Freaking Freak Page 3

  Neatly draped across this worn satin in such a precious yet aged box, the gloves shine out as something new, vibrant – alive.

  I reach for them – eagerly.

   

   

  *

   

   

  Chapter 9

   

  As I’d come to expect of Jackie in the little time I’ve known her, she’d first presented the gloves to me with a suitable air of mystery.

  ‘We all like to think we possess special, hidden powers don’t we, Jill?’ she’d said, looking back at me as she stepped over to the unevenly painted set of drawers placed against her bedroom wall.

  ‘Powers? What sort of powers?’ I’d asked, intrigued enough to turn away from the photographs of Jackie at her previous school, which had drawn my attention on first entering the room.

  The photographs showed a Jackie I didn’t know. A dazzlingly pretty, popular, laughing Jackie. The Jackie she must have been before she moved here.

  She wasn’t a freak because she was looking for a way of hiding the fact that – underneath all that heavy makeup and those ancient, ungainly clothes – she wasn’t ever going to have much luck with the boys anyway. She was a freak by choice.

  She’d deliberately replaced the pretty, fun-loving Jackie with a Jackie full of mystery and surprises.

  Who knows – perhaps it’s her way of compensating for parents who, like mine, didn’t seem to see a role for her in their lives. Like she’d been an ‘accident’ they were spending the rest of their lives attempting to put behind them, generally by ignoring the consequences as best they could.

  Then again, perhaps I was just reading my own experiences onto the fact that, according to Jackie, her parents were hardly ever around. They left her to get on with whatever she wanted to do, provided it didn’t intrude on their own chosen lifestyles.

  This common link between us reassured me that I’d been right to befriend her, despite the warnings of what remained of my friends that it was embarrassing to be seen with someone who ‘hangs around with freaks’.

  ‘Powers over boys, maybe?’ Jackie said in reply to my question, opening the drawer and taking out a beautiful if aged box.

  With that comment, she had me, she knew.

  What had originally drawn me to Jackie but that enigmatically whispered, ‘Jason could be yours’?

  How could she have known that I was so deeply, madly, foolishly in love with the new boy, Jason Withers?

  I hadn’t told even my closest friends. Not even Cath, and she’s my closest closest friend.

  Normally, of course, we’d all share our secret longings for certain boys who’d caught our eye. Giggling together, coming up with little schemes that would draw boy and girl together. Seeing ourselves as matchmakers with a surprisingly high success rate.

  But when it came to Jason – well, I did everything I could to hide my love for him.

  I was ever so careful not to stare, quickly averting my eyes whenever he was around.

  If he drew closer to our group, I would avoid him, leaving as soon as I could. Making some excuse why I couldn’t stay any longer.

  I treated him as if he hardly existed. The only time I spoke to him, it would be to scornfully cut him short, ridiculing him for thinking he was amusing us.

  It always went down ever so well with my friends, the way I could humiliate him like that.

  Only, he wasn’t ever really humiliated, was he?

  He’d just grin, like it was all a huge joke to him.

  Like he knew that, deep down inside, I was acting so ridiculously, so childishly, so petulantly whenever he was around because, like just about all the other girls in school, I couldn’t believe just how gorgeous Jason Withers was.

  The difference between me and the other girls was that, whereas they’d all resigned themselves to fruitlessly sighing and moping over Jase, I was pretty enough to flatter myself that he might, just might, find me attractive enough to go out with me.

  And so I lived in hope that, one day, someday soon, he’d have no choice but to finally declare his undying love for me.

  It was a day that never came. A day that seemed to be ever more unlikely the more I tried to make fun of him – to bring him down to a level where he must, surely, realise that I was good enough for him! – and the more he laughed at my attempts.

  He was so confident. So knowing.

  And me? I was naïve. Very naïve. Though I hid it well, I think.

  Of course, I was frightened of being found out. And I didn’t want him knowing that I was so naïve, naturally.

  Then came that day when Jackie, with the magical words, ‘Power over boys,’ opened this old, gorgeous box that she’d produced from her drawer.

  And, for the very first time, she showed me the gloves.

   

   

  *

   

   

  When Jackie had produced the gloves, I should have laughed, of course.

  What on earth could the connection be between an old pair of gloves and having power over boys?

  But then, just as now, I found it impossible not to gasp in admiration at their almost ethereal beauty.

  They feel so incredibly smooth. As if made from a mystical mix of silk and water. They’re also virtually weightless.

  And when you slip them on – they could be a second skin, so perfect is the fit.

  I have to hold back from moaning in pleasure. That’s how good it feels to be wearing the gloves once more.

  It’s ridiculous, I know. But the sensations of being in love, of making love, of being made love to, flood through you as if you’re experiencing it all for yourself, there and then.

  The touches you’re making. The touches you’re feeling.

  Even the sights. The tastes. The sounds.

  The explosions of pleasure that erupt inside you.

  It should be embarrassing, experiencing all this while standing in Jackie’s room. Standing right in front of Jackie.

  But she’s not there.

  I’m not there.

  I’m in Hollywood.

  Hollywood in its heyday.

