Novella
Chapter 2 of 29
Angie wrestled to unite towel and dog in the confines of her grandma’s porch. The rain, which had begun when she was in the middle of the park, typically when they were at their furthest point from shelter, continued to pummel the windows. Benji inevitably shook himself dry, spraying water all over her before she could shield herself. Although exasperated, Angie couldn’t help but love the hound. He always seemed to be enthusiastic to see her and had boundless energy for their regular Sunday afternoon walks.
Benji leapt toward the house's interior as soon Angie opened the inner door and released him.
“Hello, boy.” Angie’s grandma greeted her favourite pet from somewhere inside. “Did you get very wet?” Grandma had switched from Brummie-accented English to Polish as she called to Angie, her voice full of sympathy.
“It hasn’t soaked through,” Angie responded, pulling her sodden trainers off and hanging her coat up to dry. Her Polish was fluent too, but only due to the efforts of her mother and grandma. Angie’s conversations with her grandma were always conducted in Polish unless someone else was present so that they could both practice. Angie liked that they could speak another language; it was almost a sisterhood secret, not shared with the rest of the family.
Angie traipsed into the lounge in damp stocking feet to find her Grandma giving Benji some fuss before he wandered off to lie on his bed near the gas fire. The old woman looked up at her favourite granddaughter, her indulgent smile replaced by a frown. “What’s wrong, dear?”
Angie shrugged and sighed, not sure where to begin. “My friend Milla moved back home.”
“That nice Polish girl? Oh, I’m so sorry, chick.” Grandma’s sympathy was genuine and heartfelt. In Angie’s busy household, it was difficult to get the kind of attention that Grandma gave her when she came around to walk Benji. The rest of the family were infrequent visitors despite their proximity.
“Her parents were worried about Brexit,” Angie replied. In fact, it was worse, given Angie and Milla had been best friends all through school. They were both 16 years old, which meant they had been friends for over 10 years. Angie wasn’t the most social girl, so the few friends she had meant a great deal to her.
Angie’s grandma put her head on one side and assessed her granddaughter: “Surely you must have other friends in school?”
“I made a new one,” Angie conceded. “Freya.” In fact, Freya was a whole conversation given how different she was from Milla.
“She doesn’t sound Polish.”
That put a smile on Angie’s face. “No, but I think she’d love to learn to speak the language. She’s very smart. Smarter than me.”
“Don’t put yourself down. You’re smart, perhaps just in a different way.” Grandma lowered her voice from the defensive to a conspiring level, “I was thinking more of male friends.”
That made Angie laugh and flush at the same time. Female friends were difficult enough, but boyfriends? She thought of Rayan Khan, one of the most popular boys in her year group. Athletic without looking intimidating, Pakistani heritage, but as British as Angie herself. She would have loved it if he even noticed her, let alone wanted to go out with her. “No chance there, I’m afraid,” Angie conceded.
Grandma shrugged and moved on. “What about school? How is it going?”
Angie made an irritable noise at the thought. “It’s all coursework and mock exams and study, study, study if you want to get into a good college.”
“You work hard,” Grandma observed, “you’ll be just fine. More than fine, you’ll be great.” Angie gave her a half smile in response. It was always lovely to be complimented, but these days, she was never sure whether such complements were genuine or intended to inspire her to fulfil such prophecies.
“I’m not even sure what I want to go on and do.” Angie was exasperated. “I just don’t want to end up like Brian.” Angie thought of her stepdad. She knew it was uncharitable to think of him as useless, but there was no job she could remember him holding down for longer than a month or two. He had trained as a cabinet maker, but there was just no demand for his skills nearby. He tried. The fact that he failed most of the time made Angie worry about her prospects since she had no idea what she wanted to do with her life.
Angie perused the collection of photos in their miss-matching frames set on the mantelpiece as she often did. She briefly drifted over an old colour photo of her mum and biological father together, young and happy. She knew she got her straight blond hair and her excessive height, which she felt was a persistent curse, from her father and her brown eyes and clear skin from her mother. Angie had long given up asking questions about what her real father had been like. Knocked down by a car not long after she was born, she had no memory of him to call her own.
The teenager switched her attention to an older black-and-white image. “Why didn’t your parents move back to Poland after the war?”
Grandma stared off into the distance for a moment, remembering her long-departed parents. “Soviet occupation. It wasn’t the country they grew up in any more, I suppose. They had no homes there and children to think of here. Sometimes, you make your home where you find yourself.” Grandma’s look of revelry became an inward smile. “And it hasn’t been bad. It was tough sometimes, growing up as an outsider, but it’s all water under the bridge now.”
