Moderate Violence (10 page)

Toby would hate her for asking the question. She knew
it, and she knew she couldn’t do it anyway. Like she’d told Pascale, they just
had to wait and see what happened. She and Toby were sensible people, she
reminded herself. Sex wasn’t everything, though the way some people went on
about it you’d think it was. Pascale’s insistence on a trial separation from
Ed, which was only a tactic of hers and had never really happened, had probably
resulted in them doing it even more often than they had before. You could tell
by the way she was always touching his leg.

The thing was, if Jo was ever going to do it, she
wanted to do it with someone who made her feel that she couldn’t
not
do it with him, and only him. So even
if she broke up with him, whoever he was, she would still know that he’d been
the one, in that world-changing moment.

But was Toby him?

“Jo!” came Trevor’s voice up the stairs. “Jo-girl! Where
are you?”

Jo pushed herself up and opened the bedroom door. The
landing was so dark it was more like an evening in November than June. She
could hear rain starting. Large drops thudded on the window pane, then more and
more until all the thuds merged and became a power-shower. She went to the top
of the stairs. “What?”

“I’m off to the pub,” said Trevor. He was wearing his
leather jacket, jingling his keys in his pocket. “You’ll be all right, won’t
you?”

Jo nodded. “Got work to do. Maths exam tomorrow. You
know it’s pouring with rain, don’t you?”

“See you later, then.”

The front door slammed. Jo sat down on the top stair,
gazing emptily at the place in the hall where he’d just been standing. In a
movie there would be poignant music, or a cut to a lively scene, she thought. But
in real life, there was just a space.

* * * * * *

Jo and Holly had just done their last exam.

“Come on!” Holly took Jo’s arm and propelled her along
the corridor. “After we’ve cleared out our lockers we’re free to go. And look
at this amazing weather!”

Mediterranean, they kept saying on TV. Pubs and
restaurants were trying hard, with tables outside, to pretend they were in
Spain. But even with its buildings throwing sharp shadows and heat haze rising
off the tarmac, Jo thought Kingsgrove High Street still looked and smelled like
Kingsgrove High Street – dusty, petroly, burger-and-chipsy.

“What are you doing tonight?” Holly asked. “Seeing
Toby?”

“Don’t know.”

“But it’s the end of exams!” Holly was shocked. “Cal
and I are going to Press Gang with Ed and Tom and their mates.”

“Oh, OK. Well, I’ll see what Toby wants to do.”

Holly was busy with her padlock. “How
are
things with Toby?” she asked. “God,
this thing is so awkward! Why can’t they design padlocks that work, for God’s
sake?”

Jo opened the door of her own locker, thinking about
how things were with Toby, and wondering if Pascale had instructed Holly to ask
her. “Things are OK.” Her PE kit and an ancient copy of
Macbeth
nestled together in her locker. She
picked up the book. “We did this in Year Nine,” she said to Holly. “Do you
think they want it back, or shall I chuck it?”

“Leave it on a desk. Not yours,” advised Holly. She was
doing her whole-face smile. “You like Toby, don’t you? It shows in your face
every time you talk about him.”

“I’m sad, aren’t I?”

“No, you’re lovely!” She started to pack her bag. “I’m
so lucky with my friends! Pascale’s on the other end of the scale from you, Jo.
And I get the best of both.” She took a bar of chocolate from her locker and
sniffed it. “Do you think this is edible? It’s only six months past its sell by
date.”

“Throw it away,” advised Jo, wondering about
the scale
. The scale of what?
Attractiveness? Flirtatiousness? Ability to play a whole basketball match
without going red in the face? With boys watching? Pascale could certainly do
all of those things one hundred percent better than Jo.

It crossed Jo’s mind how weird it was that Holly hardly
ever saw her, just
her
, without Pascale,
outside school. She never seemed to go to Holly’s house any more, though she’d
hardly been out of the place when she and Holly had been at primary school
together. They’d gone to each other’s parties and sleepovers, and Jo had become
very attached to Holly’s mum, who was so unlike Tess that nine-year-old Jo had
once confessed to Holly that she wished they were sisters. She’d
wanted a mum who had a serious job
(Holly’s mother was a senior nurse), but could act like a nine-year-old herself
when she was playing dominoes or Pictionary with them. Tess
never
played games. Except golf, which
didn’t count.

