To Be Honest (15 page)

We start to move out but then I need the loo. Or toilet, as I used to say in another life last week. She stops me as I knew she would, lurking in the corridor, winding and stretching a rubber band from the coffee bag tight round her fingers; dull gold like a wedding ring. She’s taken it out of her hair, which is gleaming bright; shiny with sparkles which seems a bit OTT for dishing out gallons of coffee and tea. To me.

“What did you say?” She’s mother-cat fierce.

“I told him.”

The rubber band

Pings.

“You did
what?
”

“Unlike you,” I say, “I’m not sure I want to have sex with your other half. ‘Part from the fact it’s
illegal
.”

She pulls up, all regal, and if people saw they’d think, ‘weird, why’s that blonde, teenage waitress’ fist just appeared?” ‘Cos Miss Mint’s got hers in my face and is baring my white teeth and snarling and growling and doing all this, which then fades. ‘Cos the door’s just pushed open by Taff. He says,

“Ladies,” he’s thrown. “Pheebs,” I’ve got all the stuff, just need a pee too. Have you been?”

And we’re there in this cramped-up, odd space and I smile and say, “not yet, I’ll go. Can you wait here?” But I don’t want to leave them alone. There’s a small, high up window just over his head and it’s cloudy outside. Miss Mint says. “I hope you enjoyed your beer, sir.”

He looks at her hard, then at me, turns away, then turns back. Clouds scud past his eyes. He says,

“Pheebs?”

I’m not sure who he’s talking to. But we both say,

“Yes.”

And I see some blue sky. And we start to confess.

* * *

We go back, through the streets, holding hands, but quite limp.

“So it’s true.”

It’s like rowers who’ve raced to the end. Pulled and pulled, heaved and screamed, hoped and lost. He’s still taking stock. And I’m not sure he’s ready to lose.

My ears tingle from cold and I’m full and I’m queasy. So I think it might help if we just take it easy. I rest on the wall of the railway bridge that leads to the posh bit of town. And his tweedy sleeves join me, ‘cos they’re a bit tired-looking too.

“She lives over there,” I nod back to mine; to my mum’s.

“You mean you do? As Lisi?”

I nod.

“This is strange,” and he leans down and looks at the rusty rail tracks underneath, that split in the middle and lead off in separate directions, just below our feet. “How’d it happen? Who knows? Will it last? How’s it feel?”

And he rattles these questions in time to the rails, which are waking and shaking and throwing off snails as a train races up from behind us. I mouth, ‘wait a minute,’ and though his tweed’s knackered, his proud, puffy gilet’s like some padded duvet. And I snuggle in. It’s ok.

And he whispers. He takes me and comforts me; holds me, protects me and lets me go free as the train gathers speed and then blasts

Past, too fast,

And it’s yellow, red, yellow, red, then

Disappears.

And though the sky’s clear and my hands should be freezing, they’re really not cold now.

In fact, nothing is.

The taxi man looked a bit miffed. He’d turned up to get me at twenty past seven regardless and I’d just said, “no need this morning.” Taff and I walk the whole way into school and he carries my books.

It’s a whole brand new week. Seven nights in the body of Miss Phoebe Mint and no sign of a change. The chic clothes are wonderful, my house is a dream and elegant but I want my life back, for certain. And I’m starting to wonder if that’s ever going to happen, to be honest.

We see Kai on the way. With Felix, shooting hoops. And he whoops as we enter the gate. He stops, mid ball-spin and he scratches his chin and I think he says, “Broxley? Damn straight? What a hero!” But only to himself and Taff chucks him a smile and checks on the sky ‘cos it’s deepening, darkening and maybe we should have got in that cab.

Mondays are mental. I wave ‘bye to Taff as he drives Miss Mint’s car away, inching it out of its space for Debono to swoop. She’s on duty and late but she jams the handbrake and she fusses and fumbles .... I watch and then, uh-oh, I just know from his face what Joe Brannigan’s done.

“Oi, Miss, need you, Miss!”

Joe yells at her, flies at her frizz and then comes right up close and says, “Debono, there’s something that I need to tell you.”

