?Do you want to do something fun?? She said.
It was never my suggestion, but June Lilly was tall with long, shiny hair that sat on her shoulders the colour of swaying wheat. We looked up to her sapphire-eyed smile, haloed by the late evening sun, and when she snapped her fingers, we followed along like runty puppies yelping for attention. Everything about her was rich, evoked the perfume and grace of a palace garden.
June, her family, lived in a mansion. In the spinney next to the Common, discreetly surrounded by oaks and sycamores, the flowers burst into blossoms each spring and the house's inhabitants were coddled in the sweet perfume of wealth.
We grew up the bland faced daughters of mailmen and waitresses, grease-blackened railwaymen and hard-edged prison warders, living in the outermost ripples of beauty and privilege. We were the Pamelas, Lindas and Janes that lived and died in the working class imagination and its drudging boredom.
We were looking for a way to lengthen, to improve the languid afternoon when June asked, dangling delicious possibilities in front of us like ripe pomegranates hanging low over a neighbour's fence.
?Yes. I'm in.? I said, breathing just enough air into the words to let the idea float off innocuously but still be heard.
Linda's eyes narrowed beneath her creasing brows.
?What's the plan?? she asked, unwilling to throw herself carelessly into adventure, without asking the questions that swirled around on her face. Her father, a dour and dangerous man, told stories of runaway train engines, amputations and bodies cut in two because attention was lost and diligence abandoned. Caution thrown to the wind was always a dangerous thing.
The evening shuffled into night time, chasing all light and warmth into the mix of high-rise flats and fancy houses. A thick, tiptoeing cold took open streets and empty playgrounds hostage Our mothers always told us to be home before the street lights came on, and we were already past daylight and creeping slowly into trouble.
?I need a ja-cket,? Pamela's high pitched whine pierced through the gusts that suddenly whipped up the giant oaks and sent swirls of dead leaves to the sky. The prison guard's daughter folded her goose fleshed arms across her chest with a loud shiver.
?I'm in,? she said, ?as long as I can get a ja-cket.? The last word again cracked open by drama and the shiver. That was how Pamela was. Annoying and loud but intent on any mischief that she wouldn't be caught in. A jailer for a dad was a terrible irony.
June's eyes caught the sudden glare of the newly lit street lights. She pursed her lips, the corners of her mouth upturned, smug and victorious as she spoke.
?Well. I told the Taylor boys to meet us. 7.30. At The Wall.?
?No way!? Linda squealed. ?I can't. Do you know what??? She stopped, and her whispered question lived and died in our heads, unanswered. Of course we knew ?what.' We saw the welts and bruises painted over with her mother's gaudy makeup, too orange, too fake, for a pale and freckled twelve-year-old.
?I'm free-zing.? Pamela complained again. ?We'll drop by my house on the way. Get a coat.?
June's casual suggestion had rolled so quickly into a foregone conclusion.
?What about our parents?? I asked. Pamela looked around our circle of sudden conspirators, a tiny smile almost escaping unnoticed.
?Gone to Bingo,? she said.
?C'mon, little Lindy. How about it?? June grabbed the undecided girl's arm, pulled her tightly to her side in an unusual display of affection. ?We won't be too late home.?
Buoyed by the sudden and surprising closeness, Linda surrendered.
I studied June's eyes, glittering under the lamplight, and dared to challenge:
?What about your parents? Won't you be in deep shit??
?Not a problem,? she said. ?They believe anything I tell them.?
And with that, the deal was done.
Just a ten minute bus ride and I was standing in weak moonlight out front of Pamela's flats, imagining the worry my dad would be wearing across his face. The concern that would quickly rise as night fell. But the commitment was made, and I needed excuses. So many rules, so much restriction, so little fairness. Mum was annoying that morning, rushing off to the cafe when I needed to talk to her. And dad was so clueless this afternoon. A new pair of shoes, that's all, black patent t-straps with the thin little heel. Like June's. That was all, and he bit my head off, gave the same old lecture about money and needs. And how that was the end of it. If they're worried, and the more scared-sick the better, it was all their own fault.
Pamela emerged from her flat, high up in the austere monolithic block that overlooked the west side of Hexton Prison. We could hear her footsteps scattering quickly along the concrete walkways that ran in grey parallel lines across the front of the building. Pamela scurried along each one left to right, clattering down the iron steps, turning, and running along the next lower walkway, right-left. Past the rows of utility-green painted front doors until eventually she emerged. A bright pink jacket was tied around her thin waist, a shiny-red heart-shaped bag slung carelessly over her shoulder. Pamela's chest heaved in and out as she caught spent breath, her voice cut by the effort.
