Before I Die aka Now is Good

Four

‘Don’t you like beer?’ Jake says.

He’s leaning against the sink in his kitchen and I’m standing too close to him. I’m doing it on purpose.

‘I just fancied some tea.’

He shrugs, chinks his beer bottle against my cup, and tips his head back to swig. I watch his throat as he swallows, notice a small pale scar under his chin, a thin ribbon from some long ago accident. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, sees me staring.

‘You OK?’ he asks.

‘Yeah. You?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Good.’

He smiles at me. He has a nice smile. I’m glad. It would be so much harder if he was ugly.

Half an hour ago Jake and his mate Stoner Boy grinned at each other as they led me and Zoey into their house. Those grins said they’d scored. Zoey told them not to make any assumptions, but still we walked into their lounge and she let Stoner take her coat. She laughed at his jokes, accepted the joints he made for her and got steadily wrecked.

I can see her through the door. They’ve put music on, some mellow jazz number. They’ve turned off the lights to dance, moving together in slow, stoned circles on the carpet. Zoey has one hand in the air holding a joint, the other tucked into Stoner’s belt at the back of his trousers. He has both arms wrapped around her so that they appear to be holding each other up.

I feel suddenly sensible, drinking tea in the kitchen, and realize I need to get on with my plan. This is about me, after all.

I gulp my tea down, put the cup on the draining board and move even closer to Jake. The tips of our shoes touch.

‘Kiss me,’ I say, which sounds ridiculous as soon as I say it, but Jake doesn’t seem to mind. He puts down his beer and leans towards me.

We kiss quite gently, our lips just brushing, only a hint of breath from him to me. I’ve always known I’d be good at kissing. I’ve read all the magazines, the ones that tell you about nose bumping and excess saliva and where to put your hands. I didn’t know it would feel like this though, the soft scour of his chin on mine, his hands gently searching my back, his tongue running along my lips and into my mouth.

We kiss for minutes, pressing our bodies closer, leaning in to each other. It’s such a relief to be with someone who doesn’t know me at all. My hands are brave, dipping into the curve where his spine ends and stroking him there. How healthy he feels, how solid.

I open my eyes to see if he’s enjoying it, but I’m drawn instead to the window behind him, to the trees surrounded by night out there. Little black twigs tap at the glass like fingers. I snap my eyes shut and grind myself closer to him. I can feel just how hard he wants me through my little red dress. He makes a small moaning noise at the back of his throat.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he says.

He tries to move me towards the door, but I put my hand flat against his chest to keep him at bay while I think.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘You want to, don’t you?’

I can feel his heart pulsing through my fingers. He smiles down at me, and I do want to, don’t I? Isn’t this why I’m here?

‘OK.’

His hand is hot as he laces our fingers together and leads me through the lounge to the stairs. Zoey’s kissing Stoner Boy. She has his back against the wall and her leg between his. When we walk past, they hear us and they both turn round. They look dishevelled and hot. Zoey wiggles her tongue at me. It glistens like a fish in a cave.

I let go of Jake to get Zoey’s bag from the sofa. I rummage around in it, aware of everyone’s eyes on me, the slow grin on Stoner’s face. Jake’s leaning against the doorframe, waiting. Is he giving the thumbs-up? I can’t look. I can’t find the condoms either, don’t even know if it’s a box or a packet, or really what they look like. In my embarrassment, I decide to take the entire bag upstairs. If Zoey needs a condom, she’ll just have to come and get it.

‘Let’s go,’ I say.

I follow Jake up the stairs, concentrate on the sway of his hips to keep myself cheerful. I feel a bit strange, dizzy and slightly nauseous. I didn’t think that walking up the stairs behind a guy would remind me of hospital corridors. Maybe I’m just tired. I try to remember the rules about feeling sick – whenever possible get lots of fresh air, open a window or go outside if you can. Get good at distraction therapy – do something, anything, to keep your mind off it.

‘In here,’ he says.

His bedroom’s nothing special – a small room with a desk, a computer, scattered books on the floor, a chair and a single bed. On the walls are a few black and white posters – jazz musicians mostly.

He looks at me looking at his room. ‘You can put your bag down,’ he says.

He picks up dirty laundry from the bed and chucks it on the floor, straightens the duvet, sits down and pats the space next to him.

I don’t move. Because if I sit down on that bed, then I need the lights off.

‘Could you light that candle?’ I say.

He opens a drawer, pulls out matches and gets up to light the candle on the desk. He turns off the main light and sits back down.

Here is a real breathing boy, looking up at me, waiting for me. This is my moment, but I can feel my chest ticking. Maybe the only way to get through this without him thinking I’m a complete idiot is to pretend to be someone else. I decide to be Zoey, and begin to undo the buttons on her dress.

