Don't Ask (2 page)

Anyway, owing to my out-of-control-sheep-like tendencies, the pass the parcel approach to dating doesn’t do anything for me. Call me greedy, but I need to know everything and I need to
know it NOW. I don’t like mystery or suspense, and patience is one of the many virtues I don’t possess. Give me a book and I’ll – inadvisably – turn straight to the
last page to find out what happens at the end. Invariably, what I read there won’t make much sense, and it will spoil the two hundred or so pages that go before, but knowing this won’t
stop me repeating my mistake. I don’t understand how anybody can wait a whole week until the next episode of their favourite drama. I have to go online and look on a website to find out what
happens next. Then I’ll eagerly read my way through the episode synopses for the whole series and, after that, I’ll Google the spoilers for the next series, the one that hasn’t
even finished filming yet. My dad always says: ‘Show Lily a cliff-hanger and she’ll find a way to abseil down it.’ He thinks he’s hilarious.

It’s not just because I’m impatient that Jack’s refusal to talk about his past bothered me so much. Mainly, it just didn’t make any sense. He was so open and frank about
everything else, even things that other people don’t like talking about (such as puking and walking in on your mum when you shouldn’t). But whenever I mentioned his last girlfriend or
his childhood, his eyes would glaze over and I’d feel like I was being sucked into two vast black holes. As far as the files marked
Dad
and
Alex
were concerned, anyone would
think he’d signed the Official Secrets Act.

Katie knew all this (mainly because I told her a hundred times). She said she was sure there was nothing to find out. But if there was, she said, it could only be bad news, so I shouldn’t
go there. Her imagined ‘explanations’ were not very helpful. ‘Maybe his dad was a serial killer and is actually in prison,’ she once suggested. ‘Or maybe he found out
his dad had an affair with Alex’s mum years ago and that they’re really brother and sister.’

She didn’t suggest either of these that Saturday because, clearly, she didn’t want to talk about Jack at all that afternoon. All she did want to do was to mess around on
Topfriendz.com, the new networking site that we’d both signed up to about a month before. She preferred logging on at my house because she and her brother share a computer, and she
couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t hack into her account. Katie took Topfriendz very seriously – she already had about three hundred friends. I only had sixty-five because I had a
boyfriend. And a life. And a password that was impossible to remember.

I’ve never really got the point of networking sites. Online friendships are rubbish. From what I can tell, you have two types of friends: the ones you like, see and speak to in real life,
and the ones you don’t. As far as the latter are concerned, there’s usually a good reason. Since I’d joined Topfriendz, I’d been stalked by a girl from primary school who
kept asking me join her Rangers group (as if), and I’d accidentally invited all my ‘friends’ to go shoe shopping with me on the same afternoon, by pressing the wrong button. The
girl from primary school was delighted. She probably thought we could buy some nice, sensible, ranging shoes together. I have absolutely no idea what ranging shoes are but I imagine them to be
green, with chunky soles and thick laces. I wouldn’t be surprised if primary school girl isn’t still standing outside Clarks, wondering where I’ve got to.

Katie had twelve new friend requests when we logged on, and I had just one. His name was Igor and he said he
liked very much my picture and wanted to make talk
with me. He was
twenty-three and had a moustache. Katie said she’d show me how to set my profile to private.

While Katie dealt with her requests, I started thinking about Jack again. He didn’t have a Topfriendz profile because he thought it was a waste of time and, unlike me, wasn’t so
worried about missing out that he couldn’t stick to his principles. And then I thought, I wonder if Alex is on Topfriendz? If she is, I’ll be able to see what she looks like, and what
she likes doing, and even who her friends are. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t come up with this idea before.

‘Katie,’ I said excitedly. ‘Give me a go.’

‘I thought you weren’t bothered,’ she said, mimicking my own words. ‘That online friendships were rubbish.’

‘Mostly, they are. But I’ve had a genius idea. Shove up.’ I squeezed on to the chair beside her and gently pushed her hands away from the keyboard. After a bit of fiddling, I
found the search box and started typing in Alex’s name. I’d got as far as the ‘e’ when Katie groaned.

