Читать книгу Social Distancing - Michael K Freundt - Страница 5

Ellen pulled at her flimsy cotton top; pulled it down to meet her beige cargoes. A bare midriff gave her fashion points but its flabbiness gave her a self-consciousness she didn’t need just now. Not with all those boys looking. Wasn’t something supposed to happen when you reached your teens? Thirteen. She didn’t feel thirteen. Adults still used “tell you when you’re older,” which she now took to mean “No, I’m not going to tell you at all.” But adults also said “older than your years,” and “tall for your age,” and “thirteen going on thirty five.” What did that all really mean? You only had to look at her tummy to know that it was the tummy of a thirteen year old. Fashion was against her. Everything was against her. But she was defiant. Anyway, it was only when she looked down at her tummy that it bulged back at her; when she looked in the mirror, straight on at herself, the way most people saw her, it seemed alright. It wasn’t too bad.

Why did it seem that most people wanted something from her? Even now those sicko boys with their heads bobbing in the murky water, yelling at her; calling for her to jump in too. It was very hot, (“no, it’s effin hot” her father would’ve said). She knew what they wanted; to see her flop along to the end of the pier. And then they’d shriek with laughter. Marilyn and Josie were among them and even they were urging her to jump. She didn’t know though if they would laugh if she did. The look on their faces was more palsy than cruelly expectant. They were just fitting in. But, you see, running was a mystery to her. It looked easy on other girls but she must be doing something wrong, she thought. Walking was bad enough: how far to swing the hips, how long to step. Do you swing the hips or keep them straight? And what do you do when your knees lock? Sitting down and getting comfortable, especially on a couch, was also fraught with decisions (“sit nicely please, Ellen” her mother would say before she had all the angles worked out). She swayed with a casual lean, or what she hoped looked like a casual lean, onto the wooden railing. Her hip clicked but she smiled wanly at her friends in the water. They splashed and scurried over to the steps and clambered back onto the pier and ran in their sagging fluro green and black baggies, shouting “Come on Ellen!” “Here we go one, two three…” “Be a sport!” “Hey, Ells! Race ya in,” “Don’t be a whuss,” and they jumped all over again. She could’ve run with them then, run with the pack, one of the boys. They wouldn’t then be able to watch her loping along the pier on her own giving gratification to their sweet cruelty. But she was conscious of her weight being on the wrong hip. Her joints, their position and the clanking noises they made, always seemed to be on her mind lately. But when she righted herself and was ready to run with them, to at least follow them into the cooling sea, she hesitated and lost the moment. She didn’t feel like it (“not in the friggin’ mood” her mother would’ve said). She didn’t understand this and wondered, uncomfortably, why it seemed to have something to do with what she had seen last night. Would she ever forget what she saw last night? But then something caught her attention and she was suddenly glad to have a distraction.

A group of mallards cruised down among the tethered boats to her left nibbling at weed in the water. A duck, with her pale, unremarkably brown feathers; a drake with his beautiful cocky metallic green-black head, precise white neck-ring and sporty tail feathers sitting up at the back like a bunch of question marks - her mate, it seemed - and other males floated about looking for an opportunity; too young perhaps, their colours not fully fledged, but watching, waiting, wanting to join in. The drake took a break from his feeding and circled her at a leisurely speed. She ignored him and kept on feeding. On ya, girl, thought Ellen. Once he’d finished his circle, with no apparent result, he raised his neck and head from the water and started to bob it up and down in short, sharp movements as if he had just swallowed a spring. It made Ellen smile. He looked like a cheap toy she saw once as a kid in Side-Show Alley. This, however, got his mate’s attention and she started to bob too, slowly at first as if her heart wasn’t really in it and then more in tune with him. But eventually she resumed her feeding. And the mate was put off his bob by the other males who he needed to chase away. He was persistent, however, and his bobbing became sharper and then she too started bobbing with equal rapidity until they were synchronised like a pair of wind-ups. Then he grabbed her fiercely with his beak and held the back of her neck as he climbed clumsily on top of her forcing her completely under the water; his body seemed to spasm once, twice and then he was off, standing almost, treading water, stretching high, flapping his wings with a pride Ellen thought was cruel. He proceeded to splash about in the water and streaked around his mate again this time with speed and satisfaction. He began washing himself, dipping his head under the water, again and again, preening, flapping his wings and generally getting back to normal. His mate already had resumed her feeding. Ellen knew what she had just witnessed and that too brought her back to what she had seen last night.

The night had been hot, sticky and still. She slept in T shirt and panties but lay with the sheet all askew, moving every now and again to find a cool patch. The window above her bed was open and the black night air lay there outside as heavy and thick as the air inside. The more she thought about sleep the more she didn’t know how to get to it. Most nights she just lay down and it happened. Was this another adult skill no-one had told her about? This was the holidays and it was supposed to be fun. Her parents were asleep in the room across the passage and all doors and windows were open to catch, even entice, a breeze should there be one.

She froze! She stopped breathing. Something was crawling up her leg. Something light and ticklish. Something country-ish. Something deadly perhaps, but she didn’t move. It tickled, enticing but scary: all at the same time. Something weird, maybe; something unknown to modern science; something that may bite her; maybe there’s no antidote. The sensation of it was almost pleasant; the idea of it was nightmare-ish. Perhaps she was asleep and it was just a dream, a very bad dream. But what? Oh my god! Now it’s gone. Where had it gone? Oh no! Where was it? This was worse! But there it was again back where it started from, back on her calf. And up it came again, almost to her knee. But that can’t be right. Maybe it’s another one! Oh my god! And now that one’s gone. Now two of them are loose! She gasped. Another one! Where were they all coming from? If she moved she might squash them and then what? And then came another one! She felt air on her face. Something’s breathing! No no! Hang on. Oh dear, she sighed. It’s a breeze. There’s finally a breeze. And…oh…the curtain… and she started breathing again. It was the hem of the lacy curtain slowly flapping, wave-like, in the soft breeze, brushing against her leg. And when it stopped, when the panic stopped, sleep was further away than ever.