He watches me do it, one button, two buttons. He runs his tongue across his lips. Three buttons.

He stands up. ‘Let me do that.’

His fingers are quick. He’s done this before. Another girl, a different night. I wonder where she is now. Four buttons, five, and the little red dress slides from shoulder to hip, falls to the floor and lands at my feet like a kiss. I step out of it and stand before him in just my bra and knickers.

‘What’s that?’ He frowns at the puckered skin on my chest.

‘I was ill.’

‘What was wrong with you?’

I shut him up with kisses.

I smell different now I’m practically naked – musky and hot. He tastes different – of smoke and something sweet. Life maybe.

‘Aren’t you taking your clothes off?’ I ask in my best Zoey voice.

He pulls up his T-shirt, over his face, his arms raised. For a second he can’t see me, but he’s exposed – his narrow chest, freckled and young, the dark shine of hair under his armpits. He chucks his T-shirt on the floor and kisses me again. He tries to unbuckle his belt without looking, with only one hand, but can’t do it. He pulls away, looking at me all the while as he fumbles at button and zip. He steps out of his trousers and stands before me in his underwear. There’s a moment when maybe he’s uncertain, and he hesitates, seems shy. I notice his feet, innocent as daisies in their white socks, and I want to give him something.

‘I’ve never done this before,’ I say. ‘Not all the way with a guy.’

The candle gutters.

He doesn’t say anything for a second, then shakes his head like he just can’t believe it. ‘Wow, that’s amazing.’

I nod.

‘Come here.’

I bury myself in his shoulder. It’s comforting, as if things may be all right. He wraps one arm around me, the other creeping up my back to stroke my neck. His hand is warm. Two hours ago I didn’t even know his name.

Maybe we don’t have to have sex. Maybe we could just lie down and snuggle up, find sleep in each other’s arms under the duvet. Maybe we’ll fall in love. He’ll hunt for a cure and I’ll live for ever.

But no. ‘Have you got condoms?’ he whispers. ‘I’ve run out.’

I reach for Zoey’s bag and tip it upside down on the floor at our feet and he helps himself, puts the condom on the bedside table ready and starts to pull off his socks.

I take off my bra slowly. I’ve never been naked in front of a guy before. He looks at me as if he wants to eat me and is wondering where to start. I can hear my heart thumping. He has trouble with his pants, easing them over his hard-on. I pull off my knickers, find myself shivering. We’re both naked. I think of Adam and Eve.

‘It’ll be OK,’ he says, and he takes me by the hand and leads me to the bed, pulls down the duvet and we climb in. It’s a boat. It’s a den. It’s somewhere to hide.

‘You’re gonna love it,’ he says.

We start to kiss, slowly at first, his fingers lazily tracing the lines of my bones. I like it – how gentle we are with each other, our slowness under the candle’s glow. But it doesn’t last long. His kisses become deeper, his tongue thrusting quickly, like he can’t get close enough. His hands are busy too now, squeezing and rubbing. Is he looking for something in particular? He keeps saying, ‘Oh yeah, oh yeah,’ but I don’t think he’s saying it to me. His eyes are closed, his mouth is full of my breast.

‘Look at me,’ I tell him. ‘I need you to look at me.’

He leans up on one elbow. ‘What?’

‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘You’re fine.’ His eyes are so dark I don’t recognize him. It’s as if he’s changed into someone else, is not even the half-stranger he was a few minutes ago. ‘Everything’s fine.’

And he goes back to kissing my neck, my breasts, my stomach until his face disappears from me again.

His hand works its way down too, and I don’t know how to tell him not to. I move my hips away from him, but he doesn’t stop. His fingers flicker between my legs, and I gasp with shock, because no one has ever done that to me before.

What’s wrong with me that I don’t know how to do this? I thought I’d know what to do, what would happen. But this is spiralling away from me, as if Jake’s making me do it, when I’m supposed to be in charge.

I cling to him, wrap my hands round his back and pat him there, like he’s a dog that I don’t understand.

He eases himself up the bed and sits up.

‘All right?’

I nod.

He reaches over to the table where he left the condom. I watch him put it on. He does it quickly. He’s a condom expert.

‘Ready?’

I nod again. It seems rude not to.

He lies down, moves my legs apart with his, presses himself closer, his weight on top of me. Soon I’ll feel him inside me and I’ll know what all the fuss is about. This was my idea.