?I-saw-the-Taylor-boys. They're-down-the-street.? She called, breathless, emerging where the ground-floor walkway ended and into a concrete arch lined with cracked green tiles. The wind exhaled across the asphalt apron where we waited, carrying the pungent smell of stale urine and overflowing garbage. None of us cared. The boys were close.
Their breaking voices blew loudly in our direction, the only discernible sound in the night. Like playful colts, three of the youths pushed and jostled against each other but a fourth, taller and brawnier, walked beside them, seemingly disinterested in their juvenile shenanigans. One tiny orange glow and the familiar unfiltered smell of excitement drifted closer. In seconds the group had reached us on the dark asphalt apron that spanned between the building and the immense and overshadowing wall.
June spoke first, clearly irritated.
?I didn't know you were coming.? She grabbed the cigarette from the bigger boy's fingers and lifted it to her lips, drawing in a lingering mouthful of cheap smoke.
?Shut up, sis.? He said. ?I thought it might be an interesting night.?
June exhaled, releasing slow grey curls across the dimly lit air. ?What about the oldies??
?Out.? A devious smile crossed her brother's face.
?Alright, Terry, you can stay but no trouble.?
I knew Terry Lilly only from rumours, and here he stood in front of us, big as a bear, casting a solid black shadow on the asphalt as daylight finally gave up. His face was as ungainly as his huge body. Startlingly thick lips pursed around the cigarette, strong black hairs sprouted from his chin and acned cheeks. A few dark curls fell over his large forehead, and cascaded down the collar of his jacket, turned up to keep the biting wind at bay. He was seventeen and already had the looks of a man. A man to be wary of.
?You girls wanna go for a walk?? He asked, his voice as deep as my father's.
?Yeah. Let's go for a walk.? Grant Taylor, the youngest of the three brothers, jumped on board, his voice bubbling like a shaken soda.
He was the handsome moron of my grade in Primary School, the likable but unfunny class fool, who left dead frogs on our chairs, and spitballs in our hair. And now, our desks at Grammar School, the wooden kind with a hinged lid, had been tattooed by several generations of lovesick, bored teens. Grant's name appeared on none of them, unlike his oldest brother Greg.
Greg was a dreamboat, a prize, his name inscribed on books, desks and teenage hearts. There was a confidence about the football playing sixteen-year-old that appealed. Eyes bright green like the others, buzz-cut blonde hair and a strong, wiry frame. The three boys were physically alike, but somehow each completely different.
The middle brother, Jimmy, was very different. Neither funny nor sporting, he was an enigma to his parents and his peers, choosing to stay home and read on a sunny afternoon, to roam the streets in a storm. To me, he was the interesting Taylor brother, the one that deeply challenged the curiosity of a thirteen-year-old girl.
We walked towards The Wall in two groups, us girls chattering among ourselves, making nervous small talk about the weather and the weekend, anything except about what we hoped was about to happen. Terry offered the boys a smoke and each, except Jimmy, flipped back the gold embossed lid, deftly picked one out and planted it between his lips. Grant and Greg waited for the flame of Terry's silver lighter.
?Want one??
I spun around, Terry's voice breaking through the excited chit-chat and nervous giggles.
?No?no thanks. I don't.? I said, but he persisted, holding me in a look that jangled my nerves the way sudden weather catches wind chimes in a discordant clang.
?Yes?okay. Thanks.? I took my first cigarette, lifted it to my mouth as one of Terry's enormous hands cupped around it and the other struck the lighter.
And then he spoke, burning my ears with his quiet insistence.
?Come to The Wall with me, kid.?
Repulsed by breath that smelled like raw meat and stale smoke, I fumbled and coughed, the cigarette searing the back of my throat. His dark eyes pinned me down to answer. A light glisten of moisture broke onto my palms. I was sure a deep red flush had risen on my cheeks but could he possibly be joking? Making some fearful joke that I was supposed to understand, rebuff, and brush away with a coy giggle? But I saw his eyes roll in impatience, heard an annoyed sigh and felt the growing tension in his pressing body.
?N..n..No.? I said. My invincibility, my confidence, spiralled up and away into the blue-black sky with the reeking smoke that burned between my fingers.
?No, Terry,? a firm male voice broke the silence. ?I've already asked her. She's coming to The Wall with me. ? Jimmy pulled at my hand and I let the half lit cigarette fall, ashes trailing after it to a dimming glow on the ground.