Once Jo and Holly had started at Kingsgrove and met
Pascale, they’d stopped going to Holly’s house, maybe because it was a bus ride
away, or maybe because her mum had to sleep during the day when she was on
night duty at the hospital. Jo’s house had quickly become headquarters. And
whatever they did there, it involved either all three of them or Jo and
Pascale.

“Why do you think Toby likes
me
, though?”

Jo had wanted to ask Holly this for a long time. She
couldn’t say it in front of Pascale, but Pascale did German instead of
Sociology and she’d already finished her exams. Jo had to take advantage of
this rare opportunity to talk to Holly alone.

“Why shouldn’t he like you?” replied Holly.

This was a typical Holly tactic. Answer a question you
don’t want to answer with another question.

“I mean, what do you think he likes about me?” said Jo.

“How should I know? He’s a bloke. Who knows what blokes
like?”

Holly had done it again. Jo persevered. “I think you
know what blokes like, Hol.”

Holly removed her padlock and left the locker door
open. “There,” she said with satisfaction. “Sixth Form lockers next year! It’s
going to be so cool being in Sixth Form! Pick up that chocolate wrapper
immediately! Where’s your tie? God, I’m going to
love
it.”

That was the other thing Holly did. When she didn’t
know what to say, she changed the subject, often so successfully that Jo never
got back to what she’d asked. But today Jo was determined. “But Toby’s so
good-looking and I’m so ordinary.”

“Why
is
he so good-looking?” asked Holly, interested. “I mean, what is it about his
face that – ”

“Stop asking me
questions
!”
Jo’s exasperation spilled out. “Can’t you just
listen
?”

Holly’s prettiness disappeared for a moment under the
face she made when she was offended. It involved a wrinkling of the nose and a
crumpling of the forehead, and a hooking downwards of the mouth. If Holly ever
saw it in a mirror, thought Jo, she’d never do it again. “I
am
listening,” she said testily. “I always
listen. But what do you want me to say? That you’re not ordinary, you’re
lovely? Well, I’ve already said that. Or do you want me to tell you that
good-looking boys always go for girls who aren’t as pretty as them? Why would
you want me to do that, Jo?”

Some volcanic source of interior heat suddenly erupted
inside Jo. Her ears buzzed. “Holly, you’re
still
asking me
questions
!”

“Are you OK?” asked Holly, her eyes roving over Jo’s
face. “You’ve gone all red. Have you got heatstroke?”

When Jo didn’t say anything, Holly shrugged. “Whatever.”

Of all the people whose disapproval Jo couldn’t bear,
it was Holly’s. But Holly had joined the ranks of the pain-makers without a
second thought. How could
Holly
,
her oldest, closest friend, with whom she shared so many memories, and whose
inner workings she knew so well, turn on her?

Jo’s breath shortened. Her temples pounded. The
brain-numbing light began to invade the edge of her vision. Why did this keep
happening? The plaster on her arm was itching, like it always did the moment
she thought about it. She longed to pull it off and ambush the gouged-out flesh
underneath it, but she had no fresh plasters with her at school.

“Holly,
please
,”
she blurted.

A light, almost-invisible film of impatience came over
Holly’s face, and there was impatience in her voice, too. “Please what?”

“Please don’t be horrible to me,” begged Jo. “I haven’t
done anything wrong.”

“Oh, Jo…” Holly gave a small sigh, and looked out of
the window for a moment, as if she needed time to work out how to explain
something very simple to an imbecile. “I’m not being horrible to you,” she said
calmly when she turned back to face Jo. “I’m just trying to get you to see how
it is.”

“How
what
is?” asked Jo in genuine bewilderment. What had they been talking about, when
Holly had become so hostile? “What do you mean?”

Holly sighed again, more exaggeratedly. “I mean
Toby
!”

“Oh.” Jo looked at the floor. It was grimy at the edges
where the cleaner’s mop never reached, she noticed. She felt relieved. At least
she could
see
the edges of the
floor; the headache-inducing light had diminished. “Oh. Toby.”

She leaned against the lockers and tried to meet
Holly’s eyes, but Holly wouldn’t look at her. So Jo persevered anyway. “Look,
Hol,” she began, “Me and Toby, we’re fine. I like him, and he likes me. I
shouldn’t have asked you why you think he likes me, it was a stupid question.”

