Watching You, Watching Me. Chloe Rayban
make-up and my latest stack-heeled sandals. Not as I was at present, in my standard gross school uniform. I even had my hair up to keep it out of the way for my music lesson. It was in ludicrous childish bunches that bounced like spaniel’s ears every time I moved my head.
‘No,’ insisted Rosie. This is our chance to get to know him.’
I could have killed her. I mean, she was looking OK — she’d been home and changed and had her new mini skirt and skimpy T-shirt on. Before I could protest further she’d stopped at the corner. She was loitering really obviously.
‘Hi …’ I heard her say.
I stood, pretending not to be there. I was just praying he’d ignore us and go past. But, no. Thanks a lot, Rosie. He had to stop, didn’t he?
Rosie was going on about how we’d noticed he’d moved into the street, as if we’d been spying on him or something — which we had of course.
‘You read that kind of stuff?’ He was staring at my magazine. I glanced down. It had the most embarrassing headline on the front. The things I’d like to do with boys’ — the kind of headline that’s designed to get you to buy the magazine but turns out to be really tame inside. It would probably be things like roller blading and scuba diving — but it didn’t imply that on the front. I flipped the magazine over.
But he’d seen it already. I could tell he thought it was really, really naff. You could see it written all over his face. I mean, I don’t take these mags seriously — they’re entertainment for God’s sake — a little light relief in my dreary week. But it was just my luck. Not only was I standing there looking like a dog’s breakfast, but I’d come across as a total airbrain as well.
‘Want to borrow it?’ said Rosie, flirting with him like mad. I stared fixedly into the distance. Somehow, ignoring him made me feel less visible.
‘Hardly — its like girls’ stuff, isn’t it?’ I heard him say.
‘So how would you know?’ asked Rosie. She was trying to be witty but the comment fell painfully flat.
‘I wouldn’t know — I mean, obviously,’ he said. And he walked off down the street.
‘Egotist,’ Rosie muttered, watching him as he turned off into number twenty-five.
‘We really made a good impression. I don’t think.’
‘Well, you didn’t have to be so off with him.’
‘If I’d had my way we wouldn’t have spoken to him.’
‘That’s what I mean.’
‘Honestly Rosie, sometimes you can be such a prat.’ I guess I was pretty fed up and I was taking it out on her.
‘So you’re the world’s expert on how to talk to boys, are you?’ she retorted.
‘At least I wouldn’t have offered to lend him a stupid girls’ magazine.’
‘That was meant to be a joke.’
‘Thanks for telling me.’
‘Oh honestly, Tasha. Loosen up. He’s not the only fit guy in the world.’
‘He’s the only one living in my street.’ I stared miserably in the direction he’d disappeared in. ‘I’m never going to be able to face him now.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Tash. Stop being such a drama queen.’
I hitched my school bag further up on my shoulder. ‘Look, I’ll see you tomorrow, OK?’
‘If you say so.’
I strode off leaving Rosie standing there. We never argued as a rule. But this time she’d gone too far.
It was some days after this excruciating first encounter that he was sighted again. But not by me this time. It was by Mum.
I was doing my French homework curled up on the sofa. I usually did this downstairs, hoping to glean a little help from Mum’s shaky command of French. She was pretty good on anything to do with food or travel.
I looked up and found her poised with the Hoover mid-way through cleaning the sitting room carpet. She was staring out of the window.
‘What is it?’
She switched the vacuum off.
‘Just take a look at that.’
‘What now?’ I was sorting a particularly difficult bit of past tense into imperfect and passé composé and didn’t want to lose the thread.
Jamie joined her. ‘Huh,’ he said with six-year-old disapproval. ‘He’s drinking out of the bottle.’
‘But it’s what he’s drinking …’ said Mum.
I could resist no longer. I joined Mum and Jamie and stared out as well.
Sitting on the wall outside number twenty-five, there was this boy with his hair shaved round the sides and cut in a sort of slab on top. He was taking swigs out of a bottle — a Smirnoff vodka bottle.
‘What did I tell you?’ said Mum. ‘Let squatters into the street and there’ll be nothing but trouble. I should call the police.’
‘No!’ I said. You can’t do that. He’s probably nothing to do with the house. I expect he’ll move on in a moment.’
This statement was immediately contradicted by the window two storeys above opening. A figure leaned out. It was him.
‘Come on up. I’ve found something better up here.’
I left the window in a hurry and went and sat on the sofa well out of sight.
Mum glared at me. ‘See?’
‘No, I don’t see,’ I said. You’re jumping to conclusions.’
Mum continued peering out of the upper window. ‘Look upstairs. It’s that boy from the other morning. The one I nearly ran down rollerblading. The one who had such a cheek.’
‘Oh … is it?’ I asked, trying not to sound in the least bit interested.
‘He’s our squatter,’ said Gemma, giving me a nudge. ‘Come away, It’s not fair on Tasha to stare at him like that.’
‘What’s going on?’ demanded Mum.
‘Tasha really fancies him,’ said Jamie in a matter-of-fact voice.
Gemma nudged Jamie hard.
‘I do not!’ I said hotly.
‘That would be just so typical!’ said Mum. ‘A girl with no problems whatsoever. Doing well at school. And then someone like that moves into her street and …!’ She paused, peering out again. ‘Oh that’s too much.’
‘So what’s going on now?’ I asked.
‘He’s smoking a big fat cigarette,’ said Jamie.
‘Stay well away from them. That’s all I’m going to say,’ said Mum. She started vacuuming again in a haphazard way with one eye on the window.
Mum thinks she knows it all. She’s got this part-time job as an educational psychologist. She’s used to seeing kids that have gone off the rails. She spends her whole time sorting out disputes, counselling people who’ve been expelled and helping to fix up places in special schools. I reckon it makes her over-react sometimes.
‘I’m going upstairs where I can get some peace to finish my French,’ I said.
I settled down lying on my stomach on my bed facing the window. My room was in shadow so I knew no-one could see in. The guy with the flat-top