Friday night?

  Luke

  As soon as I press Send I toss the phone down on the bed behind me and force myself to read The Great Gatsby. It isn’t a great distraction: Gatsby yearns for Daisy. Nick kisses Jordan, though he’s not in love with her. The phone stays silent. So does the voice.

  Sandra calls me down for tea. I leave the phone on the bed.

  _____________

  Sorry: phone on silent.

  Yes, free Friday.

  See you tomorrow.

  E x

  I lie on my bed and read the message over and over again, and forget all about the maths.

  _____________

  I frown at my cornflakes. Where can I take her? Where do people go? She lives on the other side of town, near school. The pubs that aren’t fussy about ID will be crawling with Mansfield sixth-formers. I can’t really afford to take her for a meal, but going for a coffee doesn’t feel dateish enough.

  ‘Luke? I said do you want a lift?’ Bill sounds impatient. ‘I’m off today and I’ve to go into town. Save you getting the bus.’

  Sandra and Bill don’t know I always walk. It would sound so stupid to say I’m nervous of going on a bus in case I have a seizure. If I make it for a whole month without one I’m going to rethink.

  But for now – well, it’s hardly worth it, just for one day. The walk will give me a chance to come up with a brainwave about Friday night. Actually, that Coffee Spoons place – that was cool; that might do.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘Thanks – but I always see my mates on the bus.’

  Sandra and Bill exchange pleased looks. I finish off the last of the cornflakes and wonder how the lies can fly out of me so easily.

  Esther

  I stand in the shower and screw up my eyes as the hot water pounds me. I’m far too early but I’ve factored in lying-onthe-bed-in-my-dressing-gown-becoming-less-pink time. I run through the list of topics that are too grim/uncool for a first date.

  War.

  Homework.

  Pretty much everything we’ve ever actually talked about.

  Suddenly panicky, I reach for the conditioner. Then, as I smooth it through my hair I relax. It will be fine, I tell myself. He likes you. It’s a date. He invited you. He fancies you.

  I try to summon Sassy Girl but all I get is a bitchy voice that sounds like Cassie. Of course he doesn’t fancy you. Look down at yourself. Look at that wobbly body; those big thighs, glowing red in the heat.

  He kissed me. He asked me out.

  You kissed him. Of course he asked you out. You’ve made it very clear you’re available. He’s a seventeen-year-old boy. They’re after one thing and you’ve made it clear he can have it for the taking.

  No! Did I let him think that? How far will he want to go? How far do I want to go? I really fancy him, but … I wish I could talk to Ruth about this. How far is too far? If he only wanted – that – he wouldn’t bother taking me out.

  He’s taking you out to a café.

  So?

  So he knows he doesn’t have to try too hard. Because you’re desperate.

  Shut up shut up shut up.

  I turn the shower on harder and let the pounding water silence the voice.

  _____________

  The café, Coffee Spoons, is in a side street in the centre of town. As soon as I push open the door I relax: this is such a me place. It isn’t like Starbucks or Costa; it’s all white paint and exposed brick and mismatched tables and crockery and quotations from poems on the walls. The music is low and sounds like someone singin
g in French.

  Of the million fears I’ve had since we made the date, the worst is that Luke won’t show and I’ll have to sit on my own for ages with everybody looking at me. But I see him almost at once, sitting on a leather sofa in front of a coffee table, looking at his phone, but checking the door too. He looks up and smiles.

  ‘You found it,’ he says.

  ‘It was easy.’

  I sit beside him on the sofa and wonder if that’s why he chose this particular table. There are other tables free, but they are just normal ones, with chairs facing each other.

  ‘Is this table OK?’ Luke asks and I feel myself blush.

  ‘Perfect.’