The adults will know what to do. Mum will have something for moments like this: a cup of warm water with Worcestershire Sauce or something equally yukky, like one of dad’s books on film theory. Adults had answers for everything. She sat up and padded out of her room across the corridor and through the open door into her parent’s bedroom. Without thought or hesitation she flicked the light switch, she just wanted a brief word of assurance. And the light flashed on and burnt the scene onto her brain: her mum and dad were lying naked on their backs in the heat, his left hand was buried in her vagina and her right hand was grasping his penis. Just lying there, holding each other, as if it was too hot to do anything else. Her mum sat bolt upright and grabbed the sheet. “What’s wrong honey?” she asked in a voice that sounded normal and natural.

“I can’t sleep,” is all Ellen could think of to say.

“I know honey, it’s too damn hot, I know. We all just have to try.”

“OK,” said Ellen, understanding that it would be best if she wasn’t there. “There’s a breeze,” she added as she turned off the light and returned to her room. The assumption that nothing was happening annoyed her ever so slightly; but confused her too. Ellen lay down and tried to think about what she had just seen. And how she felt about what she had just seen. Why hadn’t her mother screamed and yelled at her for not knocking like she’d been taught? She had sat up, quickly covered her father with the sheet while he remained spread-eagled content to not get involved - his prone naked torso shielded now by her mother’s erect one. Her father’s round hairy stomach had seemed flatter somehow. Her mother’s breasts were small and wide but had become fuller and closer together when she sat up. Breasts did that she supposed. And they sat there as her mother spoke as if they were part of the conversation: just the three of them, Ellen, her mother and her breasts. Ellen had felt an instant urge to apologise or cry, something to elicit a comforting response, but that hadn’t been necessary. The breasts made it unnecessary. Her mother wasn’t angry or coy just a bit surprised. She felt closer to her mother then than she had felt in her whole life. It was no big deal it seemed. Her mother’s breasts, her father’s large hairy chest, even her own body with its invisible tickling demons, were things that were just what they were. They did what they did.

She soon fell asleep.

“Hey, Ellen! You can do it.” “Come on Ells, it’s too bloody hot.” “You’ll dry off.” “Go get your swimmers then.” “Come in with us, Ellen.” “It’s great in.” “Cool off for a bit.” And on and on they went. How long would they keep it up? How long before the jovial and friendly tone would turn sour and the boys would start acting like boys and want to punch her? She felt though that her smile was keeping their interest, encouraging them and that she just might, just might, do what they wanted. She would run, they would laugh, she would splash into the water, and then there would be a moment of convivial shouting and then they would move on to something else. And she would cease to be the centre of attention. Yes. She was the centre of attention and she liked it. That’s why she didn’t want to jump. She could put up with the jibes. Jibes were commonplace. Yet how was she to maintain the moment? How could she still be the centre of attention in five minutes time? If she just stood where she was, smiling weakly, the boys would surely get bored, then annoyed and things would deteriorate very quickly. And if she jumped it would be over even quicker. They might dunk her a few times and they’d all splash around a bit and she’d feel like a ‘good ol’ Ellen,’ ‘one of the boys.’

And then they’d pick on someone else. Not her anymore.

She had to do something. And soon. Maybe she should just jump and get it over with. Move on. But that was not what Ellen wanted. She wanted somehow to choose these guys, choose them as her friends and make it clear to them that she had done so deliberately. She wanted to make this moment last. She wanted to let them in on a secret. So what if her tummy bulged over her pants? It’s what tummies did at her age. And what about the lumps in Ronny Ellington’s shorts? And Josie’s breasts were too big by half which was why she always got in and out of the water before anybody else. What can any of them do about any of this? It just does what it does. Yeah, so what if her tummy wobbles when she runs? She’ll give them wobble!

She pushed herself off from the railing, walked purposefully to the centre of the pier and raised her arms in the air like an acrobat and her top let out a little more flesh. The boys cheered with delight and treaded water frantically to return her gesture, egging her on. She leaned back slightly, dripping with sweat and expectation, and ran towards the end of the pier, to their welcoming cat-calls. She exaggerated her run, loping along like a galoot. The boys shrieked with laughter and screamed with delight ignorant about who was manipulating whom. At the last moment she stopped dead at the end of the pier and with a scream and outlandish look on her face, like a circus clown whacked on the bum with a bat, she grabbed the front of her cotton top and yanked it up, a little too far than she expected (Oops!) and flashed her pubescent tits. The boys gasped, ducks took flight and the girls gulped air and nearly drowned. And while the gang’s surprise turned to shrieks and laughter again she calmly and slowly smoothed her top down conscious of her warming cheeks - can’t blow it now, she thought - and swivelled pointedly on her toes like a dancer, ignoring a slight wobble, and with a flick of her head walked casually back up the pier, the boy’s whoops and cheers echoing warmly, and comfortably, in her ears.

It wasn’t until she had got to the end and had turned left and out of sight of the gang that she became aware that she hadn’t once thought about her hips and arms.