Goldfish (12 page)

“MOOOOM! Can I have a lift into town, please?”

“Your dad
just
took Laverne to the mall!”

I go to the top of the stairs. She's standing at the bottom, looking irritable.

“I'm sorry, I only just got asked.”

Her eyes narrow. Mom-radar.

“By a
boy
?”

“Yes, but I swear not like that, Mom!”

“Oh, really?” She pulls a coat on and grabs her car keys. I take that as a yes and run downstairs.

“Wait, should I get changed?” I'm just in jeans and a T-shirt.

“If you get changed I'll know it is
like that.
”

Fine. I won't get changed. I follow her out to the car, reassuring her of the nonromantic nature of my trip.

“Seriously, Mom, I could fit him in my pocket.”

“He'll grow.”

“So will I!”

We pass Dad driving back from dropping Lav off. Mom points at me with her thumb and gives him an exaggerated eye roll. I grab the steering wheel so we don't plow into a line of parked cars. Dad's laughing as he drives off.

I wait for Gabe outside the entrance to the shopping mall. I hope we have enough to talk about. We usually talk easily, maybe because he's the only one who's not scared that I like him. (For the record, I don't like Roman and Pete, but I feel like I
should
, and that makes me feel like they think I
do
and … oh shut up, it's complicated being me.)

But I only know Gabe through swimming training, not as someone I go shopping with. I hope it's not weird, like going to the zoo with your dentist.

I see him before he sees me. He's dressed in khakis and a denim shirt, which are either designer gear or he's so cool that everything looks designer on him. I tug at the hem of my old T-shirt self-consciously, realizing I probably smell of car-cleaning fluid. I'm such a sophisticated lady.

I have a sudden horrible thought—how do we say hello to each other? Kiss on both cheeks? That feels dangerously French. I picture a nightmare scenario where I grab Gabe firmly by his little shoulders and kiss him on both cheeks and he tells Pete and Roman that I'm a sex pervert. (I know that's not the right phrase.)

He's getting closer and I still haven't decided what to do. Argh! He's right in front of me!

“Hi,” he says, and gives me a quick, friendly hug.

I'm an idiot. I follow him into a cheap sports shop.

“Will Roman and Pete wear something from here?”

“We'll cut the labels out and tell them it's Armani.”

We go from shop to shop, trying to find something not too expensive but not cheap, not too baggy but not too clingy. (I blush so hard when Gabe holds up some tiny Speedos that I swear I feel the blood leave my feet.)

There's like a foot height difference between us—the wrong way, obviously—so I know we must look strange together, but I genuinely don't care. Until we walk past a big group of kids from Laverne and Gabe's year. They start laughing.

“Hey, Gabe, is that your girlfriend?” one guy yells. It's like he's being nasty to me but friendly with Gabe. My heart starts beating hard.

“My wife, actually, show some respect,” Gabe replies coolly.

There's a confused silence from the group.

“She's massive!” another one calls out, and I look to Gabe, wondering how he'll handle this.

“I think the word you're scrabbling for is
statuesque
.” He smiles back at them like he literally could not care less. And I guess he doesn't, so I don't either. As we walk away, I feel slightly shell-shocked. Judging from the silence behind us, I'm not the only one.

After an hour of intensive swimwear shopping, I've touched so much Lycra that my hair is all static and I keep giving Gabe electric shocks (like a feeble X-Man). We decide to get coffee and let the electrons dissipate.

We talk about school. I skim over my social status, but …

“That's what I'd heard about you,” he says, spooning a mountain of sugar onto his coffee froth with a serious look on his face. It's very sweet.

His face, not the coffee, although probably both.

“What had you heard about me?” I'm astounded that he'd heard anything about me.

“You don't try to be like everyone else.” He shrugs, like it's obvious. “You're not bothered about being popular or dressing cool or having boys like you.”

It's a compliment; it just
really
doesn't sound like one. I let it pass.

