The Fall Girl by Denise Sewell

lunch breaks when I can spend some time with her, and after lunch I count them again until I can meet up with her at four o’clock. Sometimes she sits on the wall outside the main doors and waits for me, her legs swinging. Secretly, I’m prouder than a pop star’s girlfriend that she has chosen me over all her other fans, and I can’t help wondering if they envy me, hoping that they do. Jesus, what if I am a lezzy? What would Lesley say?
    She pours jugs of cool water over my head, her nimble fingers working their way through the strands until the water runs clear. Towel-drying my hair, she reassures me that the colour is nothing short of fucking gorgeous.
    Sandra’s hands have no mercy as she blow-dries my hair, lifting, tugging and back-combing until my eyes sting from the sheer effort of trying not to cry. She finishes off by massaging a handful of gel into the roots, then sprays my entire head, face included, until I can taste the hair lacquer on the tip of my tongue.
    ‘I’d give my right tit,’ Lesley says, ‘to be a fly on the wall when you get home.’
    ‘I’d give my left one,’ Sandra says, resting her hip on the dressing-table and pointing her comb at me, ‘to give your loola mother a piece of my mind.’
    ‘And I …’ I start but change my mind.
    ‘What?’ Lesley says.
    ‘Ah, nothing.’
    ‘Go on, spit it out,’ Sandra says.
    ‘And I’d give both of mine to swap mothers, watch
Top of the Pops
and go dancing in the Ulster Arms.’
    There’s silence as I look from Sandra to Lesley to Sandra,and smile. Then, one after another, our jaws balloon like toads’ throats and we burst out laughing.
    Sandra is trying to say something, but she isn’t able to get the words out. ‘At least …’ she says several times but can’t get any further.
    I laugh so hard, my stomach hurts. I wish that every pain could feel this good. We pull tissue after tissue from the box on the dressing-table and when the box is empty, we wipe our tears on our sleeves.
    ‘At least …’
    I have to stop looking at them and pretend that I’m on my way home and about to face my horrified mother.
    ‘At least …’
    Lesley rips a page from one of her copybooks and hands it to Sandra with an eyeliner pencil. Sandra starts writing, snorting and gasping for breath.
    She gives the note to Lesley first, and when she’s finished, Lesley giggles louder, clutching her side, and passes it to me. I can just about make it out through my glazed eyes:
At least we’ll still have one lopsided pair of tits between the three of us.
    Lesley says she has a feeling of déjà vu.
    ‘That’s because it’s like the day of the
Feis
all over again,’ I tell her as she swipes her nightdress off the mirror.
    ‘There you are, Frances,’ Sandra says, ‘from Nana Mouskouri to Suzie Quatro all in the space of an hour.’
    ‘Shite!’
    ‘What’s wrong with it?’ There’s a threat in the manner in which Sandra asks the question.
    ‘I look like him,’ I tell her, pointing at the poster on the wall.
    ‘David Bowie? Oh, that’s cool – so does Suzie Quatro.’
    I touch my feathery hair. ‘Jesus!’
    ‘What?’ Lesley asks.
    ‘It’s stiff and sticky.’
    ‘Like a big mickey,’ Sandra shouts, and whoops like a mad banshee.
    ‘What’s like a big mickey?’ Keith asks, barging into the bedroom.
    ‘Her hair,’ Sandra laughs. ‘Stiff and sticky.’
    ‘It’s looks wild,’ Keith says, smiling at me. ‘Can I leave you home now?’
    ‘She’s not going yet,’ Lesley says. ‘Sure you’re not?’
    I check my watch; it’s ten past six. I wonder what my parents are doing at this moment and how they’re going to react when I get home.
    ‘Your mother’s gonna kill you now one way or another,’ Sandra says, pulling a cigarette from the box. ‘Here, have one of these; it’ll calm your nerves.’
    Keith says he’ll wait for me downstairs. I’m mortified at the thought of being alone with him. He must be at least twenty. I light the