   

   

  *

   

   

  Chapter 10

   

  On first wearing the gloves, I’d gone from girl to woman in a matter of minutes.

  My naivety, my lack of knowing, had disappeared.

  Even when I’d ever so reluctantly removed the gloves, that knowledge had stayed with me.

  I understood, at last, my allure as a woman. The nervousness, the insecurity of the girl, had gone.

  Do you know the difference between a pleasant smile and a knowing, inviting smile?

  I hadn’t known – but now I did.

  The eyes are the windows of the soul they say; and, believe me, they can transmit the power of that soul.

  Charming.

  Enchanting.

  Bewitching.

  Haven’t you ever wondered why a beautiful woman’s effect on a man is expressed in terms associated with witchcraft?

  Because it’s the irresistible power of a woman over a man.

  And boy, girls, what power we have!

   

   

  *

   

   

  So, you must be thinking; what went wrong?

  How could the world’s most entrancing, bewitching girl possibly fail?

  If you had all this charming, irresistible power, how could you possibly lose Jase?

  Well, it had all worked beautifully at first, of course.

  Just over an hour after wearing the gloves, I came across Jase as he was heading on home after an evening’s athletic practice at school.

  His hair was still a little wet from the shower, still a little tousled. His skin shone with the afterglow of exertion and the exhilaration of reaching personal bests.

  He smelt fresh, new, reborn. Even, somehow, vulnerabl
e.

  He was beautiful. And I wanted him.

  I felt no shyness. No embarrassment.

  I felt only incredibly desirable, as if I were seeing myself though his eyes. Recognising at last that – to him – I was every bit as unattainably beautiful as he appeared to me.

  I smiled.

  That’s all I did – I smiled.

  Smiled knowingly. My head slightly lowered. My eyes confidently looking up into his.

  It was a look that said everything I needed to say.

  And after that, it was all just so incredibly easy.

  He’d asked me out, said he’d been trying to pluck up the courage for ages. But he’d been scared I’d turn him down.

  Ironic, right? If he was telling the truth, that is. Which I doubted, as I’d heard he’d said that to girls before, only to callously dump them a couple of weeks later.

  Still, going out with Jase was everything I’d imagined it would be.

  Nights at the movies or in coffee bars. Days hanging out together in the mall, or just out on the streets. Getting together on school breaks. Making eyes at each other in the classes we shared.

  We were the school’s golden couple. Everyone wanted to hang around with us. Even those friends from my original circle who had deserted me.

  Of course, they all thought that now I was going out with Jase I’d finally see sense and ditch Jackie as a friend.

  Jase even got a little angry about it at times.

  ‘Why’d you let freaksville tag along? She looks like something out of the medieval dead. Like she’s got the plague or something.’

  But I wasn’t going to leave Jackie.

  How could I?

  See, the effect of the gloves, it turns out, wasn’t permanent.

  And so, every now and again, I’d feel my confidence waning.

  ‘You okay, Ji?’ Jase would ask innocently (he called me Ji rather than Jill). He’d look at me closely, as if he’d noticed something odd about me. ‘You don’t seem your self today; seem a bit, I don’t know – distant?’

  It was true. I wasn’t as at ease with myself anymore; wasn’t as at ease with Jase, in fact.

  Of course, Jase had got used to me setting the agenda, whether it was the way I’d be the one pulling us together in a fierce embrace, or urgently drawing him towards me for a long, lingering kiss.

  I normally enjoyed feeling his arms wrapped around me, relished the way every contour of our bodies seemed to naturally complement and meld together. We were the perfect couple, made for each other, fated to be one with the other.

  Then, gradually, I’d begin feeling a little more insecure, a little less worthy of being Jase’s girlfriend.

  I’d be edgy, worried that he’d discover my nervousness, my sense of inferiority, and be appalled by it.

  I’d shrug off his touch, his caresses.

  (Crazy, I know; but my confidence was shot to hell once again. This was a guy who’d originally managed to ignore me for what felt like eons, remember?)

  His laughter cut through me, like it was directed right at me.

  Then, I knew, I needed the gloves once more.

  Problem was, each time I asked Jackie if I could wear the gloves, she seemed to take an increasingly perverse delight in coming up with excuses for why I couldn’t have them ‘just yet’, or ‘this week’.

  ‘Mum’s got them for a while; they’re really hers, after all.’

  ‘Dad gets angry if he finds out I’m always letting my friends wear them. He says they’re worth a lot of money, and we should sell them.’

  ‘They look ageless, Jill, but they are ancient; they’re much more delicate than you seem to realise!’

  Yeah, she’d really put me through the ringer before finally giving way and bringing the gloves out for me.

  I’d gratefully slip them on; then I was fine again.

  I was the Jill that Jase had come to know and love once more.

  I was ridiculously confident. I was truly gorgeous. I was simply irresistible.

  Everything was just right.

  What could go wrong?

  And that, of course, was your question, wasn’t it?

  What went wrong, naturally, was Fiona.

  Because, unlike me, she didn’t need any gloves.

  Fiona was naturally irresistible.

   

   

  *

   

   

  What made it all so much worse was that Fiona turned up just as my own self-belief was rapidly waning.

