The Art of Not Breathing(21)
That evening, my parents go to the pub. They always go on Fridays because Mum feels better by then—well, better enough to talk. A debrief, Dad calls it, and he always sighs when he says it.
I walk past Dillon’s room and hear creaking. I peer through the keyhole and see Dillon in bed with Lara.
They’re mostly under the covers, but Dillon is on top and I can see his shoulders and the small muscles in his back contracting and relaxing. They’re very quiet. Dillon grunts a bit, but the noises are mostly just breathing. When they’ve finished, I see Lara’s breasts, which aren’t anywhere near as big or wobbly as mine. They’re small and perfect. Dillon lies beside her with his eyes closed, breathing lightly, hardly moving. Lara takes Dillon’s hand and places it on her breast. He smiles but doesn’t open his eyes.
I wonder if this is Dillon’s first time. I wonder if it’s Lara’s first time. If it were me, I wouldn’t choose to do it in my parents’ house. I would find a dark, secluded place. The boathouse, maybe.
The girls at school talk about sex a lot. They group together in the playground to look at magazines. I’ve never seen what’s in them, but they talk about Positions of the Month, and the boys talk a lot about girls’ anatomy. A few months ago a naked picture of Fifi Kent was sent to everyone in our year by her boyfriend’s best friend. I didn’t see it, though, because I don’t have a mobile phone—it would be too depressing to have a phone that no one ever called, and anyway, I want to be left alone. Some nasty things were said about Fifi Kent, and now she eats lunch alone too. Sometimes I think about sitting with her, but I suspect that she wouldn’t want to talk to me.
One last glance before I head downstairs. Dillon is propped up on one elbow staring longingly at Lara, twirling a strand of her mouse hair. I shouldn’t spy on people. I see things I don’t want to.
4
AS SOON AS THE WEATHER STARTS WARMING UP, OR EVEN BEFORE, the Black Isle teenagers have parties down on the Point by the lighthouse. I’ve never actually been invited, but sometimes I follow Dillon down there and hide in the shadows. Today is the first one of the year, even though it’s not quite May yet, and Dillon has tried on three different shirts. He finally settles for a really ugly brown one. His hair is perfectly gelled and spiked. I hover by the door as he lies to our parents and says that he’s going to Lara’s house. He makes a point of saying that her parents will be there and they’re all having dinner together. I wait for them to go back into the kitchen, then go after him.
The party is in full flow when I finally arrive, having gone the long way around to avoid the cemetery. It’s mostly S5s and S6s, but there are a few kids from my year too—the ones who have older boyfriends. Everyone takes their own blankets to sit on, and cooler bags full of beer and vodka. Marty Jenson, the school DJ, stands in the middle with his decks, one hand spinning records and the other fist pumping the air. A crowd of girls cluster around him, showing him their best dance moves (which are pretty crap), and he drools over them. Lara is sprawled out on a rug next to Ailsa Fitzgerald. She calls Dillon over and he sits down between them, putting his arm around Lara. Ailsa hands him a tin, but Dillon shakes his head and instead takes a small bottle of something from his pocket. Vodka, probably. Or gin. He once told me that they were the least caloric alcoholic drinks. The music gets louder.
I head up onto the bank and sit next to Eddie, my hoodie zipped up so it covers my mouth and the midgies can’t get me—they seem to have arrived early this year. I wish I’d poured some of Mum’s gin into a water bottle. At least it would keep me warm. If anyone looked up from the beach, they’d probably see that someone was up here, but they wouldn’t know it was me. No one looks up, though. They’re all too busy hugging each other and swigging their drinks. From my vantage point I can see couples getting it on in the long grass and behind the big boulders along the beach. I try not to look. Instead, I scan the crowds on the beach for familiar faces. For Tay. For Danny.
I don’t have to search long. Tay is right there, walking toward me.
“Elsie Main,” he says, looking down at me. He pulls his hood down, and I pop my chin out so I can talk.
“How did you know it was me?” I ask, shivering. Also, how did he know my surname? Alarm bells start ringing. He must know.
“Just a hunch. Can I join you, or are you having your own party?”
“You can if you want,” I say, already feeling defensive. “But the party is down there.”
Tay looks down at the beach and frowns.
“I know. I just came from there, and it’s the worst party I’ve ever been to. It stinks as far as parties go.”
“What’s your idea of a good party, then?” I ask him.
He shrugs and sits beside me—in between me and Eddie. I think about moving away from this spot, but I can’t come up with a good enough excuse.
“So, what did Danny say?” I ask.
“About what?” Tay starts rolling a joint. “Smoke?”
“No, thanks. About the other day. Did he say anything after he’d dropped me home?”
“Nah, haven’t even seen him.”
“Oh,” I say, relieved. Danny must have decided to keep quiet about Eddie, for some reason.
“I went to the harbor a couple of times but you weren’t around,” I say.