Kiss by Jacqueline Wilson

  'Paris?'

  'No, Venice. We'll go to see the glass-blowers on M u r a n o a n d buy t h e most beautiful chandelier.'

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  'We'll h a n g it in the palace and hold a grand ball and dance until the small hours.'

  'And meanwhile Miranda and Paul will be down t h e bowling alley, rolling the balls at the pins.'

  We laughed a little too uproariously. Then we were silent. We could see the alley at the end of t h e road, its blue and orange neon sign flashing hypnotically. We trudged towards it.

  'We don't have to meet up with t h e m tonight,'

  I said. 'We could j u s t slope off and leave t h e m to it. We don't have to go off to anywhere exotic. We could simply go home and hide out in the Glass Hut, j u s t being us!

  'I know. Stop tempting me,' said Carl.

  'You don't like bowling, do you?'

  'No. I can't stand it.'

  'So why did you s t a r t all this?'

  Carl sighed. 'I suppose I wanted to impress Paul.'

  I was baffled. I'd never known Carl try to impress anyone before. I imagined Paul in my mind, tall and athletic, in football strip, with one of those handsome, chiselled, square-jawed faces. I tried h a r d but I couldn't project any expression onto him. He l u m b e r e d stiffly through my thoughts like a soldier doll, t a n n e d and plastic and ready for action.

  'Hey, he's there already! He's even earlier t h a n us!' said Carl, suddenly hurrying, almost running.

  I squinted at all the guys hanging around 127

  outside the bowling alley, lolling against the wall, j u m p i n g up and down t h e steps, sitting on the wall kicking their feet. None was a likely candidate for Football Paul. Then a boy started waving – and Carl waved back.

  So this was Paul, this ordinary-looking boy in a hoodie and faded jeans and scuffed trainers.

  He was a little taller t h a n Carl and a little broader. He had darkish-blond hair, gelled and spiky. He h a d a few freckles across his nose and cheeks and a grin t h a t showed a lot of his teeth. I couldn't decide if he was good looking or not. He didn't seem a patch on Carl.

  They were messing around together, Carl and Paul, doing a weird elaboration of a high-five routine, and then playing some crazy kind of kung fu, chopping thin air and making daft sounds. I stared at them. I'd never seen Carl acting the fool like this – he was normally way too cool. He saw me staring.

  'Hey, Paul, this is my friend Sylvie,' he said.

  Why couldn't he say girlfriend?

  'Hello, Paul,' I said.

  He held out his hand. I thought he was still mucking around kung fu-ing so I kept my own arm pinned to my side. He withdrew his arm, looking disconcerted. He'd simply been trying to shake my hand. I felt awful b u t it seemed too late to s t a r t all over again. I nodded at him instead, smiling manically to show I wanted to be friends.

  'Where's Miranda?' said Paul.

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  He was eyeing me up and down, obviously hoping Miranda would be more promising.

  'She's meeting us here. We're still a bit early,'

  I said.

  It was torture waiting for Miranda. Carl and Paul a n d I made stilted three-way conversation for a little while b u t this soon tailed away into awkward silence. So Carl asked Paul about some match he'd played t h a t afternoon and they were off speaking boring football-lingo. I was surprised t h a t Carl could talk it. He was a little too sycophantic, going on and on about Paul's astonishingly amazing brilliant performance, like he'd done complicated brain surgery while whistling the Hallelujah chorus. He'd j u s t r u n around a field kicking a ball, for heaven's sake.

  Carl actually used the word 'awesome'.

  I stared at him, wondering if he was actually sending Paul up. No, he seemed serious. I raised one eyebrow at him. He didn't raise one back.

  He edged away, practically t u r n i n g his back on me, standing in a little huddle with Paul, cutting me out. He was treating me the way he treated Lucy. I was so h u r t and cross I almost stomped off home by myself, b u t I felt I h a d to wait for Miranda.

  We all waited and waited a n d waited.

  'Is this Miranda actually going to t u r n up?'

  Paul said, t u r n i n g to me.

  'Yes, of course she is,' I said, though I was starting to wonder myself.

  Miranda was ten minutes late.

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  I checked my mobile for messages. I sent Miranda a text, then another.

  Fifteen minutes. Twenty.

  I tried ringing her but she was engaged.

  Maybe she was sitting cosily at home, ringing Alice or Raj or Andy, having sensibly decided to give t h e bowling date a miss.

