Good Girls Don't (3 page)

I don’t watch the rest of the movie. I consider calling Lucy, but I know she’s busy studying, and I don’t want to interrupt her. She’s stressed enough as it is. She wants to do law, so the pressure is on.

Lucy is the epitome of the bad-girl-gone-good persona. When I first got to know her, when I was in Third Year and she was doing Transition Year, she didn’t give a damn about school. We used to skip class and get drunk and/or stoned at her house. As a direct result of this, I failed all my mocks. Since then, of course, she’s done a complete turnabout. From bad influence to shining star. My mum knows her mum, and she just loves telling me how much work Lucy is doing.

“Of course she is, Mum, she’s in Sixth Year.”

“But she was working last year, too. You should really be doing some study this year, to make it easier on yourself next year. That’s what Janet did.”

“Janet can’t even cook for herself, Mum.”

The conversation usually ends at that point.

I can’t believe Barry freaked out like that. He’s never reacted like that to anything, ever. He’s usually so laid-back, with an attitude like mine – if no one gets hurt, then what’s the problem? And I can’t believe he had the nerve to try to make me feel as if Declan is beneath me. We don’t criticise one another when it comes to relationships. That’s always been a given. Each of us has made questionable choices in the past, but it should never be an issue between friends.

I can’t believe he thinks I don’t care about anyone. That hurts. I mean, that really, really hurts in a way that I didn’t think anything could. He knows me better than anyone, and he said that to me. Maybe it’s true. I don’t think about other people as much as I should. I don’t really care about Declan, I just don’t want to feel guilty about ignoring him. I don’t care about my friends, I just want to have a good time with them. He’s right. I’m completely selfish.

No, I’m
not
completely selfish. I try to be there for my friends,
especially
him, and I don’t know why he’s suddenly accusing me of not caring about people’s feelings. I mean, he can hardly be feeling protective of Declan. They don’t get along at all.

He just wanted to hurt me, and I don’t know why, and that’s what’s getting to me.

We’ve been friends ever since First Year. He was the first friend Hugh made in secondary school, and he came home with him one day. I stopped by to say hi, seeing as Hugh and I have lived on the same road for our entire lives and we’ve been friends ever since we got past the “members of the opposite sex are scary and should be avoided like the plague” stage. So Hugh introduced me to Barry, and we hit it off right away. I think for a while he thought I fancied Barry, which was his vivid imagination more than anything else. I mean, I had a bit of a crush, but I was thirteen. I had crushes on everyone. I started spending more time at Hugh’s house than I ever had before, and at some point Barry started coming over to see me instead. Hugh has always insisted that Barry and I are destined to be together, but then again, he’s a teenage boy and he doesn’t understand any male/female relationship that doesn’t involve attraction.

I haven’t told Hugh that Barry used to have a crush on him. Hugh wouldn’t be too thrilled. Hugh is perfectly okay with the idea of girls having somewhat bendable sexuality, but it’s a different story when you’re talking about guys. He was disturbed enough by Barry in make-up.

That could be why Barry and I are such good friends, I guess. The sexuality thing. I don’t mean that like we have some kind of exclusive club or anything, but – it was because of that common bond that we could open up to each other.

***

Third Year, the Lucy year. Barry and I were talking one weekend, one of the few weekends I wasn’t completely wasted, and he said tentatively that he thought Hugh was cute.

“Well, of course he’s cute,” I said. “That’s pretty obvious.”

“Yeah, but –”

“But you like him?”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

I shrugged. “He’s cute.”

And he just laughed. “You’re so cool, you know that?”

And I’d been playing it cool the whole time, but my heart was actually pounding and despite the laid-back attitude it all seemed more real and intense than most of the conversations we’d had. I wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not, but there was a sense of relief about it all.

“Is everything okay?” Roisín asks me on Thursday morning before class starts.

I smile. “Yeah. Sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Barry and I had a fight,” I tell her.

“Oh.” She makes a sympathetic face. “What was it about?”

