Girls Out Late (3 page)

Russell is looking at me, waiting for a reply.

“Mmmmm,” I say eventually, fully aware that this reply is not worth the wait.

Nadine launches into a long rave about the director’s last horror movie. I stand and stare into the middle distance. Russell seems fascinated. He’s obviously realizing that he has been hitting on the wrong girl. He and Nadine are soul mates.

“What did you think of
Girls Out Late,
Ellie?” he asks.

“OK,” I mumble.

“Did you like it?” Russell presses me.

“Mmmm.”

I seem to have taken to talking in initials: O, K and
M.

“Did you like the creepy bit in the multistory car park?” says Russell.

I look at Nadine for help.

This time she betrays me by bursting out laughing. “Ellie never got that far,” she says. “She started to watch it round at my place but had to hide her eyes before the title sequence was over. She only got ten minutes into the movie proper before running right out of my bedroom and refusing to come back.”

Russell grins. “So you find horror movies a bit scary, Ellie?”

“Ellie’s the type of girl who’d find the Noo-Noo scary,” Nadine giggles.

My face is certainly Po red. Russell must take me for a right idiot. He’s laughing at me.

“Then
please
come to the movie with me, Ellie—you’ll be snuggling right up to me in no time,” he says.

I manage to laugh too, though I still feel a bit foolish. I glance at my watch. Talk about girls out late! It’s nearly ten.

Still, the bus is coming, I’ll be home soon. At least, that’s what I
intend.

time to go home

I don’t know who to sit next to on the bus. Nadine gets on first and rather pointedly spreads herself out on a double seat. I make for the seat opposite but I suddenly feel mean. Nadine’s been my best friend since we were both five years old. I’ve known Russell less than an hour, for God’s sake. I spin on my heel and nudge up next to Nadine. Russell sits opposite. He leans forward to try to continue the conversation but this old lady huffs and puffs so he contents himself with smiling.

Nadine and I can converse OK.

“Gee whiz, I thought Magda was a quick worker!” Nadine mutters. “I’ve obviously underestimated your pulling power, Ellie.”

“It’s nothing to do with me!” I whisper.

“Rubbish, it was all your come-hither looks, staring at him all the time in McDonald’s.”

“I was drawing him! I had to look at him. And, anyway, he drew me first. He was the one who started it.”

“So, what happens now? Are you going to go out with him?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he’ll ask me. He was just being friendly because of the art thing.”

“
Ellie!
Are you being deliberately irritating? He’s obviously nuts about you.”

“Do you really think so?” I whisper, delighted.

Nadine sighs. “Look, when I get off the bus I’ll clear off down Weston Avenue and go that way home, OK? I don’t want to play gooseberry.”

“You’re not!”

“Oh, yeah, well, I’m not going to stand and file my broken fingernails while you stand snogging on the doorstep.”

“I’m not going to snog!” I forget to whisper. Nadine nudges me. Russell is staring at me. Oh God, did he hear what I said?

“Of course you’ll snog,” says Nadine.

“I don’t think I want to.”

“Don’t you fancy him?”

“I . . . don’t know,” I say stupidly. “What do
you
think of him, Nad?”

“Well, he’s OK. I mean he’s not really my type.”

“Do you think he’s good-looking?”

“Sort of. Well, he’s not totally nerdy, but it’s hard to tell when he’s wearing that awful uniform.”

“Nadine, when you snog—like now, first time—are you supposed to do the tongue thing?”

“If you want to.”

“I don’t know
what
I want.”

It’s true. I always dreamt of a romantic encounter like this—and yet now it is happening it’s so overwhelming I’m kind of scared. I almost wish Russell had gone after Magda or Nadine. No, I don’t really wish that. I wish Russell had never started sketching me, and that now I was going home on the bus with Nadine after a perfectly normal girls’ night out.

“Come on, it’s our stop,” says Nadine.

“Maybe he’ll stay on the bus,” I say.

“You’re mad, Ellie. Look, he’s getting up too.”

“Nadine, don’t go down Weston Avenue. Come my way. Come via my house.
Please,
I don’t want to be on my own with him,” I whisper urgently.

“Grow up, Ellie!”

That’s the trouble, I’m not sure I want to grow up.

We get off the bus, Russell, Nadine and me.

“Well, cheerio, you guys,” says Nadine.

“Nadine!”

“See you tomorrow, Ellie.” She nods at Russell.

“Bye, Nadine, nice meeting you,” says Russell. Then he turns to me. “Which way do we go?”

“We can go Nadine’s way,” I say.

But Nadine is already running off, clonking a little in her new Shelley’s shoes.

“We’ll go your way,” says Russell. “Or thereabouts. Shall we go for a little walk first?”

