The Loneliest Girl in the Universe(35)
I tip my head back under the warm stream of water, memorizing the feel of it over my skin. It’s pure heaven. I wash my hair four times to get rid of all the oil, rubbing my fingers over the strands and revelling in their new softness.
I can get used to infrequent showers, I suppose. It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. After the first week, I stopped noticing how I smelt. It was only really bad when I was on my period. And it is for the good of the ship, after all.
But when I wash away the suds, I notice that my hands are covered in dark hair from my scalp. Layers of it twist around my fingers and follow the lines of my palms.
My hair is falling out. What if there’s something wrong with me?
Soaking wet, I run to the computer and type “hair loss symptoms” into the medical subroutine. Holding my breath, I skim-read the list of causes: MALE PATTERN BALDNESS
DRUG-INDUCED
STRESS
Hair loss is a symptom of stress. Understandable.
I hope it’s limited to a few strands. I’ve never really cared what I look like – it’s never really mattered before. But with J arriving, suddenly it does. I can’t handle the thought of him seeing me and being … disappointed. What if J thinks my body doesn’t live up to my personality? What if I’m so unattractive that he decides even our friendship can’t make up for the way I look?
Taking careful breaths, I avoid thinking about it. If stress is causing the hair loss, then I’m only going to accelerate the process by worrying about it. I need to stay calm.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
104
Today is my birthday. I’m going to make a cake.
I scour the stores for chocolate pudding and brownies, which I mix into a sticky mess that I shape into something round and vaguely cake-like. I stir together sugar, water and powdered milk to make a kind of icing, and scrape it on top of the chocolatey cake, curling it up into rough peaks. It’s messy and inelegant, but it looks cheerful.
I don’t have a candle to put on top – that’s far too much of a fire hazard for space – but I twist up seventeen scraps of paper and stick them in the icing, colouring the ends a bright orange.
Seventeen. I feel a lot older.
As I pretend to blow out the candles, a wish flashes through my mind without me even needing to think about it: I wish J were here.
Then I stretch out in bed on my stomach and eat cake until I feel sick. I can’t help wondering what my next birthday will be like. J will be here by then. I’ll be turning eighteen.
Just the thought of J sends electric shivers from my fingers to the tip of my toes. I want him to kiss me. I want to feel his fingers wrapped in my hair.
I want him, not just his words; I want his body too. Writing letters isn’t enough – it’s never been enough.
I wonder whether J will give me a birthday present. A birthday kiss.
The thought deserves my complete attention. I roll over, and push my pyjama bottoms off my hips.
DAYS UNTIL THE ETERNITY ARRIVES:
103
I think about sex a lot. Objectively, the idea is kind of disgusting – especially when you start learning about STDs and fissures and enemas. I get kissing – I understand that. I’ve kissed the back of my hand, and it seems kind of pleasant, so yeah. That makes sense. But … sex? I just can’t figure it out.
I can’t decide whether all the gross parts would fade away if you’re with someone you really love, or whether you’d still notice things like smells and noises and stickiness, but the emotions overwhelm it all. I want to know a lot of things like that about sex, and I don’t have anyone to ask.
I never thought it would matter to me anyway. It wasn’t like I was ever going to have sex with anyone. But now … there’s J.
J makes my heart feel like it’s purring in my chest. I’ve been sending him the most honest, truthful secrets I have, and he still likes me. He might even like me enough to one day have sex with me.
In just over three months, we’ll be meeting in person, face to face. I need to start getting ready so I look like the girls in films, all smooth and beautiful. I don’t want to disgust him with my hairy eyebrows and legs and armpits. I want him to like me. I want him to see me as a woman.
I research how to pluck my eyebrows using beauty guru tutorials from decades ago. For the first time ever, I stand in front of the mirror, eyes watering, and pull hairs from my skin.
Copying a picture of Lyra Loch, I try to sculpt my brows into elegant arches, but all I manage to do is make myself look permanently surprised. I’m glad I started early, so I have time to practise.
Next, I shave my legs, and only nick myself three times. My legs feel smooth for a day, and then start to itch. It surprises me how quickly the hair grows back; sharp and blacker than before.
Even though he isn’t here to see it, after my next shower I’m going to divide my wet hair into thin clumps and plait each one, so that it’ll dry curly. I wish that I had make-up, so I could contour my cheekbones and extend my eyelashes with mascara.
I’ve used the fabric from the stores to make three skirts, two dresses and one nightdress. My favourite is a dress I designed based on the one that Lyra wears in the episode where she and Jayden have to pretend to be married for a case.
It’s beautiful. Every time I try it on, my stomach does flips. I keep picturing the way that Jayden looked at Lyra when she wore that dress. His jaw dropped, a pink flush tinging the tips of his ears as he ran a hand through his hair.