‘Lily, I can’t believe you’re looking her up!’ But her voice was no longer disapproving, or bored. She sounded quite excited.

‘I know I shouldn’t . . . but I can’t resist,’ I said. We giggled together. ‘I wonder if she’s under Alex or Alexandra?’

She was under Alex. There were several other Alex Porters, but the others all lived in America. Or were men.

‘Is that her?’ cried Katie. ‘Alex Porter, age seventeen, St Edmund’s Sixth Form College?’

‘Yes, I think so.’ My heart was beating faster. There, in front of me, was a picture of the girl whom my boyfriend had loved for two years, and who had seemingly broken his heart so
badly that he couldn’t even mention her name without clamming up. She was pretty in an unthreatening way and she had a warm smile. ‘She looks . . . normal,’ I said. ‘I mean,
she looks just like an ordinary girl. Like us, only a bit older. Nice. Friendly.’

‘What did you expect? A monster?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe I thought she’d look like a supermodel. Or be really cold and snooty-looking. Or have a head that spun around.’

‘So do you feel better, having seen her?’ asked Katie, who clearly thought that was the end of the matter.

‘Yes,’ I said. I hesitated. ‘And no. I just wish I could see her whole profile. And talk to her.’ Somewhere, deep inside my cluttered and very disorganised mind, the germ
of an idea was beginning to grow: a way of satisfying my curiosity about Jack and setting my mind to rest, once and for all. The internet is supposed to be a way of sourcing information,
isn’t it?

‘Sorry, Lil. The only way you can do that is if you . . .’ Katie must have noticed the mischievous glint in my eye. ‘No, Lily, you can’t!’

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘She’s two years older than us, she lives on the other side of the city, she doesn’t know any of our friends, she went to a different school in a
different area, and, most importantly, Jack isn’t on Topfriendz. So who would ever know?’

‘It’s too risky,’ said Katie, grinning despite herself. ‘Anyway, she’d never accept you as a friend if she knew who you were.’

‘But she won’t.’ I started thinking aloud. ‘And I can change my profile. I can use a different email address and have a new name. I can even be someone else entirely if I
want to be.’ I felt breathless, naughty, like a little girl about to do something her parents have told her never to do.

‘Won’t she think it’s a bit weird if some girl she’s never heard of pitches up and starts asking questions about her ex-boyfriend?’

‘You don’t have much faith in me, do you, Kay? I won’t ask straight away, obviously. I’ll get to know her first. And when I’ve got my answers I’ll just delete
my profile and disappear. Nobody will ever know.’

‘Don’t do it,’ said Katie. She looked suddenly serious. ‘You’ll regret it, I know you will.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, without conviction. ‘But if you don’t ask you don’t get.’ I’d already made my decision, and Katie knew it. ‘At least I’ll
stop going on about Alex all the time. It’s the perfect way to find out what happened with Jack. She might even know about his dad.’

‘True. But please be careful, Lily.’

‘Course I will,’ I said. ‘But what could possibly go wrong?’

If people ask, I always tell them that Jack and I met at a party. But if I’m going to be precise, we actually met
outside
a party, on a damp stone wall in the
back garden of 29 Elmsmere Road.

The party itself – Sophy Richards’ sixteenth – was a big yawn, full of virtually the same people as at every other party I ever go to. It was as if somebody had used one of
those sci-fi transporter machines to beam my whole year into Sophy’s living room, adding a few random extras and replacing the teachers with parents who skulked about upstairs, occasionally
appearing to ask for the music to be turned down. Everyone was talking to the same people they always talk to, dancing to the same tracks, with the same stupid expressions on their faces. It even
smelled the same, like eau de B.O. mixed with sickly-sweet alcopop fumes and stale cheese and onion crisps.