“Just something stupid,” I say evasively. “We’ll probably sort it out soon, it’s not a big deal, it’s just – I don’t like fighting with him.”

She tries to hide a smile.

“What?” I demand.

“Nothing. Just – you and Barry.”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t start this again. Please.”

“But – you two! You’d be so cute together.”

“I’m sure we would, if we had
any
feelings for one another. People tend to forget to take that into account.”

“I think there’s a spark there.”

“You think there’s a spark everywhere, Roisín.”

“Yes, but this is a serious spark.”

“There’s no spark. He’s like a brother to me. He watches how much I drink and asks me if I’m getting enough sleep and if I’m getting all my homework done. You can’t turn that into something romantic.”

“But he cares so much about you,” she sighs.

“As a friend! I care about you, but that doesn’t mean I want to do unspeakably naughty things to you, now, does it?”

“You don’t want to do unspeakably naughty things to me?” She pretends to be offended.

“Oh, sweetie, you know I do,” I play along.

“Get a room,” Wendy mutters as she passes by. Wendy is in our year. She’s not terribly pleasant. I would probably hate her if it wasn’t such a waste of my energy and if she wasn’t such a pathetic person.

“What a great idea,” I say sweetly to Roisín, who’s rolling her eyes. “What a thoughtful suggestion, you know?”

“Very,” she says, then lowers her voice. “Em – I don’t know how you put up with this crap, I really don’t.”

I shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Yeah, right,” she says sceptically. “Still – I’m just amazed at the way you can deal with it.”

“You’re the sweetest person ever, you know that?”

“I try hard, I really do.”

“Come on, let’s go to English.”

English. I like it when we watch movies, and read plays, and that sort of thing. I dislike the writing essays aspect of it. I mean, it can be impossible to express how much you like something sometimes, or explain why, when it’s just a gut feeling that you can’t elaborate on. Instinctive reactions are hard to discuss.

It’s usually a fairly relaxing class, though, which makes a nice change. I’m really not that great with the whole work ethic thing, in that I don’t think I have one. I just sort of drift by. Homework gets done, mostly, sometimes with time and care put into it, sometimes not.

Roisín is a good student. She wants to go into teaching, which will suit her perfectly. She’s great at explaining things, particularly to those of us who are less academically inclined. (Me.) She’s interested, you see, which I suppose makes a difference. She seems to like this business of learning pointless information, while I resent it.

Sometimes it feels like I’m the only person in the world who still dislikes school, while everyone else seems to have dealt with that and moved on and studied hard. Like Lucy, and Andrew, and Roisín, and Sarah. I suppose I’ve still got Barry for company in that area, although even he’s starting to accept school as a necessary evil. But no, he understands. I still have him.

Unless of course I bring up last night and we start arguing again and then we never speak to one another and we end up old and decrepit and alone in nursing homes looking back at this time in our lives and wishing that we’d stayed friends instead of letting this come between us. And I don’t want that to happen. The thought of not being friends with him physically
hurts.

I’ll talk to him. I’ll ask him what exactly is going on, and then we’ll talk about it, and we’ll sort it out. Sounds like a plan.

I see Lucy at lunch. “You’re still coming tomorrow, right?” she asks.

“Of course.” I smile. Tomorrow’s her eighteenth, and in the time-honoured tradition of birthdays and the Irish nation, we’re going to get very very drunk.

“We’re meeting outside the bar at around half eight,” she continues, “but if you want a lift, come down to my house, okay? Andrew’s going to drive a few of us into town.”

“Does that mean he’s not drinking?” I say, and as soon as I say it I wish I hadn’t. Of course he isn’t going to be drinking. Not much, anyway.

She nods. “Yeah, but you know how he is about alcohol anyway. Everything in moderation, and all that.”

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” I smile.

She grins. “Oh yes. But anyway, just thought I’d offer you the lift.”

“Sure, thanks. I’ll come around at, what, half seven?”