I’m not going to apologize, though, she told herself. All
Jo had done was express her perfectly reasonable exasperation.
It was Holly who had completely
un
reasonably put her claws out.

“All right,” said Holly. The look she gave Jo was full
of doubt. “All right. Let’s just leave it.” She paused, then she said, “So
you’ll be going out somewhere with him tonight, will you?”

“I don’t know,” said Jo truthfully. “I kind of never
know what we’re doing until the last minute. He’s not even on Facebook.”

“Ah,” said Holly, nodding. “In that case, shall Cal and
I just make plans without you?”

Jo heard something edgy in Holly’s voice, but she was
weary of this wrestling-match. She wanted to go home and lie in the garden with
Blod on her feet. “Of course,” she agreed pleasantly. “Have a good time.”

“You too.” Swinging her hair a bit, Holly put her bag
on her shoulder and started down the corridor. “Come on, it’s lunchtime. Pascale’ll
be at Burgerblitz with Ed. You coming?”

“Um…” Jo picked up her own bag. Sometimes, sacrifices
had to be made. Friends were friends, after all. “OK,” she said. “Lead on,
boss.”

Chapter Seven

The dress was the most expensive thing Jo
had ever owned, except for her computer. It was so beautiful that ever since
Trevor had bought it she’d left it hanging on the outside of the wardrobe so
that she could lie in bed and feel the tingle of ownership whenever she wanted.

It was a purplish colour, with a low neck, a low back,
and a silk underskirt showing through the gauzy overskirt. It hung there in one
classy line from the shoulders to the hem, waiting for its moment. Tess, not to
be outdone by Trevor’s generosity, had paid for a pair of high-heeled open-toe
shoes, so well-made and comfortable that Jo thought that if only circumstances
allowed, she would happily wear them for the rest of her life.

When Jo put on the dress its beauty glowed as if it
were alive. It skimmed her body, millimeters away but streamlining and
sculpting all the bits of her she didn’t like, and showing off the bits she
did. She had searched many, many shops for a dress with long enough,
close-fitting enough sleeves. But when she’d seen it, she’d known it was the
one. “Lovely,” the assistant had beamed when she’d come out of the changing
room. “A sort of medieval look, very flattering.”

Pascale had helped her make the satin sash that said
‘Miss Universe’. Jo slipped it over her shoulder, piled up her hair and sprayed
it so that it wouldn’t immediately fall down again, and secured in it the
diamanté tiara from when she’d been a fairy in a Christmas play at primary
school. Then she got out the expensive necklace and earrings that she’d had for
her sixteenth birthday. She stood in front of the mirror, unable to stop
herself trembling. She looked as good as a beauty queen, definitely.

Jo’s escort was to be Stuart Holt. Pascale’s first
choice, David Mathison, wasn’t going to the ball, as he and his parents had
gone to South Africa for the summer. “I should have remembered,” Pascale had
told her apologetically. “His mum’s South African. She once gave me a stick of
dried zebra or something, when I went to his house. I didn’t eat it, though. I
just gave it back to her.”

Jo was sure it couldn’t have been zebra, but didn’t
argue. And Stuart, a friendly boy with curly hair and neat ears, was a pretty
good substitute. He had been in Jo’s primary school class. She remembered him
coming to her seventh birthday party and refusing to eat anything but peanut
butter and lemon curd sandwiches. Pascale had insisted that Jo mustn’t let him
in on the secret of her costume, but get him to wear a tuxedo. His uncle had
produced one that fitted him, and his mum had bought him a dress shirt and a
bow tie. “I’ll have to wear my school shoes,” he’d confessed to Jo. “They’re
the only ones I’ve got that aren’t trainers.”

“That’s all right,” Jo had assured him. She knew that
no one would be looking at
his
shoes.
“They’ll be fine as long as you polish them.”

It was a pity Toby couldn’t come, but also in a way it
wasn’t. He was the same age as the Upper Sixth boys, but would have been out of
place among them. Every time Jo imagined him with them, a vague embarrassment
came over her, and she tidied the thought away.

“Are you ready, darling?” Tess’s voice floated up the
stairs. “I’ve got the camera.”

She and Trevor were in the hall, waiting to film Jo’s
departure for the ball. What was life like before video cameras? She supposed
you just had to remember whether you felt nervous, or excited, or neither. Now,
it was there on your face for everyone to look at, whenever they felt like it. And
short of burning the house down, what could you do to stop them?