I was especially disappointed because I’d been looking forward to it all week, planning my outfit with Katie and anticipating all kinds of exciting possibilities, all of which involved
people I hadn’t yet met. That was, of course, where I went wrong; in my experience, you only enjoy the events you have to be dragged along to. It’s like an equation in maths:
anticipation multiplied by expectation is in inverse proportion to actual enjoyment, or something like that (clearly I can’t do equations). Maybe if they taught maths using real life
examples, instead of ‘x’s and ‘y’s, it would make more sense.

By ten o’clock I’d had enough. Katie was too busy examining the tonsils of a boy in the year above to notice, but even if I could have dragged her away we couldn’t leave. Dad
wasn’t due to pick us up for two hours and we didn’t have enough money for a cab. So I decided to take myself outside for a change of scene and to kill some time. It was an unexpectedly
warm October evening, the last gasp of summer before it croaked for good. I circled the garden twice, pretending not to notice the snogging couples and then sat myself down on a stone wall, hoping
something interesting might happen. The wall was hard and uneven and slightly wet from an earlier rain shower, and I couldn’t get comfortable. I folded my skirt over, to cushion my bum, then
shuffled around and swung my legs back and forth in time to the pounding bass line that was bleeding from the house. Feeling sleepy, I rested my elbows in my lap and cradled my chin with the backs
of my hands. My eyelids began to flicker shut . . .

‘Are you all right?’

‘What?’ I sat bolt upright and swung my legs over the wall, twisting my body around to face the owner of the voice. I peered through startled eyes. It was a boy, tall and stocky,
with thick, sandy hair. ‘Yes, I’m fine.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were crying,’ he said. He sounded concerned and embarrassed and that made me warm to him instantly.

‘No, no. I was just . . . never mind.’

‘Now I feel like an idiot,’ said the guy.

‘Don’t. It’s nice of you to bother. Most people wouldn’t. My grandma fell over on the high street once and loads of people walked straight past her. Some of them even
stepped over her.’

‘That’s awful,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t step over your grandma.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Except she’s actually dead and buried now, so technically, it would be OK.’

‘Oh,’ he mumbled. ‘Sorry . . . again.’

‘No need to be,’ I said, aware that this was probably the most awkward opening to a conversation I’d ever experienced. I changed the subject. ‘I didn’t see you
inside the party.’

‘That’s because I’ve only just arrived.’ He smiled. ‘OK if I sit down?’

I nodded.

‘I wasn’t invited – I’m just here to pick up my sister. I’m a bit early, so she’ll kill me if I drag her out now. Ruth Parmiter, do you know her?’

‘No, sorry, I don’t,’ I said, observing him as he sat himself down next to me, close enough so that I could feel the warmth from his body, but not too close. He frowned as he
noticed the dampness of the wall seeping through his jeans, but he didn’t comment on it.

‘So what’s your name?’ he asked, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

I could just have told him, but now I’d woken up I was in a mischievous mood, full of energy that I hadn’t been able to expend at the party. I chewed my lip. ‘Guess.’

He looked me up and down, and then back again, his eyes big and bright. ‘Jessica?’ he suggested.

‘Not even close,’ I said, with a smirk.

‘Really? You know you
do
look like a Jessica.’

‘And what does a Jessica look like?’

‘Ooh, pretty, dark, a bit mysterious, I don’t know. I guess I’m thinking of all the Jessicas I’ve known before – the ones in my class at school. There were three of
them.’

‘And they were all pretty, dark and mysterious?’

‘No.’ He smiled, cheekily. ‘Actually, one of them was ginger.’ He paused, checking himself. ‘Not that I have anything against gingers. I was trying to be
flattering.’

I felt a warm glow spread across my cheeks. So he liked me? I caught his eye and then quickly looked away again. I once read in a magazine that this is what girls do when they like someone
– look deep into a boy’s eyes for a second, and then lower their eyes, bashfully.
Body Language for Beginners,
the article was called. After reading it, Katie and I spent days
practising some of the ‘moves’ at school. None of them seemed to work for us, but that could have been because we accompanied them with raucous, wet-yourself-level giggling. Or because
the boys at our school don’t read articles entitled
Body Language for Beginners,
and so remain clueless about the hidden meaning of a hair flick or a lip lick.