Nowhere Girls by Derville Quigley
We used to meet at the bridge, half-way between both our houses, smoked cigarettes hidden in a tin under a rock. We shielded each other from the wind, struck matches, tried to keep them burning right down to the bottom. Hot fingered, we lay on the grass. Smelt the green rising through us. Let the sun dazzle our eyes. Squinting, tongue in cheek, we chatted about school.
We found cough mixture in the bathroom. Gulped it while sitting on radiators at lunch break. We enjoyed the warm haze, looked out the window at maroon uniforms and flushed cheeks; the basketball team returning.
We copied each other’s homework, stuck band stickers under our desks, wrote graffiti on toilet walls: ‘We wuz ‘ere and left’.
We went out. Didn’t say where we were going. Didn’t think anyone cared. Got the bus to the not-so-local nightclub. Eyeliner and lipstick, mascara and hairspray. Stormed the dance floor. Persuaded guys to buy us drinks, kissed them. We loved the Pixies, the Prodigy, the Chemical Brothers, flashing lights and dry ice. We mouthed impossible dares, drank, laughed and kissed them again before we disappeared.
We stayed at yours. Fell top to tail into bed.
We were not alone.
The rest of your family were in the kitchen. Your brothers making toast, making faces; all was not right with your mother.
You told me to stay back in the room, she might not notice I was there, she might not think the worst.
‘You’re a dirty slut. You hear me? A hussy and a slut.’
You hadn’t told her you were going out. You never said it was to a nightclub. You hadn’t asked if I could stay over.
‘You treat the place like a bed and breakfast. You make me sick. You’re a nothing but a slut.’
Standing behind the door, I could hear everything. I walked in.
‘Hello Geraldine. Hello John Paul. Hey Maurice.’
Your mother turned to face the window. She couldn’t look me in the eye. I joined Maurice in the kitchen, put on the kettle, made myself toast, tried to fit in.
‘Where’s the marmalade?’
I noticed John Paul smiling. I smiled back. ‘What does she know?’ I whispered. Maurice sniggered.
I finished my tea and said: ‘Thanks very much Mrs. Busher. I better get back to the ‘aul pair. They’ll wonder where I’ve been.’
I caught your sleeve on the road. I knew she wanted you to work the summer in a bottle factory. ‘Come with me to Dublin. You can’t stay here.’
I made you choose between me and your mother.
You chose your mother.
Derville Quigley is an Irish writer based in the Netherlands. Her short stories and poems have been published in The Ogham Stone, The Garfield Lake Review, Beyond Words, Trasna, CommuterLit, and Litro. She is co-founder and organiser of Strange Birds writing collective. www.dervillequigley.net
Illustration by Bex Shaw – @bexdrawing
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