Terry gave another guttural sigh, shrugged and walked back to the group. I saw him whisper into June's silky hair, and she turned to look at me, eyebrows raised in a question I did not understand.
I was still holding Jimmy's hand, as we walked almost the length of The Wall, then stopped. The girls, Terry, the other two Taylor boys, had all been swallowed by distance, melted into the dark.
?You're pretty.? Jimmy's voice was low and quiet, having difficulty forming, and I had the idea that he was more used to silence than the rest of us.
I nodded to The Wall and asked:
?What do you think it's like in there??
We both craned to look up, trying to get a sense of the prison from the enormity of the walls that were sealing it in. The endless grey bricks stretched up to disappear into inky clouds, a medieval fortress built to keep the evil in, not out.
His reply broke the silence.
?Lonely,? he said.
I lowered my gaze to find his eyes, surprised by our proximity, and a sudden urge to find his mouth with mine, but Jimmy turned his head and stepped back.
?Be careful around that Terry guy,? he said. ?And that sister of his is a bitch.? Confusion bubbled in my stomach, rose to my mouth as unformed anger.
?Don't talk about her like that. June is my best friend,? I remembered Pamela and Linda, back at the flats with the other Taylor boys, and Terry, and corrected; ?She's our best friend.?
Jimmy smiled and shrugged.
?Well, I warned you,? he said, his voice flat. He extracted an unfinished cigarette from his pocket and lit it. Leaned back against The Wall.
I turned and ran, following the thick shadow of The Wall for what seemed like miles, until I reached our spot, outside the flats. Our agreed meeting place. Stale urine and overflowing garbage remained, but my friends were already gone.
My father met me at the bus stop, his face a mask of anxiety and anger. Disappointment hung over my house like the rolling green sky that precedes the clatter and destruction of hail. I tip-toed up the stairs to bed, to a restless sleep riddled with concern. Concern that reignited when I woke, wondered where Pamela, Linda, and June, had vanished to last night.
Mum had left for work even earlier that morning and dad sat tight-mouthed at the breakfast table, hiding behind a newspaper until I spoke.
?I'm sorry. I was angry and I??
??You'll miss the bus. Go to school,? he said, from behind the paper, and I did.
The home-room was empty. I dropped my schoolbag down on the desk and went to the toilets. When I returned, the room was bustling as I picked my way through the maze of chairs and bodies to my desk.
Books, pencils, hairbrush, wallet, and more. Personal and humiliating things. The upturned bag had been shaken out, contents spilled across the desktop, dropped onto the chair and scattered over the time-worn wooden floor. A hastily carved heart tore up the grainy wood lid of the desk. Inside the heart, the letters: J.M. L J.T.
I spun around and surveyed the faces. Pamela. Linda. June. Their heads clustered in deep conversation.
?Hey,? I shouted, waved, to be noticed above the noise. Then screamed out. Harder. Harsher.
?Do you know who..?? I pointed down to the desk-top, to my bag, and the room became a cathedral of thick silence as eyes averted and heads turned away. It felt like all the sound in the world had stopped, as I stood motionless in the middle of the room, waiting for an answer.
The teacher entered, late and oblivious, and hurried to the large desk at the front of the room. Voices, the noise of shifting bodies, returned. As if nothing had interrupted its busy flow I hurried to throw the displayed contents of my life into the bag. Then sat.
For the next two days my bag was tipped out whenever I left it unattended until I learned not to. The word SLUT was added to the surface of my desk, etched crude and generic, not just to warn me, but future generations, of the dangers of being adolescent.
On the third day it all stopped. As I walked into school, Pamela and Linda were standing under the huge sycamore that shaded the pathway to the main entrance outside the school.
?Do you guys know who started all this shit?? I asked. ?Was it Grant?? Their faces blanked, unblinking.
?Greg?? No response.
There was no logic to saying Terry's name. He was a much bigger fish in this goldfish bowl-sized world of Grammar School and teenage bullying.
I inhaled as the question formed. It was the last deep breath of naivete, of teenage innocence. And trust.
?It was June.? What began as a question morphed into a bold statement of awareness, and I exhaled.
Pamela and Linda, who wore the swollen, purple badge of violence across her right eye, passed the truth between themselves. A secret, a confession, and an apology.
I thought about Jimmy and his warning, and wondered how he knew. What she had done to him to make him know. To be absolutely, stone cold sure. That didn't seem to matter now. But if I ever saw him again, I would ask.
