Chrysalis (3 page)

"How's your friend?" Josh asks at last.

"What?"

"Your friend. You said she was pregnant." He sounds a little suspicious at that, as though he's worried I would make up a non-existent pregnant friend. He's also got the nervousness back in his voice, so I guess he's one of those guys that isn't good with talking about pregnancy and girly-things.

"Oh yeah, Chels; she's good. It's gonna come soon now." I don't know why I'm telling him all this. "It's a girl. She's trying to think of a name."

"Cool."

"I know her brother—her half-brother—and that's how I know her," I blabber on, as if my mouth is trying to make up for my silence during skating—also because he keeps looking at me with this weird smile that freaks me out, so I'm trying to ignore it. I get the feeling that in his eyes, this date has gone well, whereas I can only see it as a fiasco from start to finish. "She moved in with him when she found out about the baby. She wants to name if after a stone. Like a gemstone." My brain finally realises I should probably shut the hell up, and I stop.

"Nice." Josh actually looks vaguely interested.

There's another awkward silence. I try to think of things to talk about (weather? Boring. University? Pointless. Politics? Yeah right), but fail.

"So, how's work?" Josh says eventually. He's gone for 'uni' option, presumably under the assumption that talking about nothing is better than actually saying nothing. I give a shrug. "What, what course are you doing?"

"HPS," I mumble, and then, just in case he has no clue what that is, "History and Philosophy of Science."

"Nice." He says that a lot and he always nods three times when he says it. Usually, something like that would drive me batty, but now it's like a ten-point mark or a crystal from the maze. It's a sign that means, 'yes, we have survived another small block of conversation'. "I'm doing chemistry."

"Ah." He's a science student. Figures.

There's another pause and I'm starting to really hope the food makes it before Josh gets on to A-levels. It reminds me of the first week of class, when I was seriously starting to consider just holding up a sign with my name, school, A-levels, and 'no, I did not have a gap year' written on it.

Josh looks like he's about to speak, but thankfully, the food arrives. I start eating quickly again, hoping I can get this over with before my insides try to strangle me through sheer embarrassment. Josh is going slowly, however, as though he wants to draw it out, and keeps looking up at me.

I don't see it coming. I honestly don't. It just comes out of nowhere. I guess he's been looking at me a lot or something, or maybe he's just curious, but it's the last thing I'm expecting to answer right then. "Hey … do you always style your hair like that?"

It feels as if someone's just tipped about twenty ice cubes down the back of my shirt. My face is flushed and my already fairly jumpy heart rate is going crazy. I can practically hear the little alarm bells going off in the back of my mind, along with a big, red, flashing buzzer.

"Y-yeah … " I manage, taking a desperate bite of burger so I don't have to talk.

"Is it a fashion thing?" Red lights flashing even more wildly, buzzer getting more high-pitched, whole armies of little men running around panicking in my brain.

"It's just how I do my hair." That's a hard sentence to say around a mouthful of mince and onions. It's even harder to say when I'm terrified my brain is going to short-circuit at any moment.

"It's just … it hides your eyes." Josh moves closer (why the hell are bar tables so small?), his hand coming too close to my face and I almost hyperventilate. "You have beautiful eyes." His hand touches my hair, trying to move it out the way …

I jump back about a foot and actually slap his hand away. "Fuck off! It's just my hair, okay?" I swear, half the bar turns around to look at us. I take a few deep breaths and Josh looks utterly shocked that his date is suddenly acting as if he's flipped.

I take a few more breaths and sit down again, my chair still scooted away from him. The waitress is looking over suspiciously, as though she's checking that I'm not getting ravished or something. I swear, if I were a girl, I think she would have physically thrown Josh out at this point. I force a reassuring smile onto my face. "Sorry … "

"It's okay … " Josh looks seriously spooked. "Christ, are you … not good with touching?"