  Twenty-five minutes.

  'She's not coming,' said Paul, frowning. He obviously wasn't used to being stood up.

  'Is she mucking us about?' Carl said crossly, glaring at me as if it was somehow my fault.

  'How do I know?' I said.

  I tried giving her one last ring on her mobile

  – and got through to her.

  'Hi! Why are you phoning? I'm here' said Miranda.

  There she was, walking towards us, looking stunning in very tight jeans, a black satin shirt (mostly unbuttoned) and a crazy furry waistcoat. Her hair wafted past her shoulders in a mad cloud of curls. She took little swaying steps on account of the incredibly high heels of her killer boots.

  Carl and Paul stared at her. Carl smiled. Paul shook his head, looking bemused. He gave a little whistle.

  'She's Miranda?' he said. 'Oh boy!'

  Miranda came wiggling up to us, laughing and talking and hugging as if we were all her oldest friends, even Paul – particularly Paul.

  She didn't apologize for being so late; she didn't 130

  seem t h e slightest bit fussed about it. She let Carl pay for her to go into the bowling alley as if it was totally her due, not even bothering to t h a n k him. She didn't take much notice of me either. She j u s t nattered away to Paul and he nodded a n d smiled and preened in a totally sickening fashion.

  'Happy now?' I said to Carl as we queued up.

  'Sure,' he said, but he didn't actually seem sure at all.

  I hated the noise and blare and stale chippy smell of the alley. I hated the game itself. I couldn't seem to get the knack at all. I tried to copy t h e others, bending down and t h e n rolling the ball, but I was lousy at aiming – once my ball jiggled over into the neighbouring alley, causing four boys to s t a r t screaming abuse at me. I ignored them, though I knew my face was beetroot red. I stood with my h a n d on my hip, yawning every now and then, trying to pretend t h a t t h e game bored me silly a n d I wasn't even going to t r y to play properly, b u t I didn't fool anyone.

  It didn't help t h a t the other three were so good at it. Paul was by far the best, aiming stylishly, effortlessly, his ordinary boy body suddenly taking on a Glass Boy grace. He spoiled it by punching the air and leaping about crazily each time he knocked ten pins down, which happened with monotonous regularity.

  Carl did his best to copy his style, bending exactly t h e same way, extending his head, 131

  flicking his wrist, like a Paul shadow. He could copy the technique but he didn't have Paul's n a t u r a l ability. He looked good b u t he only ever demolished half his pins.

  Miranda did things her way, of course. She could barely bend in h e r tight j e a n s and high heels and adopted an odd crouching position, h e r bum in the air, so t h a t all the boys in the bowling alley started goggling at her. She was very a w a r e of t h i s a n d played up to h e r audience, tossing h e r hair and leaning further forward so t h a t the remaining two buttons on h e r s h i r t s t r a i n e d a n d popped. Everyone expected h e r to bowl as badly as me, b u t somehow she h a d the knack. The ball left her hand, spurted up the alley and knocked the pins over with a satisfying t h u n k each time.

  Miranda and Paul were level-pegging for a while, b u t t h e n he started drawing ahead.

  Miranda laughed and clapped
him, telling him he was absolutely fantastic in this silly breathy voice. I thought she'd been t a k e n over by aliens, j u s t like Carl, but when she looked at me she pulled a funny face, raising h e r eyebrows. She was obviously j u s t playing a silly game with him, scoring h e r own jackpot.

  The evening was starting to seem endless. It was all Paul's fault. He was making Carl and Miranda behave like cartoon morons. I hated the way he lorded it over Carl, jostling him, swearing, telling silly jokes. Carl tried h a r d to 132

  join in, though it was the sort of behaviour he'd always despised. I hated the way Paul looked at Miranda, as if she was a page-three pin-up. She played up to him, wiggling and giggling until I wanted to shake her.

  I h a t e d the way Paul treated me. He ignored me most of the time, as if I truly wasn't worthy of his attention, but when he felt it necessary he ordered me around like I was someone's little sister, only there under sufferance.

  We went and h a d hot dogs and chips, and Paul squiggled red and yellow lines of ketchup and m u s t a r d up and down his dog and then started squiggling Carl's too. Carl j u s t laughed, even w h e n t h e y were drenched. T h e n he grabbed the ketchup and started swamping Paul's meal in t u r n . I couldn't believe it.

  Miranda sighed and started eating her chips delicately, one by one.