  I needed the gloves – desperately.

  But Jackie’s excuses for keeping them from me were more strident than ever.

  ‘They’ve disappeared; they’re not in my drawer. Mum must have loaned them out!’

  ‘A friend from my old school insisted on borrowing them for a while! You’re not the only one who appreciates them, you know!’

  And even:

  ‘Look Jill, you’re just imagining that they’re helping you! There’s no real magic there; I was only ever joking!’

  I begged, I pleaded.

  I was growing frantic.

  Innately sensuous, instinctively seductive, Fiona was working her own breed of magic on Jase. She was effortlessly drawing him out of my arms and into hers.

  By the time I’d finally persuaded Jackie to let me have the gloves, I knew it was too late.

  Jase was spellbound. (See? Yet another term associated with witchcraft.)

  I’d never get him back now.

  He was entranced.

  And my own particular spell over him had been broken.

   

   

  *

   

   

  Chapter 11

   

  Now, as I once again wear the gloves, I’m filled with regret – and yes, quite a lot of anger to be honest – that Jackie hadn’t let me use the gloves earlier.

  If she had, I might, just might, have been able to save Jase from the captivating Fiona.

  As it was, I didn’t, of course. And so that wonderful life I’d imagined me and Jase sharing together isn’t to be, either.

  Instead, that wonderful life is going to be lived by someone else. Not me.

  I’m on my own.

  He’s happy. She’s happy.

  Me, I’m miserable. Abandoned.

  The happier they are, the more miserable I am.

  And why? Why am I suffering like this?

  Was her love for Jase really as strong as mine?

  Would she really feel, like I feel, that I can’t live without him?

  That I can no longer live without him?

  Is that the only way to make him realise what he’s missing? To show him what he’s so callously cast aside?

  A love for him that’s so strong that I’m prepared to let him enjoy his happiness with her.

  There’s only one way to end all this agony, I feel.

  I need to end it all.

  To end my life.

   

   

  *

   

   

  This is odd.

  I’m struggling to understand what’s happening here.

  I’m so immersed in my own bitter thoughts that I’m not letting the gloves work their magic on me.

  I’m just letting my morbid imaginings cloud the experience.

  Wearing the gloves has never worked like this before, where there’s a confusing mingling of Hezzy’s life and mine.

   No, wait! That’s not true.

  The last time I wore the gloves…yes, I remember now!

  Then, too, I was letting Hezzy’s experiences become confused with my own ridiculously resentful thoughts.

  They weren’t as obvious then; but they were there. I realise that now.

  He’d realise, too late, that he couldn’t live without me.

  Yes, yes; that’s what I’d been thinking.

  And now I’m thinking it again, only plainer, and more obvious this time.
br />   He’d be heartbroken. He’d hold himself responsible. He’d cry over my coffin, my lifeless corpse inside.

  Yes, yes! You’ll regret leaving me!

  You’re to blame that I took my life Gary!

  Gary?

  What?

  What is going on?

   

   

  *

   

   

  I’m struggling once again, struggling to pull myself free of the intense emotions I’ve been wallowing in.

  Now they seem cloying, entangling, as if I’m attempting to regain consciousness from a terrifying nightmare. A nightmare that’s confused me so much I no longer know where any grounding in reality lies.

  But I need to ask Jackie a question.

  It’s an important question.

  It bursts out of me, as if I’m gasping for air after being immersed in a deep pool.

  ‘Why did your grandma die so young?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Jackie answers nonchalantly. ‘A man, Gary somebody or other; you can’t trust them, ever.’

  And, like the final breaking of a dam, Hezzy’s suicidal bitterness floods through me.

   

   

  *

   

   

  Chapter 12

   

  I urgently wench off the gloves, no longer worried about tearing them.

  ‘The gloves! The gloves made me suicidal!’

  Jackie stares at me like I’m crazy.

  ‘The gloves? You can’t blame them for that!’

  She grins, but it’s a weird, strangely lopsided grin. Like one half of her face is drooping.

  ‘You okay?’ she asks curiously, noticing that I’m suddenly gawping at her in horror.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I croak nervously, ‘but…your face! It’s–’

  ‘What?’

  Her eyes wide with terror, she raises her hands to her face, urgently feeling the contours.

  ‘No, no, no!’ she wails, her eyes wider with fear than ever. ‘You have to go! Now!’

  Lowering a hand, she begins to almost push me towards the door in her urgency to make me leave. She’s hiding her face from me, dipping her head and shaking her hair forward like a frizzy curtain.

  ‘What’s happening Jackie? What’s going on?’ I demand anxiously.

  As she rushes me towards the door, something drops away from her covered face.

  It lands on the floor.

  It’s flesh.

  It’s a finger.

  ‘My God, Jackie! Have… have you got leprosy or something?’

  I’m so shocked, I stop to stare down at the finger lying on the floor.

  Seeing the finger, Jackie begins to wail miserably once again. She pulls her hand away from her face, stares at it in disbelief – and another finger topples free. Dropping to the floor, it lands almost alongside the first one.

  Jackie glowers at me with eyes full of hate.

  ‘You fool, you fool! You’ve ruined everything!’