When Trevor spoke, Jo could tell by the thickening of
his Welsh accent that he was feeling emotional. “Jo-girl, you look a-mair
-
zing. Dudn’t she look fab
-
uh-lous, Tess?”

“Of course she does!” Tess’s eyes were very bright. “Walk
down, darling, and I’ll film you.”

The filming took so long, with Tess arranging Jo’s
skirt and taking the sash off and putting it on again, that it was ten past
seven when they left, twenty-five past when they picked up Stuart, and a
quarter to eight when Trevor dropped them at school and drove off happily,
tooting the horn.

“This is a big night for my parents,” Jo told Stuart by
way of apology. “They’ve never seen their little girl all dressed up like
this.”

“You’re an only child, aren’t you?” asked Stuart. He
put his hand self-consciously on her naked back and guided her towards the
entrance. “I’ve got two older sisters. And,” he added, looking sheepish, “a
tuxedo can’t compete with a ball gown anyway.”

“Of course it can!” Jo didn’t have to lie. Stuart’s
uncle’s suit had transformed a boy of undeniable ordinariness into such an
elegant figure that Jo wondered if he’d grown since she last saw him, or been
hitting the gym or something. “I think you look really good.”

“Thanks.” Stuart went a bit pink, but controlled his
features. “So do you.”

Captain Holly and her soldiers, willing and unwilling,
had been busy spending the PTA’s entertainment budget. Every cranny of the
school hall had been disguised with silver streamers and crêpe paper. The
windows were festooned with paper planets, stars, moons, spaceships and signs
of the zodiac. From the centre of the ceiling hung an enormous model of the
earth, lit from the inside and spinning, a great deal faster than the real
earth spins, but pretty impressively.

Jo and Stuart, like everyone else who came in with
them, stared at the decorations for a few seconds before their gaze came back
to ground level. And when it did, there were shrieks and gasps. Around the
dance floor clustered paper-draped tables, each with a miniature version of the
earth light in its centre. And there were garlands of silver stars across the
front of the stage, where a professional band played arrival-of-the-guests
music.

“My God,” murmured Stuart. “We’d better give up on
getting any new gym equipment.”

“Who needs parallel bars when they can have a parallel
universe?” quipped Jo. She knew she sounded over-excited, but, dammit, she
was
over-excited. “Hiya, Pascale!”

They rushed towards each other, leaving Ed and Stuart
to approach more slowly, and, in Ed’s case, with more embarrassment. Pascale’s
silver dress, the spray-on glitter on her skin and the painted zig-zag across
her face did more for her femininity than Ed’s costume did for his masculinity.
Not even the famously cool Ed Samuels could look anything but weirdly
androgynous in silver boots, greasepaint and spiked, silvered hair. Jo wondered
if a guitar might have improved it. Didn’t Ziggy Stardust play guitar?

“You look
incredible
!”
exclaimed Pascale, air-kissing Jo. “Love the long sleeves – very sophis!”

“You look incredible too,” said Jo. “That’s definitely
the word. Incredible. Where’s Holly?”

“Telling someone what to do, I expect.” Pascale’s eyes,
looking unreal behind the lightning bolt drawn on her face, roamed the room. “I
saw her a minute ago. Do you like Ed’s costume? His sister did our make up. Clever,
isn’t she?”

Without waiting for an answer she drew Ed to her side. “We’ve
got to stay together, Ed,” she told him bossily, “or the costumes don’t make
sense. Keep hold of my hand.”

The plains and hollows of Ed’s normally sculpted face
had been obliterated by the make-up. He looked like someone impersonating him,
but missing, as lookalikes do, the essential charm of the real thing. His eyes,
which usually held a serious, watchful expression, looked glassy. “Next year
I’m wearing a tux,” he said moodily to Pascale. “No arguments. I mean, Stuart
looks way better than me.”

Pascale nestled nearer to him. “So you’re thinking
we’ll still be going out together next year, then? I wish you’d tell
me
these things!”

Stuart and Jo laughed obediently. Then Ed said, “You
look really good, Jo.” Although Pascale had tight hold of one of his hands, he
extended the other one and touched Jo’s forearm lightly. “You could be Miss
Universe any day, that’s all I can say.”

