Kiss by Jacqueline Wilson

He kept asking h e r to send a photo to his mobile.

  W h a t kind of photo?'

  'Oh, he's j u s t trying it on. He w a n t s a quick flash of my chest.'

  'What?'

  'Don't look so shocked. It's a boy thing. That's w h a t they all want.'

  Yes, so they can show it round to all t h e i r dirty mates.'

  'Do you t h i n k he'll show Carl if I oblige?'

  'No! Miranda, you're not serious about this?'

  'It's no big deal. It's j u s t a bit of fun. It's like a mobile s t a t u s symbol. You get t h e right h a n d -

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  set, t h e right ring-tone, t h e right photo of your g i r l — '

  'Yeah, if that's how you w a n t to be thought of

  – t h e right topless girl – t h e n you're crazy'

  ' I ' m not saying I'll go topless. I could j u s t undo a few buttons, show off a bit of cleavage . ..

  Don't look like that! You're j u s t jealous because you haven't got any cleavage – and even if you had, Carl doesn't seem very interested.'

  'Why do you say t h a t ? ' I said, my h e a r t thumping.

  Well, I know you two have been lovebirds since t h e cradle, but you j u s t don't act very lovey-dovey when you're together. I haven't even seen the two of you so much as holding hands.'

  'You have no idea w h a t we do when we're alone together,' I said hotly.

  'Well, w h a t do you do? How far have you gone with him? Why won't you ever tell me?'

  'It's private. I'm not a kiss-and-tell girl like you.'

  'You don't kiss so you haven't got anything to tell,' said Miranda snippily.

  I worried about people kissing and telling all day. When I got home from school I didn't even wait to text Carl. I went round to t h e Johnsons'

  house straight away. J a k e answered the door.

  He actually smiled at me.

  'Ah! Hi, Sylvie!'

  'Don't look so excited, J a k e . Miranda's not with me,' I said, pushing p a s t him.

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  I called for Carl.

  'He's upstairs, Sylvie,' Jules said. She looked worried. 'He came home from school early. Said he was sick. I hope he hasn't got anything catching. Here, take him some fizzy water, sweetie.'

  She poured a glass and t h e n gave me a second look. 'You don't look very well either. Do you feel sick too?'

  'A bit,' I said truthfully.

  'Oh dear. You drink some water too. I hope you're not both going down with something.

  Still, at least you could k e e p each other company. Do you remember the time you both h a d chickenpox when you were little? We popped you one in each end of Carl's bed and you played together, all over pink spots,' Jules sighed. 'I wish you were still little kids. Well, you're still OK, Sylvie, you're lovely, b u t both my boys have changed so. Jake's this great noisy untidy bear stomping round the place, playing his awful music. Carl's gone to t h e other extreme, hiding in his lair, barely saying two words to anyone, looking so w h i t e a n d anguished all t h e time, like some boy m a r t y r with a wolf gnawing away at his chest. If I try to ask him w h a t t h e m a t t e r is he j u s t rolls his eyes at me a n d won't say.'

  She p u t t h e two glasses on a t r a y w i t h a plate of water biscuits and black grapes. 'There! A small snack for t h e two invalids. Try very h a r d to have girls when you get married, Sylvie. I'm sure it's a lot easier.'

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  'I don't think I'm going to get married now,' I said. I tried to say it lightly but my voice wobbled. I felt dangerously near tears. We both looked at my little-girl wall painting of my wedding in the corner of t h e kitchen.

  'You'll be a beautiful bride one day' said Jules softly.

  I smiled at her wanly a n d carried the tray upstairs.

  'Here, let me,' said J a k e , bounding out of nowhere and hoisting t h e t r a y high, like a waiter. The two glasses clinked together, water spilling.

  'Stop messing about, J a k e . Give it back,' I said.

  'I'm only trying to help.' He clicked his heels together and bowed low, spilling more.

  'For heaven's sake, do you have to mess about all t h e time?' I snapped.

  He s t r a i g h t e n e d up, looking surprisingly h u r t . I t h o u g h t he w a s being deliberately annoying, peeved because M i r a n d a w a s n ' t there.

  'Sorry,' he mumbled, and sloped off.

  I sighed and went on up t h e stairs and along t h e landing.

  'Carl?' I said quietly, outside his door. 'It's Sylvie. I've got a tray for you.'

