To Be Honest (6 page)

“What?” I sound dozy.

“I know this sounds odd but there have been stories about people being affected by mammatus clouds so that they’re sort of morphed into something — and sometimes someone. I read back in college about two people it happened to. Of course, it’s only been reported in America, so it’s almost certainly not true,” he rolls his eyes.

“But — and you know I’m straight, Pheebs, so don’t get me wrong - if there’s one thing guaranteed to drive me wild it’s the thought of two men in control of each others’ bodies.”

“Yes, Mr Morlis,” I say ‘cos it’s the first thing that comes out. “Or women.” It sounds all sarcastic and the women bit sounds weird, but that seems ok by him. He holds my wrist gently. “He’s a very tactile man, Mr Morlis,” I remember Mum saying to me once after parent’s evening. Some stupid bint in year 9 tried to claim abuse once but she was mental.

Anyway, he holds my wrist with its lovely bangles and my eyes with his. “Science. It’s a wonderful thing.”

“English is too,” I find myself saying, a bit teasing.

“Let’s compromise on science with a bit of drama thrown in,” he says and he’s just joking now, definitely not flirting, he just likes her/me like I like Josh I think and I’m relieved and pissed off all at once but he’s let go of my hand so I look in my/Miss Mint’s bag for something to do.

And I reach in ‘cos there’s not much in there, only a posh looking compact and a phone and keys and a pen and a neat-but-packed diary and no mess. But then there’s also a crumpled bit of paper with something on too; numbers. Which I open in the safety of the shady leather cave and then I’m shocked again, ‘cos I’ve seen this before yet I can’t believe it’s hers.

* * *

“Nearly home,” Mr Morlis says, as we cruise off the slip road.

Kids start gathering bags from overhead lockers and waking up from a kip, even though it’s only seven o’clock. Honestly, you’d think someone had made them run round London for, like, six hours, not just do a spot of light window shopping and watch a play.

Then again some of us have had the added stress of body swaps.

Miss Mint — Lisi — looks knackered. And then I remember: Josh’s staying over. As we clamber off the coach, I grab his arm, forgetting I’m not supposed to, but luckily no one sees. Kids, I mean.

The school car park’s crowded; steamy windows, little siblings slipping through traffic.

“Miss?”

“Are you staying at Lisi’s?”

Josh looks round like he’s lost her, but she’s just behind, standing coolly, which is something I never would.

“Think so. Lise?”

I jump in. “Because ... your mother called, Lisi.” I see a flicker of understanding. “She left a message.” And I press a piece of paper, swiped from her diary, with a scrawl which just says my address and how to get home and where Josh sleeps on the other, into those nail-bitten fingers.

She says thanks and I read mixed up panic and relief but then Josh’s nabbed her, jabbed her, is moving her on and she’s gone; swallowed up by the boy and the girls and the slick, dark wetness and the homing calls of parents.

Someone taps me on the shoulder. Mr Morlis, hands deep in his parka, asking me for a drink.

“... but I don’t want to keep you from Taff.”

Oh, Jesus. I don’t know what to do.

The logical thing would be go with him to the sweaty pub down the road from school. Teachers go there; ‘course they never mention it, say ‘library’ instead, as in, “Miss Anderson, we meeting in the library later?” when they pop their heads round doors, all tired looking on, say, a Thursday.

But what about Taff?

I remember the keys. My speed thoughts are immense: I’m a legend. I say:

“My car’s broken down, actually. So could I possibly beg a lift?”

He looks happy in a Mr Morlis way and we trudge over to his knackered old Ford. In the summer, Mr Morlis cycles — clips and everything — and I think he only drives if it’s really horrible so I’m lucky really he did today.

We don’t talk much in the car, ‘cos my tummy’s concrete at the thought of seeing Taff. But Mr Morlis hums and it’s nice. He hums like Dad used to on car journeys and me and Emily and I would stick our fingers in our ears and whinge about Radio 1.

When he gave in and stopped, I was always slightly sad.

