Falling Fast (5 page)

I found some words. ‘I’m sorry I’m not . . . Catholic, I mean.’

Damn
. How stupid did that sound?

‘Don’t be sorry,’ Flynn smiled. ‘I think it’s great you’re not.’

I caught my breath. I’d never seen him smile before. It transformed his face, bringing it alive with charm and fun and a whole new level of sexiness.

Then he turned and walked away. A minute later Emmi was hissing in my ear about how boring Alex was – though she’d get with him if she had to.

We left.

I looked at Flynn before we walked out of the common room. But he didn’t see me.

He was talking to the two Servants and Lord Capulet, holding them spellbound.

‘How’s the play going?’ Mum’s voice was all fake cheery. The tone she uses when her mind’s really on some thing else. When what she’s really
saying is:
my time is precious, but I’ve set aside five minutes for a Proper Chat.

I looked up from the kitchen table where I was bent over my script. ‘Play’s going fine,’ I said.

It was Saturday morning, two weeks after that first real rehearsal. Flynn hadn’t been at the next one and I wasn’t needed for the one after that, so I hadn’t seen him since
he’d done that weird thing of asking me if I was Catholic.

Mum peered over my shoulder.

‘You still learning your lines?’ she said. ‘I’d’ve thought you knew the whole play off by heart by now.’

I closed the play so that she wouldn’t see I was actually reading – rereading – the scene where Romeo declares his love to Juliet. A scene in which, unsurprisingly,
Juliet’s nurse did not feature.

Mum slid into the chair beside me. She laid a hand over the play, and my fingers which rested on top of it.

‘Is everything all right, River?’ she said. ‘It’s just you’ve been very quiet since you started these rehearsals.’

I shrugged, staring down at Mum’s fingernails. They were painted with a dark blue base, and decorated with silver stars and tiny crescent moons. Mum’s nails are the only remotely
alternative thing about her now. Her leaving all that hippy stuff behind was what made my parents split up. It happened a few years ago, half-way through my Year Seven. Mum told me recently
she’d felt that she’d grown up and Dad hadn’t. I’m not sure it was that straightforward. I think, maybe, that she just got tired of pretending to be someone she
wasn’t.

She works in an office now – still spouts all this stuff about capitalist oppressors and management bastards, but you can tell it’s only skin deep. Come the war to end corporate
global tyranny and Mum’d be first out the back door – looking for somewhere to do her nails in peace, probably.

‘You know you can tell me anything,’ Mum said softly. ‘Whatever it is, I promise you I’ve been there already.’

I looked up at her. No way had she ever let herself feel like Flynn made me feel. Even when she was pretending to live the hippy life, she was always far too in control for that. I mean, look at
her, all neatly made up for some work-related conference she was going to later. On a Saturday, for God’s sake. I could see she’d made a particular effort too – lipliner as well
as lipstick, and was that a new eyeshadow?

‘Some new bloke started at work recently?’ I said.

Mum’s cheeks pinked under their dusting of powder. ‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ she said. ‘He’s nice. Divorced. Two young children, one of them Stone’s
age.’

I grinned.

‘What?’ she said.

‘That sounded funny,’ I said. ‘Stone’s age. Stone Age. Get it?’

Mum frowned. ‘Anyway, we were talking about
you
,’ she said. ‘Why you’re so quiet. Holed up in your room all the time.’ She put her arm round my shoulders and
hugged me. ‘Is it a boy you’ve met doing the play?’

I pulled away. Mum was always doing this, trying to get me to talk to her about private stuff. I still hadn’t told anyone how Flynn had made me feel. What was the point? I was a zillion
miles from ever getting to know him better. He was far too attractive and sure of himself to be interested in someone like me. If I told anyone they’d just feel sorry for me or – worse
– start offering me advice.

‘Come on, Riv,’ Mum wheedled. ‘We used to talk all the time.’

This was true. When I was younger, after Dad left, I remember clinging to Mum like I was falling out of an aeroplane and she was the parachute. I told her everything that was happening at
school. What I did. Who was friends with whom. Everything the teachers said.

And then, one day, when I was thirteen, Dad took me and Stone to meet his new girlfriend. Gemma. She was younger than Mum, with long black hair down to her waist and a dreamy look in her eye
– a sort of anti-Mum. Or maybe just more like how Mum used to be.

