snatched, brilliant conversations with Conor to look forward to…
“Listen, hold on and I’ll give the key to Mr Fisher. Then I’ll give you a hand with that stuff.”
My mind’s all aflutter as he pads off along the corridor towards the rehearsal room. What does he mean, he’ll give me a hand? A hand down the stairs? A hand out of the school? He can’t mean all the way home, can he? Can he?
We’ve walked and talked for ages, making the twenty-minute trawl from school to my house stretch out to almost an hour.
At a couple of main junctions, manic Saturday afternoon traffic thunders by, but I hardly notice it. I’m so wrapped up in Conor that it’s as if I’m watching it all at a distance, with the volume turned right down. Conor’s been doing most of the talking, telling me about Salman and how they’ve been mates since primary school, but I’ve chipped in about my history with Cherish and Angel, how I got to be friends with them in Year 7 when they were being picked on by this racist pig Wayne Stevens (expelled for carrying a knife into school in Year 8). Conor talked about his hero, Jean-Jacques Burnel, the bass player from ’70s punk band The Stranglers – he got into him through his dad, who’s a big fan. He laughed when I said there’s no way my dad and me share musical tastes; maybe I’m a bit of a rock chick but I run screaming from the room when Dad sticks on any of his ancient heavy metal albums from the dim, dark past.
“There’s a photo of my dad on the bookshelf,” I giggle at the thought of it. “It’s of him when he was in his own heavy metal band – he’s got this terrible beard that’s waxed at the very end for some reason, and long hair practically down to his waist!”
“I’d love to see that!” Conor smirks.
We’re turning into my street and I can see old MrsHarrison at her window. She gives me a wave and a really enthusiastic smile. I’ve never had a proper conversation with her over the years – just exchanged hellos and waves and comments about rude builders – but she always seems so sweet, so positive.
Maybe that beaming smile of hers is what gives me the confidence to be a bit forward, for the second time today.
“That’s my house over there. Do you…um, want to come in for a coffee? I mean, I could show you that photo of my dad, if you’d like.”
“Yeah, that’d be great!” Conor replies, straight away, no hesitation.
Despite chattering all the way here, I’m suddenly so stunned and shy that I can’t think of one single, solitary word to say.
Luckily, Conor can.
“Hey, listen – I just thought of something…”
Uh-oh. This isn’t the get-out clause, is it? This isn’t the part when he invents an errand he’s got to run for his mum, or paint he’s got to watch dry just to backtrack out of my invitation for coffee, is it?
“…my friend Nat’s in this skateboarding competition tomorrow afternoon, down at the leisure centre. It could be a laugh. Do you fancy coming with me?”
I think I say yes – I must have said yes – because he’s smiling and saying “Good”. But I’ve just been zapped into this weird bubble of bliss where I feel totally disconnected from everything around me, including my brain and my senses.
After that, I must have opened the front door, because I’m now hovering in the hall, my feet about five centimetres off the floor.
Conor has just asked me out on a date and I am so happy I can hardly wait till later to tell Cherish and Angel—
“Oh…”
I hadn’t expected Megan to be home – she’s usually still out somewhere with her mate Pamela at this time on a Saturday afternoon.
But there she is, facing me full-on in the kitchen, arms crossed defensively, giving me a ferocious stare like she’s daring me to take one more step into the kitchen. I think I remember a documentary recently showing lionesses doing something similar to protect their territory.
Then I’m aware of myself waffling, introducing
“Listen, hold on and I’ll give the key to Mr Fisher. Then I’ll give you a hand with that stuff.”
My mind’s all aflutter as he pads off along the corridor towards the rehearsal room. What does he mean, he’ll give me a hand? A hand down the stairs? A hand out of the school? He can’t mean all the way home, can he? Can he?
We’ve walked and talked for ages, making the twenty-minute trawl from school to my house stretch out to almost an hour.
At a couple of main junctions, manic Saturday afternoon traffic thunders by, but I hardly notice it. I’m so wrapped up in Conor that it’s as if I’m watching it all at a distance, with the volume turned right down. Conor’s been doing most of the talking, telling me about Salman and how they’ve been mates since primary school, but I’ve chipped in about my history with Cherish and Angel, how I got to be friends with them in Year 7 when they were being picked on by this racist pig Wayne Stevens (expelled for carrying a knife into school in Year 8). Conor talked about his hero, Jean-Jacques Burnel, the bass player from ’70s punk band The Stranglers – he got into him through his dad, who’s a big fan. He laughed when I said there’s no way my dad and me share musical tastes; maybe I’m a bit of a rock chick but I run screaming from the room when Dad sticks on any of his ancient heavy metal albums from the dim, dark past.
“There’s a photo of my dad on the bookshelf,” I giggle at the thought of it. “It’s of him when he was in his own heavy metal band – he’s got this terrible beard that’s waxed at the very end for some reason, and long hair practically down to his waist!”
“I’d love to see that!” Conor smirks.
We’re turning into my street and I can see old MrsHarrison at her window. She gives me a wave and a really enthusiastic smile. I’ve never had a proper conversation with her over the years – just exchanged hellos and waves and comments about rude builders – but she always seems so sweet, so positive.
Maybe that beaming smile of hers is what gives me the confidence to be a bit forward, for the second time today.
“That’s my house over there. Do you…um, want to come in for a coffee? I mean, I could show you that photo of my dad, if you’d like.”
“Yeah, that’d be great!” Conor replies, straight away, no hesitation.
Despite chattering all the way here, I’m suddenly so stunned and shy that I can’t think of one single, solitary word to say.
Luckily, Conor can.
“Hey, listen – I just thought of something…”
Uh-oh. This isn’t the get-out clause, is it? This isn’t the part when he invents an errand he’s got to run for his mum, or paint he’s got to watch dry just to backtrack out of my invitation for coffee, is it?
“…my friend Nat’s in this skateboarding competition tomorrow afternoon, down at the leisure centre. It could be a laugh. Do you fancy coming with me?”
I think I say yes – I must have said yes – because he’s smiling and saying “Good”. But I’ve just been zapped into this weird bubble of bliss where I feel totally disconnected from everything around me, including my brain and my senses.
After that, I must have opened the front door, because I’m now hovering in the hall, my feet about five centimetres off the floor.
Conor has just asked me out on a date and I am so happy I can hardly wait till later to tell Cherish and Angel—
“Oh…”
I hadn’t expected Megan to be home – she’s usually still out somewhere with her mate Pamela at this time on a Saturday afternoon.
But there she is, facing me full-on in the kitchen, arms crossed defensively, giving me a ferocious stare like she’s daring me to take one more step into the kitchen. I think I remember a documentary recently showing lionesses doing something similar to protect their territory.
Then I’m aware of myself waffling, introducing
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