Grandma’s face lightened. “Maybe you need to learn to relax a bit more. Come and sit on the rug.” With a little stiffness, she arranged herself opposite Angie, carefully setting her long skirt over her crossed legs. “Something they teach the oldies at the leisure centre is meditation. It’s something you do just to clear the mind so that you can think clearly later. It won’t magically make your problems go away, but it might give you enough space to solve them yourself.”
Dutifully, Angie allowed her grandma to step her through the process of arranging her body for optimum comfort and engaging in the repetitive mental exercise where she kept counting to ten in her head, over and over. Grandma set an egg timer between them so that they could continue for ten minutes without talking or worrying about watching the clock.
It was hard for Angie, much as her Grandma had warned it was for beginners. Her mind kept slipping off to other things: school, Rayan Khan, exams, Milla leaving, Rayan Khan, Freya, Rayan Khan. Each time, she would drag her mind back to the counting, wondering if it was really doing any good. Then she began to wonder at the silence, but not real silence. Rain still pattered on the window, and the gas fire kept up an uneven tapping as it expanded in the heat. Still, the relative quiet had a quality not achievable in her own home.
Angie jerked and opened her eyes as the bell on the little egg timer urgently trilled, only to find a small glass of sherry had miraculously appeared in front of her crossed legs. “Are you sure?” Angie asked nervously. She didn’t have alcohol much. Kids boasted about it on the school playground, but a cheeky sherry would hardly inflate her reputation as a hard drinker.
“Of course. You’re nearly a grown woman. Plus, it means I don’t have to drink alone.” A wicked smile crossed Grandma’s lips. “Just don’t tell your mother.” She took a sip and thought for a moment. “Or your sisters.” Another thought struck, “or Brian. In fact, let’s just keep it between us.” Angie couldn’t help but smile. She sniffed the contents of her glass gently before taking a sip. Rich, strong and slightly creamy. Supermarket own-brand sherry, grandma’s favourite.
“Could you put on that song I like?” Grandma didn’t need to ask which one. Soon, the sound of drizzle and expanding metal was covered by the introductory hiss of vinyl under the needle. A single guitar played, simple, innocent. Then lyrics as a forlorn female lilt: “Stars shining up above you…”, Mamma Cass.
Angie wasn’t sure why she liked that particular song or any music she liked for that matter. Her default opinion was that she simply didn’t like music. This song, however, like a few selected others, just spoke to something deep inside. Beautiful, but sad at the same time. Angie rose and watched herself in the mirror as she quietly sang along: “Dream a little dream of me,” not really sure what she was feeling.
Grandma came and stood next to her and put a supportive arm around Angie’s waist. The height difference was stark in the mirror: Angie at 5’ 11”, and her grandma nearly a foot shorter. They stayed like that, both enjoying the music in their own little world. But at some unrehearsed signal, they both sang the final line: “Dream a little dream of me.”
As the song ended, Grandma gave Angie an extra squeeze. “Nothing stays the same, chick; change is constant. It’s not always what you want. Sometimes you have to embrace it as an opportunity, not having any idea where it will lead.”
Angie squeezed back, glad to be there and have her sympathy. “Thanks, grandma.”
Angie gasped as the needlepoint water jets pounded her most sensitive spot. The showers in council houses she had previously lived in had been pretty lacklustre. Despite its many flaws, her current abode had been recently fitted with a new boiler the size of a washing machine and consequently, the shower connected directly to its hot water feed could be powerful enough to take skin off. Or as Angie had discovered, powerful enough to bring her to a discrete orgasm away from prying eyes, when properly directed.
“Angelica Stephanie Peterson, you get out of that shower now! I need to get to work.” Angie’s mum’s Brummie accent became even sharper when she was impatient.
Angie wanted to stay; she felt like she was so close to the edge, but she had known that it had been foolish to try first thing in the morning when the entire family wanted to get through the main bathroom and out of the house. Angie had just craved a bit of relief before the grind of the school week began. Her grandma’s tips on meditation were all well and good, but when she had to share her bedroom with her two younger sisters, there was no place for quiet contemplation in her home.
Frustrated, Angie stemmed the flow of water and extricated herself as quickly as she could. “Sorry Mum,” Angie said to her mother as they passed each other in the doorway. She was glad the heat of the shower hid the flush of arousal in her cheeks.
“I know you like this new shower, love, but we all need to get out of the house on time.” Angie’s mum chided. Angie could tell she wasn’t really angry, just harassed, as usual.
