A Girl Called Shameless. Laura Steven

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      “Just finished work?” I ask, leaning in for a smooch. He smells of oregano.

      “Nah, I just wear this for kicks,” he mumbles, lips pressed against mine.

      Dumbledore dashes restlessly round our ankles. He’s hyper with pent-up energy, since I haven’t had a chance to take him out properly over the last few days. Reluctantly I pull away from Carson. “Hey, I need to walk the pooch. Wanna come? It’s fine if not. If you’ve gotta get home or whatever.”

      He bends down to play-wrestle with Dumbledore, who pants excitedly. “Nah. I’ll come with.” The dog immediately rolls onto his back in mock defeat, and wriggles in delight as Carson rubs his chubby little belly.

      “Awesome,” I say. “I’ll just grab his wizard’s robes.”

      To his credit Carson is completely unfazed by this. He’s immune to my family’s weirdness, which I sort of kind of love about him. [Don’t tell him I used the L-word in a sentence describing him, because I work very hard on my reputation as an aloof sloth-type figure, and don’t want it to be ruined now.]

      While we walk to the nearby park, I fill Carson in on both the BBB and the job developments. “Anyway, the combination of the two almost rendered my darling grandmother incontinent. Thankfully she managed to control the situation, which is good, because the last thing we need is a medical emergency.”

      “How would that be a medical emergency?” he asks. “Do I even want to know?”

      “I meant for Dumbledore,” I explain, shoving my hands deep into my pockets, still clutching Dumbledore’s leash. I watch him waddle ahead of us, little buttocks bouncing up and down, determined to show off in front of Carson. “Speaking of medical emergencies, have I told you about the time I had a tumor in fifth grade?”

      His eyebrows shoot up into his beanie. “You had a tumor? How could I not know that?”

      I maintain a serious expression. “I mean, it turned out to be a gummy bear lodged behind my uvula. But it could have been a tumor. At least it gave the ER folks a good laugh.”

      Carson snorts extravagantly. “You got taken to the emergency room for a malswallowed gummy bear?”

      “Firstly, ‘malswallowed’ is not a word, although it should be, so thank you for the entertaining new vocabulary. Secondly, in my defense, it was a fizzy gummy bear. That shit stings. Anyway, the school nurse was convinced I was dying. I wrote my will while waiting for the CAT scan.”

      Carson’s dimples make an appearance as he grins. “Oh yeah? And what was on this will?”

      “I requested a Viking burial, and left my worldly possessions to a rhino sanctuary I saw on a documentary that day. I’m not sure why I thought a herd of orphaned rhinoceri would have use for my Justin Bieber CDs, but there you go.”

      By the time we arrive the park is almost deserted. It’s around midway between my housing community and Carson’s place, and it’s like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie. The swingsets and slides are rusty and worn, and there’s a rocket-shaped jungle gym graffitied with ugly slurs. The sandboxes are equal part tiny rocks and cigarette butts. There’s a swimming bath that hasn’t been used in years, so has been transformed into a charming skate park/drug den hybrid. And yet at this time of year, with the moon shining on the sparkling layer of frost coating the park, it’s weirdly beautiful. And, you know, harrowing.

      The whole place is empty, because it’s way too cold for even the most hardcore teenage delinquents. We leave Dumbledore to roam around and do his business. He promptly takes a piss against a Confederate statue. Good dog.

      Carson and I pull up a pew on a memorial bench, dedicated to the only properly famous guy from our neighborhood – a celebrated anti-apartheid protester who died in a South African prison. [I’ve always found it ridiculous how the powers that be decided he was only worthy of a bench, not the entire park. I’d give him the entire state, if it were my call to make, which is probably why it is not my call to make.]

      “Anyway, at least now we’ll be able to afford pet insurance, with this new job of mine,” I announce merrily. “Dumbledore can eat all the delicious turds he likes. And, hey, maybe I can afford a new toothbrush! Mine has had alopecia for several years now.”

      “Shit, things have been so bad you can’t afford a toothbrush?”

      I shrug. “I’m used to it. Many apologies that you must kiss this improperly washed mouth of mine.”

      Dumbledore ambles back over to us, dropping a carefully selected rock at Carson’s feet and looking up expectantly. He’s a rescue dog – obviously, because how the Dickens could Betty and I afford a pedigree dachshund – and he’s always had a rock fetish. He often carries them home with him in his cheek pouches, like a hamster, and nestles them into his dog bed with him. Bless.

      Carson picks up the rock and throws it in the direction of the permanently lopsided seesaw. Dumbledore chases it as fast as his tiny legs can carry him, which is not fast in the slightest. Since it’s pitch dark, finding the same rock again should keep him entertained for a while.

      “Man, I had no idea things were ever that desperate.” Quietly he adds, “I wish I could help out more. I’m sorry.”

      “Don’t ever apologize for that,” I say, louder than I mean to. He looks taken aback by my belligerence. [Belligerence! Check out that thesaurus usage!] “I just mean you have your own shit to worry about,” I add hastily, softer now. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me too.”

      “But I want to. You’re cold?” he asks, watching my leg bounce up and down in a bid to warm up. He takes off his oversized sweater and hands it to me, flashing a strip of toned brown belly skin as he does, and I feel a familiar jolt of longing.

      Although maybe I just have a thing for benches at this point.

       9.14 p.m.

      With Betty not around to crow about water bills I take a longer, hotter shower than usual, before spending the night the way I planned to: editing my screenplay. I mean, right after I finish writing this blog post. And checking social media. And making hot cocoa. The scandal changed many things about me, but not my talent for procrastination.

      Finally, after completing the most pointless and unnecessary of tasks, I curl up in my tiny single bed and get to work, throwing my hair up into a messy bun. Instagram girls somehow make messy buns look like the sexiest thing on this earth but I assure you mine just makes me look like I’m wearing a swimming cap, which is not my dream aesthetic. [No offense if you’re reading this, Michael Phelps. Which I don’t know why you would be, but still.]

Friday 6 January

       9.51 a.m.

      Since I stayed up half the night manically whizzing through script edits – writing in a new character and removing another entirely – I’m glad our first class of the day is drama. It’s the only thing I’m remotely good at academically, and we never have homework because Mrs Crannon is one of those blessed “learn-by-doing” advocates. So I can coast by pretty easily on zero winks of sleep.

      We’re СКАЧАТЬ