Melanie Woods Hope

Hope

“A bird doesn’t sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.”

maya angelou

bristol 1994

Using my compass, I pick at the paint on my bedroom wall, unmasking the paper treasured by my younger self.

The wallpaper that still breathes beneath this thick layer of blue.

Millimetre by millimetre I scrape, until an entire circus is revealed.

The same spectacle I had once loved, and touched,

and brought to life.

chat sh*t

The four of us –the Famous Four – chat the usual sh*t.

We ask who’s got with who, and who’s dyed their hair pink,

and who’s smoking weed and who’s not,

and who’s skinny and who’s not,

and who’s a virgin

and who’s not.

ladders and legs

This small, almost-square shaped bedroom is mine, and has been for the last fifteen years. It holds all my secrets.

Take That wave at us from my Christmas calendar; a messy mass of legs, laddered tights and teen bras, getting ready to party.

Gem yearns to be Princess Diana; fair hair cut short, generous blue eyes hiding behind a feathered fringe.

Beth works a Madonna look; left ear pierced three times, four on the right (using a safety pin).

Emmy and I smoulder somewhere in between, with many-layered skirts and ten-holed black DMs.

We giggle as we pinch each other’s make-up, swigging on a bottle of warm white wine snuck from the kitchen.

Standing in a circle, we link our little fingers, lifting our hands over our heads, shouting Together Forever for anyone, and everyone to hear.

Friends like these; friends since we were five –are like my favourite freckles –there for life.

I pray it stays this way.

cider snogs

It’s Jim’s party tonight: his parents have gone out for a curry, and won’t be back ‘til eleven. It’s seven.

Four hours to get the cider and beer and tequila and snogs in.

Music surrounds us like a warm wind, playing from a double-tape deck propped up by the toaster.

People filter in and out of the kitchen, most we recognise from school, some we don’t.

Monster Munch tumble out of two patterned china bowls alongside fag ends floating in a couple of mugs, (one says Mum’s The Boss, the other Bristol City FC, with a robin underneath).

Gem’s surrounded by a group of guys, swarming round her like furious flies.

I suspect these low budget T-Birds are never going to rev her engine. She doesn’t give her game away though –she’s biding her time, waiting for the right girl to stray her way.

Emmy and Beth dance with a couple of lanky girls from the netball team, perfecting their Wannabe routine.

Standing by the back door, picking at the crisps whilst pretending to wait to join the queue for the loo, I want to step away from this.

This chaos of people and smoke and drink and tongues and tunes

and dream about

him.

In my head, he would be asking if I wanted to go outside to get some fresh air, quoting sweet tender lines by Bowie and Maya Angelou, whilst nibbling my ear and gently stroking the underside of my open palm.

quirky quiff

He is the quiet type –a bit of a loner with a quirky quiff (which I like to think is accidental).

A sexy sixth-former with a dangerous air and gorgeous hair –as cute as a lion cub,

claws not yet fully exposed.

soft touch

I’ve noticed him for a while of course, (who hasn’t?), but didn’t think he’d noticed

me.

For weeks now, we’ve been exchanging looks, passing nonchalantly in the corridors and the canteen.

It’s a little game we’ve been playing –him and I –only just touching each other, watching each other, staring at each other, surreptitiously.

It’s so subtle and so secret, this, our coy toy toying in plain sight.

At night, I think about him. I obsess about him.

We’ve never spoken, yet my head is crowded with only him.

Alone, I imagine his fingers

reaching out to mine,

entwined.

lip gloss

With strawberry gloss glistening on my bitten lips, he strolls towards me.

Looking ahead, working that just-got-out-of-bed look he does so well, he slips me a note.

Noone sees him do it, which I think is

dead romantic.

I’ve got tickets for Massive Attack on Friday night –meet you at The Triangle at seven?

I’m in heaven.

my secret

I tell no one. It’s my secret.

None of us have been out with a sixth-former before, and I don’t want the girls to burst my bubble. I’ve heard the rumours about him; I’m sure they’re probably true, but

I want to believe he’s singled me out because I’m the one he thinks of as he scrubs and rinses his hair,

slowly

in the shower.

Naked.