I notice lots of things while the red neon numbers on his radio alarm move from 3:15 to 3:19. I notice that his shoes are on their side by the door. The door isn’t shut properly. There’s a strange shadow on the ceiling in the far corner that looks like a face. I think of a fat man I once saw sweating as he jogged down our street. I think of an apple. I think that a safe place to be would be under the bed, or with my head on my mother’s lap.

He supports himself with his arms, moving slowly above me, his face turned to one side, his eyes tight shut. This is it. It’s really happening. I’m living it now. Sex.

When it’s finished, I lie under him feeling mostly silent and small. We stay like this for a bit, then he rolls off and peers at me through the dark.

‘What is it?’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’

I can’t look at him, so I move closer, bury myself deeper, hide in his arms. I know I’m making a complete fool of myself. I’m snuffling all over him like a baby, and I can’t stop, it’s horrible. He sweeps his hand in circles on my back, whispers ‘Shush’ into my ear, eventually eases me away so he can see me.

‘What is it? You’re not going to say you didn’t want to, are you?’

I wipe my eyes with the duvet. I sit up, my feet dangling over the edge of the bed onto the carpet. I sit with my back to him, blinking at my clothes. They’re unfamiliar shadows scattered on the floor.

When I was a kid, I used to ride on my dad’s shoulders. I was so small he had to hold my back with both hands to stop me tipping, and yet I was so high I could splash my hands through leaves. I could never tell Jake this. It wouldn’t make any difference to him. I don’t think words reach people. Maybe nothing does.

I scramble into my clothes. The red dress seems smaller than ever; I pull it down, trying to cover my knees. Did I really go to a club looking like this?

I slip on my shoes, gather the things back into Zoey’s bag.

Jake says, ‘You don’t have to go.’ He’s leaning up on one elbow. His chest seems pale as the candle flickers.

‘I want to.’

He flings himself back onto the pillow. One arm hangs over the side of the bed; his fingers curl where they touch the floor. He shakes his head really slowly.

Zoey’s downstairs on the sofa, asleep. So is Stoner Boy. They lie together, their arms entwined, their faces next to each other. I hate it that it’s OK for her. She’s even wearing his shirt. Its sweet buttons in little rows make me think of that sugar house in the children’s story. I kneel beside them and stroke Zoey’s arm very lightly. Her arm is warm. I stroke her until she opens her eyes. She blinks at me. ‘Hey!’ she whispers. ‘Finished already?’

I nod, can’t help grinning, which is weird. She untangles herself from Stoner’s arms, sits up and surveys the floor.

‘Is there any gear about?’

I find the tin with the dope in it and hand it to her, then I go to the kitchen and get a glass of water. I think she’ll follow me, but she doesn’t. How can we talk with Stoner there? I drink the water, put the glass on the draining board and go back to the lounge. I sit on the floor at Zoey’s feet as she licks a Rizla and sticks it to another, licks a second, straps that down too, tears off the edges.

‘Well?’ she says. ‘How did it go?’

‘OK.’

A pulse of light through the curtain blinds me. I can only see the shine of her teeth.

‘Was he any good?’

I think of Jake upstairs, his hand trailing the floor. ‘I don’t know.’

Zoey inhales, regards me curiously, exhales. ‘You have to get used to it. My mum once said that sex was only three minutes of pleasure. I thought, Is that all? It’s going to be more than that for me! And it is. If you let them think they’re great at it, somehow it turns out all right.’

I stand up, walk to the curtains and open them wider. The streetlights are still on. It’s nowhere near morning.

Zoey says, ‘Have you just left him up there?’

‘I guess so.’

‘That’s a bit rude. You should go back and have another go.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Well, we can’t go home yet. I’m wrecked.’

She stubs the joint out in the ashtray, settles herself back down next to Scott and shuts her eyes. I watch her for ages, the rise and fall of her breathing. A string of lights along the wall casts a gentle glow across the carpet. There’s a rug too, a little oval with splashes of blue and grey, like the sea.

I go back to the kitchen and put the kettle on. There’s a piece of paper on the counter. On it someone’s written, Cheese, butter, beans, bread. I sit on a stool at the kitchen table and I add, Butterscotch chocolate, six-pack of Creme Eggs. I especially want the Creme Eggs, because I love having those at Easter. It’s two hundred and seventeen days until Easter.

Perhaps I should be a little more realistic. I cross out the Creme Eggs and write, Chocolate Father Xmas, red and gold foil with a bell round its neck. I might just get that. It’s one hundred and thirteen days until Christmas.

I turn the little piece of paper over and write, Tessa Scott. A good name of three syllables, my dad always says. If I can fit my name on this piece of paper over fifty times, everything will be all right. I write in very small letters, like a tooth fairy might write to answer a child’s letter. My wrist aches. The kettle whistles. The kitchen fills with steam.