Drop (9 page)

“I want to start at the beginning!” he says. “A woman’s doodles say a lot about her.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. A man’s doodles say a lot about him, too.”

“Is that right?”

“Uh-huh. I’d just like to say, you’re welcome to check out my doodles and make your own assessment at any time.” We’re not talking about drawings now.

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“You do that.”

“You’re an idiot,” I say, laughing. He opens to page one: butterflies. Page two: butterflies. Page three: Pre-Raphaelite notes and drawings. Loose papers: shopping list, revision notes I haven’t typed up yet and probably never will. Page four: view from my bedroom window, sky like marble, fluid. Pages five to eleven: sculpture designs for my Art coursework, colour tests, notes on the type of butterfly.

“You like butterflies,” he comments.

“Your powers of deduction astound me.”

“Why butterflies?”

“They’re gorgeous. Free. They start as a tiny egg stuck to a leaf somewhere, insignificant, and go on a journey to become this almost magical creature.”

I don’t say it aloud, but I think, that’s what I love most about butterflies: their ability to completely transform, and with such exquisite style. Imagine waking up one morning and being able to fly. Yesterday you were the short, fat kid under threat from the bird bullies. Today you’re Angelina freaking Jolie with wings. Complete metamorphosis.

“They’re pretty, I guess. Like you.”

“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, but can’t help feeling flattered.

“I mean it.”

“Well, thanks, Casanova.”

“You’re welcome, Francesca.”

“Francesca?”

“In the story. Casanova’s in love with Francesca. Not that I’m saying I’m… Well, you know what I mean.”

I narrow my eyes at him. It’s kind of nice to see him squirm, with his guard down.

“So anyway, could you draw me? Just my face or something,” says Finn.

It’s one thing drawing him from across the hockey pitch but up close… “I’m no good at faces.”

“Why don’t you just draw my hands, then?”

“I could handle that.” I look at his long, tapered fingers, calloused and manly. Big. I trace my finger across a barely there red line on his palm. “Boarding scar?” Finn nods. I rough out the edges of his fingers, and use different colours to add tone and depth. They look older in pastel. The hands of a trawlerman; powerful, rugged.

“Did you know there’s a butterfly called a Chequered Skipper?” I don’t look up. His hand, the hand I’m drawing, rests on my left knee. The book sits in my lap. I have a glance-rally between the page and his hand, making sure to capture each contour, each shadow, exactly.

“No.”

“And a Scrub-Hairstreak?”

“Ah yes, from the lesser-known family of Bad Dyejob butterflies.”

“You’re funny,” I say, sarcastically. “They have all sorts of names. Red Flasher is one of my favourites for obvious, childish reasons. Daggerwing. There’s one called Question Mark. And a Comma. How weird is that?” I don’t stop for an answer. “There’s even one called Mourning Cloak.”

“I assume that one’s black,” he says. I stop drawing, flick a few pages back.

“Yup,” I say, tapping a sketch of a Mourning Cloak. “But I think you’ll appreciate this one.” I turn the book so he can see another pencil drawing.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah. It reminds me of you.”

“What’s it called?”

“Dogface. Not kidding.” We fall about, play-fighting, joking. Free like butterflies.

Thank you, Lovegods, from the bottom of my uber-grateful girlie heart.

School is an escape. None of these people know me. I can be anybody. I want to fit in, but on my terms. I don’t want to slot in where I’ve always been: inconsequential, forgettable, nobody. This is my chance – my final opportunity – to shine.

School is an alternative universe where I can be cool and assertive. OK, I was shy at first, who wouldn’t be? But then I discovered you can fake confidence, and soon it starts paying off. Act confident, be confident.

In the common room at break, Lauren and Sienna sit dissecting
Heat
magazine.

I pick at a satsuma’s white veins.

Lauren flips through the pages. “Look at the size of her bump. She must be carrying a litter. Of bears. With gigantism.”

“I wouldn’t have picked that wedding dress,” Sienna chips in about another story.

“‘The happy couple released a pair of doves as a symbol of their love.’”

“Sickening.”

“So showy. I bet it’s just a money-making media deal.”

“I think it’s kind of sweet,” I say, then immediately regret it.

“Er, clearly cupid’s arrow has lodged in your brain and is pressing against some vital nerve, impeding your judgement. It’s not
sweet
. It’s OTT attention-seeking crap.”

“It’s only a pair of doves,” Lauren says.

“Not just the birds. All that celebrity, fakery, glitter,
look at me, I’m so amazing and
I’m so in love!
stuff. It degrades the whole marriage thing. It’s all for money and so they can hang on to their fifteen minutes for a bit longer.”

“Maybe it’s special for them. If it’s what they’re into.”

“I reckon in no time they’ll be cashing in on a reality show, then five minutes later it’s the divorce, and after that a six-figure dish-the-dirt book deal.”

“You’re probably right, but I still think the doves are a nice touch.”

Sienna opens her mouth to speak again but Lauren cuts her off.

“Date went well then? So what happened?”

I put a satsuma segment in my mouth and mime that I can’t possibly talk, I’m eating.

“Come on, Carla. Spill.”

I finish my mouthful and prepare to tell the girls about our gym session (why does that sound dirty?) when Finn strides over. Saved.

“Excuse me, ladies. Can I borrow Carla?”

“We’ve got Paluk in five,” Sienna objects, “and Carla was about to tell us something important.”

“Nope, nope I wasn’t. Definitely no information to relate at all about anything.” I shrug as if to say
What you gonna do?
and the girls scowl at me.