And she just says, “it’s Mrs,” like that really matters.

I know it from Pheebs. She texted me quite late last night. Said, “Lisi, there’s something that’s really quite frightful that’s happened with Erin. School gate, see you there.” And I’d thought, Miss Mint even
texts
like Jane Eyre. I’m thinking Joe’s got Erin pregnant. That must be it.

Shit.

I can see her, Miss Mint, at the gate to the field. The one she saw Josh by, small and narrow, like a hamster cage door. I go over.

“It’s crazy,” she says, looking serious, stern.

If there’s one thing I want her to quickly confirm it’s that Erin’s ok.

“She’s not pregnant?” I blurt.

“No, what made you think that?” She starts laughing.

And for the second time, I feel a twat for immediately thinking that everyone’s having a baby.

But it’s raining now, so we both go in.

* * *

Turns out Erin’s chopped all her hair off and Joe B has dumped her and needed to talk to Debono about swapping tutors ‘cos Erin’s mum’s in ours a lot, helping out. And she raged at Joe, swore and then basically shouted she’d kill him for making her daughter cry, so Joe’s reporting that too. Like daughter, like mother. How weird. I never thought Erin would cry over a boy.

It’s the kind of gossip I love, but I can’t stay standing in the atrium as bullet drops batter the roof, ‘cos I’m late for staff briefing. We don’t mention the day before, we just say we’ll meet up at break. ‘Cos Miss Mint says there’s more to discuss.

* * *

“I might cut my hair off, like Erin,” she says, as we both buy a Christmas tree flapjack.

I’m pleased about the flapjack. But not the hair.

“Well, you can’t,” I say, sticking my mouth full of oats.

“But Kai likes it,” she mumbles. “Short hair, I mean.”

“
Does
he?” I’m kind of surprised, ‘cos I thought he liked mine. I mean, long hair, not short. I think back to the ten words I’ve said to him. As Lisi, I mean. Nope, we’ve never discussed it. But they have, it seems.

It came from the sparkles she wore in her hair yesterday. She’d gone round before she’d had work at the tea rooms, to see Kai I mean. They’d gone to McDonald’s for breakfast. Go, Miss Mint I think. Fatty food. But I’m still feeling chopped up and fried at the thought of them sharing weekend time. Tied up to start with, she’d let her hair down half-way through, expecting him to say, “my god, look at you!” And marvel at how her hair shimmered and caught in the light of the golden arches. But he’d said, “short hair’s better,” and gone back to his double McMuffin.

Miss Mint’s finished her flapjack and looks longingly at another.

“I’m dancing,” she says, “for Review.”

I think that’s amazing, ‘cos thank god, Rach
is
eating now, not secreting her food, or counting her calories since she started doing jazz, street and tap. And now Miss Mint is too, and she isn’t.

“Serviette?”

“Napkin, yes please.”

And she rubs her mouth, all round the white teeth that are not, thank god, not to be

Tombstones.

* * *

Then there’s year 9 assessments and peace in the classroom, which means I get time to just think. A drink bottle shffits, but I’m miles away, shifting through landmarks and long and short drift.

If Josh’s with Felix, then fine, that’s sublime (my ‘word of the week’, by the way).

Taff and I won’t conjugate. He’s been great (though I’m sure his smile still wants to play).

Mum’s got her dress and she’s spent a lot less. Pheebs says the Mac’s been locked away.

I’ve told no lies.

Miss Mint’s rather surprised and it’s down to her now, I would say. She says Kai’s well pleased about Felix.

“It’s been tough for Mau,” she’d said. “Kai reckons he’s never been straight but just never came out.”

Well that figures, like Josh. He’s told me he’s always been sure it’s not girls that he lusts about, dreams about daily like boys do. It’s boys.

She’d said, calm, “’cos it can be confusing. Don’t you think?”

And she’d held my gaze, tested it, touched it quite lightly and pointed it back to the Globe, to the strobe-lighted sky that flicked on, off, on, off and I remembered I’d only had eyes for Miss Mint at the time.

It’s quite hard being fifteen.

* * *

Review’s coming up ‘cos the last day of term’s at the end of the week. Since we don’t know how long this life swap will last, we’ve decided we’d better get on with it.

Miss Mint’s ok. As a kid, you don’t have to join in with the annual Christmas humiliation assembly in front of the whole school, but surprisingly, she, Courtney, Rach (not Erin, she’s too cool and mourning Joe) have decided to dance. Something street. I looked at my feet when she told me and bit my lip hard ‘cos the thought of them all prancing round is hilarious. But I guess not as funny as me as Miss Mint doing Marilyn Monroe. Mr Morlis’ idea.

“Michelle Williams is hot,” he’d said. “Really.”

And something about it rang softly; appealingly. He’d said, “clearly you’d get your hair cut off and dyed,” and I’d thought of Kai and I’d tried and I’d tried to imagine short hair even as Miss Mint but said, “no thanks, I’ll just get a wig. And a really nice dress.”

At least it’s not street dance.

* * *

And she’d said something else, too. She’d said when she’d sat there at breakfast on Sunday with Kai, she’d said,

“I like you a lot and I think you like me.”

And he’d finished his doughnut and slooshed round his tea and said, “yeah, you know that.”

Then she’d taken a leap and asked him to wait. He’d looked quite surprised and said, “we’ve not been dating long, Lise, and besides, you’re only fifteen.”

And I’d smiled at her ‘cos I really love Miss Mint when she’s honest.

* * *

It’s Alicia’s controlled assessment in two day’s time.

I offered to mark bits of work here and there that she’s done; paragraphs on description and voice but she says she’s ‘ok, thanks’; she’s ‘well prepared’. Which, ‘cos it’s good English, I left at that.

Oh, and one other thing: my wardrobe’s slimmed down. ‘Cos I’m putting on weight. It’s Taff’s fault. Just two days of eating non-stop. It’s not much, I know, but the skinnies don’t fit ‘cos I’ve started to grow and I feel like Debono’s a waif next to me when we take orders for Review assembly.

But I’m safe in the knowledge that Miss Mint’s got loads of beautiful, delicate, exquisite clothes that will fit just fine. And when I dine each night with Taff, and share his delight in square meals and we settle on
Posy
to chat and he tells me all sorts of incredible, dangerous things about growing up, losing and winning and places he’s been that seem kind of fantastic, it’s worth it.

I even talk about boring old buying a house stuff, ‘cos Miss Mint wants to know that he’s doing enough to move forward with exchange, whatever that means. I just nod and smile and spoon out more Mints ‘cos he likes them.

* * *

When Mum was with Dad they’d take Em and me out to make a big deal of the fact they’d got laid. I’d know this from trembling floor boards in my room. I’m just saying.

Anyway, Miss Mint reckons Mum’s done it; doing it, ‘cos last night, when she came home from school, there was thumping and banging above. It’s a rule that we always say ‘hello’ when we both get back. Miss Mint says Mum didn’t; just stayed in the sack.

Is Mum seeing some internet date? Oh my golly, I think. GSOH.

The next night, we have Mr Morlis round to tea. Miss Mint wants to come but Mum’s seriously stressed about French oral next term, so she said, “j’amais l’esprit” and hopped off to help. To be honest, I just thinks she wants to show off ‘cos she’s been revising. Taff makes lasagne and I do the pud and although I wish Josh was here, ‘cos he’s well good at whisking the cream, I do manage to make a passable, lop-sided chocolate fudge cake.

Mr Morlis is early but we sit him on
Posy
and Taff pours the wine, a bit clumsy, and I glow. And I know it’s not real, all this; it’s surreal but I’m starting to hope it goes slow. Switching back, I mean. ‘Cos this is fun. As long as we do it by Friday, of course.

Mr Morlis has come to explain a bit more. He sits there in jeans and a checked shirt with paisley sleeves Josh would die for.

“The fact that Taff knows,” he says, above groans from the kitchen, ‘cos the white sauce has gone all nasty, “is alright as long as he doesn’t do anything false, or lie either. So that requires honesty from every party.”