  'Here, let's make them a bit tastier for you, Miranda,' Paul giggled, aiming t h e m u s t a r d at her plate.

  T o u squirt so much as a spoonful and I'll r a m it down your throat and season your tonsils,'

  Miranda said calmly.

  Paul blinked at her, t a k e n aback. 'Hey, hey, lighten up, I'm only joking,' he said.

  Carl was surreptitiously scraping the worst of the sauce off his food. I knew j u s t how much he h a t e d cheap ketchup and m u s t a r d .

  'What about you, Sylvie?' said Paul, juggling the red a n d yellow bottles.

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  'No t h a n k s . You're behaving like two-year-olds,' I said primly.

  Paul pulled a face. 'Oooh, I consider myself severely chastised,' he said in a silly voice.

  'That's rich, coming from the youngest of us.'

  'I bet I'm not the youngest,' I said. 'How old are you? When's your birthday?'

  It t u r n e d out I was the second oldest.

  'So it's your birthday very soon, Carl,' said Miranda. 'What do you want? I know, some select and sparkling item of glasswear.'

  I held my breath. If Miranda started talking about Glassworld then Carl would kill me. No, worse. He'd never play Glassworld with me again.

  Paul laughed, thinking this was some kind of crazy joke. 'Glass?' he said. 'What are you on about? Why would he want glass?'

  'Oh, our Carl's total Glass Boy, didn't you know?' said Miranda.

  Carl's head jerked. Miranda saw it too.

  'You love my stained-glass windows, don't you Carl?' she said smoothly. 'Didn't you say you h a d your own glass collection?'

  'Sort of,' Carl mumbled.

  'What, vases and stuff?' said Paul. 'Weird.'

  'It's not weird at all. Carl's got an amazing collection,' I said. I thought of a way to impress him. 'Similar pieces go for h u n d r e d s on eBay and yet he bought them for a couple of pounds ages ago.'

  'Really?' said Paul. 'I tried selling these little 134

  pig money banks on eBay – someone said they were worth heaps, b u t t h e most someone offered me was five quid and it cost more t h a n t h a t to send the little beggars. I used to collect pigs when I was a little kid. Hey, Carl, I've got a glass pig. Would you like it? I'll give it to you for your birthday present.'

  'Cool,' said Carl.

  'That's a bit of a cheapskate birthday present,'

  said Miranda. 'Hey I've thought of the most brilliant birthday t r e a t for you!'

  I didn't like the way she always tried to take things over.

  'Will you have a party, Carl?' she asked.

  'Probably not.'

  'Yeah, you're not really a party guy, are you?

  So let's have an amazing birthday outing!'

  'We've already got something planned, j u s t Carl and me,' I said quickly.

  Carl and I celebrated his birthday together, the two of us. There was usually a family meal but then Jules generally took us somewhere special. Last year we'd gone to the glass gallery in t h e V and A, magical rooms right at the very top of t h e museum with green glass steps a n d a glass balcony. Carl h a d performed a F r e d Astaire-type t a p dance all the way down t h e glass steps, ending with a high kick, a spin round, and then stretched his arms out in t r i u m p h while I clapped like crazy.

  'What have you got planned?' said Miranda.

  'Oh,' I said, stuck. I hadn't come up with a 135

  new idea yet. 'Probably a museum. You'd be bored.'

  'I probably would. No, I've got a much better idea t h a n a stuffy museum. We'll go to Kew Gardens on one of their floodlight evenings.'

  'Gardens?' said Carl. 'Thanks, Miranda, but I don't fancy t h a t for my birthday.'

  'You will. They've got a Chihuly exhibition there.'

  'Oh wow!' said Carl.

  'You what?' said Paul.

  'Chihuly's this amazing American guy – he makes these extraordinary glass flowers,' said Miranda.

  'There's this fantastic greeny-yellow gigantic whirly glass like thousands of snakes hanging in t h e entrance of the V and A. That's Chihuly'

  said Carl.

  'How did you know about him?' I asked Miranda.

  She grinned. 'I asked my dad. He's a bit of a glass freak too. It's settled, right? We'll go on your birthday, next Friday night, yeah? You and me a n d Sylvie . . .'

  Carl looked at Paul. 'Are you coming too?'

  'Sure,' said Paul.

  It looked as if Paul was now p a r t of us, like it or not. When Carl a n d I were walking home together he t u r n e d to me a n d said, 'So, w h a t do you t h i n k of Paul?'

