I raise an eyebrow. No one has ever called me beautiful before. I’ve been called hot and sexy and fit and gorgeous, but never, ever beautiful. Not that Sam meant it like that, but still, it’s sort of nice.
‘I mean it,’ he continues. ‘Quit now before you get totally addicted like I was, waking up in the middle of the night convinced I couldn’t go back to sleep until I’d had a smoke.’
There’s another pause. I can hear the muted roar of an aeroplane, thousands of feet above us, a dog barking, a baby crying.
‘Night, Mia. It was nice chatting to you.’
I shrug.
He smiles before climbing back through Grace’s window, pulling it shut behind him.
I’m in that weird half-sleep when I hear them – Sam’s groans mingled with Grace’s fluttery gasps, the occasional ‘shhhhh!’, the rhythmic squeak of Grace’s bed on the other side of the wall. But what about the baby? Are you even allowed to have sex when you’re pregnant? What about Grace’s bump? Surely it’s totally in the way? I yank my pillow from under my neck and wrap it round my head like a hat so it covers my ears. I stay like that for at least ten minutes, my eyes squeezed shut. When I finally remove the pillow, the house is silent again but it takes me ages to get to sleep.
10
Last lesson on a Tuesday is Religious Studies. There are only four of us in the class, so instead of sitting in rows Miss Linden gets us to arrange the chairs and tables so we’re sitting in a semicircle, facing each other.
‘Just look at Jesus’s choice of disciples,’ Owen Short is droning. ‘Men – every last one of them. If that’s not evidence of his wish for an all-male succession, then I don’t know what is.’
Today’s discussion topic is feminist theology and the ordination of women in the Christian Church, and as per usual it’s descended into a debate between me and Owen, otherwise known as the most annoying boy on the planet, while our classmates, Heather Barnett (who never says a word), and Nathan Wint (permanently stoned), sit on and watch.
‘What about Junia?’ I ask, flipping through my notes. ‘They reckon she was a full-on apostle.’
‘Speculation,’ Owen replies. ‘They don’t even know for sure that she was a woman.’
‘Er, exactly how many blokes do you know called Junia?’
‘The gender is irrelevant. The fact remains that Jesus favoured male disciples over female ones, and who am I to argue with the Son of God.’
‘OK, so number one, the Bible was probably written by some arsehole bloke so no wonder the women got all the crap bits, and number two, what does any of this have to do with the ordination of women today?’
Owen’s hand flies up in the air. ‘Miss Linden, is Mia allowed to say “arsehole”?’ he asks.
‘She wasn’t using it to address anyone in the room so I’m prepared to let it slide on this occasion,’ Miss Linden replies.
I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling while Owen sulks.
Miss Linden is kind of the reason I took Religious Studies in the first place. She’s one of the only teachers in the school who doesn’t treat me like a massive disappointment every time I enter a classroom.
‘Keep going, Mia,’ she says.
I angle my body towards Owen. ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Even if the bloke who wrote the Bible wasn’t an arsehole, the idea that we should be living our lives by a three-thousand-year-old book is mental. Not to mention the fact people just seem to pick and choose the bits they like anyway.’
‘Give an example,’ Owen says.
‘Easy.’ I had known Owen would go down this road so I have a copy of the Old Testament ready, the relevant page marked with my finger. ‘From Leviticus,’ I read. ‘“And all that have not fins and scales in the seas, and in the rivers, of all that move in the waters, and of any living thing which is in the waters, they shall be an abomination unto you.”’ I pause, lowering the book. ‘The thing is, I could have sworn I saw you eating a prawn mayo sandwich at lunch today, Owen.’
‘So what?’ he splutters. ‘I never said I believed in any of it myself. I think I’ve made it clear on several occasions that I consider myself an atheist.’
‘In that case, you have no right to use the gender of Jesus’s disciples to oppose the ordination of women. It’s no different from me telling you to lay off the prawn sarnies.’
