Losing It by Ross Gilfillan Read Free Book Online

exist.
    Prom night. Our latest American import and one which is fast becoming as ubiquitous as a Big Mac. It’s the new rite of passagefor upper sixth formers about to go off to university to encounter a whole new world of opportunity, drugs and debt. Like the long wedding scene in a DVD I saw called
The Deer Hunter
before Robert de Niro and Christopher Walken go off to get fucked up in Vietnam. But the lower sixth, that’s us, are here tonight to make up numbers and add to the takings on the door. The Prommers have to look the part, but we can go as we want. We’re not dressed up as headwaiters and their wives like they are, not this year at least, but that isn’t to say that we have spent any less time with our preparations for this big night. Maybe more, in fact. It’s all been about hitting the right note.
    I’ve really gone for it tonight, wanting to look my absolute best in case I end up (in some separate universe with two suns and a World Cup winning England squad) actually talking to Rosalind. It’s not something I’ve managed yet, though. She seems so beyond anyone I’ve ever known. She reads, for one thing. According to a glance I stole at the contents of her shoulder bag – it was hanging off the chair in front of my desk – she’s into writers whose names begin with the letter K, Kafka, Kesey and Kerouac it looked like, so I’m beginning to think she’s almost halfway through a very long reading list. She’s different, special. You can tell that from the space the other girls give her. And tonight, with a bit of luck and quite a lot of Tesco’s Value Vodka, I’m going to make her aware of Brian Johnson. I can’t see Rosalind and I’m thinking about the phone calls I’ve been getting from Clive’s dad. ‘Regarding Clive, Bri?’ he’ll say. ‘Any news on the cunt front?’
    He’s not threatening, but he’s persistent and he’s big and he has tattoos and it would show willing if I could somehow send Clive home with a girl tonight. Even an unconscious one would be something. I need to talk to Clive, who has been in a world of his own this evening. As an icebreaker, I compliment him on his decorating.
    ‘Fucking nice job,’ I say. ‘Like what you did with thewindows.’
    ‘Yeah, I had a right fucking time trying to team those fucking Designers Guild curtains with that fucking Farrow and Ball shade on the fucking walls,’ Clive says. ‘And trying to find fucking decent modular furniture within the budget of your average scrap dealer can be a right pain in the arse too.’
    I try to read Clive’s geezer performance as a hopeful sign and direct his attention to some girls in our class who are almost unrecognisable in their party clothes and slap. Cheryl Park’s red satin miniskirt, which only just covers her bum, draws an encouraging reaction from Clive. ‘Fuck me!’ he says. This is good, but it would be better if he weren’t looking at Patrick Nally’s well-stuffed packet.
    ‘I can have a word with her if you like,’ I tell him. ‘See if she’s up for it.’
    ‘Nah,’ says Clive. ‘You’re all right. There’s plenty of pussy here. I’ll make my mind up later.’
    The Prommers have had a couple of hours to get into party mode. Mr Stevens has relinquished the turntables to Andy Ottewell, who’s now amping the mood nicely. Mr Bembridge and Mrs Rochard have gamely taken to the floor to demonstrate how totally uncool dancing was in their day. Diesel is looking fairly uncool himself as he idiot-dances with Lauren Sykes, a silly grin spread across his face – not something that might be produced by oestrogen or Viagra, I decide. Faruk, who hasn’t had a drink in his life, is serving up his party trick: pretending to be blind drunk. This is something he does very well, becoming alternately belligerent, funny, morose and sometimes falling over. (The dead giveaway is that he hasn’t yet mastered the art of puking in the street and being abusive to taxi drivers.)
    Kids have