It's a perfect excuse:  it'll get him away and it'll probably keep him away, since he looks ready to run a mile as it is. But somehow, I don't just want to fall for that easy way out. I don't want to completely lose this date, even though I still can't see how we have anything in common. Reaching across the table, I grab his hand and squeeze it gently, even though my arm is shaking a little. "It's just … I don't like people touching my hair. Sorry. I wasn't expecting it."

"O-okay … " Josh gives a kind of shaky laugh, but nods again "Okay … I won't then."

We finish the meal pretty much in silence, although we kind of mention the weather briefly. The date is basically a mess now, but I grab Josh's arm as he leaves in a vague attempt at salvaging it. "Could you walk me home? It's kind of late … "

"Sure." Josh gives his goofy grin again, but after what just happened, I think I've blown out all my responses to unnerving things and I just smile back.

We stop on the steps of my apartment. The nervousness returned with the walk back and I hover a little awkwardly. "I, uh, well, I can't invite you in … my flatmate … " I stutter, feeling a little relieved and just a little bit disappointed when a gust of crazy, girly laughter comes out the top window to confirm this.

"Yeah … we don't want to get mobbed." Josh laughs and moves closer. I guess I never thought about it before, about how many times he's done this. I've never really had many romantic moments apart from the one awkward and uncertain time in sixth form, but Josh? He knows what he's doing here.

Josh's hand presses lightly against the back of my neck (he's careful to keep below the hairline; not that it matters really) before I realise what's going on. Nothing much to do except lean forward and open my mouth a little. He's really good at kissing and I can't help but feel a little envious, except what I'm mostly feeling is 'oh god yes I've missed this, about damn time'.

We break apart eventually and Josh looks at me, eyes bright. "Thank you. And I'm sorry my friends were so crap, I just thought you might feel more comfortable with a couple more people around." His thumb runs gently round the back of my neck. "I won't touch your hair again."

"Yeah … I, um, I shouldn't have freaked about it." I manage, because it seems the easiest thing to respond to. I wonder if I'll ever feel able to explain the truth to him.

"Well … see you 'round, then."

"Yeah." I smile at him, and then stumble back up the steps, getting through the door and sinking down on the other side, trembling a little. It's not through nerves or through fear; I just feel excited and somehow happy. It's not until I'm in bed and halfway through a happy night-time fantasy that I realise we didn't make any other plans to meet up again.

*~*~*

I get a phone call at eight in the morning, because Josh is obviously a bit slower on the uptake than I am and chemists get up early. I haul myself out of bed, stumble downstairs and over to the coat rack, drag my phone out my pocket and switch it on groggily. "What!"

"Luke?"

"Oh … Josh … yeah?"

"Do you want to go out this weekend sometime?"

"You mean tomorrow?" I try to switch my brain on, but it's too early in the morning. This seems to be happening very fast.

"Can't do tomorrow, I've got rugby practise." Oh yeah, the whole rugby thing I'd almost forgotten about. "How about Sunday evening?"

"O-okay … "

"Great! I can pick you up at your place … I know where that is now."

"Sure …  Um, Josh?" I lean against the wall, pulling my dressing gown 'round a little more as Emmy walks in. "Could we go to a proper restaurant this time? Not a special offer place or a pizza place or a pub." I'm getting a bit fed-up with the special offers; I want to spend some time somewhere nice with him and maybe try to have a date that doesn't go wrong for once.

"If you like." It sounds like he's laughing—it sounds like there's people around him laughing.

"Yeah, that would be nice."

"Okay, see you then!" Josh hangs up and I glare at Emmy whose giggling at me.

"What?"

"Did you mean to sound like that? Because I swear all I heard you saying was 'ooh … it's my third date, Josh … and if you put on a good enough show, I'll put out for you'."

I gape at her for a bit, and then stumble up to bed before my brain alarm-system goes off and stops me sleeping.

I run over to Charles as soon as I'm free, pretty much falling inside the door. "Help!"

"You alright?" Chelsea calls from the sofa as I stagger in. Charles gives me his 'a being has walked into my flat and is uninteresting' look, and then goes back to the newspaper. He's reading
the newspaper
.

