I was nervous. Never had I ever. . . .
A week or so ago, I'd stupidly asked Mrs. Wilkinson if she fancied me—but that was mostly because of Debbie, tellin' me her mum did dancin' 'stead of sex. I'd thought that was odd, so I'd asked her if she fancied me, only because of her touchin' me . . . you know, showing me dancin' moves. I'd been a little uncomfortable at the time, and with Debbie tellin' me 'bout the whole sex-for-ballet trade, it had thrown me a bit over the top.
But this—this was shittin' insane. This was a whole new bloody complication.
Aye, I'd been stupid. And aye, I'd give up boxin' for ballet like a right sissy.
. . . But that didn't mean I was a poof?
Did it?
When I came home after dancin' our nana was asleep sittin' up, in front of the fire. I wanted to move her, fearin' a good beatin' if I didn't, but she looked too peaceful.
Da and Tony weren't home, so I could leave her. And since I was being outright defiant already, I also figured it would be safe to play a record or two. "I Love to Boogie" was me favourite, so I put it on and was able to choreograph a whole new dance in two hours before Da and Tony got back.
In record time, not to mention.
An'I was even able to get our nana in bed, too. She put up a fight, the old biddy, but I managed fairly quickly.
An', surprise, bloody surprise, I was in me bed when they walked through the door.
I considered it me own personal triumph.
Now, if only I could figure my Michael out an' what to do with him, then I would have to call meself a wizard . . . or somethin'.
* * *
The next day, I was none too surprised to find Michael tappin' on my window impatiently like he did on most weekends. It was seven O'clock in the mornin', Saturday, but I knew Da and Tony weren't home. Michael wouldn't 'ave dared knock on me window unless they were out. Thank God.
Hoppin' out of bed, still dressed in clothes I'd worn last night, I carefully and slowly slid open the squeaky window with as much care as possible (force of habit), and eased meself up on the roof, bottom first. Michael was there and pulled me up so I wouldn't dive headfirst onto the pavement below.
Michael was smilin' much like he hadn't been yesterday, and I wondered if he'd simply gotten over the whole incidnent. It would save me a load of crap, going through the 'Big Talk' I had all planned up and ready to spew out—but I could still talk with 'im if he needed it. He had certainly needed it last night. . . .
But last night I hadn't had me 'Big Talk' plan. Today I did and of course the little bugger was feelin' all better.
Typical.
"Hey, Michael," I said, fightin' to get me land legs so high up.
"Hey, Mate," he said, ready to catch me if I looked like I was about to fall.
I didn't fall, thank bloody God, and we grinned at each other awkwardly, jumpin' down to another part of the townhouse like the experts we were.
"So," Michael said, concentrating on his climbin'.
"So?"
"Me dad still says that I'm a hopeless git," Michael said. "S'like the fifth time this week."
"Yeah—I'll be damned should that be right," I said. "Tell 'im to piss off."
"I can't just tell me father to piss off, you know."
"Ya can try—I've wanted to tell me father to piss off all me life."
"That'll go down the ruddy shiter."
"Then you'll go down the shiter yourself, I s'pose."
Michael frowned. "I feel I've been down the shiter at least once ev'ry fortnight—s'nothing new."
"Looks like your bleedin' screwed then, Mate."
He kept frowning. "You got any ket?"
"Sod off, ya ugly bastard."
* * *
"Where've ya been?" me Da asked, soon as I stepped inside.
"With our Michael—wa'n't any boxin' today."
"I found your nana wan'drin' about outside—make sure you're here next time, an' stop pissin' about." Da looked mad, but didn't take it farther. I couldn't be bothered much.
"She's not only me nana—Tony's, too," I muttered under me breath.
He heard me anyway—figures with that annoyin' sod. "I dun know why you're hangin' about that pansy anyway."
"He's not a pansy, Da."
"A bloody tart, he is."
I rolled me eyes, but didn't say anythin'. This argument was lost.