‘I hardly think it’s a fair comparison.’
‘Well, I do. And if you’re going to interpret the Bible to further your own sexist agenda, you can’t act all wounded when I interpret it to make a point. The fact is you have no relevant or up-to-date evidence to back up your argument, and until you do, this debate just isn’t even worth having.’
Owen opens his mouth to respond but the bell for home time drowns his words out.
‘Hold that thought, Owen,’ Miss Linden says. ‘We’ll pick up where we left off on Thursday.’
Owen scowls and shoves his folder in his bag. He hates not having the last word.
I stay behind to help Miss Linden put the tables and chairs back.
‘I like your boots,’ I say, as we work. ‘Where are they from?’
‘Office,’ she replies. ‘They hurt like hell though.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. They’re rubbing on the heel. My fault for convincing myself I could squeeze into a size four.’ She pauses to redo her messy bun. ‘You know, you came up with some excellent theories today, Mia,’ she says. ‘You really should consider joining the Feminist Society next term.’
I make a face. On top of at least a dozen other extracurricular activities, Grace used to be secretary of the Feminist Society. ‘Extra-curricular activities are for nerds,’ I say.
Miss Linden puts down the chair she was about to stack. ‘That’s a bit of a sweeping statement, isn’t it?’
‘Maybe. I just have better things to do with my time.’
‘Like what?’
‘Just stuff. Personal stuff.’
Miss Linden smiles. ‘Look, I’m not trying to give you a hard time here, Mia. I just think the Feminist Society would be lucky to have you.’
I squirm on the spot.
‘I’m serious,’ she says. ‘You’re brilliant at expressing yourself, especially when it’s something you’re really passionate about. I have a feeling you’d be a real asset.’
I shrug and keep stacking.
‘Think about it at least. Over the summer holidays.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, to shut her up more than anything.
‘It’ll be something for your personal statement,’ she adds.
She’s talking about the personal statement we have to write for our university applications. The deadline isn’t until January, but the teachers keep banging on about it any chance they get.
I almost open my mouth to tell her about my pact with Stella, about our plans to get jobs and a flat, but at the last second I change my mind. She’ll only try to persuade me to reconsider my decision not to apply to university. It’s sort of nice though, the idea that she thinks I’m clever enough to get in anywhere, even if she’s totally wrong.
In the end, it’s Miss Linden who changes the subject.
‘I heard about Grace,’ she says.
I stiffen at the mention of my sister’s name. Miss Linden never taught Grace but (of course) knows who she is.
‘That must have been quite a shock, I’m guessing,’ she continues.
‘You could say that.’
‘And how are you feeling about it?’
I hesitate. It’s the first time an adult has actually bothered to ask my opinion about the whole thing, and I’m kind of thrown.
‘I feel …’
How do I feel? About a hundred different things all at once, none of them good.
‘I feel, I don’t know, pissed off, I suppose,’ I say eventually.
‘Pissed off. Why?’
‘Because. Grace finally mucks up, and instead of getting into trouble, everyone treats her like she’s this hero. It’s just not fair, y
ou know.’
I recount the events of the weekend, getting more and more agitated as I build to the description of Grace and Sam’s congratulatory cheesecake.
‘Please tell me you think that’s weird,’ I say.
Miss Linden just smiles diplomatically, reminding me that no matter how cool her new boots are, at the end of the day, she’s still a teacher.
‘The thing you need to remember,’ she says, ‘is that Grace probably got an absolute roasting from your parents; you just weren’t there to see it.’
‘Well, it can’t have been that bad if less than twenty-four hours later they were ordering bottles of prosecco and welcoming Sam the Spam into the family with open arms.’
‘Sam the Spam?’ she asks, laughing. ‘God, is he really that bad?’
‘No,’ I admit, sighing. ‘He’s just a bit of a suck-up, that’s all, acting like everything anyone says is totally fascinating.’