  I shrugged. 'He's O K '

  Carl looked crestfallen. 'Only Oif?' he said.

  'What's the m a t t e r ? Why don't you like him?'

  'I do like him. Sort of. It's j u s t he's so . . .' I searched for the correct word. Dull? Ordinary?

  Boring? I settled for 'boyish'.

  'Well. He's a boy. W h a t else would he be?' said Carl.

  'Yes, b u t he mucks around so. He's a bit manic, don't you think? W h a t was all t h a t hot-dog stuff about?'

  'Oh, Sylvie, t h a t ' s j u s t his wacky sense of humour. He's always larking around. Even in 137

  mid-run on t h e football pitch he'll suddenly s t a r t capering about like a loony and Mr Grisby, the sports teacher, screams at him but then Paul whacks out a foot, kicks the ball and scores a goal.' Carl tried to demonstrate, looking ridiculous.

  'You're not getting into football too, are you?' I said.

  'No, of course not. I'm hopeless at it, you know I am. But it's good fun watching Paul. He's brilliant, he really is. The school w a n t him to try out for the boys' team of one of the big football clubs. He's the best at football in our whole school and yet he's not a bit big-headed about it.'

  'Faney you being friends with a football jock,'

  I said.

  'Well, why shouldn't we be friends?' said Carl.

  'And he isn't a football jock. He's clever – he's in the top set in nearly all subjects. He reads a lot.

  He's into Fantasy. He's lent me a couple of his favourites. There's one t h a t ' s a bit like Glassworld. I'll let you read it if you like.'

  'I'd sooner make up our Glassworld.'

  'Paul's quite good at writing too. He does this cartoon thing in the school magazine. We're thinking of doing a whole picture strip together.'

  Carl went on burbling about Paul all the way home. It was almost as bad as having Paul physically with us. I wondered if he was taking Miranda all t h e way home or leaving her at the bus stop. I wondered w h a t would happen when they said goodbye.

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  'Do you think they'll ki
ss?' I said.

  Carl stopped. 'What?'

  'Miranda and Paul.'

  'No. Maybe. I don't know. Why, do you think he really liked her then? I thought she went totally over the top, all t h a t waggling h e r bum about. I couldn't help feeling embarrassed for h e r – she's so obvious. She can be fun, I suppose, but I don't really know w h a t you see in her, Sylvie.'

  I was infuriated. Carl felt free to criticize my friends. He was rude about Miranda and totally cruel about poor Lucy, yet he didn't seem to like me being even mildly critical about Paul.

  'Still, it's good we've got a n o t h e r girl.

  Threesomes can be a bit awkward,' said Carl.

  'And it's a seriously cool idea going to see the Chihuly glass at Kew'

  'Can't we go on our own?' I asked.

  'Well, it was Miranda's idea. And I've asked Paul now a n d he said he wanted to come.'

  'What about me?' I said. 'You didn't ask me.'

  'Oh, Syl, I didn't have to ask you. I knew you'd w a n t to come,' said Carl, putting his arm round me. 'Come on, stop being Sulky Sylvie.'

  He so rarely put his arm round me nowadays t h a t I couldn't possibly stay stand-offish. I snuggled up as close as I could. He was wearing his denim jacket and the round metal buttons dug in painfully but I didn't care if they became permanently embedded in my flesh. We t u r n e d the corner into our street. I wished the road would stretch from here to China so we could 139

  carry on walking for ever, Carl's a r m warm and protective round my shoulders.

  When we got to our gates Carl stopped, looking me straight in the eyes, still holding me. I thought this was the moment at last. Our moment. Carl's lovely mouth puckered into a kissing shape. I started trembling. But then he j u s t blew me a kiss, t u r n i n g it into an affectionate joke.

  'Night, Syl,' he said, and went indoors.

  I w e n t into my house, feeling so churned up.

  I w a n t e d to go s t r a i g h t to my bedroom to brood in private b u t I bumped into Miss Miles shuffling in h e r slippers to her bed, cup of herbal t e a in one hand, book in t h e other. She asked w h e r e I'd been, a n d when I said bowling she became surprisingly interested a n d said it was something she'd been considering t a k i n g up herself. This was such a totally bizarre idea I was struck dumb. It wasn't until she asked me if it was compulsory to w e a r all white t h a t I realized she m e a n t t h a t bowling-green game for old codgers. I couldn't help snorting with laughter.