  He puts his phone in the pocket of his hoody, which is folded on the sofa beside him. He’s wearing dark green jeans and black Converse, with a check shirt over a black tee-shirt. His hair looks blonder under the dim wall-lights. I have agonised about what to wear. My wardrobe isn’t exactly extensive and it’s never included date-clothes. I have one beautiful dress that’s too fancy for a café; smart clothes for church – lately unworn – which make me look like a secretary; slobbing around clothes; and not much in between. So I’ve mixed and matched jeans with a vintagey-looking blouse and cardigan. I hope the effect is cute and quirky and not slightly weird. My period is due which makes me feel fatter than ever. I don’t have much make-up but I’ve done my best, and my hair is on its best behaviour for once.

  I look round the walls and say something inane about the photos and something even inaner about the bus being late, and then the waitress comes and I order tea because I think fiddling with the pot and everything will give me something to do.

  ‘For two,’ Luke says.

  ‘Tea for two,’ I say stupidly. ‘We know how to have a good time.’

  He frowns. ‘Is this OK? I didn’t think you were a pub kind of person.’

  ‘I love it.’ For the first time it occurs to me that he might be nervous too. I smile. ‘And you’re right. I’m not very – um, pubby.’

  Ruth and I and all our church friends were great ones for cafés. It was one of the comforting things about being in a Christian crowd – no pressure to go into pubs or drink. I feel a sudden pang. I never imagined I’d be getting ready for my very first date without Ruth to reassure me and get excited with me. But it’s my own fault.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’

  ‘Maybe later.’ I don’t think I’ll ever relax enough to eat in front of Luke. I have no idea where the confidence has gone which let me kiss him by the war memorial. I remind myself of my good resolutions – no depressing talk. No making the first move. That’s not going to be a problem. Sassy Girl has cleared off.

  I try not to look at Luke too much, but I totally can’t stop myself. We talk about The Great Gatsby; the weather; the sixth form ski trip which has just been announced – which neither of us has the slightest interest in. Nothing personal. There’s also a fair amount of not-talking. Looking round the café and pretending to be interested in the other people. I’m so distracted by how much I long to touch Luke. We’re slightly turned towards each other on the sofa. His shirt traces the contours of his chest and flat stomach. His arm lies across the back of the sofa; it would take a very slight adjustment for him to slide it round me – but he doesn’t.

  I drink three cups of tea until my stomach protests and I have to go to the loo.

  I check myself in the mirror and replenish my lipstick. My cheeks are as red as strawberries and I try to calm them down with a dusting of powder. I give myself a good talking to – not out loud. Look at you, I say. You’re not pretty, you’re not thin, you’re not cool. You can’t afford to be dull as well. No wonder he isn’t making any moves on you. Just kiss him! You did it before.

  Which is exactly why I can’t do it again.

  When I get back, having resolved nothing except my bladder and my lipstick, there’s a fresh pot of tea at my place. And a tiny gingerbread man with cherry buttons down his front. To my horror, my throat thickens and my eyes fill with tears. Please let him not notice.

  He notices. ‘Esther? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s stupid.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It – um – reminds me of someone. My friend Ruth.’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘No!’ I start laughing and crying at the same time. Snot bubbles in my nose. ‘We just fell out – we didn’t even really fall out.’

  He gives me a girls are weird look that I can’t blame him for. I mean, he has a dead mum and I’m crying over someone I’ve only been avoiding because I’m embarrassed about the way I left the church.

  ‘You don’t have to eat it.’ He leans towards me and now he does put his arm round me, which feels delicious but it isn’t the way I’ve thought of it at all. I don’t want to be comforted; I want to be desired.

  ‘Esther.’ Luke frames my face in his hands and pushes the tears away gently with his fingers. ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve upset you. Again.’

  ‘You haven’t. I promise.’ The week before my period it takes a lot less than that to make me burst into tears – but I don’t say that out loud.

  He pulls my face towards him and kisses me very gently. It isn’t like at the war memorial – for a start we’re in a public place – and he pulls away pretty much as soon as I’ve registered the fact that he is kissing me, but all of a sudden things are OK. More than OK. The tea goes cold, and the waitress keeps giving us meaningful dirty looks, but we talk and talk, like I’ve never talked to a boy before.

  I tell him about Ruth, how not being in a crowd at school never mattered because she was such a good friend.