On a cool spring afternoon I went to the path on the edge of the Common, where the spinney paints rows of picturesque mansions and aromatic cottage gardens. The sounds of symphony and tea parties drifted on the warm current that suddenly sprang up and lightly waltzed the rustling oak leaves. June and her family, I now understood, were different. She existed in cosseted isolation on the fringes of the Common, as lawn-mowers throbbed over manicured lawns, pushed by people like us.
I thought about all this; family, wealth and walls, as I trudged across the Common toward home, and suddenly loved my friends, my parents, more than I had ever loved them before.
?You wanna do something fun??
I knew what fun meant to Dougie, but I still went along with it. Our shift was over and we would not have to clean up the garage floor until the weekend started. And I was bored.
?What do you wanna do??
?You'll see.?
I had just finished my last coffee of the day (no more than three per; my girlfriend was proud of me when I dropped down from five) and we were technically allowed to leave. Most of the other staff was out and we had to close up and check for anyone trying to hang out and maybe even spend the night. Occasionally, we would find a homeless person in there (couldn't blame them with all that space and the heating working all night); one man was so apologetic that we felt bad about reporting him (he was on camera, though; no choice). Then you had animals like foxes, squirrels and those damn raccoons (garbage pandas by name; they truly earn it). We often chased them out and made sure the cars were not scratched up and then left). But like I said, I had my last coffee and had a whole bunch of energy with nowhere to go.
?Well, what're you up to.?
?Barry??
I stared for a moment. He did not say a thing, so I had to try and get him to tell me something.
?Dougie, if you really wanna listen to Barry Manilow??
?No, Barry. Our Barry. Barry Curtis.?
Again, I was a little confused.
?Barry Curtis??
?Yep.? He smiled and his toothpick stood up straight between his teeth.
?From high school??
?Now working, from what I hear. I saw him the other day and could not believe it. Just waiting at a bus stop like nothing ever happened.?
Like nothing happened? Well, everything happened to Barry. All the worst things that you think of when you think of high school happened to him. He got bullied, of course (we were not good boys); beaten up (even though he was bigger than us); humiliated at school dances (a well-timed plastic cup of punch can do wonders); and even embarrassed at the prom (how did he even get a girl? And why was she the one to abandon him when the shit went down?) Everything that could have happened did happen to him.
So, why was Dougie smiling?
?What you up to with that thought??
?We go see him.?
I looked out on the floor. From the office window, there were no stragglers or animals about. Most of the equipment was turned off and you could hear how pin-quiet it was in there. And there was very little to clean up until the weekend started.
?Fuck it. Let's see the old fatty.?
*
The old fatty? I knew Barry in grade school before his social life turned into shit on a stick. We were almost friends. He was one of us when we played foot hockey at school (no sticks allowed; Principal Eggert was a dick) and road hockey anywhere else (very dirty with a weapon in our hands). He was always ready to fight for a goal and then stay on defense to keep things lopsided (a lot of bulk is always good in net).
And you might be thinking, what happened to change all that?
Puberty happened.
Right before we all entered high school, we started to get hit by cracking voices, body hair and growth spurts. No one minded that much ? seeing the girls got through their own growth spurts made us all happy ? but there was also something else.
Acne.
Now, most teenagers have to go through this. You get a few pimples, you learn to wash your face every day, and you hope that you have the will not to scratch and pick at them (never really did too well at the latter). So, all the players had to go through this.
And so did Barry.
I remember how we did not see each other during the whole summer (his family moved and we stayed in the old place; no chance of meeting with that all going on). But we were attending the same high school. I knew that from all of our talks about what we wanted to do.
It was during that big meeting in the gym that Dougie started to dig into my shoulder with a pen.
?Look! Mikey, look!?
It was a loud whisper that I could not ignore. At least the teachers hadn't heard it.
?Dougie??
?No, seriously, look over there.? He jabbed his pen in the air to the right.
?What are you???
And then I saw him.
It was Barry. He was heavier than before (not something I made fun of when I looked at what Dougie and me were turning into), but that was not the worst of it.
His face was just gone.
No, wait. That just sounds weird.
His acne had completely transformed him.
It was a true constellation of pimples, red and white and set to burst, all up the side of his face, like a half-mask (a real Phantom-of-the-Opera thing).
I still don't know if he recognized us that day. He was still the same guy, I thought, but that face?
As you can guess, the student body was unmerciful.