“Who are
your
friends?” I ask, suddenly realizing I don't know much about him.

“People online, with similar illnesses. When I was out of school, we'd talk all the time. It's odd being back with people whose biggest problem is growing out bad bangs.”

“Um, your illness. What exactly…?” I trail off, wondering if I'm being nosy.

“It comes and goes,” he says. “At its worst it's like having flu
all
the time. You're too exhausted to get out of bed, but you can't sleep and your limbs ache and you can't concentrate on anything. So it's like one long sleepless night.”

“Wow.”

“It's OK, really.”

“Is it?”

“No. I'm just being totally brave and cool about it.” He flips his hair back like Roman.

I laugh. And I can see that gang from his year watching us, which makes me laugh even harder. They must be shocked by the sudden improvement in my life. I know I am.

I stop laughing and we sit for a bit in a comfortable silence. Which goes on a little
too
long and suddenly becomes awkward. Argh! This Making New Friends is a minefield—you can't ever relax. I panic and say whatever comes into my head.

“And is there more of you?”

“You mean…?”

“Sorry. I
mean
, do you have any other siblings?”

“No, just Roman.” Gabe smiles as I wave my teaspoon around trying to finish this garbled question. I flick some milk froth over his shoulder.

“Sorry!”

“That's OK. And you have a sister, don't you?”

“Yeah, she's in your grade. Laverne Brown. Dark hair, big eyes. Really, you don't know her?
All
the boys in our school know who she is.”

He's still shaking his head.

“She's nice. A little like your brother.” I think about Lav rubbing oil into my hair, and I feel bad. “No, that's not fair. She's nicer than Roman.”

There's a silence. I suddenly realize how rude that is.

“Not that Roman isn't nice, he's just…” I'm waving my teaspoon again. Gabe holds his napkin up to shield himself from any more flicked froth, and I smile and put the spoon down.

Wow, coffee really brings out the truth bombs.

“Perhaps,” says Gabe, choosing his words carefully, “he feels like he can't be so good-looking and talented for no reason. His life feels smaller than he deserves.”

“Poor guy,” I say fake-seriously.

“And Pete's always been grumpy.”

“But you're not.”

“I'm just happy to be out of my pajamas.”

“Congratulations,” I say, and we cheers coffee cups. “Now that you are, let's get you into some Lycra.”

That sounds sassy in my head, but once I say it … weirdly sexual.

We sit in silence with my strange, accidental flirting hanging in the air.

 

chapter 18

Louise.

I've told this you so many times that I'm worried you have brain damage. But once again: STAY OUT OF MY HALF OF THE ROOM. I'm trying to live like a dignified human being over here and you are a slob. It's bad enough that I have to look at it, but don't let it spill over into my half. Anything of yours that I find on my side of the room I'll throw out of the window.

Laverne.
No kisses.

Lav.

WHY ARE YOU EMAILING ME, I AM THREE FEET AWAY FROM YOU?!

I just watched you type that and you just watched me read it. Maybe you couldn't see me properly over the one sock, one notepad, and a pencil that's ALL OVER the floor. Aargh, the chaos!!

It's cool if you're on your period, but you don't have to advertise it.

Lou.
No kisses.

She is right: My side of the room is a state. It looks like Sports Direct exploded. (God forbid it ever does; that's where I get
all
my clothes.)

For the past three weeks, I've spent every lunchtime and evening with the boys, trying to do as much homework as I could in between classes, coming home, swallowing dinner, racing out to coach them, then coming back home and falling into bed. I am tired.com/pooped.

You know when you walk into a room and you can't remember what you went in there for? I did that today, in the bathroom.

The night before the tryouts, we have our usual training session. I've never seen the boys so nervous. Afterward we stand around the pool, talking through the routine one more time. We only stop when I get a very stern text from my dad telling me he's been sitting in the parking lot for half an hour and if I don't come out he's going to come in and get me.

I am wearing my shorts pajamas with the very short shorts, his message ends.