‘He’s probably just nervous. It’s intimidating enough meeting your girlfriend’s parents face-to-face for the first time, never mind having to explain you’ve got her pregnant while you’re at it.’
‘Maybe,’ I say.
‘Just give him a chance. You never know, you might end up being mates.’
I pull a face. As bloody if.
When I get home from school, the house is quiet and empty, a note on the fridge directing me to a portion of lasagne in the freezer. That’s kind of how it is around here; either everyone is home or no one is.
I pour myself a glass of orange squash and wander into the living room. Pretty much overnight the mantelpiece has filled up with cards. I pick one up at random. On the front it says ‘Congratulations!’ in sparkly silver lettering. I open it.
To Grace and Sam, Congratulations on your wonderful baby news! All the best, Sue and Mike xxx
I frown. Who the hell are Sue and Mike?
I put it back and pick up another. It’s from Izzy, one of Grace’s friends from school.
To Grace,
You’re going to be SUCH an incredible mummy. Can’t wait to meet baby Bean!
Loads of love, Izzy xoxoxo
The last time the mantelpiece was this full was last summer, when Grace got her A-level results. Half of them arrived before she’d even picked her results up; that’s how confident people were that she’d done well. The biggest one of all was from Mum and Dad. It was mocked up to look like the front page of a tabloid newspaper, the headline ‘Amazing Grace!’ splashed across the top, a photograph of Grace beaming underneath.
The following week, when I collected my GCSE results, I was presented with a normal card, from a normal shop. I was an idiot for expecting anything different.
As I look at the rest of the congratulations cards, all of them full of warm wishes, and praise and hugs and kisses, I can’t help but wonder how many there’d be on the mantelpiece if I was the one who was pregnant.
I’m upstairs on my laptop when Mum and Audrey get home from the pool.
I can hear them in the kitchen below, chatting as Mum prepares their dinner. I think about going down to join them but then change my mind. They’ll only be talking about swimming stuff. That’s all anyone talks about in this house these days – that and the wedding. Oh, and the baby now too.
After about an hour, Audrey comes upstairs. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks, kicking off her pool sliders and squeezing next to me on the bed so I’m pressed right up against the wall. As usual, she smells of chlorine and the cocoa butter she slathers on after her shower at the pool.
‘I’m designing T-shirts,’ I tell her.
‘Who for?’
‘Stella, Mikey and Kimmie. For us to wear in Newquay.’
Weirdly, it was the memory of the personalized card Mum and Dad got for Grace last year that sparked the idea. I’ve based them on my ‘It’s All About Mia’ T-shirt, substituting my name with my friends’. I’ve spent the last two hours choosing fonts and colours, eventually plumping for red for Stella, turquoise for Mikey and purple for Kimmie, plus a new version for me in my signature hot pink. I’m just putting the finishing touches to Stella’s – splashy red glitter letters on a white background. I angle the screen towards Audrey so she can see.
‘They’re really cool,’ she says.
‘I’m going to keep it a surprise, then hand them out the night before we leave so we can wear them on the plane.’
I keep having visions of the four of us walking down the airport concourse like a scene out of a film.
‘I’m going to miss you while you’re gone,’ Audrey says, resting her head on my shoulder.
‘Don’t be such a sap.’
‘But I mean it,’ she says. ‘I sleep better when you’re in the room.’
‘I thought you said I snore.’
‘Only sometimes,’ she replies. ‘And anyway, I like it.’
‘Sure,’ I say, rolling my eyes.
‘I do!’ she insists. ‘It’s nice.’
I shake my head. ‘You’re a little weirdo sometimes, you know that, Nemo?’
There’s a pause. Audrey takes a deep breath, like she’s about to ask a question, then closes her mouth again.
‘You OK, Auds?’ I ask.
She shrugs and fiddles with the hair band round her wrist.
‘C’mon, what’s up?’ I ask, pulling on the drawstring of her hoodie.
Another deep breath.
‘I was just wondering, um, when did you start your period?’