“Taff cooking tonight?”

“God knows,” I say ‘cos I don’t. I think of the phone in the bag — should I use it? Haven’t even looked at it to be honest, and how cool’s the thought of having Miss Mint’s phone normally? But I get it out and there’s two missed calls and a text which means voicemail but I don’t know the number so I’ll have to leave it.

“Where do you live again?”

My throat goes dry but then I remember it’s Josh’s street, so I can even work out the number and I do.

We say goodbye and it’s like Dad’s left again and then I really want to cry.

What’s Miss Mint doing with Mum?

What’s she saying to Josh?

What’s Taff like?

Who am I?

This is nice though. The house, I mean.

45, Clementine Road is a medium-sized, semi-detached, fully-desirable posh-ish place, with a blue door though you can’t tell what blue in this light, more gold-ey blue, and sparkly clean white gravel in the drive. It doesn’t fit that well with the street, not like the Meadows’, which is average, safe. Mainly that’s ‘cos of the sports car in the drive whereas all the others are family tractors but that makes it cooler: the swirly writing on the back of Taff’s Lamborghini makes me think of
Heat
and celebs.

When Mr Morlis is gone it’s totally quiet. There’s a light on in the front and I know I should use keys but it’s
not
my house, so I knock.

Three thuds and he’s there. The blazer’s off but the jeans are on and the posh shoes are in a rack by the door, neatly.

“Hu-llow.”

He says it like Big Ben. I can’t speak. Just take my coat off and stand there, looking.

The house is silky, golden. It’s mostly golden at the end, in the kitchen, but there’s bright art all over the walls too so it’s like being in an Easter egg. There’s music playing. Not the stuff I like or say I like but dreamy, trippy notes that circle round my head and suck me into the hall.

He’s golden too. A bit olden golden. It’s warm and Taff hugs me.

“Missed you, Pheebles.” And then he holds me back, and we press foreheads.

Urgh. Pheebles?

“Hi.”

Then he kisses me. And at first, it’s just quick.

Then it’s not.

OK, and so here’s the thing I might as well say. I’ve never really kissed anyone before.

I mean I have, like on stage in a play when I had to, and when I went out with Mark Black in year 8 and then dumped him the next day ‘cos he didn’t text me, and I’ve kissed a bit in year 9 at parties and stuff but I was too drunk to remember it. So I’ve never kissed anyone before properly. Sober, with tongues. Not like this.

The music’s going and now he’s pushing my body and pulling too and exploring my mouth and my eyes are shut, then open a bit but then shut again, ‘cos I like this, though it’s red hot, raw danger.

Then it’s over and he rubs my shoulders like I’m his mate and says, you smell a bit damp, and I nod and then he’s upstairs running a bath.

Well, if this is what it’s like being with a man, not a boy, I might like it.

Then quickly I realise it means getting naked and my heart starts to lose it and I don’t know if I’m ready for this. But luckily Taff seems happy to leave me to it and I go padding up stairs through carpet like cream, melted butter.

The bedroom’s weird though. The luxury silk throws and fluffy pillows I thought would be all over the place aren’t, it’s just plain. There’s a pristine white cotton chair and a massive bed and a huge wardrobe, which I’m scared to touch, and some branchy jewellery thing on a huge chest of drawers. It’s very tidy, even Taff’s side, which I can work out ‘cos of the boy-style books by the bed: sports biogs, someone called Bill Bryson. The whole place is blue. Blue with gold.

And after I’ve taken off Miss Mint’s clothes I’m scared again; scared to look down, ‘cos I don’t think I’m ready to see what I know will look better; bigger, fuller. Older.

So I don’t look, I just grab a towel and throw it on and go to the bathroom and sink under the bubbles and then I begin, finally, to think more clearly ‘cos the door’s shut if not locked and the towels are white so it must be ok and nothing bad will happen if I just close my eyes and drift.

Josh will be eating with Mum and I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder what they’re saying. I start imagining the conversations that are happening right now in my house and I’m glad I’m lying down ‘cos otherwise I’d fall over. Then,

“Phoebe, I’m off.” From through the door.