“Cool. And we will have a serious meaningful talk at some point during the night, because I don’t think we’ve sat down to have a proper conversation in weeks and I miss talking to you.”

“Well, whose fault is that?” I tease.

She sighs. “I know, I know. Did I mention I
hate
Sixth Year? And that I’m seriously considering dropping out and living on the street for the rest of my life?”

“You won’t, though,” I tell her firmly.

“I’m going crazy,” she replies.

“It’s only a few more weeks. You’re going to be fine, and you’re going to work hard, and you’re going to get the points for law, and then you can relax for the whole summer.”

She smiles at the thought. “Mmm. Relaxing. I like that idea.”

“And tomorrow night, as well,” I remind her. “Your night off.”

“Yes. I will relax. I have to. Thanks, Em. I’ll see you later, or tomorrow, whenever.”

“Right. Talk to you then,” I say.

***

September of Third Year. I was leaving the locker room and accidentally crashed into a girl in the year above me.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I said.

“No, I’m sorry,” she said.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

I laughed. “Well, I think we’re finished that routine.”

“Yeah. It’s like you learn all these things to say, and you’re not even listening to the person –”

“You’re just reciting the next phrase,” I finished, and she smiled.

***

That’s how Lucy and I became friends. I saw her the next day and we chatted for a while, and after a few weeks we were constantly yapping away to one another. I thought she knew everything and besides, she was pretty. I was completely infatuated with her, but I never thought of it as a crush. It was just an obsession, I told myself, hero-worship, something along those lines. It had happened plenty of times before, and I honestly had never considered that these little obsessions could be romantic. And I never doubted that any of my infatuations with guys were romantic, because they were supposed to be. I never questioned the similarities between the two, never really noticed it. If you don’t go looking for something, you won’t always find it, I guess.

I looked forward to seeing her but at the same time it made me nervous, and I used to play out imaginary conversations with her in my head, directing a movie with a happy ending. I had this fantasy that she’d be crying and I’d hold her and soothe her. I’d be the one to make it all better.

***

One day we were talking and I was watching her applying lip balm, and I imagined kissing her. The thought shocked me so much that I couldn’t focus on anything else for the rest of the day. I was walking around in a haze, not sure of anything anymore.

***

I look back on that now and am amazed at how dramatic I was at fourteen.

I ring Barry on his mobile after school and ask if I can come over. He says okay.

It takes me twenty minutes to walk from my house to his. I’m nervous about seeing him, something I haven’t experienced since the days of having a crush on him.

We do the awkward-hug thing, and then I say, “You call that a hug?” and he laughs, and it’s like it never happened.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I really am. It’s just – you’re too good for Declan. He’s an asshole, at least most of the time, and he doesn’t deserve you . . . and your talent.”

“What talent?” I laugh.

“I hear things,” he grins.

“From who, exactly?”

“Well, Hugh, of course . . . and Michael . . . and Colin . . . and Natasha.”

“Colin doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I grin.

“But the rest of them?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“How many people have you actually slept with, Emily?” he asks.

“You know.”

“No, I don’t think it’s ever actually come up,” he smiles. “All the years I’ve known you and you’ve never given me an exact figure.”

“Not
that
many,” I say.

“How many?”

“I don’t know, exactly,” I admit.

“You don’t
know?”
Thankfully, he seems more amused about this than disgusted, which makes a pleasant change from yesterday.

“I’m not keeping a scoreboard, you know.”

“Well, approximately. How many? Less than ten?”

“Are we including girls?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Then more.”

“Less than twenty?”

“Yes.”

“Tramp.” It’s said playfully, but –

“That’s not funny,” I say.

“I was only joking. You know that.”

“It still wasn’t funny.”

“I’m just jealous. Me with my lack of experience.”

“You have experience.”

“I don’t think drunken nights count as experience.”

“Oh, of course they do.”

“Well, never with someone I loved and who loved me, that kind of experience.”

I look at him. “If you’re bringing love into it, then I’m about as clueless as you are.”