I walk with Finn to the corner of the room. His purple T-shirt clings to his chest. His dark hair flops into his eyes and he reaches up and pushes it back.

“I just wanted to give you this,” he says, holding out a folded square of paper. I notice the dirt under his nails. Must be from boarding.

“Oh … thanks,” I say. “And this is for you.” I take out my sketchbook, rip out the drawing, fold it and hand it to him. He smiles widely, touches my arm, then turns to leave.

“Aren’t you coming to Chemistry?”

“On time? Never.” He walks away.

I stare at the note like it’s the freaking Holy Grail, gawking, until I realize I must look like a prize idiot. Lauren taps me on the shoulder and gives me my bag.

“Are you going to open it?” Sienna asks.

“Look at you,” Lauren says, then holds her hands to her chest and flutters her eyelashes jokily. “He’s so dreamy.”

The girls look amused, but at the same time sorry for me. I flash them an icy stare.

“Do you need to go splash your face with cold water? I’ll tell Paluk you’ve got women’s problems.”

“No, thank you, Sienna.” I whack her on the arm. “I’m totally fine and functional. Let’s go.”

Lauren scoffs. “Be careful, all right?”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s Finn Masterson,” she says, like his name is explanation enough. She looks at her watch. “Paluk O’Clock. Come on.”

Sienna and Lauren quick-walk to the classroom, weaving through the masses, but I trail behind.

Outside the door, I stop, lean against the wall and unfurl the note.

The bell screeches, but I’m glued to the spot. The hairs on my body seem to stand on end, and for a second I feel like I’m rebooting, a surge of energy bursting from the core of my chest, through my veins to the tips of my fingers, toes and hair.

“Carla, are you joining us or planning to take notes from outside?” Paluk booms. He’s wearing an oversized blood-red shirt; beige trousers flap around his bamboo-thin legs.

“Sorry, sir.” Paluk moves aside as I pass. All eyes focus on me, but unlike that horrible first day, this time I’m not bothered. I’ve never been late for a class in my life. It’s kind of exhilarating.

The initial excitement of Finn’s invitation dissipates and I get a nagging earworm saying maybe it’s a bit soon to be going to his house and also, what does he imagine we’re going to do there? Talk about the weather? Catch up on homework? How many other girls has he lured to his room by telling them they’ve stolen his strawberry tart? I fancy him, sure, but I don’t want to look like a desperate, skanky, ho-bag. Still, I get this fluttering in my stomach when I think about being there, lying next to him on the bed…

After school I dash to Finn’s house. My earlier apprehension has become nervous excitement and I guess I’m enjoying the kick because my pace and pulse quicken on the way. Finn lives nearer to school than I do, on the other side of the park. And when I say on the other side of the park, I mean ON THE PARK. 66 Buckingham Road is a four-storey end-of-terrace townhouse, its overgrown front garden laid with decorative paving stones; a flight of chunky steps leads up to a glossy red front door with stained-glass panels. Finn’s family must be absolutely Lotto-winning-private-jet-fifty-foot-yacht
minted
.

Standing on the top step, I inhale, then breathe out my nerves. I imagine I’m with Finn, sunning myself on our own personal island like Richard Branson, sipping piña coladas…

Reaching for the door knocker, cast like a cat with a mouse dangling from its mouth, I notice a set of buzzers. I press the one labelled
MASTERSON
.

A super-suave, SAS, 007 type opens the door. He looks like he could have trained police officers, slept with beautiful women every night for the last thirty years, and probably keeps a gun in his sock drawer.

“Um, hi. I’m looking for Finn,” I say to the sergeant. “Is this the right house?”

“Hi, you’re Carla, right? Come in.” He speaks in tones the colour of Merlot, deep and smooth.

“Yeah, thanks.” Mr Masterson Senior leads me to another door off the hallway. I head into the house.

I’m beginning to register my surroundings – the ornate Indian lampshade, Hockney prints on the wall, the tiled floor – when Finn comes careering from the living room, dodging his dad like the Stig taking the Hammerhead on
Top Gear
. He grabs my hand and pulls me upstairs.

I follow Finn into his room. His blue-checked duvet is crumpled at one end of the bed and there’s still a dent in the pillow where his head has been. I let myself daydream about resting my head there, what it would be like to breathe in his sleepy scent. I imagine lying down next to him, his arm coiled around my waist, his hot breath on my neck.

I force my thoughts onto something else. Otherwise I’ll get lost there.

“Nice house.”

“Maisonette. Rental. There’s a family in the basement and another above us. We’ve got the garden though, pretty sweet for summer parties.”

OK, maybe I won’t be on that island any time soon. Not loaded after all. No matter. It’s still a gorgeous maisonette.

“Your dad looks like a right hard man.”

“He was a marine. Seen a fair bit of action.”

“And now?”

“Runs a catering business. He’s always liked cooking. He told me this story about when the ship was sailing home – the cook had been killed along with a good chunk of the crew, so he made this meal for the rest of them, the lucky ones. He brought it into the mess and someone had put on the film
Chariots of
Fire
, then that song “Jerusalem” came on and everyone was singing and he just burst into tears. So he’s not so hard, really. He was only, like, twenty then. I guess being in a war’s a lot to deal with. He’s been cooking ever since.” He looks at his feet, contemplating.

There are piles of
Board Mag
on the floor
.
His mountainboard leans against the clothes rail, its wheels caked in mud.