Page 12 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘I didn’t tell you,’ Annabelle says, as if I have asked, which I have, but only internally, ‘because I knew you’d be like this. You’re so scared of everything, Shelley.’
I consider this. Am I really? Yes, it’s true that I’m not keen on Annabelle’s plan for our evening, which seems to involve going to the park to smoke cigarettes and drink vodka stolen from Annabelle’s mum’s drinks cabinet, while not wearing enoughclothes. But that doesn’t mean I’m scared of everything, does it? I think of the things I can do, the things I’m proud of. Swimming a mile, playing ‘Chopsticks’ on the piano in the music room at school, making cakes that everyone says are amazing.
But while, in the past, Annabelle’s interests were similar to mine, over the last six months or so, it’s all changed. Annabelle is obsessed with boys. I, too, am very interested in boys, but not interested enough to go to all this trouble, I think. And then I let out an involuntary yelp because Annabelle has got some kind of heated contraption for my hair and she is wielding it dangerously and it just touched my scalp.
‘Ryan Benson is going to be there,’ Annabelle says, almost as if it’s new information.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But he’s not going to fancy me if I have burn marks all over my face, is he?’
Ryan Benson is a boy we have known forever. But at primary school, he was short and very skinny and kind of annoying. The change had happened gradually, and one day, about a year earlier, I had looked over at him in Maths and seen an entirely different boy from the one who used to pick his nose in the playground and wipe his finger on girls’ cardigans. He’d grown up, filled out, got taller. He’d grown into his face, that was what it was. And from that day on, I had been thinking about him, talking about him (only to Annabelle) and imagining our future together.
Annabelle turns off the straightener and does a ‘ta da!’ gesture with her hands. ‘What do you think?’
I look at myself. I look the same but different, like my own older sister or something. I feel a familiar prick of pain, the one that comes when I see siblings joking together, or even arguing, sometimes. Being an only child is hard. I pretend for a minute that I am looking at my older sister in the mirror, try to imagine what that sister would say to me. But it’s too hard. My onlyexperience of this sort of thing comes from TV shows and books. It isn’t real.
‘It’s good,’ I say, touching my poker-straight hair and lifting my jaw to check for unsightly foundation lines.
‘Ryan is going to love it,’ Annabelle says. ‘You look like a different person.’
There’s an insult sitting inside that compliment, I think, but I can’t be bothered to pick Annabelle up on it.
There’s a knock on the door and then Annabelle’s mum’s face appears around it. She does a sort of double take when she sees me.
‘You two look very glamorous for a film night at Shelley’s,’ she says.
Annabelle rolls her eyes. ‘We’re just practising so we’re ready when we’re finally allowed to go anywhere.’
‘Okay, well listen, I’m heading out in ten minutes. Don’t forget to lock up when you go. And have fun, both of you.’
When she’s gone, I notice an instant change in Annabelle. A frostiness. I don’t ask about it; I know there’s no point. I assume Annabelle’s mum is going on a date. Annabelle’s dad left a year ago and her mum has recently started looking for a new man. Out of nowhere, I remember the day Annabelle told me I couldn’t play because I didn’t have a dad. And look where we are now. Not a dad between us. I think about saying something, making a joke out of it, but Annabelle’s moodiness stops me.
Annabelle is wearing a tiny black skirt and top with a plunging neckline. We stand side by side in front of her full-length mirror, assessing. I think we look a bit silly, like we’re trying way too hard, which of course we are. I know the boys, if they even turn up, will be in jeans and T-shirts. I know they won’t have thought about it. That they might have even spilled tomato sauce on their tops and not bothered to change them. That is how it is for boys.
Ryan Benson is there, as promised. Annabelle takes hold of my arm as we approach the group of boys, a couple of whom are smoking, and a couple of whom are messing about with a football. Ryan is doing neither. He is standing still, looking over at us as we get closer. For a moment, I allow myself to believe that the makeover has really changed something. That Ryan has noticed me the way I noticed him in that Maths lesson. That this evening is going to be the start of the rest of my life. I picture the magazines me and Annabelle have pored over, with step-by-step instructions on how to French kiss. I might finally need that knowledge.
‘Hey,’ Ryan says when we are close enough to hear him.
He is looking at Annabelle, and when his eyes flick over to me, they don’t stay on me for long. And I see it, then, how the evening is going to go. At some point, glassy-eyed with drink, Annabelle will come to me and say that Ryan has told her he likes her and she has refused to kiss him because she knows how I feel about him, but really she’ll be silently asking for permission, and she’ll kiss him later on, whether she gets it or not. I feel cold and stupid, and I take the water bottle from Annabelle’s hand and take a long swig of vodka and Coke. It warms me immediately.
‘Hey,’ Annabelle says, her voice light and airy, like she’s holding back a laugh.
I can’t watch it. It’s one thing knowing it’s going to happen, but I can’t watch it unfold. But before I can do anything about it, before I can think of a way to extract myself from the situation, Josh Landers is approaching me. Josh is Ryan’s best friend, and he’s funny and not bad looking and really clever but he’s not… Well, he’s not Ryan. I see it all for what it is. Josh has been dispatched to distract me so that Ryan is free to make his move on Annabelle.
‘Hi,’ he says.
His voice is kind and I can see that his heart’s not in it, but it’s what you do, isn’t it? It’s what you do for your friend when they really like someone.
‘I have to go,’ I say, pushing past him and forcing myself not to break into a run. I need to be as far away from this scene as possible. But I can hear Annabelle calling my name. I stop, wait for my friend to catch up. We are out of earshot of the boys now.
‘What’s going on?’ Annabelle asks, breathless. ‘Where are you going?’
‘He likesyou,’ I say, my voice not much more than a whisper. ‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice it before.’
‘Who?’ Annabelle asks. ‘Do you mean Ryan?’
She’s a passable actress, I think. She is not about to admit that she knew the way this was going to go.
‘I want to go home,’ I say.
