Just because I want her, that doesn't make me a lesbian. Does it?
I am not a lesbian.
I am not a lesbian.
But I do want her to kiss me.
I turn a corner and start walking up the lower-sixth staircase. Usually I take these stairs two at a time, but my breathing feels tight today. What did I do with my inhaler? Shit. I think it's in my gym bag down in the changing rooms. I can't be bothered to go down there now. I'll be all right. I haven't had a real attack for over a year now. If only I knew what to do with this feeling I get when I think about Isobel Goodbody. It's as though ... It's as though my stomach is a fish tank with thousands and thousands of fish in it, but the water's been drained out and now they're all flopping around like on that horrible documentary we watched in Biology. How do I switch this feeling off? I think kissing her might do it, but when am I going to get to do that? And is it worth getting expelled for? What if everyone finds out and thinks I'm a lesbian? I hope no one's in the dorm. Oh shit. Someone is in here. It's Molly, and she looks weird. What is going on with all that eyeliner? Has she even got a free period now? I thought she was supposed to be in philosophy.
The console stays the same as the frame of the doll's house hovers around Molly. Come on, come on. I'm potentially two steps away from Burlem now. Well, if this works I am. Why isn't this happening? Why am I not getting the image in the console that tells me I can switch over to Molly?
I think of Apollo Smintheus's document, the bit I didn't remember at first:
You can jump from person to person in the physical world (but only if the person is at that moment vulnerable to the world of all minds).
Vulnerable in what way? I don't understand. I stay with Esther, but with the console in my vision, too. If there's even a flicker I'm jumping over to Molly.
"Hey," I say to Molly.
"Hey," she says back.
"No philosophy?"
"Couldn't be bothered."
I go over to my bed and sit on it. So much for thinking about Isobel in privacy. Now I've got bloody Molly sitting here simmering. She's putting on makeup. I watch as she applies pink blusher and black mascara. Now she's back onto the eyeliner, smearing more of it on as though she's about to join a troupe of mime artists who worship the devil in their spare time.
"Are you going somewhere?" I ask her.
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"Out."
"Molly."
"What? It's Friday night and I'm not staying in this shit hole."
"But..."
"Just cover for me, Esther, yeah?"
"Yeah." I shrug. "Of course."
In fact, the sooner she goes, the sooner I'll be alone. Unless Maxine comes up as well. I don't know where she was going. She went off in the direction of the changing rooms—but she never does sport. I should have asked her to get my inhaler. I sigh. You can get a good education here but no bloody privacy. At least next year I'll have my own room. I was supposed to have my own room this year, or at least be sharing with only one other person. But there's a "space crisis" and mice in the old sixth-form wing. So here we are and it's like year eleven all over again.
"Hey, Moll?" I say to her now.
"Yeah?"
"Who are you going with?"
Maybe she's going out with Maxine. Although Maxine's being weird with everyone lately. But I can still hope that the whole dorm's going out without me tonight. Imagine being here on my own and having Miss Goodbody walk in and ... I couldn't call her Miss Goodbody if I was about to kiss her. Oh, Isobel... That sounds downright stupid.
"No one. I'm gonna hook up with Hugh when I get into town."
And that's when it happens: the flicker in the console. I jump. I'm in....
You now have one choice.
You ... I ache for Hugh. Someone said he was the most dangerous guy in Hitchin the other day. Fine. Maybe I'm the most dangerous girl. He doesn't see that, of course. He sees, what? A private schoolgirl with all the privileges he never had? A teenager; just an immature kid? But he must see something in me, otherwise why did he spend the whole night with me last Saturday?
But he hasn't answered his phone since then. He hasn't texted me. So I'm faced with another night of wandering from pub to bar to club on my own, pretending to be doing something other than looking for him. But what? I look over at Esther. She's like a skeleton lately. That's one good reason not to ask her to come with me. Maybe she'd be more his type with her natural blond hair, and the way she's got those ginormous tits on that tiny body. Bitch. No, I won't take her. I just need to be with Hugh again. I don't care about his stupid housemates, or his mattress on the floor, or that he likes to drink vodka from the bottle while he's screwing me. I don't care that while I was whispering "Hugh, Hugh" in his ear he only grunted back some name that didn't sound like mine, and that when I said to him, "Fuck me hard" (like on that Internet porn story Claire printed out last term), he grinned and called me a little slut. I don't even want to change him. Maybe I just need to change me.
Or have I already changed too much? What's it called when butterflies come out of their cocoons? Whatever it is that's not what's happened to me. I'd be a horrible butterfly. Whatever I was before I've hatched, that's what it is: I've hatched into something else now. And it's not as though I'm a typical stuck-up rich girl, anyway. Everyone knows about the "blow job on the sofa" incident—even the teachers; not that they can prove anything. OK, so nothing happened really. I saw the guy's dick but I didn't suck it. I mean—yuck! But I like the reputation it's given me, even though most of the form still aren't speaking to me because of it. I could tell Hugh I'm going to be expelled because I have so much sex. That should impress him. After all, last time I saw him he did try to make out that we shouldn't see each other anymore because he's so much more experienced than me. "I've seen and done things that would really shock you, babe." That's what he said. So what, Hugh. I've had a lot of sex, too. We're both damaged. We're both sad, lonely people, which is why we should be together. Like in that Tom Waits song you played me.
Also, I know that he's had a tragic past and everything, but so have I. What about the fact that my dad died when I was nine, and then I found out that my real dad was someone else—some colleague of Mum's? Or does that sound hopelessly middle-class? It's not exactly a case for social services, is it? I haven't seen my dad—my "real" dad—for over a year now. No one's seen him for over a year. More eyeliner. But my school fees are still mysteriously being paid. So I can't even say he's dead. Maybe I will, though. I could say I've had two dads who have died, and that I think I must be cursed. It's still not as exciting as alcoholism or drug dealing. I could say my mother beats me up, but that would be a lie. She hit me only once, when I said I was glad Dad had died.
The console's been there all along and I've been watching the images float around. There are five, but I don't know which one I want. I keep looking at them while Molly keeps thinking about Hugh. This is probably the first time I've been in someone's mind and felt a connection greater than simply I'm here and I understand you because of that. I understand Molly on a much more fundamental level. But I can't stick with Molly; I have to work out where to jump next.
Here are my choices: