To Be Someone (17 page)

“Wassamarrer? Are they back yet?” I opened my eyes and looked into David’s face. He was gazing at me intently. We were still alone.

“Helena,” he whispered. “Have you ever done it before?”

“Done what?” I asked. At that point I realized that David had taken all his clothes off and was lying naked, still in my arms. He was warm now, and smooth. I yelped and scuttled over to the edge of the bed like a sand crab.

“You know what. Have you?” He reached over and stroked my face. I debated jumping out of bed and going to sleep on the floor, but decided I was too drunk and comfortable to move.

“No. Have you?”

“Sure!” he replied indignantly. “I dated Courtney Norman for ages, you knew that.”

“Well, I didn’t know if you two had done it or not.”

“Oh, get real, Helena, of course we did! I can’t believe you haven’t, though. Is it because of your religion?”

Admitting it wasn’t as embarrassing as I’d feared. “Yeah, I guess so. And to be honest, well, I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

David was shocked. “What, never? I’ve seen guys checking you out at our shows. They think a chick on bass is just about the coolest thing ever. And surely you did before you were in the band?”

“No. Anyhow, I’m not worried about it,” I said defensively, although I was secretly delighted that boys checked me out. “I don’t want a boyfriend, anyway.”

David edged nearer until our noses were touching. “I don’t want a girlfriend either,” he whispered, kissing my mouth and pushing his tongue inside. It was nice, not as yucky as I’d always imagined. I understood what it meant in books when people’s lips were described as velvety.

“So, don’t you think it’s time to lose your virginity?”

I sat up, too fast. “Certainly not! I’m going to wait until I’m married. And besides, how would we ever face each other afterwards if we did that?”

David laughed and pulled me back down again. “Relax, H, it wouldn’t be any big deal. We would just decide right now that we wouldn’t mention it again, and it’ll just make us better friends. I swear I wouldn’t tell Joe and Jus, or anyone. Oh, come on, it’s real fun.”

“No way, David. Go to sleep or I’m kicking you out of this bed. Besides, I don’t want to get pregnant.” I felt very mature, talking about taking precautions as though I was actually going to have sex like a normal, healthy teenager with a boyfriend. I didn’t for a minute think I would, but the prospect did not seem nearly so scary with sweet old David offering. I was lying down on my back with my legs firmly crossed, and my elbows sticking out so he couldn’t get near me.

“Too bad. Oh, well, if you ever change your mind, just holler,” he said amiably. A few minutes later I heard gentle snoring, and so I relaxed and fell asleep myself.

Later still I was woken again, this time by an amazing melting sensation coming from between my now–loosely crossed legs, and a familiar prodding against my hip.

“You won’t get pregnant, I swear. I have condoms,” David said in a low voice.

I was surprised at his persistence, but even more surprised at the feeling of mellow heat that I realized was caused by David’s forefinger rubbing me through my pajamas. Actually it was utterly blissful. At that point I pushed aside the memory of my promise of celibacy to God, and the fact that David was not my boyfriend. I didn’t even worry about the others bursting in, or David realizing how fat I was. All I could think about was how I felt, and how I wanted more.

I moaned, and David rolled on top of me. He didn’t seem to weigh anything at all. He kissed me again and I tasted toothpaste. Not fair! I thought. I haven’t cleaned my teeth. The gentle rubbing was replaced by a persistent prodding, but it felt just as good. More satisfying. My pajama bottoms were rolled down over my thighs and I barely noticed until he entered me with one huge, accurate lunge. I waited to feel pain, but there was none. Part of me couldn’t believe this was happening, and part of me didn’t ever want it to stop.

The next morning I was woken by the splutter and roar of a recalcitrant car engine coming from the motel forecourt. I had a thumping headache and my legs felt very stiff. As I gathered up my clothes and a towel and staggered over to the bathroom, I made out David’s and Joe’s prone figures crashed out on the next bed, top to tail, with only the curry bedspread draped over them. David had his T-shirt on again. As I passed by, an audible fart emanated from his end of the bedspread, and I shuddered, bolting into the bathroom. The previous night seemed to have happened to someone else, and had I not felt an unfamiliar soreness down below, I might have thought that it was just a story someone told me.

Justin burst in the room just as I emerged, washed and dressed, from the shower. He was in fine form, full of stories about his conquest of the previous night, and insisted we all go en masse to the diner for breakfast so he could brag some more, and taunt poor Joe. Over hangover fodder of pancakes and maple syrup, David and I exchanged small sheepish smiles.

I felt wracked with guilt, but I kept that between me and God. Guilt aside, it was a relief to be able to write to Sam and tell her what had happened, and I was grateful to David for making me feel like a normal person, not someone who was too hideous ever to lose her virginity.

November 18, 1984

Dear Mar Tangs (Clam Digger and Lobster Trapper),

I did it, I did it, I finally did it! And you’ll never guess who with? David!! Yup, geeky little David. What a sly dog. Our van broke down in Butt-fuck, Ohio (sorry, Justin’s name for a hick town!), so we had to cancel a show and spend the night there. I got drunk, too—don’t be too disapproving; it’s only rock ‘n’ roll (“but I like it, la, la, la”). Have you ever had tequila? It’s yummy, but it doesn’t half give you a terrible hangover. To be honest, I don’t really even remember much about It—one minute I was asleep/passed out on the bed, the next, David’s all snuggled up with me, and the next, he’s … you know. The others weren’t there—obviously. They were trying to make out with the barmaid.