And that’s all you’re going to be
allowed
to say, thought Jo. “Thanks, Ed!”
she said airily. “The costume was Pascale’s idea.”

“Clever me!” Pascale tugged at Ed’s hand. “Come on, the
dancing’s starting.”

Before she dragged him out of earshot Ed addressed
Stuart over his shoulder. “You can’t dance with Jo all night, can you, mate? Let
me in there, will you?”

Jo could hear Pascale protesting that no one dances
with
anyone, and can’t you just keep your
hands to yourself, and Jo’s got a boyfriend, you know. Jo didn’t care. She
couldn’t calm herself. Her heart was actually thudding.

“Wow! Who’s this hot chick?” Said a voice from the
crowd.

Holly was making her determined towards them. The skirt
of her dress, which was made of stiff, glittering material, reached Jo before
its wearer did. Behind Holly, struggling with a bunch of balloons, came Tom
Clarke. Holly’s face, as Pascale had predicted and Jo had hoped, registered
middle-scale shock and top-scale awe.

“Hello, you two.” Jo returned Holly’s hug. “Stuart, do
you know Tom?” The boys nodded to each other.

Holly, being Holly, had wiped her initial reaction to
the sight of Jo off her face, and replaced it with her usual Golden Girl of the
West shimmer. Eyes, lips, blusher-enhanced cheeks and freckle-strewn nose were
all back on duty and working hard. “What a great idea!” she exclaimed. “Miss
Universe! And Stuart, you look gorgeous!” She twirled. “What about me? You
like?”

Jo noticed that the material of Holly’s dress wasn’t
glittery after all. The blue taffeta had been painstakingly appliquéd with tiny
sequined stars. “It’s fabulous,” she told Holly, meaning it. “Did you do it
yourself?”

“As if! No, my mum did it. And Tom’s suit, too. Show
them, Tom.”

Tom held the balloons away from his body to display a
black tuxedo like Stuart’s, but with the lapels and a blue cummerbund covered
with the same twinkly stars. Jo couldn’t help laughing with pleasure at the
sight. If she’d been a few years younger, she thought, she’d have clapped her
hands. Not only did the costume look great, but the fact that Holly’s
hardworking mum had produced it, Tom had been persuaded to wear it, and was now
showing it off with such obvious contentment, made her feel indescribably
happy. “Oh, Holly, you’re amazing!”

“No I’m not,” said Holly, though Jo could tell she
thought she was. Then, unexpectedly, Holly got self-conscious. She surprised
Tom by taking the balloon strings from his hand. “These are supposed to be tied
in each corner of the room,” she told him briskly. “We’d better get on with it
before more people arrive.”

“Why?” asked Tom. “The room’s already decorated.”

A perplexed crease appeared between Holly’s eyebrows. “But
people spent so long blowing all these up, I can’t let them down – the people I
mean, not the balloons.” She began to follow her skirt away, then turned back
with an anxious look at Jo and Stuart. “Have you found our table yet? Don’t let
anyone else sit in your places, will you?”

“We’ll go and find it now,” Jo reassured her. “See you
later.”

It started out just a pretty good party. There was some
desultory dancing and a lot of screaming with laughter and ‘going out for some
air’ onto the school field. But at some indefinable moment, when the air was
getting dusky and the fairy lights in the trees had been switched on, the ice
broke. People forgot who they didn’t look as nice as, or whose table they
wished they were on. They just got on with having a great party.

Holly’s position on the committee had ensured that her
friends had a well-placed table, near the stage and in view of the other
diners. By the time supper was over Jo felt as if she’d never done anything in
her life except sit at this grease-stained paper tablecloth, with Stuart’s
black sleeve on one side of her long purple sleeves, and Ed’s silver one on the
other. Once, a long time ago, she took some exams, though she couldn’t remember
doing it. And at some time in the future, something else was going to happen,
but she couldn’t remember what that was either.

After the meal the band disappeared and a DJ took the
stage. “Don’t worry,” said Holly, “the PTA didn’t book him. He’s Grant Cox’s
brother, and he’s really good. Tom’s been to another event where he’s played,
haven’t you, Tom?”

“Yep,” said Tom, nodding wisely. “Trust me, he’s really
good.”

He was. Within seconds the floor was filling. “Come on,
Ed,” said Pascale, dragging his arm. “Here’s our chance to show off.”