long siege, is it?'
'We're going to have to pee eventually,' I say. 'It's a shame we can't see, because then we could sneak out to the loo when no one's around. There should be a window up here.'
Will unfolds the open bag of pretzels and we share them, listening to the bumping and thumping below.
Declan says, 'Did you know you're not supposed to menstruate as much as you do?'
'What?' Will and I say in unison.
'They've done studies on women in Africa who start childbearing at about the same time as they start menstruating, and they actually don't menstruate all that often – maybe once a year – because most of the time they're either pregnant or breastfeeding. They reckon the incidence of cervical and ovarian cancer is so high in Western women because they menstruate much more often than nature intended.'
'Really?' says Will, crunching on a pretzel.
I cross my arms. 'And what is the life expectancy of women in Africa?'
Declan shrugs. 'Dunno. Maybe forty.'
'And how many women die during childbirth?' I ask.
'I'd say one in sixteen.'
'How do you know all this stuff?' Will asks.
'He reads medical journals,' I say.
Declan clarifies. 'It was in The New Yorker.'
'You do not read The New Yorker!' I scoff.
Declan blinks at me in the gloom. 'My dad has a subscription.'
'He does too,' Will says. 'I've been taking them out of their recycling. That's how I got my scholarship. I take them to class with me and my teachers think I'm an intellectual.'
Declan and I stare at him.
'What? I don't read them. Not all of them.'
I ignore Will. 'So basically my options are to have thirteen kids starting now, and then die, or I can get cervical or ovarian cancer and die?'
Declan shrugs again. 'Procreation, Jenna-Belle. It's the goal of every species on the planet. You're born, you procreate, you die. That is the meaning of life.'
'Obviously our dad hasn't heard of this philosophy,' I mumble.
'Actually,' says Declan, 'there's an argument that it's a biological urge making middle-aged men leave their menopausal wives to seek a younger, more fertile mate in order to spread their genetic material . . .'
'Okay, you can shut up now,' interrupts Will.
'It's just a theory,' says Declan.
'Mum is not menopausal,' I say. 'In fact, she is obviously still fertile.'
'Yes, but this is exactly my point. Your father has procreated as much as he's likely to with this mate and so now he's going to . . .'
'I said SHUT UP!' Will warns.
We eat pretzels.
After a long time I ask, 'How come you two never ended up being better friends?'
Will smirks. 'I always thought Declan was, like, a . . . you know.'
'A what?' I asked.
'Gay, or whatever. You know how gay guys always seem to have girl friends? It's like a rule that you have to be friends with the opposite of who you want to have sex with.'
'I'm not gay,' Declan says.
'Oh. Sorry, man,' Will mumbles. 'But, you have to admit that you seem gay. Like reading magazines about African women menstruating. That's pretty gay.'
Declan frowns. 'Wouldn't it be more gay not to be interested in menstruation? It's about vaginas.'
I put my hands over my ears. 'Don't say vagina.'
'It's gay to only be interested in it as a kind of, you know, functioning organ,' Will says.
'Don't say organ!' I say.
'No, that's cool,' Declan says to Will. 'You're not the first. Dad thinks I'm gay. Mum doesn't, though. She thinks I'm sleeping with Jenna-Belle.'
'She does not!' I say.
'That's why she walks past my room all the time when you're there – to make sure we're not doing it,' Declan adds.
'In your dreams!' I protest. It would explain why she hates me. She thinks I'm a skank too.
'What about the other day?' Declan grins. 'You know.' He holds his hands out and squeezes. 'Honk, honk!'
'I don't want to know!' Will says, covering his eyes.
My face reddens. 'Declan! You have such a big mouth. It was outside clothes so it doesn't count! And you tricked me into it anyway.'
There's another bumping sound, closer this
'We're going to have to pee eventually,' I say. 'It's a shame we can't see, because then we could sneak out to the loo when no one's around. There should be a window up here.'
Will unfolds the open bag of pretzels and we share them, listening to the bumping and thumping below.
Declan says, 'Did you know you're not supposed to menstruate as much as you do?'
'What?' Will and I say in unison.
'They've done studies on women in Africa who start childbearing at about the same time as they start menstruating, and they actually don't menstruate all that often – maybe once a year – because most of the time they're either pregnant or breastfeeding. They reckon the incidence of cervical and ovarian cancer is so high in Western women because they menstruate much more often than nature intended.'
'Really?' says Will, crunching on a pretzel.
I cross my arms. 'And what is the life expectancy of women in Africa?'
Declan shrugs. 'Dunno. Maybe forty.'
'And how many women die during childbirth?' I ask.
'I'd say one in sixteen.'
'How do you know all this stuff?' Will asks.
'He reads medical journals,' I say.
Declan clarifies. 'It was in The New Yorker.'
'You do not read The New Yorker!' I scoff.
Declan blinks at me in the gloom. 'My dad has a subscription.'
'He does too,' Will says. 'I've been taking them out of their recycling. That's how I got my scholarship. I take them to class with me and my teachers think I'm an intellectual.'
Declan and I stare at him.
'What? I don't read them. Not all of them.'
I ignore Will. 'So basically my options are to have thirteen kids starting now, and then die, or I can get cervical or ovarian cancer and die?'
Declan shrugs again. 'Procreation, Jenna-Belle. It's the goal of every species on the planet. You're born, you procreate, you die. That is the meaning of life.'
'Obviously our dad hasn't heard of this philosophy,' I mumble.
'Actually,' says Declan, 'there's an argument that it's a biological urge making middle-aged men leave their menopausal wives to seek a younger, more fertile mate in order to spread their genetic material . . .'
'Okay, you can shut up now,' interrupts Will.
'It's just a theory,' says Declan.
'Mum is not menopausal,' I say. 'In fact, she is obviously still fertile.'
'Yes, but this is exactly my point. Your father has procreated as much as he's likely to with this mate and so now he's going to . . .'
'I said SHUT UP!' Will warns.
We eat pretzels.
After a long time I ask, 'How come you two never ended up being better friends?'
Will smirks. 'I always thought Declan was, like, a . . . you know.'
'A what?' I asked.
'Gay, or whatever. You know how gay guys always seem to have girl friends? It's like a rule that you have to be friends with the opposite of who you want to have sex with.'
'I'm not gay,' Declan says.
'Oh. Sorry, man,' Will mumbles. 'But, you have to admit that you seem gay. Like reading magazines about African women menstruating. That's pretty gay.'
Declan frowns. 'Wouldn't it be more gay not to be interested in menstruation? It's about vaginas.'
I put my hands over my ears. 'Don't say vagina.'
'It's gay to only be interested in it as a kind of, you know, functioning organ,' Will says.
'Don't say organ!' I say.
'No, that's cool,' Declan says to Will. 'You're not the first. Dad thinks I'm gay. Mum doesn't, though. She thinks I'm sleeping with Jenna-Belle.'
'She does not!' I say.
'That's why she walks past my room all the time when you're there – to make sure we're not doing it,' Declan adds.
'In your dreams!' I protest. It would explain why she hates me. She thinks I'm a skank too.
'What about the other day?' Declan grins. 'You know.' He holds his hands out and squeezes. 'Honk, honk!'
'I don't want to know!' Will says, covering his eyes.
My face reddens. 'Declan! You have such a big mouth. It was outside clothes so it doesn't count! And you tricked me into it anyway.'
There's another bumping sound, closer this
Similar Books
