The Gaps by Leanne Hall (classic literature list .TXT) 📕

version of me. You can tell they’re not private school boys, because they don’t look like their mothers have dressed them.

I pull the V of my bomber jacket down until it sits in a better place.

Their tall leader pushes off the wall and saunters towards me. I do the same and meet him in the middle.

In unspoken agreement, we make our way to the multistorey car park next door.

The car park is open at the sides, the concrete floors and pillars recycling the cold, whipping it down ramps and slaloming it through rows of parked cars. I’m forced to zip up my jacket.

His name is Marcel and he goes to a performing arts high school I’ve never heard of. When I tell him about Balmoral, he shrugs. He stops next to the fire escape door and I get a chance to look at him properly. He’s beautiful, I’ll admit it, with perfect skin and huge eyes.

Now that we’re here, who’s going to make the first move? Things are a small step away from getting awkward.

‘So, um, what year are you in?’ Marcel says eventually.

‘Ten,’ I answer. ‘How about you?’

He dips his head, smiles. When he raises his eyes again, he looks defiant. ‘Year Nine.’

I can’t keep the shock out of my voice. ‘How old are you?’ He towers over me.

‘Fifteen.’

‘I’m sixteen.’ I shake my head. If this gets out, I’ll never live it down.

Marcel smiles. ‘Well…I like older women?’

I smile back.

He reaches out and traces a finger around the outside curve of my breast, making me draw breath. ‘You’re really hot,’ he says.

He stoops and kisses my collarbone, then lower, pushing my tits up with both hands. He moves back up to my neck, the space below my ear lobes, then finally, my mouth. His lips and tongue are hot and wet, he kisses like he has plenty of experience. When he pushes me through the doorway and into the stairwell, I relax and let him. My back rests against the cold concrete wall.

Marcel presses his whole body against mine, and finally all the thoughts and visions from these last few weeks melt away. The ghosts creep back into the dark corners.

Marcel has a stubbly scalp and ridges of muscle on his arms. Skin on skin and soft mouths and I don’t see flashing blue lights and think about how I gave up on Yin long before she disappeared and maybe now I’m going to pay for it. We steam up the whole stairwell. We’re both out of breath when Marcel finally pulls away.

‘You know,’ he says, a newly sheepish and innocent expression filling his face. ‘I’ve never had a blowjob.’

I stare back. The lone light bulb in the corner casts distorting shadows over his gorgeous face. He’s batting his eyelashes with the best of them, namely me. I know his game. I tilt my chin and the corners of his mouth twitch.

‘Liar!’ I say. ‘You big fat liar.’

He smiles with full brilliance, dazzling teeth in the darkness. ‘It was worth a try, wasn’t it?’

‘Here’s a deal,’ I say, once I’ve made up my mind. ‘I’ll use my hands.’

I close the front door so gently it makes almost no sound. The lights are on in the back half of the house. I shuck off my coat, kick off my shoes and pad to the kitchen, where I spit my chewy in the bin and fill a glass of water.

It’s not until I turn towards my bedroom that I see Mum sitting very still at the dining table. I almost drop my glass.

‘Mum! What are you doing up?’

As long as I message her at a decent hour and promise to taxi home, she doesn’t wait up. There’s a bottle of wine and a glass on the table, and a stack of books. Mum is barefaced, her hair frizzy. Sometimes she looks so washed-out and saggy I have to promise myself I’ll never let things get that bad.

‘I couldn’t sleep, hon.’ She rubs her eyes. ‘I haven’t been sleeping in general.’

‘What are you looking at?’

She shows me.

An old photo album, open on somebody’s birthday party. Yin is right up in the camera, face painted, grinning with one tooth missing. A slap in the face.

‘I had no idea you kept these.’

It never occurred to me that Yin would be on Mum’s mind too. She sinks underneath me when I put my hand on her shoulder. I can see the weekend paper peeking out from underneath the photo albums, Yin’s photo on the front yet again.

I don’t want to step too close with my night-out grottiness, the debauchery behind my minty breath, the details of what I’d done with Marcel lurking in my eyes. It’s not often I wish I could be Mum and Dad’s little girl again, but perhaps tonight is one of those times.

The wine bottle is empty though, so I’m probably safe.

‘What did you used to say?’ I point at a photo of Yin and I with our heads together, my hair shockingly white-blonde, hers as black as it comes.

‘Double the cute, that’s what I used to say,’ says Mum. ‘You had the Polish hair. Mine was the same colour at that age.’

The remaining photos show us in a whirl of colour and activity as the party games heat up—musical chairs, giant’s treasure, pass-the-parcel. In the background is Mum, blurry, and Yin’s mum, right off to the side. Pages of half-forgotten dreams.

‘Were you friends with Chunjuan back then?’

I can’t remember our mums together, but they must have spent time in the same places, while Yin and I played. They must have talked on the phone and dropped us off at each other’s houses.

‘I suppose so…I found her hard to figure out though. Her work was so demanding and she was so serious. We would only talk about you kids, nothing else. I got along with Stephen—Mr Mitchell—better. Once he was on the scene.’

I’d forgotten how much time I used to spend at the Mitchells’ house. Chunjuan