Wrapped in her towel, Angie entered her bedroom only to be met by two accusatory stares.
“We know what you’re doing in there,” Shania leered.
“Yeah, trying to get yourself off in the shower.” Accused Robyn, her twin.
Angie’s cheeks became unhelpfully redder, telegraphing to the twins that they’d hit a nerve. Or it would have if they were a bit more observant. Having just past their eleventh birthday, Angie's sisters had become remarkably incapable of reading other people’s feelings. They were technically Angie’s half-sisters, being the firstborn of her mum and Brian, her stepdad.
It astounded Angie how they could share genes but be so different. The twins were short, tubby and afflicted with their father’s bad skin. Their looks never seemed to bother them, though, because each had a twin to reassure the other. Their dream was to feature as a musical double act on Britain’s Got Talent, and neither Shania nor Robyn felt that their looks would be a bar to their inevitable success. On that front, Angie was faintly jealous. She hated the way she looked: Far too tall, a nose that was too long, rounded facial features and boobs which were too small for her frame.
“Why don’t you go and squeeze each other's zits,” Angie spat back at them. Half of her felt guilty for calling attention to the fact that Shania and Robyn were quite spotty, but the other felt the need to defend herself. As it was, her jibe had the desired effect, and the twins stomped out. With their shared bedroom empty, Angie could get dressed for school in some level of peace.
Fully dressed, Angie headed down to the cramped lounge where Brian was playing with Angie’s half-brother Nate. While Angie would fight with her sisters like cobra fought mongoose, she loved her brother to bits. Nathan Peterson had been born with Down Syndrome. Early on, he’d had heart problems and had a precarious foothold on life, but after a vital operation some 18 months before, he was on the mend and someone precious to every member of the family.
Angie greeted three-year-old Nate in Polish and signed in Makaton. His little face lit up at the sight of his big sister.
“English, please.” Brian griped gruffly.
“’Ow’s ma’ babby?” Angie beamed with exuberance. She usually tried to hide her accent, but with Nate, she blatantly embellished it without a shred of guilt.
“Can you take care of the little man? I gotta go.” Brian kissed Nate on the crown of his head, nodded at Angie and started for the door. Angie hid her disappointment at not receiving a goodbye kiss too.
Angie sat opposite Nate, who was playing with his wooden trains. She always had time for playing with her brother; he was just such a happy little soul. He didn’t speak yet, but they could chat a little in sign language and that delighted them both. Angie envied Nate’s simple view of the world, but she didn’t let it show. She always made the extra effort to have fun with the little man because, of all the people she knew, she felt he deserved happiness the most.
Angie blinked. She was only just starting to get used to her new friend’s habit of just blurting out whatever bazaar question came to mind. After disregarding thoughts about whether Freya was likely to suffer a spontaneous psychotic episode, Angie gave the question serious thought.
“That would depend, I suppose, on your chosen weapon. Knife, sword or gun.” Angie didn’t bother to turn to her companion. They were in their usual spot, leaning against some railings at the playground's edge, watching the intricate ‘dance of the cliques’ during school break time. To outsiders, they looked like an oddball couple: Angie, with her excessive height, vaguely Scandinavian looks and golden hair held in a simple ponytail and Freya, short, tanned, plump and with a short light brown bob. Angie was jealous of Freya’s generous bust and how at ease she seemed to be in her own skin.
“I’d say gun, but I’m finding sword difficult to resist. There’s something inherently classical about it.”
That made Angie chuckle. These ‘what if’ mind games of Freya’s could be a refreshing break from reality. “What would you go after, in terms of people or property?”
“I think going after people would show a level of favouritism that could get messy. Perhaps I’ll stick to property damage.” Freya’s voice was wistful and stuck out in any conversation around school for having no discernable accent, something Angie had been trying to cultivate for a number of years. However, whenever Angie put such effort in at home, her sisters and step-dad criticised her for ‘putting on airs and graces’. They were Brummie and proud and resented anyone who felt differently.
“Can I put in a request for the irrevocable destruction of the gym equipment?” Angie asked.
The pair stared out at a particular group of students in their own year group known as ‘The Set’, as in, the popular set.
“I could probably do some damage, but I think my prime target would be the music room.”
“What about the canteen?” Angie watched as Kelly Williams, de-facto queen of The Set, pulled Rayan Khan to her with a look of the cat-that-got-the-cream. Rayan’s features were hard to read given the distance but appeared to betray vague annoyance.
Freya turned pointedly to her co-conspirator. “Do you really think if they had to rebuild the kitchen from insurance money, the food would get better?”