  I wasn't sure he'd let me in, but the key clicked and the door opened a few centimetres. I slipped inside. Carl was still wearing his school uniform – the white shirt, badly cut grey 240

  trousers and purple tie t h a t took away all his style a n d individuality. His h a i r was standing up at odd angles, as if he'd been r u n n i n g his h a n d s through it. He sat down on the edge of his bed, a r m s folded, knees together, and stared into space.

  I put t h e t r a y on the floor and sat down beside him. I reached out for his h a n d and held onto it.

  He didn't squeeze my h a n d in return. He j u s t sat there, rigid.

  W a s it awful?' I whispered.

  He nodded.

  'You told Jules you were sick.'

  'I was. I threw up all over the floor of the boys'

  bogs.'

  'So you're really ill?'

  'Paul t h i n k s I am. Sick. A perve. A poof

  'Stop it!'

  'He said much worse things. He's still so angry with me. He thinks I set out to befriend him a n d t u r n him gay too.'

  'That's ridiculous.'

  'He really h a t e s me, Sylvie, it's so awful.'

  'Well, you've got to s t a r t hating him back.'

  'How can I do that?' Carl said helplessly.

  'Easy!' I said, wanting to shake him. 'He's horrible, Carl, crude and stupid and hopelessly prejudiced. He's not even t h a t bright or witty or interesting. He's j u s t a boring, cruel idiot. He's the easiest person in the world to hate.'

  'Look, you're so sweet, you're trying to be kind, b u t truly, you haven't got a clue. You can't 241

  j u s t stop loving someone a n d s t a r t hating t h e m instead. I h a t e me more t h a n I hate Paul, for being such a fool and p u t t i n g him in this situation when he j u s t wanted us to be good m a t e s . He's scared t h a t everyone will s t a r t talking about us, calling us both queer. He said he's not going to say another word to me ever.

  He said if I ever tried to so much as touch him he'd r a m my head down t h e toilet. He said I disgust him. That was when I threw up. So of course I disgust him even more now,' said Carl.

  'Imagine, throwing up right in front of him. I t h i n k some of it splashed on his shoes.'

  'Good. Serve him right. Aim at his head next time. Look, even if he was gay he so wouldn't be the right boy for you, Carl. He's nowhere near good enough. You're acting like you're under some stupid spell or something.'

  'That's what it feels like,' said Carl, smacking the heel of his h a n d against his forehead. 'I don't want to feel like this. If you only knew w h a t it was like, Sylvie.'

  'What makes you t h i n k I don't?' I said.

  I'd m e a n t to say it in my head, not out loud.

  Carl focused on me, frowning. We looked at each other. His eyes widened. Then we both looked away, ducking our heads, both of us blushing.

  He cleared his throat, ready to say something.

  'Here, have a glass of water,' I said hastily.

  I d r a n k myself, so quickly t h a t I gave myself hiccups. 'Oh God, not again,' I said.

  I m a d e much of t h e hiccups, holding my 242

  breath, gulping from the wrong side of t h e glass, all the p a r t y tricks, to divert us both from the painful e m b a r r a s s m e n t of the situation. Carl saw t h a t I didn't want to discuss it and acted as if he h a d n ' t understood. B u t when I stood up to go he whispered, 'I'm so sorry, Sylvie. If
only—'

  There was no point in him even finishing t h e sentence.

  I went home and made desultory small talk with Miss Miles in the kitchen. When Mum came home she was in the mood for big talk. She was obviously feeling guilty for going out with Gerry at the weekend, so she was now determined to spend quality t i m e w i t h me to compensate. She started all sorts of Sylvie-centred topics, asking about Carl and Miranda and Lucy, about school, about my reading, even about my Glassworld writing.

  I didn't want to talk about anything at all and became increasingly monosyllabic. Mum mis-interpreted my attitude, thinking t h a t I was in a sad little sulk because she'd been neglecting me.

  'Oh, Sylvie, darling, you do know you'll always always come first with me, no m a t t e r what,' she said, trying to h u g me.

  'Don't be daft, Mum,' I said, wriggling free.

  'But it's true,' she said. 'Gerry or no Gerry.'

  'So I t a k e it he's now a close second?'

  'Well. Yes. He is so special, Sylvie. Please will you meet him next week? You could come out with us or he'll come over here, whichever you'd 243

  prefer. I j u s t know you'll get on with him. He's so funny and yet so gentle. He's so different from your dad. He was always so bossy and belligerent, and he'd never listen to me properly.