Dad and Gemma were living together on a commune – growing organic vegetables and working the land and stuff. It was what Dad had wanted to do for ages – but Mum always ridiculed it
as impractical and childish.

Anyway, after I met Gemma, I didn’t feel the same about Mum any more. I could see how happy Gemma and their life together made Dad. And it made me feel angry – like it was all
Mum’s fault for not being who Dad needed her to be.

‘What about your friends, then,’ Mum said, leaning back in her chair and studying my face. ‘Have you fallen out with Emmi? Or Grace?’

I shook my head.
God
. Couldn’t she see I didn’t want to talk?

But Mum just sat there, staring at me. I was going to have to say something, just to get rid of her.

I took a deep breath. ‘I wish I was playing Juliet,’ I said.

This was true, though it wasn’t the reason why I’d spent so much time in my room recently.

Mum smiled triumphantly, clearly thinking she’d cracked me.

‘Darling, don’t be so silly,’ she said. ‘The Nurse is a great part. A character part.
Far
more interesting than drippy Juliet.’

‘I don’t think Juliet’s drippy,’ I said, feeling angry.

Mum rolled her eyes. ‘I just mean that she spends the whole play mooning over a boy, and then tops herself because she thinks he’s dead. It’s hardly a great feminist example,
is it?’

I swallowed. I really didn’t want to get into this with Mum. But a small part of me wanted to yell at her:
Who cares if it’s not feminist? It’s about dying for love!
Isn’t love the most important thing in the world?

Instead I got up and grabbed my copy of the play off the table.

‘No, Mum, it’s not a feminist example, but then it’s not supposed to be – it’s not a feminist play,’ I said curtly.

I stalked out of the kitchen and went up to my room.

I headed off to the High Street soon afterwards. I was meeting up with Emmi and Grace in a local café, then we were going into town to look seriously for shoes. Well,
Emmi was going to look seriously for shoes. In practice, Grace would try loads on and sigh a lot about how hard it is for her to find shoes that fit her tiny feet. As for me, I know it’s
practically heresy to say this, but I actually find shopping for clothes and shoes quite boring. I go cos it’s what girls do. And Emmi makes it fun by encouraging us to try on outrageous
clothes and jewellery. But I hardly ever buy anything. Unlike Emmi, who’s loaded and has a wardrobe bigger than a double-decker bus.

It was warmer outside than I’d realised and, as I strolled the ten-minute walk to the shops, I took off my jacket. I was wearing quite a tight-fitting top underneath. It didn’t used
to be tight, but I guess it shrank in the wash.

I hoped it had shrunk, anyway. The alternative was too depressing to consider.

Several guys stared at me as I turned onto the High Street. I hate that, men gawping at my boobs. I shook out my jacket and held it up to slide my arm through. Better to be hot than stared
at.

And then I saw him. Flynn. Sauntering down the hill towards me. He hadn’t seen me. He was busy chatting.
Oh God
. He was chatting to a girl. I stood rigid, the jacket still held out
in front of me.

She was gorgeous. Tall – almost as tall as him – with a mass of dark red hair and a slim, sinewy body.

They were both wearing jeans. Hers were fastened by one of those incredibly trendy belts everyone wears nowadays. He had on a faded green T-shirt. She was smiling at him, laughing at something
he’d said.

My heart seemed to shrink, cold, down into my stomach. I felt like crying. He was looking around now. Glancing at a girl passing by in a short skirt. Then he dipped his head, his fringe flopping
gorgeously over one eye, and he checked his watch. He said something to the red-haired girl beside him. She nodded.

As they drew closer, I could see their faces more clearly. Hers was elegant and refined-looking. She had a long, slender nose that sloped up at the end, just like his.

I sighed, remembering something Emmi had told me about people being attracted to people who looked like them.

At the time I’d thought it was rubbish.

They were only about twenty metres away from me now. They were going to pass me in less than a minute. What should I do?

Part of me wanted to scurry away across the road. But a larger – a much larger – part of me wanted to walk up to him and say ‘Hi’.

I could make it casual. I mean, what was the big deal about just saying ‘Hi’? We were in a play together after all. And I had to know how he felt about her. So far he hadn’t
touched her. Maybe, just maybe – though looking at how beautiful she was I was crazy to even hope it – they were only friends.

The seconds ticked past. Flynn and the girl drew nearer.

I made my decision. I was going to walk past, looking at him.

