don’t care.
I’m Gwennie Golden, I’m a Night Flyer, and I’m dancing with a boy. My favourite boy of all time. Martin Evells.
Ten o’clock rolls around before I even know it.
TWENTY-SIX
I will wish I left five minutes earlier than I did. Because what happens next is a little disturbing. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, though. So here it is:
Martin’s mom comes out of the house at ten o’clock and says okay everyone, time to leave. She makes a special of note of saying “Gwendolyn Golden, it’s time to go,” which seems a little unnecessary. I get it. Party’s over.
We all say thank you and we head toward the front sidewalk to go home.
All except for me, that is, because Martin won’t let me. Once his mom goes back into the house, he sneaks out to the front sidewalk, where I’m aiming to depart, and grabs me. He makes a “shhh” sign with his finger, and we tiptoe back into his yard. It looks desolate and woeful now all the partiers are gone. Dropped napkins and potato chips and half-empty soda cans litter the yard in the dark.
He takes me to the back of the yard, where there’s this little garden playhouse. It’s all white, with cut-out windows and pretend flower boxes and a wraparound porch. It has a tiny polka-dotted red door with a big green handle. It was a lot of fun once, when we were six. No one our age would go near it now, though. Not something that’s so obviously meant for little kids. Which explains why I’m so confused when Martin drags me back there and puts his finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he whispers again.
“What are we doing here?” I whisper back, but he doesn’t answer me. He just creaks open the little polka-dotted door and leads me into the dark interior of the overgrown dollhouse. In the distance, I can hear all the partygoers slowly leave, saying goodbye to each other.
“Shouldn’t you be saying goodbye to everyone?” I ask.
He shakes his head and pushes me inside the playhouse.
“You could fix up the place,” I say, looking around. I’m trying to be funny, but the truth is that the little house and the dirt floor and everyone else leaving in the distance starts to make me feel kind of strange. The little house still smells like wood and mice and old paint, just like it did when I was six. I have a sudden rush of little-kid want. I want a popsicle. I want my dolly. I want to go home and take a nap.
Then it dawns on me. There is something slightly wrong with this scenario. It’s not what I was expecting from Martin Evells. What did he think we were going to do in here? Play house like we did when we were little?
It doesn’t take long for me to get the picture. Clearly Martin does want to play house, but it’s a grown-up version we definitely never played before.
Before I know what’s happening, Martin jumps on me and starts rolling around on top of me in the dirt. He’s trying to kiss me, pulling at my hair and grabbing my green shirt. One of my pearl buttons pops off and rolls away. How much damage can my new shirt take? First spilled cola, now this.
I’m starting to get mad.
Now you might think I’d be afraid, but honestly I’m not. First of all, I think I mentioned I’m a good three inches taller than Martin, and much heavier. He hasn’t had his growth spurt yet, and I’m most of the way through mine. By the time he starts growing and I stop he’ll end up a lot taller than me, but right now, right here in this particular predicament, I definitely have the upper hand.
So I have no choice. I smack that boy hard. I give him a full-barrelled wallop right upside his head, and I make good contact, too.
He grunts in surprise, and says, “Jeez, Gwen, what’s the matter with you?”
I say “What’s the matter with you, Martin? Is this how you treat your guests?”
I get up to leave, and he swears. I push him on his behind and storm out of that playhouse. That’s one childhood sanctuary ruined forever, thank you very much, stupid Martin Evells. I’ll never remember all those innocent afternoons playing in that house the same way ever again.
I stomp off across his backyard. I can hear him picking himself up in the little house and he starts chasing after me across the grass. I pick it up a little and am just about at the back gate. Everyone is gone now, and the house is dark except for the kitchen light, which is on.
As I put my hand on the latch, he grabs my arm. He isn’t too gentle, either.
I snatch my arm back and get ready to plough him another one, even harder this time. I’m getting really angry, now, angrier than I’ve ever been in my life.
“I swear, Martin, you touch me again and I’m going to hit you into tomorrow,” I snarl.
“Sorry, Gwen. Honest, I thought … I thought you liked me?” he says, kind of embarrassed.
I start to create an answer to this, something along the lines of, “Well, that’s beside the point here. You don’t just jump on a girl no matter how she feels about you,” but I never really get the chance. With all that surprise and anger building up inside me, I kind of lose control.
I realize as I’m shouting into his face that his look of surprise is rapidly changing into a worried look, which then pretty much turns into a look of all-out terror. He’s staring straight up at me with his mouth open.
I’m shouting down at Martin Evells, because I’m floating off the ground, just above his head.
Clearly this isn’t ideal. The situation gets away from me a little, and it isn’t exactly what I hoped for at my first party. But there isn’t much I can do about it now.
I look down at him right in his very astonished eyes, and I say as calmly as I can, “Next time you try to kiss a girl, stupid, you better ask her first!”
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