  Oh, I'm sorry, I shouldn't say that. He's your father and no m a t t e r what's happened between t h e two of us you're still his daughter and he loves you very much.'

  'Mum. Stop it. I'm not a little kid any more.

  You don't have to say all this stuff. Dad doesn't give a toss about me. He h a s n ' t even seen me for years. He'd probably walk straight past if he saw me in the street. Ditto me him. I don't care.'

  'OK, OK,' Mum said gently, as if she was soothing a silly toddler.

  'I don't need my dad any more. I don't need a new d a d either. I don't need anyone. I'm perfectly happy as I am,' I shouted.

  Then I burst into tears. I wouldn't let Mum comfort me. I stamped upstairs, aware t h a t I was behaving ridiculously b u t unable to stop.

  I kept hearing If only if only if only. I kept seeing the pity in Carl's eyes. It made me want to curl up and die.

  I cried until I gave myself a headache. I ached all over, my chest, my stomach, my back. I wondered if I was really ill. Heart-sick. It h a d a melodramatic, glamorous ring. I peered at myself in the mirror. I looked ill, very pale, with dark circles under my eyes. I hoped they made me look a little older.

  My t u m m y was really sore now. I wondered if 244

  I was going to be sick like Carl. I w e n t to t h e bathroom and found t h a t I'd started my period.

  I stared at the stains on my underwear. I'd waited for this moment for so long. I was t h e last girl in our whole class to start. I'd begun to t h i n k I w a s going to be a freaky new phenomenon, stuck in little-girlhood for ever.

  Here at least was real proof t h a t I was t u r n i n g into a woman. I touched my sore chest, wondering if t h a t was suddenly metamorphosing too, but sadly it felt as flat as ever.

  I washed myself and then took Mum's box of tampons and puzzled for ten minutes over the instructions. I put my leg up on t h e side of the b a t h . I seized the tampon, trembling, as if I was holding a h a n d grenade. I tried to insert it but couldn't work out exactly how to do it. I didn't w a n t to push too h a r d in case it was the wrong bit of me. I couldn't see w h a t I was doing

  – and didn't really want to anyway. Maybe I wasn't formed properly. Maybe I really was a freak, a girl doll minus the proper working pieces.

  I gave up and used t h e horrible pad thing from t h e packet t h a t Mum h a d p u t on t h e top shelf of my wardrobe. They'd been waiting t h e r e untouched for a good two years. I felt as if I was wearing a nappy. We h a d PE tomorrow. How on earth was I going to manage?

  I wished I wasn't a girl. If I was a boy I wouldn't have to cope with such a sore and messy a n d embarrassing problem once a month.

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  If I was a boy Carl might love me back the way I loved him.

  I tried hard to imagine w h a t I'd be like as a boy. It would be even worse being so small and skinny. I wondered w h a t my h a i r would look like chopped short. I'd look like some weird little pixie person. I wouldn't be able to hide my sticking-out ears. I'd never be good looking like Carl.

  I wasn't bright or talented or witty. The other boys would hate me. Carl might h a t e me too. No, worse, he'd feel sorry for me and h a n g out with me sometimes, j u s t to be kind.

  I would be no use as a gay boy. No one would ever fancy me. I would have even less success with girls. Someone like Miranda would make mincemeat of me. I saw h e r squashing me into a mincing machine and t u r n i n g the handle, squeezing me out at the other end as a string of limp little sausages. She'd despise me as a boy.

  T h a n k goodness she liked me as a girl, so long as I played along with her.

  I liked her too. I thought about the possibility of loving her. I thought she was beautiful in her own d a r k dramatic way. I loved the glossiness of h e r red hair, h e r even white teeth, h e r wicked dimples. I loved her clothes, especially h e r exotic underwear and her bold buckled boots. I tried to imagine taking h e r in my arms and kissing her. I wasn't sure it would work. Her lips would feel too full, her body too soft, her hair too long. I longed to look like Miranda, even to be Miranda, but I didn't want to love her.

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  It was so silly. You couldn't help t h e way you felt.

  I loved Carl. Carl loved Paul. Paul maybe loved Miranda. I wasn't sure Miranda loved any of us. She j u s t wanted us all to love her.

