Nobody Real. Steven Camden

prints on the stretched cotton of my navy skirt with the wet bottom of my glass.

      I can’t tell whether I feel light or heavy. Have I let something go or picked something up?

      I scan the party, looking for you. Like you might actually be here. Stupid.

      Cara’s on the grass, part of a captive horseshoe audience listening to Sean tell a story. His untucked shirt hangs open off his bony shoulders. His limbs have got longer this year.

      “You remember, Mars? How mad they were?” he says, looking over, smiling. Audience heads turn my way. I wasn’t listening to the story at all.

      “Yeah,” I say, “course.”

      Sean waits a second for me to say more, then just dives right back into the narrative, taking his audience with him.

      Nabil and David are trying to scale the concrete garage at the bottom of the garden, their shirts long discarded, shoulders gleaming with a sheen of sweat.

      I scoop up my stuff just as Nabil gets to his feet on the garage roof like he conquered a mountain.

      “I’m gonna jump!” he says. “Somebody film me!”

      As people turn to watch, I walk inside.

      Jordan’s mum’s downstairs bathroom is easily the most glamorous bathroom I’ve ever been in.

      From the waist up, the entire wall in front of me is mirror, the sink a chunky white porcelain square set into the glass. The shower cubicle to my right is as big as our entire bathroom, the white towels neatly stacked in a pyramid on the shelves to my left look like they’ve never been used, and it smells like a swimming pool.

      I drop my stuff and stare at myself. My uneven ’fro is wilting. My school blouse grips my chest like my skirt grips my hips. “Full bodied”, that’s what Coral said, the day she took me for my first proper bra fitting. Standing in the Selfridges changing room, arms out like a new prisoner. Remember it felt like I’d gone from nothing to too much, in one summer. Like my body was some fast-tracked puberty experiment. Cara’s face when she came back from France. She wanted to be the one who got boobs first.

      There’s nothing more attractive than a full-bodied woman, Coral said. Just look through history, real history: full-bodied women are nature’s queens.

      Not really the most humble way to describe yourself in Freshers’ Week though, is it? Yeah, hi, I’m Marcie Baker, I’m from Birmingham, I’m into reading and films, I used to draw a bit, oh, and I have the attractive, full body of a natural queen.

      Something about this mirror having no edge makes it feel less like looking at my reflection and more like staring at someone else. A nearly eighteen-year-old girl.

      I make myself smile and she smiles back. Smooth cheeks, more dark freckles than a face needs. The gap between her two front teeth is big enough to be embarrassing. An unwanted hereditary gift from a woman long gone.

      I close my eyes. And breathe.

      “You look older.”

      My body stiffens.

      You’re standing behind me, big enough to almost completely block the door.

      I can hear muffled laughter from outside.

      You step forward. The light hits your cheekbones. Your hero’s jawline. Is there a trace of stubble?

      “So do you,” I say, keeping a straight face, trying to ignore the fact that I can feel my heart beat in my skin.

      “I guess we both do,” you say. A shrug of your bear shoulders.

      My fingers grip the seams of my skirt. “What are you doing here, Thor?”

      “I don’t know. You tell me.”

      I swallow and watch your eyes scan my reflection up and down.

      “You can’t be here.”

      Your eyes meet mine. “Says who?”

      Then we just breathe and stare at each other. How long has it been?

      “I did it, Thor.”

      Your wicked smile.

      “I saw.”

      “Mars?” Cara bangs on the door and you disappear.

      “Mars? You OK?”

      “Yeah, I’m fine. Just washing my hands!”

      I push the lever on the swan-neck tap and swill my face with cold water.

      The empty space in the mirror.

      “You sure you’re OK? You look kinda pale.”

      Cara’s concerned face, her cheeks slightly flushed from cheap wine.

      “Yeah, I just feel a bit off. I didn’t eat. I think I’m gonna go.”

      “You want me to come with you? We could get chicken?”

      “Nah, I’m good, you stay, have fun.”

      “You sure?”

      “Yeah. Message me later if I miss anything.”

      Her expression turns sheepish. “Nothing’s gonna happen. I’ve left it too long. He’s oblivious,” she sighs. “That ship has sailed.”

      I smile and poke her stomach. “Maybe, but you’ve always been a strong swimmer.”

      She hugs me again. “I love you, Marcie Baker.”

      “I love you too, Cara Miles-Yeung.”

      Our bodies shake with laughter and I go to squeeze her, just as she pulls away.

      The bin men haven’t been.

      One black bag leans on the wall under the hedge with a trail of its guts on the pavement. A bloated green tea bag, a clump of brown rice, the wilted carcass of a red bell pepper. It’s a miniature art installation made by a fox.

      I step over the exhibit, through the gate and see the sign. It’s one of those cheap banners you buy from a card shop. CONGRATULATIONS! in somebody with zero style’s idea of exciting letters. I can hear Stevie Wonder singing inside. Coral always makes an effort.

      Think of the end of Jurassic Park when the T. rex is roaring as the torn banner ripples down from the ceiling. Close my eyes.

      You came, Thor. I needed you there and you came.

      Nobody knows. Only us.

      Open my eyes. Tear down the banner. And go inside.

       Dusk. And I’m literally buzzing.

       If you could press mute on these busy city streets and lean in, you’d hear my body crackling like a plasma ball.

       I crossed over. To you. You saw me. There. In the real. And I helped.

       You know I did.

       At the lights, I lean on the stop sign as a fifteen-metre white limousine rolls past. Across the street, a line of five black-suited yakuza sit in the neon window of a noodle bar, slurping in unison, their dark sunglasses hiding their eyes.

       The house is the bridge. Coral’s house. Has it always been there – just across the park – this whole time?

       Walking in. The hall. The stairs. Your bedroom door. The heat in my chest.

       A foghorn.

       I look up and see a World War II German Royal Tiger tank waiting at the red light. The top hatch creaks open and a small man wearing military uniform and