Drift

In town today, in search of Twister lollies and the perfect spot in the local park for an impromptu picnic, I saw a boy.
A boy I recognised but didn't know.
I knew him- that is, used to know he was- what made him laugh- the little intricacies of his personality the made him tick.
I fell asleep next to him, 3 other people in the bed. I fell asleep on his bare chest, his arms around me. How we managed to sleep so well in a tutu (me) and nothing but a pair of Topman boxers and a pair of orange aviators (him) is anyone's guess.
When we got our GCSE's, we hid in the bathroom at the celebratory piss-up we attended. We talked about the future. We sat for hours, in the silence and the yellow light from the bare bulb, his head cradled to my chest. He was pissed, and probably can't remember.
He bought me a McMuffin, after a night on the town. We sat in the corner, listened to Sara Bareilles- he never was much of a talker.
He was never one for emotion either, but I remember curling up on the sofa in my room, amongst the piles of pillows, and talking to him online when he was in France. I can quite clearly remember idly twirling a spinning top on my dresser as he told me he missed me- he never says that to anyone. I guess I took it for granted at the time.

Now, I walk up to him, say 'Hi'. Say it's good to see him he says it's good to see me; it is good. It's been too long.
I almost consider saying that I don't like not having around him anymore, to have random conversations with and collapse on after a night out.
We used to tumble together, too naturally, liking the fact that we remained friends despite how different we were. Now, we've drifted apart. We've cut our hair- seen boys, seen girls. Bought new Converse- I wonder what he did with the old ones- I still have mine. They got so muddy during our random escapades- getting caught in a freak storm at a theme park, going walking around his village at 3am. He used to laugh at me at how muddy they got- I never was the tidiest person.

I look at my new Converse- shiny, purple, new, excruciatingly clean- and wondered how we could drift so far apart.

Four

'Christ- it's like the undertaker's Christmas party!'
I'm inclined to disagree- I'm fairly sure any silence at an undertaker's Christmas party would have these undertones of sex, lies and deceit.
J sits at the centre of the table, ironic party hat perched on her blonde hair, gorging on our Indian feast of rices, naans, pokoras, chicken and curries across the spice spectrum, and doing her darndest to preserve the happy birthday atmosphere. Her shag-of-choice is banished to a distant corner of the celebrations, looking on sulkily, and doing his darndest to keep himself to himself. The reason for his sulkiness, his ex I, sits near us, a vision of pixie-cut hair and midnight blue silk, doing her darndest to pretend that she doesn't want him back. In the centre of the celebrations, several girls with similar dark mid-length hair, similar big belts and skinny jeans, and similar floaty tops simmer at the boy quietly- out of 'loyalty' to I, they haven't spoken to the boy in question since they broke up in the autumn. K flirts shamelessly with the boy in question- well, other than my squeeze, he is the only boy in the room- not that dating me stopped H flirting with him earlier in the evening.
The squeeze and myself do our best to circulate, see every face, keep out of the mess that well inevitably unravel if alcohol gets involved. Fortunately, only one bottle of champagne is involved in the night's revelries, so chances of an alcohol-fueled bloodbath seem all but impossible.

The end of the night brings with it a sigh of relief.
Throughout the chatter and clatter and the indian cusine, everyone seems to have aged. They each say their goodbyes, wearily embracing the rest of the group and exhaustedly placing expensive coats on heavy shoulders. For me, however, reaching 11pm without any argee-bhaji (ignore the pun) should be considered a minor miracle. There is a certain spring in my step I gather up my coat, kiss my goodbyes and head for the door. The streets are cold, and my flimsy Topshop dress does little to keep me warm. Luckily, as always my squeeze is there, arms around me, dashing in and out of lamplight right next to me. We reach my house near midnight- our breath is crystalline in the air, merging together.
'That could've gone better.'
'It could've gone much worse,' he assures me, wrapping us both in his hoodie.
'Thank you for coming tonight. Sorry for dragging you into that mess.'
'Glad to do it, beautiful.' He smiles.
'I love you, you know?'
'I know. I love you too.'
A brief embrace, and he's retreating into the murky darkness- probably in search of the nearest chip shop, knowing him.
Running into the warmth, I realise that my relief is tainted with disappointment- four and a half months later, and things still aren't any more united on the friendship front.