Terrified, I run to the car.

Dad says I'm too late for dinner so I'll have to go to bed hungry. I don't believe him for a second, and we get home to a lasagna in the oven. I hope he never moves out. Though I don't know how Mom would feel about that. Surely
one
day she'll have a successful date and end up with a boyfriend?

Heading up to bed full of anxiety and pasta, I get a sudden urge to tell Hannah how I'm feeling, but every time we talk lately she's just stressing about her training and her fitness and doesn't seem interested in me, so
fine
.

Her last text was about how all the other girls at the camp have a thigh gap, and do I have one?

Yes,
if I stick my butt out like a constipated duck.

I'd give my right leg for a thigh gap.

If you lose a leg, you'll have all the thigh gap you want!

No reply.

*   *   *

The morning of the tryouts dawns bright and clear. Possibly. I wouldn't know. I don't wake up at dawn—I'm not a farmer.

My alarm goes off at five a.m., which is still
horrendous
, and Lav has a slurring, half-asleep tantrum at me.

I try to get ready without waking anyone else up, but the ancient plumbing in our house has other ideas. By the time it's belched out my hot water for a shower and flushed the toilet with a load of grumbling complaints, everyone is up. They're all staggering and yawning, bumping into each other, and getting tangled in their bathrobes. No one in this family functions well in the morning.

I sit at the bottom of the stairs waiting for the boys to arrive. Pete said his dad would come by in the pickup truck at 5:15 a.m. and can I
please
stop questioning him about how he's getting the tank to the studio.

“NO!” I shout back to Mom. “I am
not
eating my packed lunch already!” Jeez, some people.

Oooh, cheese and pickle.

Lav comes and sits two steps behind me.

“Y'ellooo?” I greet her through a mouthful of cheese

“Are you going like that?” she asks.

“Lav, I'm about to line up in the rain for a million hours, then assemble a … sort of tank. I don't think it's a dressy day.”

“No, that's what I
meeaan
!” She jumps up again and heads upstairs. “Haven't you ever lined up for a gig?” she yells over her shoulder. She comes back with a sleeping bag in her arms and piles of sweaters. “You will freeze your butt off,” she informs me. “Then you will bore it off.”

“So either way,” I conclude, “I'm coming home without my butt. The one bit of my body that looks vaguely normal. That's a real shame.”

I take the sleeping bag from her and start putting one of the sweaters on, when there's a terrifyingly loud hoot from outside.

Lav and I freeze. You know when you hear a dog and can just tell from its bark that it's a monster? Lav opens the front door and we peer out. There, blocking the whole road, is the biggest truck I've ever seen in my (admittedly not truck-filled) life.

It looks like the sort of thing you'd use to move a circus. Pete, Roman, Gabe, and a man in a baseball cap are all sitting in the front. Gabe gives me a queenly wave out of the window. The man in the baseball cap looks like he's tempted to stick him in the back with the tank.

“So. I guess that's my ride,” I say.

“Please be careful!” Mom calls down from where she's peering out an upstairs window.

As if
I have
control over anything that happens today. I shoulder my sleeping bag and stagger out of the front door.

Our neighbors are starting to open their front doors to stare at this monstrosity in their road. I give them all a little wave, feeling like a celebrity.

The truck door opens three feet above my head and I look up at it helplessly. I've never had to jump
up
into a vehicle before. I guess this is how short people live.

Gabe reaches down for my stuff and then Roman reaches past him, makes a long arm, and pulls me up into the cab, where the boys are already squashed together. I land on the springy seat. It smells like an ashtray in here, and as Pete's dad nods at me, then taps his cigarette delicately onto the floor, I see how he's arrived at this smell.

“Hello, Mr.…” I say. Then realize I don't actually know Pete's last name, so it sounds like I just called his dad “mister.”

He grips his cigarette between his teeth and simply says, “Pete,” while throwing the megatruck into reverse.

Pete's dad is called
Pete
?