I can't help but feel thankful that Thibby is nowhere to be seen. I don't really feel like explaining myself to a pissy computer scientist with bright orange hair.

"Third date!" I yell, as if that explains it all, which of course to Chelsea, it does. "And Emmy says I sound like I'm flirting! I don't want to put out, he'll squash me."

Okay, I'm kind of panicking. I've had all day to work up the panic and I'm not going to waste it—especially when Chelsea enjoys the show so much. Also, it irritates Charles.

"Luke, do you have
no one else
to talk to this about?" Charles, naturally.

"So, first off, do you
want
to go all the way?" And thankfully, Chelsea is on my side.

"No!"

"Just tell him 'no'," Charles says, a little irritably. "He's not some kind of monster, surely."

Chelsea shoots him an irate look and he shuts up, because it's sort of a touchy subject. "Don't bother doing the whole 'defining boundaries beforehand' thing, because it won't mean shit when you're both drunk and happy. If you really don't want it, just make sure you head back to your place in a taxi. Without him."

I nod desperately, scowling as Charles shakes his head. "What?"

"Well, as far as I understand it, that means you'll be stringing him along the entire meal."

"What would you know about it?" Chelsea snaps angrily.

Charles folds the newspaper up. "So far, you've come up to him in a bar and screamed at him to go out with you, acted like an idiot whenever you do go out, and then keep accepting his offers. No wonder the poor guy is confused about what you want. Actually, I don't know what you want either and I'm not even sure you do."

I scowl at him some more, because it's true:  I don't know what I want. Charles being maddeningly right about it doesn't help matters. "I might go shopping. I've freaked him out enough already and I don't want to wear anything too emo."

"Get a waistcoat. You'll look real nice," Chelsea says enthusiastically, always happy to have someone to dress up. "If you're going somewhere posh, he'll appreciate it."

I nod. Charles picks up the paper again. "Luke, do you really want advice or do you just come here to talk about stuff?"

"I do want advice." And it's true:  I want to know what to do, because at the moment, I don't have a clue. Part of me wants to run a mile away from anyone who wants to get close to me, and part of me really wants to have a date with Josh that doesn't go wrong.

"Well, if that's what you really want, I suggest going to people who aren't asexual or pregnant."

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Chelsea sighs, throwing her arms into the air. "You're young, you're at university. Have fun and use a condom; it's not rocket science."

Charles doesn't say anything. I think he knows that any answers to that will just leave Chelsea upset, and upsetting her is the last thing he wants to do.

*~*~*

Thibby comes 'round to help me get ready, with strict instructions from Chelsea about what I'm allowed to wear. He brings over his head-dyeing stuff and spends most of the time converting his hair from orange through blond to electric blue, while I panic about how much makeup to use and get pissed off at him for hogging the mirror.

"Should I wear eyeliner? What if he looks down on guys with eyeliner? "

"Do whatever you want." Thibby turns the blue colouring into some kind of foam and slides it over his newly-blond hair. I suddenly wish I was a bit more like him—more confident and less constantly worried about what other people think. That's probably why I started hanging around with him in first year; there was something slightly mesmerising about that kind of self-assured confidence.

Back then, his hair was brown.

"He said he liked my eyes," I continue, wondering why it suddenly matters so much. Why I'm so desperate to make a good impression. Slowly, I lift up the hair covering the left side of my face. "What the hell is he going to think about this?"

Thibby pauses with a towel half over his head and we both look at my reflection. Just above my left eye is a knotted scar that runs down from the hairline to mark the top of the eyelid. My mum keeps telling me it's nothing, but I think it's possibly the ugliest thing about my whole body. Whenever I'm out, I feel aware of it, aware that all it takes is my hair flipping up for everyone to see how ugly I am. The reason I picked up the whole emo hairstyle in the first place was to hide the mark; Thibby and Chelsea only found out when I got drunk in first year and Thibby pulled my hair back as I threw up in the toilet. I haven't told anyone else, not even Emmy.