Mother

Another lazy afternoon curled up in bed with The Squeeze, another 'farewell' by twilight. We kiss, we hug, we shiver our pants off in the cool evening air- such is the basis of Great British romance.
He retreats into the night, merely a shadow in the distance- I wonder where the night might take him. Disappointingly, it takes him 5 minutes up the road to the bus stop, but these are tough times for drama and mystery.

I head into the porch, hang my key chain (around 20 keyrings attached, including a piranha from the Sealife Museum, a Volkswagen beetle and lego figures of Chewbacca and Doctor Octopus), next to my Mom's (complete with smiley face and hearts keyrings, lovely,) and my brother's (bearing only one keyring- a green plastic one bearing his name, very uncreative).

Kicking off my boots is the last moment of peace I am granted- as soon as I get through the door, I am bombarded by people carrying beige curtains, chairs, vases, and a mirror bigger than me through the house. Of course- my Mother is decorating again.

I find her in the dining room- the room currently under renovation- the gleeful look of a child on her face.

'It's all coming together!' she enthuses, 'What do you think?'

'It's nice.' It's pretty much the same as before.

She clasps her hand to her heart, looking distraught. 'Oh angel, baby, honeypie! I got so caught up here, I completely forgot to cook! Do you mind making yourself something, just this once?'

'Of course not'- this is just an elaborate ruse for the sake of the decorators- my Mother tries to maintain her image of being homely and down-to-Earth; truth is, she doesn't cook. I prefer it that way- her attempts at cooking are fairly disastrous.

I start preparing pasta salad, with neopolitana sauce, salmon, cheese, chili and peppers.

'Oh, darling,' I hear her call, 'You did put enough on for me as well didn't you?'

'Of course.' Of course.

I stir in the last of the sauce, serve it into two bowls and sprinkle it with parmesan.

When I take it to her in the dining room, she looks ecstatic again.

'Oh sweetheart, I could hug you!'

Of course, she doesn't.

Common

I'm lying on my back, but not for the reasons you're thinking.
I'm lying on my back in our college common room. The inspectors are in, so waltzing into town to optimistically buy Solero's in tiny skirts, floaty tops and oversize sunglasses is strictly off the menu for a day. Instead, it's ruffle collared shirts, floating skirts or wide leg trousers and flats. Then again, I wear flats all the time- usually more flamboyant than my black Primark ballet pumps, admittedly.
We're packed like sardines into the common room, trying to keep from the rising heat. We're usually off adventuring, not all squashed into one place. How I managed to get two chairs to lie down on to myself is a small mystery, but I'm not questioning my blessings. Girls swan this way and that, uncomfortable in so many clothes, squinting to inspect the small-print calorie count on their pasta pots. K sits at the computer, selecting the perfect shots for her portfolio (modeling is her latest craze to boost her flailing self-esteem). The girls around me compare notes on the functions of the legislature for Politics next period. Of course, the room hums with the background chatter of who's shagging who, who wants to be shagging who and who wishes they hadn't shagged who. Someone's discussing the merits of Watchmen (which, of course, I've championed all along), and whether or not Dr. Manhattan is a detached superhero or just a big blue womaniser at heart. The board almost sags under the weight of the list of the fortnight's events- someone's dragging us to see their play, someone's organising a road trip to the beach (even though they may freeze in the process), someone's going out for a chinese- all are welcome.
And I just lie there, considering whether or not I can blag politics, letting all the chaos fall around me, and realising that our strict, all-girls affair isn't such a bad set up. Of course, an impromptu dance session starts in the middle of the room- a crazy mix of Those Dancing Days and the Jonas Brothers- and I have to abandon all thoughts of politics and school sentimentality to join in.