“Good point,” observed Angie. “Best not to find out.” She turned back to watch giggling girls and posturing boys and then lowered her gaze to the concrete slabs. “If you do have to hurt anyone, can you leave me the best bits of Rayan Khan?”
A smile cracked across Freya’s deadpan features finally. “To be honest, I was going to spare Adam Sanchez and hope he’d visit me in prison.”
“Adam Sanchez? Really?” Angie couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.
“What? He’s good-looking, and fit. He’s got a kind of sweaty, swarthy charm.”
“Sorry,” Angie shook her head, “I just can’t get the mental image of him selling weed to twelve-year-olds out of my head.”
“Really? Maybe I’d be visiting him in prison. Perhaps I can reform him?” She stared back at her rough diamond. “Is he really a dealer?”
Angie shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just an impression I get that I can’t shake. You know? Maybe he’s so good at running because he does it from the scene of the crime a lot? Or maybe I just shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”
“But Rayan?” Freya raised an eyebrow.
“He’s the only one on the football team who seems to have half a brain. Maybe that’s why he’s captain. He’s got these sleepy grey eyes, a great body, and he scrubs up well.” Angie shook herself out of her revelry. She looked back at The Set and realised that Kelly had noticed her staring, a scowl growing on her otherwise perfect features. “I’m probably punching above my weight there, and I don’t think Kelly would take too kindly to the idea.”
“She strikes me as the kind of creature who eats her mate after copulation. And possibly her young.”
Angie couldn’t stop herself from snorting with laughter. Sometimes, Freya had a certain turn of phrase which just tickled Angie’s funny bone.
The bell signalled the end of break time, and students all thronged with varying degrees of enthusiasm back into the building. Freya and Angie were crushed in with The Set as they passed within.
“Hey, new girl? You want to watch getting too close to the she-hulk,” a pressing voice warned from behind Freya. Kelly Williams’ brown-skinned face, all tight cornrows and perfect white teeth appeared over her shoulder. “The last girl she fancied ran all the way back to Poland to get away from her. Proper bosom buddies they were.”
Angie’s cheeks betrayed how easily the jibe had hit home. She wanted to say something witty and cutting in response, but all she could do was cringe inwardly. Freya felt no such embarrassment. “So, you think now that the competition’s left town, I could be in with a chance? Thanks for the tip.”
Frustrated, Kelly yelled over the ambient chatter: “You two queers are made for each other,” and let the crowd force them to diverge towards their respective classes.
Once they were out of earshot, Freya shot her companion a questioning stare.
Angie was still flushed with embarrassment and made a half-shrug. “My friend Milla moved back to Poland in the summer. Her parents were worried about Brexit. We used to speak Polish together. It was great to be able to practice with someone outside the family. She’d teach me all the swear words that my grandma and my mum won’t. Kelly thought it was some kind of conspiracy and kept putting it about that we had the hots for each other.”
A look of understanding crossed over Freya’s rounded cheeks before her face cracked into a new grin. “That’s OK. You can be my reverse beard.”
“Your what?”
“In the closet lesbians are seen out with guys so that they can look like they’re straight, right? That guy is their beard. Well, every boy wants to be able to boast that they were so good in bed that they were the one who turned a dyke straight. With you as my reverse beard, all the guys will think I’m gay, and they’ll all be falling over themselves to be the one to turn me. Simple.”
Angie burst out laughing, any shred of awkwardness banished. Freya was good for her, she decided.
“So,” Freya drew the word out in an exaggerated fashion, “have you given any more thought to helping out at the open evening?”
Angie grimaced. The school had a night where existing students could show prospective students and donors around. Volunteers had been called for, and Freya had been one of the few to jump at the chance. Perhaps it was because she was new and from out of town, but most students were less enthusiastic to give up a weekday evening voluntarily.
“Why would I want to do that?” Angie asked, her curiosity genuine.
“Well, to up my score in the queer stakes, for starters.” When Freya saw that this wasn’t the great sales pitch she hoped it would be, she tried again. “It’s always good to have a tame teacher in your pocket, one that owes you a favour or two.”
“Maybe?” Angie was sceptical.
“Well, I managed to get a spot with Mr Humphries to show people around the science department. If the two of us do it, he won’t need to find anyone else, and we can have him eating out of the palm of our hands if we play our cards right.”
“I guess I should take my role as your reverse beard seriously.” Angie nodded reluctantly, “OK.”
Freya beamed. “You won’t regret it.”
Angie mumbled something sceptical but didn’t argue further.
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