I drop a note in front of him when I pass him next;

Sounds great, thanks. See you Friday. Bambi

I’m tempted to leave an X but think again, wanting to play it cool.

tgi friday

In school, thoughts swirl around my head like soft raspberry ripple ice-cream.

Acute angles, cloud formation, the Chinese Cultural Revolution, and avoir verbs wave at me as if they are toddlers, stamping their feet to get my attention.

I choose to sit at the back, staring out of the window until Mr Morgwan taps me on the shoulder asking me if I’m still awake.

Dreaming about my secret evening ahead, I’m sure the butterflies that are fluttering, chuntering, somersaulting in my tummy, are giving my private thoughts away.

slim shadow

Running home at the end of school, I throw my uniform on the floor, showering the dull day out of me.

Using Mum’s best Vidal Sassoon shampoo and conditioner, I rinse my hair three times, (putting the bottles back in exactly the same place I found them).

The red silk dress I bought in the sales (with my Christmas money), is hanging in my cupboard; a slim shadow patiently waiting to come to life.

I’ve been looking for an occasion special enough to wear it, when I want to stand out like Julia Roberts at the Oscars –all eyes on me.

The dress is short, but it’s a date after all, and I don’t want to look fifteen (even if I am).

I check myself in the mirror, carefully applying blue-tipped mascara, a dash of sky eyeshadow, almost-black eyeliner, pale luminous pink lipstick, a spray of Anais Anais perfume, and a smudge of blush blusher on each cheek.

Grabbing a loose jumper and joggers I pull them on over my dress, ready to cover up as I pass Mum on the sofa, (engrossed by George Clooney amputating a leg on TV).

Have a good evening love, she calls as I close the door behind me,

shut.

I’ve told her I’m going to see Pulp Fiction with Emmy, (the lie slipping off my tongue as easily as warm milk).

vulnerable

It takes two buses to get to the Triangle.

Chilly for a summer’s evening, I reluctantly nip into a side street to shed my extra layers stuffing them into my baggy bag, pulling my dress down, as far as it will go.

I feel flustered and

vulnerable

Alright? he says.

Turning to answer, I wonder how long he’s been there.

He’s gorgeous and dangerous looking, dressed all in black –like a burglar.

I stare for a moment. standing on the corner waiting for him.

Hi, I reply, trying to sound in control, hoping my blushing cheeks aren’t giving my game away.

How ya doing? You really called Bambi, or is that a nickname? he continues, his narrow green eyes looking directly at me as if they want to eat me

WHOLE.

Yup, Bambi, that’s me! My parents had a thing for orphaned deer.

He laughs, his eyes soften; his hair begging to be touched.

Taking my bag, he swings it over his shoulder; the burglar’s loot swaying into the night.

shocking taste

The rest of the queue is getting impatient, but we’re in our own world, his arms encircling me like a long, soft scarf.

He slowly whispers in my ear as we stand in line with the other fans; ants on shift work, shuffling forward, asking to be let in.

You’re sexy, he says, I wanna kiss you. The tip of his tongue lingers as his warm minty breath brushes my impatient cheek.

Have a taste of this, he says winking, passing me a bottle of water.

I take a couple of gulps trying not to choke and splutter.

It’s not water. It’s vodka: sharp and shocking.

Drinking more, I swallow it quickly, like medicine. Mary Poppins would be proud.

He lights a cigarette, holding it to my mouth. The butt is damp; I concentrate hard on inhaling without coughing, wanting to promote an air of sophistication.

heady melody

The room is dark and smoky and hot and crowded.

I hold his hand tight as he leads me through clammy bodies –ants now fighting over biscuit crumbs –to a quiet, dark, secretive corner. Our corner.

The music is loud and insane, as the band bewitch and intoxicate us.

Grabbing the bottle, I swig more medicine down.

I’ll get us some drinks from the bar, he says, leaving me in my own heady moment of melody.

I feel good. I feel happy. I feel alive. He returns with two overflowing pint glasses, weaving through the mass of heaving bodies, jumping and swaying in their private deliriums.

I hate warm cider, but drink it anyway.

We down the pints and dance and sing and dance and sing and dance and sing and kiss.

And dance and sing and kiss.

His tongue enters my mouth –like a thief deftly unpicking a lock. I receive it –glittering, like the crown jewels, waiting to be worn. I want the world to stop,

just here,

just now.