I really don't know how he managed to get to a class with all of the abuse that was thrown at him that first year He got notes shoved into his locker; girls would scream and run away from him, claiming, ?The beast is coming to take us away!? I even heard a few teachers make comments about him (Mr. Eggert said something to a teacher about ?solving the world's oil crisis? with Barry's ?crater face? ? very original, sir). It got no better as we moved through junior to senior students. His weight dropped, but the acne stayed. The same taunts went on and on; the hockey games stopped.
I still feel bad about what happened next.
It was prom, and he was looking better One interesting thing about him is that he never seemed to scratch at his face. He just treated it the same way someone else would treat their hair if it misbehaved or had an overbite they could not control. It was just the way things were. Maybe he did not even hear the abuse anymore.
Maybe he did not know what we were up to.
The girl knew all about it. She had made a bet with some friends to let the freak ask her out (not even a popular girl, honestly), take her to the prom, and then dump his ass.
We all knew about it.
We all saw it go down.
Stranger than that was the fact that he never came back to school. Prom was in the middle of a session and Barry just disappeared after that night. No one heard a thing from him and no one wanted to really run after him after the laughter and the tears (I really wish he hadn't cried; they would have let him get away with things without that).
We could not forget about it, at least Dougie couldn't.
And I wanted to know what happened next.
*
?Are you sure this is it??
?Where I saw him.? Dougie wasn't laughing or smiling, so I believed him. But I really did not want to be there.
It was a nice neighbourhood; too nice. You felt like you could be arrested on the street for wearing the wrong clothes (a nice thought in our dirty uniforms and boots). We had gone there in Dougie's truck, but I still felt like the person who would get into the most trouble for being there was his guest.
I looked at the watch.
?You sure? It's pretty early.?
Dougie yawned and pointed. ?I passed by here when we had that shift change, remember? He was right at that bus stop and got on around the same time we have.?
It was pretty calm with the traffic, so I knew that we would just have to wait.
And we did.
It took about fifteen minutes before the first bus-riders ended up waiting at the stop. The moon was still low in the sky but the brilliance of the daylight was growing behind us. We were silhouettes in our car.
That was a very fortunate thing, because Barry might have seen us otherwise.
?There!? Another jab in my arm, this time waking me up and letting me feel like a teenager again.
?Where??? I saw some people at the light and heard some cars pass behind us.
?Right there.?
I looked over.
Now, when you see someone from a distant moment in your life, you feel like you were then, especially when the recognition is absolute and you know that time does different things to different bodies.
Barry was walking to the stop, but he did not look like he was walking. From the angle of our vehicle, he was walking up a hill and seemed to be floating.
It was him.
Like I said, time does different things to different people, and Barry was one of the lucky ones.
All the weight that had gathered at his hips, chest and face were gone. They must have taken all of the acne with them, too, because he was smooth as anything. Very handsome, too. And if I could go that far, I would also say beautiful. Never thought I would say that about another man, but you had to say it about the one that walked across the street in front of our truck and waited for the bus.
It was also clear that he had been there before. Some amount of small talk was taking place between him and a few of the other soon-to-be passengers. They looked like they babysat for the idle wealthy in this neighbourhood and had finally finished their shifts. Barry looked like the host of a very successful talk show.
It was a bit hypnotic.
?So, that's Barry.?
?That's him. Strange, right??
?What do you mean??
?I mean, he's here taking the bus with these people and it's like he doesn't really have to. Must be rich with those clothes.?
?Maybe. Let's just go.?
?Yeah, I'm tired.?
Now, just as we were about to leave, something happened that made me reconsider everything about what was happening at that stop.
The bus arrived and we could see that the patrons were boarding. It was not easy to negotiate space on that road, even if it was made for traffic running in both directions, so we waited for the bus to leave before moving out. And then we saw it.
Barry was still on the sidewalk.
I could not figure it out at first, but then I saw him turn and walk back down that hill.
He did not have a bag, suitcase or anything to show that he was going to work that day.
So why did he??
?That's weird.?
Dougie was confused as well. ?Did he just say goodbye to?his workers??
We both sat in the car for a long moment before we spoke.
Actually, before I spoke.
?Let's go.?
Dougie shifted in his seat. ?Maybe we should just follow??
?I said, ?Let's go.?
I don't remember anything about the ride back. I know that I got in my car as soon as we reached the garage and drove home. From the time it took me to get home, it was almost the afternoon, so I did not do the usual route. Dougie did not call me on the weekend, but I wondered if he would. My girlfriend wondered why I did not want to talk about work that week.
What was it that Dougie said?
I really don't remember it now.
And I wondered if I would have to keep being that teenager.