  I fell asleep long before Mum came upstairs. I woke up when she crept into my room, but I k e p t my eyes closed. I could sense h e r standing there, looking at me. She sighed softly, then bent over and kissed my hair. I wanted to reach round and cling to h e r neck and have a good cry, t h e way I'd done when I was little. But in those days Mum could always make it all better for me. There was nothing she could do to change Carl. I didn't even w a n t to tell h e r I'd started my period because she might gush in an embarrassing way.

  She found out anyway.

  'So you've started your period, Sylvie!' she said in t h e kitchen at breakfast.

  She didn't lower her voice at all. Miss Miles could easily have heard upstairs in h e r room.

  'There no need to blush, darling. There's nothing to be ashamed about. We should be celebrating your becoming a woman.'

  I squirmed. 1 don't want to be a woman,' I said. 'Shut up about it, Mum. How do you know, anyway?'

  'The toilet was blocked up w i t h bits of sanitary towel. I knew it wasn't me and dear Miss Miles is way past t h a t stage in h e r life.'

  'I wish I was too,' I said.

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  I was tired of being a teenager. It was too sad, too complicated, too worrying. I wanted to fast-forward fifty years and be really really old. Then it wouldn't m a t t e r if I was small and scraggy. It would be a positive advantage if I still looked young for my age. It wouldn't m a t t e r if I didn't have a boyfriend. I could j u s t shake my head enigmatically when anyone asked about my past love life and say 'I h a d my moments' j u s t like Miss Miles. I wouldn't have to make friends to prove I was popular. I wouldn't have to fit in at school. I wouldn't even be at work any more.

  I could simply please myself and do what I wanted. I could read for hours. I could write and d r a w a n d p a i n t . I could live all day in Glassworld. I could stay eternally young as Queen Sylviana, and King Carlo would love me, only me, and we would live happily ever after.

  I went to school with a couple of horrible pad things in a plastic bag. The outline of the one t h a t I was wearing showed horribly through my knickers. I wondered about asking Lucy how she coped. We rarely talked about intimate things but I knew she'd started her period last year. She called it 'her visitor'.

  I leaned over as far as I could during double m a t h s to ask for advice.

  'Hey, Sylvie, a
re you copying from me?' she said, shielding h e r answers.

  I was h u r t t h a t she should think this, or indeed would mind sharing h e r solutions with me. I was also irritated. I am bad enough at 248

  maths, b u t Lucy is worse. Only a total fool would choose to copy down h e r answers.

  'I j u s t w a n t to ask you something, Lucy,' I hissed. 'Look, w h a t do you do when we have PE

  if you've started?'

  'Started what?' said Lucy.

  I sighed. 'You know.' It was no use. I h a d to use her twee little phrase. 'When you've got "your visitor".'

  'Oh!' Lucy went a little pink. 'Well, I always wear two pairs of knickers.'

  'Ah.' I thought about it. It was a reasonably sensible solution, though it sounded hot and uncomfortable. I only h a d the knickers I was wearing. I couldn't really ask to borrow an extra pair from Lucy.

  'It stops t h e pad thing showing?' I whispered, pink myself.

  'More or less. And it helps if you s t a r t flooding.'

  'Oh God.' So far the blood h a d been a small trickle. Was it about to start gushing everywhere like a scarlet Niagara? 'Do you flood, Lucy?'

  'Oh yes, it's terrible. Mum h a d to take me to t h e doctor's. It kept going all over my bed.'

  I started to feel ill. The classroom spun round.

  Maybe I was going to faint. Then at least I'd have a reasonable excuse for getting out of PE.

  I went flying to the girls' toilets at break time, not waiting for Lucy or Miranda or anyone. I was starting to imagine great gushing and clutched my plastic bag desperately.

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  'Sylvie? Sylvie! Hey, hey, slow down!'

  It was Jake.

  'I've got to dash, Jake,' I said, trying to dodge past.

  'But I've got to tell you something,' said J a k e .

  I did stop t h e n , wondering if he h a d a message from Carl. Maybe he'd decided to stay away from school, pretending he was still sick.

  If so, perhaps I could risk playing t r u a n t again.

  I h a d to be with him. He needed me. I was the only one he could talk to.

  'What is it?' I asked.

  'Wegotagig!' J a k e said.

  'What?' The words didn't m a k e sense. It sounded like gobbledegook.

  'We've got a gig,' J a k e said, grinning proudly.