I don’t know what to do.

“Where?”

And then the door opens and in he comes with his polo shirt all stretched across the chest and a bit of hair in his eyes. He looks kind and tired and sexy and a bit frustrated.

“Training reunion, baby. Told you I had to leave tonight. I’ll be gone a week, in Plymouth. Back Sunday, though.”

The water’s safe, warm and the bubbles are thick but I feel like he can see everything. And all sorts of things float through my head as well as this tickling between my legs. Hair that’s longer and darker and better than my hair drifts under my chin like weeds and soft, strange thoughts flow through me like I’ll have this huge bed and a house to myself and I won’t know what to do if I get attacked in the middle of the night and I won’t and I don’t get to have sex with Taff and is that a good thing for my first time ‘cos I was secretly kind of excited.

“Sure,” I say. Then I’m starving. “Is there any food?”

He looks at me like I’ve said the weirdest thing ever, like I want to kiss a frog or something.

“You want to eat?”

I think of the piece of paper in the bag.

“I am a little ... hungry, yes.” Who am I, Jane Eyre?

But he seems so happy I’ve said it. So happy in fact, he does a mini skip and jabs a fist in the mid air towards me.

“The words I thought I’d never hear,” and he sounds a bit sarky and looks scared I might be joking but when he sees I’m not, he kneels by the bath and leans in, so the lavender oil gets stronger and he kisses me again, gently, with no tongues.

“You should go to London more often,” he says and I can tell he’s horny ‘cos his throat’s all husky and basically, even though I kept my pants on in the end and they’re stuck to my skin under the bubbles, I feel really, really shy.

He does a sort of shuffly dance thing backwards out of the bathroom after he’s told me there’s half a pizza left over or some eggs and salad in the fridge. Sometimes, when Mum and I are getting on well, we’ll make omelettes together and the thought makes me thick in my throat but I have to make him think it’s fine until he goes, so I just give relaxed smiles and say thank you a lot and eventually he leaves:

• the bedroom in a bit of a mess (I guess)
  
• the bathroom and, with a door slam
  
• the house.
  

I wallow for a while, taking in the bathroom shelf: tubes of decadence; skincare brands I’ve never seen outside department stores or Josh’s mum’s bedroom and it dawns on me that now they’re mine. I must be in shock still I reckon ‘cos it’s very simple the thing I do next: I get out of the bath and start opening them.

Wrapped in my towel, I clear a steam-space in the mirror, which by the way has lights round it like Marilyn Monroe. First thing is my eyes. They’re dark, deep hazlenut like Miss Mint’s bag and the skin around them’s clear and smooth, not baggy like I’m used to. It’s probably ‘cos there’s a cream to put on, just for eyes, at midnight, it says. How does
that
work?

Smearing a large blob of pale mint gunk over my cheekbones which I know cost a bomb feels ridiculously amazing. I know about pore size: my craters are now nearly invisible. When I’ve prodded and poked and held a mirror to the side to see my tiny nose in profile I’m pretty convinced Miss Mint’s the most stunning woman to walk the face of this earth.

Only weird thing is my teeth, which feel soft like chalk in my mouth and when I bite down, it hurts. I’m good with teeth. Even before I whitened, Mum brought home so many pastes I could brush in my sleep. I’m pretty sure Miss Mint would look after hers like she does her nails, so I figure a trip to the dentist’s not far off.

The phone rings in the bag downstairs.

I freeze like a fox, then laugh ‘cos there’s no one here and I’ll sound like Miss Mint if I answer. So I fly down the stairs and I do.

“Lisi?” It’s her. “Thank goodness. Has Taff gone?”

“Yes,” I say, feeling all grown up. “He said he wanted to see ... me, ran me a bath; left some food.”

She’s quiet but I hear her breathe, quick; pattery.

“Are you ... ok?”

I know she wants to know if anything happened but I’m so tired all I can think of is eating and bed.