“Well . . .” I’ve got matching silver bangles jangling on my wrist instead of my watch—but I know it’s getting late. Not just getting. It
is
late. I am a Girl Out Late. I’ve got to get home. He can walk me to my door and then I will give him a quick little kiss on the cheek and then I’ll scoot indoors. That’s what I’ll do. That’s what I want.

It’s not what he wants.

“Come on, Ellie!” He’s looking all around. “Is there a park round here? Come and show me so that I can imagine a chubby little Ellie feeding the ducks.”

“No duck pond, no ducks. Swings.”

“Swings are better. A little swing in the park for five minutes. Ten at tops. Yes?”

My head nods automatically. We walk toward the park. Russell edges nearer to me. He reaches out. He takes hold of my hand.

Oh God, I don’t know what to do with my fingers. They’re crooked uncomfortably but if I fold them over they may stroke his palm in a suggestive way. My hand starts sweating, or is it
his
? If only it was the bitter cold winter and then we’d be wearing gloves.

But it’s spring and I’m getting uncomfortably hot inside Eggs’s tight sweater. What am I doing? I want to go
home,
and it really is late. I’m going to get into trouble.

“I’ll have to get back soon, Russell, really.”

“Sure, well, so will I.”

“Where do you live?”

“Oh, around here.”

“No you don’t, not if you don’t even know where the park is!”

“It’s . . . over there.” He gestures vaguely with his free hand.

“Totally wrong. Come on, where do you live specifically?”

“Near the park.”

“Lies!”

“OK, near
a
park, Pembridge Park.”

“That’s
miles
away!”

It’s also the posh part of town, with huge great Victorian houses. I once went to a party there and I remember being astonished by the stained-glass windows in the hall—I went into the living room expecting pews and an altar. Some of the grandest houses surrounding the park certainly seem as big as churches and induce a similar feeling of reverence. And I’m hand in hand with a Halmer’s boy who lives there.

“A big house?” I say.

“It is, but we just have a basement flat. Well, it’s called a garden flat but the garden is outside and we only have a fifth of it. The house is all split up. So are my family. I live with my dad now and my sister lives with my mum. There is also my dad’s girlfriend, but the less said about her the better. I hope she fades out of the picture soon. I certainly don’t fancy her as a stepmother.”

“I’ve got a stepmother. She’s OK, though. We didn’t used to get on but now we’re friends.”

Anna won’t be friends anymore unless I go home
now.
She’ll worry.

“I’m never ever going to be friends with Cynthia. Honestly, what a classic name—my stupid besotted dad is sinning with Cynthia. I don’t know what’s up with him. We used to get on great, Dad and me, sort of us two guys together—but now she’s there all the time. It’s pathetic. So I try not to hang out too much at home now. Who wants to be cooped up in the living room with his dad and his dad’s girl snogging on the sofa like teenagers?”

“In front of you? That’s a bit gross.”

“Well, whenever I go out of the room. Then they spring apart when I go back in. It’s like I’m the parent. So I mostly clear off to my bedroom, draw and do homework and stuff. But sometimes it really gets to me, stuck there like someone in solitary confinement—so I push off by myself.”

“Don’t you have any friends?”

“Oh, yes, heaps. No, don’t get the impression I’m this poor sad guy without a social life.”

“I didn’t mean that!”

“It’s just, well, I’m OK at school, there’s this little mob I go around with. But out of school— well, there’s two types at Halmer’s, there’s the really intense anoraks and they just swot away and come top in everything and their idea of a big social thrill is accessing some porn on the Internet. Then there’s the other really hip set, the ones that go to all the parties and get all the girls and drink and take drugs—and I’m a bit too wet and weedy to join in.”

“You’re not a bit wet or weedy,” I say.

“But it’s kind of different for boys anyway. You have mates, but you’re not really
close
to them. Unless you’re gay, which I’m definitely not, in spite of all the tales you hear of infamous encounters behind the Halmer’s bike sheds.”

I giggle. Magda was once chatted up by this Halmer’s boy in Year Eight and he swore half the Year Elevens were at it—behind the bike sheds.

“It must be great to have friends to go round with, like you and those two girls.”

“Nadine and Magda. Yeah, they’re both my best friends.”

“Which do you like best?”

“Both.”

“You don’t ever fall out?”

“Well, we have arguments sometimes. And last year Nadine had this ultra-creepy boyfriend so we didn’t see much of her then—but we’re like this now.” I cross my fingers on my free hand.

We are still clasped, albeit a little sweatily. We’re nearly at the park now. A minute or two, then maybe one quick swing and then
home.

“Does Nadine have a boyfriend now?”

“No.”

“I bet the other one does, the bubbly one with the red hair.”