By the time she reaches the end of the question, her cheeks are bright pink.
‘When I was eleven,’ I reply.
It was during the summer holidays, just before I started at Queen Mary’s. I remember going into Grace’s room and showing her the blood on my knickers and her taking me to the bathroom and pointing out the little wicker basket in the cupboard under the sink where the sanitary towels and tampons are kept, and showing me how to use them.
‘Is that average?’ Audrey asks. ‘Eleven?’
‘It depends. Grace was a bit older. Twelve, I think. Some people start later, though. I think Kimmie was nearly fifteen. You’re not worried about it, are you?’
She hesitates.
‘It’s just that Lara got hers today. And Becca and Lottie both got theirs ages ago and now I feel like I’m the only one left.’
‘Auds,’ I say, putting down my laptop. ‘Everyone’s bodies are different.’
‘But I’m the tallest by miles. Shouldn’t I have mine by now?’
‘It doesn’t really work like that. Look, between you and me, you want your period to stay away for as long as possible.’
‘Really?’
‘Definitely. Everyone goes on about periods like they’re this big deal, when to be honest they’re kind of a pain in the arse.’
‘How come?’
‘Oh God, where do I start? They’re messy, they’re painful, you feel all bloated and moody …’
‘Really? You’re not just saying that to make me feel better?’
‘I swear. They’re well annoying. You should count yourself lucky you don’t have yours yet. They’re not giving you grief about it, are they?’
She shakes her head.
‘Good. Because if they do, they’ll have me to deal with.’
Audrey wraps her arms round my neck and buries her face in my hair. ‘Thanks, Mia,’ she says, her voice all muffled.
‘No problem, Nemo,’ I say, kissing her damp parting. ‘Now, get off me already. I need to pay for these bad boys.’
11
I head downstairs for breakfast on Friday morning to discover Sam in the kitchen. He’s standing in front of the open fridge wearing tartan pyjama bottoms and a white T-shirt, his hair flat on one side, sticking up on the other. I’m surprised to see what looks like a tattoo peeking out from under his right sleeve. I wonder what it’s of. Something lame, I bet. His A-level results. Or his favourite element on the periodic table.
He hears my footsteps on the lino and glances up. ‘Oh, hey,
Mia,’ he says, smiling broadly.
Ugh. He must be a morning person. The worst kind.
‘I haven’t seen much of you this week,’ he adds.
He and Grace have been out most evenings, doing the rounds, meeting Grace’s avalanche of boring friends.
‘No,’ I murmur, sleepwalking in the vague direction of the kettle.
‘What have you been up to?’ he asks.
Oh God, he’s not going to expect me to make small talk, is he? Did he not get the memo that I prefer to avoid all non-verbal communication until after 9 a.m. at least? I’m especially knackered this morning. Grace barged into my room at 1 a.m., switching on the light and thrusting her weird veiny belly in my face because the baby was moving and she wanted me to feel it. I managed to get rid of her after about ten minutes, but it took ages to fall asleep again.
‘Nothing much,’ I mutter, flicking on the kettle and letting my upper body collapse over the counter, hoping he’ll get the message and leave me alone.
‘Is this you?’ he asks.
I lift my head up a few centimetres and peer through my hair. Sam has shut the fridge and is holding a familiar piece of paper in his hand.
Suddenly I’m wide awake.
I lunge forward and reach to snatch it out of his hands but he’s too fast, holding it high above his head.
‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ he says, laughing.
‘Whatever, Dougie,’ I say, feigning nonchalance and pushing past him to open the fridge. This week it’s hosting a massive Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cake, all our actual food shoved into the vegetable drawer or the shelves in the door.
‘It was ages ago,’ I say, grabbing for the milk and slamming the fridge door shut.
‘So what’s the story?’ he asks.
‘None of your business,’ I reply, plucking the piece of paper from his hands and sticking it back on the fridge, knowing full well that, if I throw it away, a brand-new version will be up in its place by the end of the day.