  ‘So what happened?’

  I hesitate. ‘I’m kind of – not in that group any more.’ I don’t want to admit it was a church youth group, in case he thinks I’m some kind of religious nutter. Had enough of that when Cassie started on me in fourth year. But then I think, no, there’s no point pretending, and I admit that my whole life until this summer revolved around my parents’ church.

  ‘I don’t go any more,’ I say. ‘I just – grew out of the whole scene I suppose. It all seemed a bit – smug. Sure of itself.’

  He doesn’t look totally horrified. I suppose if he can survive me crying all over him, he can take a wee bit of Jesus in his stride.

  ‘So are you a Christian?’

  I shrug. ‘I don’t know what I am. Or what I believe. I mean, I still believe in God. I think.’

  ‘I don’t.’ Luke sounds very definite. ‘I mean – sometimes I think it might be nice. But the evidence against is pretty overwhelming.’

  ‘You mean suffering? The Holocaust and all that?’

  ‘Yeah. And the Middle East. Kids being bombed –’

  ‘I know.’ This chimes so exactly with my feelings that my words tumble out. ‘And at the summer scheme – some of those kids had terrible disabilities. Some of them were in pain all the time. And I’ve always been brought up to accept that God knows what he’s doing, but – for the first time I just couldn’t.’

  I forget all about being shy and self-conscious. It’s a relief to try to explain this to someone who isn’t – unlike my parents and Ruth – going to take it as a personal rejection. We argue and talk and it’s as easy as being with Toby or Ruth, only much more exciting. He takes my hand and he doesn’t let go. His skin is drier than mine, his fingers long.

  Eventually we can no longer ignore the waitress’s looks because she has started to brush the floor, and there are no other customers left.

  ‘Have you got a curfew?’ Luke asks.

  I look at my phone in alarm. ‘Oh gosh, yes – eleven. And it’s half ten now.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’ll walk you home. We’ll make it.’

  ‘But if you walk me home you’ll miss the last bus back to your house.’ I never like to say ‘home’ because I’m not sure if he thinks of it that way. And I’m still not sure where Lilac Walk is except that it’s on the far side of town from my house and school
.

  ‘I’ll walk. I like walking.’

  ‘But – it’s late.’ I want Luke to walk me home; I want the night to last longer and I love the idea of being alone with him, holding hands and stopping to kiss in the privacy of dark streets. Though not my own street, just in case …

  But I don’t want him walking home on his own afterwards. When you hear stories about people being attacked at night, it’s nearly always young men. ‘I know – we can get a taxi – it can drop me off and then you?’

  ‘There’s no need,’ he insists quickly, and I’m aware of two things.

  One, he might not have enough money for a taxi.

  Two, if I was with Toby or Ruth, they could have walked back with me and then Dad would have given them a lift home. He’d have grumbled a bit but he’d have been happy to do it, really.

  But Dad thinks I’m with some girls from my art class.

  ‘I can pay for the taxi,’ I suggest.

  ‘No. I’m meant to be taking you out.’

  ‘It’s the twenty-first century, Luke.’

  He frowns and drums his fingers on the tabletop. ‘I wish I had a car.’

  ‘I’m getting driving lessons for my birthday. Next month. I can’t wait.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  His mood seems to have darkened and I can’t think why.

  ‘Are you seventeen yet?’ I ask, just to change the subject. The waitress hovers and I stand up and shrug on my hoody.

  ‘Yeah. In August,’ he says, ‘but I’m not allowed to drive.’

  ‘Why –? Oh. What – never?’

  He sighs and picks up his own hoody. ‘You have to be seizure-free for – I don’t know – two years or something. So far the most I’ve managed is three weeks.’

  ‘But things will change! Sometimes people just grow out of it.’ I hope it’s not too obvious that I’ve been googling epilepsy websites.

  ‘Yeah.’ He gives his head a little shake, as if he can shake off the epilepsy, or maybe just the mood. ‘Come on.’ He holds out his hand. ‘Let’s get you home before Big Willy does his nut.’

  Luke