“Magda? No, she doesn’t have a boyfriend either.”

“And what about you, Ellie?”

I pause. I shake my head.

Russell smiles. “Great, so . . . will you come out with me sometime?”

“I
am
out with you.”

“No, I mean for a pizza or to see a film or something.”

“OK.”

“Tomorrow?”

“If you like.”

“Seven o’clock. I could meet you at that shopping center place. I’ll be the guy sketching in case you forget what I look like.”

“Yeah, so I had better be going home now. It’s ever so late.”

“No, it’s not, look, some of the kids are still out playing.”

There’s a little bunch of them whizzing around on the roundabout in the dark, sharing crisps and swigging Coke.

“Well, I know it’s not
late
-late but I was supposed to be home ages ago.”

“But we haven’t had a swing yet. Come on, Ellie. One quick swing.”

“OK, one quintessentially quick swing and then I must
go home
.”

“Promise. I love the way you talk, Ellie. You’re so different from other girls.”

We walk over the tufty grass toward the play area. I’m glad I’m not wearing my high heels. I’m wearing shabby red trainers, the rubber treads worn right down—but I feel I’m bouncing on springs. It’s really happening. I’m Ellie and I’m walking hand in hand with this boy who likes it that I’m different. He likes
me,
he likes
me,
he likes
me
.

We get to the swings and I think of all the times I’ve been here in the past. First with my mum, and there’s a sad little tug of my heart even now because I still miss her so much and she’ll
always
come first with me. Then there were the times Dad took me, pushing me so high on the swings I’d get scared I’d loop the loop right over the bar at the top. Nowadays Dad pushes Eggs, who once fell right off and nearly lived up to his nickname and scrambled himself. Magda, Nadine and I sometimes hang out in the park in the summer too and have long long long discussions about clothes and makeup and hairstyles and rock stars and
boys.

And now I’m here with a boy, and he’s swinging and I’m swinging, kicking right up high until my trainers point higher than the tops of the silhouetted poplars edging the park. I put my head back and make it feel even speedier but I start to get giddy and when I slow down and jump off, the park suddenly tips sideways and spins by itself.

“Whoops,” says Russell, and he reaches out and steadies me. “Are you OK, Ellie?”

Then before I can answer he bends his head and kisses me. It’s just a little kiss, our lips gently bumping. We break away. I blink behind my bleary glasses.

“Oh, Ellie,” says Russell, and he kisses me again. A proper kiss. A real pressed-up-close, mouths working, meaningful kiss. I never thought it would feel so strange, so special. I feel even giddier. I cling to him and he holds me even closer.

There’s something spraying in my hair. Is it raining? And little flaky things land on my shoulder.
Snowing?

Laughter.

I push Russell away. The kids are surrounding us, deliberately sprinkling us with Coke and crisps.

“Snog snog snoggy snog!” they jeer.

“Get lost, you lot,” says Russell.

He has a crisp sticking up in his hair like a little ribbon. I remove it—and we both start giggling.

“Let’s find somewhere a bit more private,” says Russell, taking my hand. “Over by the trees?”

“No, I must get back, really.”

“Oh, come on—please, Ellie.”

“I’m sure it’s time to go home.”

“Like Andy Pandy. Did you ever see that
Watch
with Mother
video? I love little kids’ programs.”

“Me too! I used to like
Sesame Street
best.”

“And me. I used to draw them all with my felt-tip pens. All my little buddies in the nursery class wanted one of my special Big Bird portraits.”

“You’ll have to draw the Cookie Monster for me, he’s my favorite.”

“Did you like
Art Attack
when Zoe Ball was on it, ages and ages ago?”

“Yes, I
loved
it.”

“There’s this guy in my class crazy about Zoe Ball, and he paid me a fiver to do a special portrait of him with his arm round her.”

“Hey, that’s a great idea. All the girls in my class are nuts about Leonardo DiCaprio so maybe I’ll do heaps of portraits of him and make my fortune.”

“Some people say I look a bit like Leonardo DiCaprio—you know, my hairstyle and my features. Do you think so, Ellie?”

I mumble something politely. He doesn’t look remotely like Leonardo DiCaprio. I’m glad Nadine and Magda aren’t here or they’d hoot with laughter. We’ve left the kids on the swings far behind. We’re over by the trees where it’s really dark.

“Oh, Ellie,” says Russell.

This is obviously a signal for another kiss. I’m ready this time, my head tilted so that my glasses don’t get in the way. I love the way he kisses. Dan and I used to kiss but it was just silly awkward kids’ stuff. This is real and adult and exciting.

This is getting too real and adult and exciting. His hand is wandering over my shoulders toward my front.

“Russell, don’t.”

“Please. Just . . .
please.
”