I think I enjoyed it. It was good and bad, that I did it with David and not some strange boy. Good because I trust him and know him so well, but bad because it’s not like we’re gonna be an item or anything. We were both drunk. Also, bad because it feels a bit incestuous. Still, at least I am officially No Longer A Virgin. I was getting worried, after you and Martin Trubshaw had that night of passion (what’s up with him these days? Is he still blanking you?)—I am a year older than you, after all.

Love from your experienced friend,

   H xx

November 25, 1984

Dear Helena,

Oh my God! Congratulations! Send more details—if you can remember them. Is he, you know, small all over??? And is everything okay now? I mean, isn’t it a bit awkward, having a one-night stand with someone you spend all your time with?

Martin “Nadger” Trubshaw is still avoiding me. I think he fancies Mel; she’s always telling me she bumped into him, and I haven’t bumped into him for weeks. I don’t know if I should tell you this, but I heard Mel say to the Nadger’s friend (whose name is Chris) that “her” friend Helena is a famous pop star in America, and if he liked, she could get your autograph for him! So you see, she hasn’t changed a bit. You’ll be pleased to know that whilst I’m inordinately proud of you, and boast about you as often as possible, I wouldn’t dream of prostituting your good name (well, your name, you old tart) in that wanton way!

School is quite good at the moment. I’m really enjoying the A-level courses, especially History and English. I’ve decided that the only men in my life are going to be Urban VIII, Bishop Frederick Nausea, and Oliver Cromwell. Olly’s a bit ug, bless him (he really should’ve had those heinous warts seen to), but we must not forget that he was a Healer of Breaches. Or was that breeches?

“Anthony and Cleo” is great, too. Apart from the death issues, I wish I was Cleopatra. She manages to be a vamp and a romantic heroine at the same time: “O my oblivion is a very Anthony, and I am all forgotten!” I wonder what the Nadger would do if I turned around and said that to him one day? “O my oblivion is a very Martin Trubshaw … etc.” No, doesn’t have quite the same ring to it, does it?

(And there’s another funny thing: Why do people “turn around” and say stuff to each other? Usually they’re already facing them. It makes no sense.)

French is okay. Here’s an insult for you to try out on Joe next time he annoys you: “Joe, tu es un grouillement continu!” It means “You are a seething mass.” That’ll confuse him.

Anyway, I’m rambling now. Write soon, you exciting, nearly famous person.

Lots of love and kisses,

   Sam xxxx

P.S. Handy phrases for you to remember if you’re ever on tour in Germany:

1. “Ich habe mein Schtampwappen veloren”: I have lost my totem pole.
   
2. “Mein Beutelmaus hat verstopfung”: My wombat is constipated.
   

Aside from being the most memorable, that leg of the tour was a lot more rewarding, as our reputation slowly began to precede us. The autumn scenery was absolutely stunning, too. To be confronted with majestic sweeps of red, orange, and yellow on valleys around every corner made the driving infinitely less tedious. I could quite happily stare for hours out of the window at the rich foliage presenting its last colorful stand. The leaves on some of the trees were such a perfect, delicate shade of peach that they made me want to cry. I would search for these particular ones whenever we stopped for gas or lunch, kicking ankle-deep through the carpet at the sides of the road, and if I found any I would put them carefully in the glove compartment of the van, meaning to send them to Sam. I didn’t recall ever seeing that peachy tint from English autumn leaves. But after a couple of days their color always faded to a nondescript dull russet, and I ruefully threw them away, along with the myriad McDonald’s boxes and Twinkies wrappers that littered the van floor.

We finally made it back to the East Coast. We were driving through Vermont on our way home, engaged in some pointless but vaguely entertaining bickering about whether a girl in my year at high school had suddenly begun to stuff her bra. The mountain vistas were particularly ravishing, but I was driving, and so couldn’t allow myself to gaze at the foliage too much.

“She did not! She just discovered those push-up bras. Believe me, women know these things.” I was getting interested, despite myself.

Justin snorted. “Excuse me, but I think us men spend more time staring at girls’ hooters than you do.”

“Generally speaking, I wouldn’t count on it,” I replied, pulling into the fast lane to overtake an octogenarian couple in an RV, who were rubbernecking at the trees above them.

“Do girls stare at other girls, then?” asked Joe curiously.

“Well, yes, of course. Just out of interest and for comparison purposes. You do the same, don’t you? Except that boys have a name for it.”

Justin wasn’t so keen on this line of questioning. “Since when are you such an expert on men, Miss ‘No-Boyfriends’ Nicholls?”

I blushed.

Joe joined in the inquisition. “Yeah, Helena—why don’t you go out with guys? You haven’t dated anyone since we’ve known you.” He stared at me with mock horror. “You’re not … you’re not … one of those lesbians, are you?”