If he looked up and noticed me, I’d say ‘Hi’. If he didn’t, I’d walk on and say nothing.

I set off, my jacket limp in my hand, my heart pounding in my chest.

I was only dimly aware of the other shoppers around me. Several mothers with kids in buggies. A small knot of teenage boys lounging against a boarded-up shop, sharing a fag. An
elderly lady pulling a shopping trolley.

As I drew closer to Flynn, they faded into the background, along with the smell of traffic fumes and the sounds of cars and people talking. I fixed my eyes intently on him. Surely if I stared at
him hard enough, he’d see me? But he didn’t. He didn’t. We were two metres away from each other. A metre. Less.

And then he looked up.

I stopped instantly. Despite having been preparing for this moment for the whole of the last minute, I felt shocked. Dizzy, almost, at the intense, searching way he stared into my eyes.

Flynn took a step on, still staring at me, then he stopped too. Beside him the red-haired girl shuffled impatiently.

‘Hi.’
Jeez
, I sounded as if I was being strangled.

Flynn narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘River?’ He grinned.

I nodded idiotically. His smile was sending my insides into somersaults. I gripped my jacket tighter.

‘What are you doing here?’ Flynn said.

‘I live round the corner,’ I stammered. ‘I was . . . I was just out.’

I didn’t want to mention the fact that I was meeting Emmi and Grace.

There was a pause. The red-haired girl tugged on Flynn’s arm. But he was still looking at me.

‘Er . . . what about you?’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘This isn’t near your school.’

‘No.’ Flynn ran his hand through his hair. He glanced sideways at the redhead. ‘I’m walking Siobhan down to her new job – a hair salon that’s just opened down
the Broadway. I’ve gotta go too so I know where it is, when I pick her up.’

I could feel the smile freezing on my face. Friends didn’t pick each other up after work.

‘Oh,’ I said, looking down. ‘Right, well . . .’

‘D’you want to come with us?’ Flynn said. ‘It’s not far, is it, Siob?’

Siobhan’s beautiful green eyes widened with what I took to be a look of hostile alarm. ‘No,’ she said slowly. ‘But we have to go now. I don’t want to be
late.’

We set off, Flynn in the middle, explaining to Siobhan that he knew me from the play at school.

I was completely bewildered. What was he doing, inviting me to walk with him and his girlfriend when she was clearly so uncomfortable about it? Siobhan kept her eyes lowered, avoiding looking
straight at me. A minute later and we arrived outside a smart-looking hair salon with the words
Goode’s Hair Days
printed in black across the top.

‘See you at six,’ Flynn said.

Siobhan nodded, mumbled a miserable-sounding goodbye, then slipped through the front door of the shop.

Flynn turned to me and grinned again. ‘D’you wanna get a coffee?’ he said.

I blinked at him, utterly confused. Could he not see how annoyed Siobhan had been? ‘Er . . .’

The smile fell from Flynn’s face. He stared at me for a second, then he scowled.

‘No problem.’ He swung away from me and took a long stride back up the High Street.

I stared at him in horror. Then I practically flew the two-metre gap that had already opened up between us.

‘I do,’ I said breathlessly, falling into a rapid walk beside him. ‘Want to get a coffee, I mean. It’s just.’ I nodded back towards the hair salon.
‘Won’t
she
mind?’

Flynn frowned. ‘Siobhan? Why should she? She’s so nervous about her new job I doubt if . . .’ He stopped, his face splitting into an enormous grin. His eyes shone – more
green than gold in the harsh sunlight. ‘Er . . . Siobhan’s my sister,’ he said.

He was still grinning as we walked into the little café two doors back up the High Street. It was crowded with Saturday shoppers. Bulging plastic bags filled the floor between each of the
cramped tables.

I followed Flynn over to the counter. My face was burning with embarrassment. It wasn’t just that I’d got their relationship all wrong –
for goodness’ sake, River, no
wonder their noses looked alike
– it was the fact that by drawing attention to it, I’d implied that Flynn inviting me for a coffee somehow meant something. Like a date. When to him
it was probably just a friendly gesture.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. I gazed at the rows of cakes and buns behind the glass casing above the counter. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Flynn pulling money out of his
jeans pocket. He tipped all the coins into one hand and started counting them with the forefinger of the other. Three pound coins, three fifty-pence pieces and a bunch of tens and twenties.