In the morning, I let The Beatles banish thoughts of McQueen, The White Album in my head as I drive my bike up the final hill, pushing through the pain barrier to the endorphin release at the top. I’ve almost forgotten when I see his Saab outside the pool and the cold nausea of his hot breath comes rushing back to me. I hurry past to the bike shed and I’m about to leave when I see him sauntering across the lawn.
“Morning, Lou,” he says. “Have you got a minute?”
He gestures to the sports center and I realize he probably means behind the closed door of his office.
“If I’m late again this month, I’ll get detention,” I say.
“I’ll make sure you don’t get detention.”
In the split second I have to make a decision, I can’t think of an excuse, and I don’t want to make a fuss in front of the girls who are still milling around the bike shed. So I do what I’ve done in so many awkward situations where a man has maneuvered me into an uncomfortable position: I go along with it and pray it will be OK.
Afterward, I will think, I chose to go there, I went of my own free will. But it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like my only choice is between doing what I’m told and being labeled difficult. And there’s always the voice that wonders, what if I’m being paranoid? What if he just wants to talk, maybe even apologize, and I make a scene and have to live with the embarrassment of being stupid as well as difficult? No, easier to walk the path of least resistance and hope for the best.
I follow him into the sports center, down the narrow corridor and into his office. Voices pass outside the door and I think, he won’t try anything here.
I turn around and he slides his hand inside my coat, onto my hip, coffee breath on my cheek. I try not to retch as I feel his mustache wet against my neck, his hand sliding onto my bum. There’s a clatter in the corridor and I pray this is all that will happen. But his fingers are on my thigh, inside my skirt, and he pulls me close, his erection hard against my stomach.
“You are so fucking gorgeous,” he whispers in my ear, and he presses into me once more before I pull away.
His dark eyes flick with irritation and his hand reaches for me again.
“Not here,” I say, as firmly as I can. The only way I can possibly endure this is with a solid plan, and I need to work out exactly what that’s going to be if I can’t rely on Joe anymore. Because the one thing I’ve learned from McQueen is that I can’t beat him on my own.
He stares at me for several seconds, not the hint of a smile on his lips.
“You’re the boss.”
He pushes aside a strand of hair that has fallen onto my forehead and runs his fingers across my cheekbone.
“Don’t worry about detention. I’ll sort it out.”
He turns to the door and, now that it is over, I want to get my money’s worth.
“What about my other late marks? You know, it’s hard getting here from Ballybrack on the bike.”
“Consider your record wiped clean.”
He reaches for the door handle, but I’m not finished yet.
“Just one more thing. D’ye think I’ll ever make the Senior As?”
He laughs.
“Yeah, I’m sure you will.”
As I walk back across the lawn to the school I can’t shake the feeling of him hard against me and I wonder with a shiver if someone else is going to have to suffer for it.
I’VE HAD ENOUGH OF MCQUEEN for one day, so I develop period pain just in time for his hockey class after lunch. Matron is kind and obliging and it’s in the muted lamplight of her infirmary that I finally have a chance to try and let go of the ache he’s put inside me. It’s been hidden deep in my gut all day, a solid knot I’ve managed to ignore while the rest of life continues regardless. For the first time, I’m starting to understand how Tina carried on while the rest of us were oblivious.
When I leave the infirmary, the corridors are still calm with the silence that settles between classes. I take in the grandeur of the wood-paneled walls, the stained-glass panels in the arched windows and the ornate coving above them. It could be perfect here, if it was allowed to be.
In the distance, I see Shauna and my heart fills with the pure joy of her. I wave as I skip down the corridor but she turns into the toilets before she sees me. I follow her in but she’s already in a cubicle and I wash my hands while I wait. It’s only when I turn off the tap that I hear her sobs.
“Shauna,” I say. “Are you OK?”
She’s silent and still.
“It’s Lou.”
The door opens and she goes straight to the sink and runs her hands under the tap. She wipes under her eyes and then looks in the mirror, a stare so vacant I’m not sure what she sees.
“Is everything OK?” I ask.
“Not really,” she says.
“D’ye wanna talk about anything?”
“No,” she says softly, without conviction.
“Well, if you ever do want to talk, I’m a good listener.”
I touch her arm and, for a moment, her reflection looks at me with such longing I don’t want to let go. I smile awkwardly and turn to leave, but she grabs my hand.
“I’d like that,” she says, and I swing back to her.
We stand at the mirror, fingers touching, for several seconds. I don’t want to break the spell and neither does she. My heartbeat slows to a crawl as I try and stop time, until the door behind us swings open. We break apart as a fifth-year passes by into a cubicle.
“Do you want to come round on Saturday night?” she says.
“Yeah, that’d be deadly,” I say with a giddy smile. “I mean, yes, I’d love to.”
FRIDAY IS THE SORT OF day that lulls you with the brightness of a blue sky, while a brisk and bitter air lies silently in wait. It slinks into the locker room as we prepare to leave for October mid-term and we pull our gabardines around us as we head out into the unblinking light. It’s a half-day and Shauna doesn’t have training till later so I saunter out the back door with her, confident McQueen won’t approach me in her company. Now, even the glint of sunlight on the rear of his car can’t spoil the prospect of ten glorious days off without him.
The sun shimmers in Shauna’s blue eyes as she recounts a Halloween six or seven years ago, trick-or-treating with her younger brother, Ronan. A beloved wizard’s hat that blew off his head and tumbled down onto the rocks on Dalkey seafront, the daring rescue where she climbed out to the water’s edge. She smiles and gestures as her frosty breath billows, her movement loose and unguarded, and I fantasize it’s because she’s as excited as I am about Saturday night. A whole evening of unbounded potential without Aisling’s protection and Melissa’s rivalry.
We’re walking the gravel path when we hear voices from across the lawn. McQueen is at the entrance to the pool, hands raised in defense as an older, stockier man paces in front of him. The other man doesn’t look like he has any business at Highfield, his ill-fitting jeans and flecked jumper as tired and worn as the look on his face. McQueen speaks in hushed tones and reaches out to the man, but he pushes his hand away.
“You know exactly who I am,” he shouts. “I’m Elaine Dowling’s father.”
I can tell by Mr. Dowling’s voice, the harshness of his consonants, that Elaine is not a student at Highfield. I turn to ask if she’s a swimmer and Shauna’s rigid, caught in the glare of sun and shock. Her piercing eyes are aimed at McQueen, waiting for his next move. He holds his hands out, palms down, and speaks softly and calmly as Elaine’s father shakes his head.
“I don’t know what to believe anymore.”
Mr. Dowling’s voice quivers and cracks and he puts his head in his hands. As he falters, McQueen pounces, a gentle hand on Mr. Dowling’s shoulder, and this time he doesn’t resist. McQueen leads him into his lair, the safety of his pool and his patter.
He might think he’s got away with it, but he hasn’t seen the revulsion on Shauna’s face. I touch her hand in sympathy and she curls her fingers around mine. And in that moment of intimacy, I feel a sickening certainty that she knows as much as I do.