Precocious by Joanna Barnard Page B

myself:
it’s now or never
. I sat next to you and used my most practised move: I put my hand onto that dangerous point in your lap that is between thigh and groin. There is only a fraction of possible ambiguity in this touch, and a movement of my fingers of less than an inch would remove any ambiguity altogether.
    You looked at me, raised a quizzical eyebrow, and in that instant I crushed my lips onto yours.
    It all happened quickly. You shifted, my hand brushed your fly, then was stopped, my wrist caught in your grasp. Your other hand held my chin, gently pushing me away. Something flashed in your eyes. For a second I thought you looked angry.
    ‘What are you doing?’ It was a demand; your voice hoarse.
    ‘I … I thought …’ I was suddenly terrified. I recoiled from your grip and you released me. I wanted to curl in on myself, disappear. I scuttled like a crab to the opposite end of the sofa.
    ‘Fee,’ you said softly, ‘look at me.’
    Somehow I found the strength to lift my head.
    ‘I like you.’ You reached out as though to take my hand again, then apparently thought better of it. Clearing your throat, you said decisively, as though on stage, as though in school assembly, ‘I like you, but I can’t like you like
that
. Do you understand?’
    ‘Why can’t you?’ I heard my whining voice as though it was coming from someone else.
    ‘You know why. We’ll have to just be friends.’ You paused, searched my face with your eyes. ‘A hug?’
    I wanted to stay stubbornly at my end of the sofa, but I wanted the contact more. I sank into your chest, circled your waist with my arms. I rubbed the small of your back with my fingers and pressed myself hard against you, trying to feel a response from you, a movement, anything.
    Gently, you unpeeled me, planted a chaste kiss on my forehead.
    ‘Come on, kid – let’s get you home.’
    On Monday morning I closed and locked the bathroom door against the bustle of the house.
    I dressed slowly. A button left undone, then another. Black tights instead of socks, today. Skirt rolled up, sleeves rolled up. As little of me covered by uniform as possible.
    I stared at myself in the mirror. Looked at my dimples, my snub nose, my stupid wispy eyebrows, all the features that made me look young, pale, insignificant. Took out my make-up bag and plunged my fingers into the pot of foundation. Honey beige.
    I smothered and smeared until you couldn’t see my pores anymore, until my face was a seamless mask. Smoothed on layer after layer, carefully, raising my chin, observing the line on my neck and blending it downwards like they said in the magazines. My finger nudged the collar of my school shirt, leaving a rusty streak, but no matter, I was covered. I took out a brush and dusted myself with powder, setting the layers I had made beneath golden dust.
    I pulled out a black eyeliner and got to work lining and circling my eyes, the way I’d seen Mari do hers. Made my lashes heavy with coat after coat of mascara. Little clumps fell onto my cheekbones like tiny spiders and I picked them off carefully with tongue-moistened fingertips. Blinked. One more coat. Just at that moment,
    Bang, bang, bang
.
    Sudden impatient thumping at the bathroom door and I nearly poked myself in the eye with the mascara wand.
    ‘WHAT?’ I yelled.
    ‘Come on,
loser
,’ Alex droned.
    ‘Get lost, pig,’ I shouted. ‘Mum! Tell him!’
    I heard muffled voices and then a lighter knock and my dad’s gentle tone. ‘You
have
been in there nearly half an hour, Girl. We all need to get ready.’
    ‘Fine! Whatever.’ I swung open the door and left the room with a scowl at the triumphant Alex.
    ‘What have you got on your face?’ My mother was nibbling her toast, leaving the edges, blowing on her fingernails which were still wet, maroon-coloured.
    ‘Make-up?’
    ‘Oh, very droll.’ She stood up and poured the remains of her coffee down the sink. ‘Now, do you want a lift to school, or