To Be Honest by Polly Young Read Free Book Online

being affected by mammatus clouds so that they’re sort of morphed into something — and sometimes someone. I read back in college about two people it happened to. Of course, it’s only been reported in America, so it’s almost certainly not true,” he rolls his eyes.
    “But — and you know I’m straight, Pheebs, so don’t get me wrong - if there’s one thing guaranteed to drive me wild it’s the thought of two men in control of each others’ bodies.”
    “Yes, Mr Morlis,” I say ‘cos it’s the first thing that comes out. “Or women.” It sounds all sarcastic and the women bit sounds weird, but that seems ok by him. He holds my wrist gently. “He’s a very tactile man, Mr Morlis,” I remember Mum saying to me once after parent’s evening. Some stupid bint in year 9 tried to claim abuse once but she was mental.
    Anyway, he holds my wrist with its lovely bangles and my eyes with his. “Science. It’s a wonderful thing.”
    “English is too,” I find myself saying, a bit teasing.
    “Let’s compromise on science with a bit of drama thrown in,” he says and he’s just joking now, definitely not flirting, he just likes her/me like I like Josh I think and I’m relieved and pissed off all at once but he’s let go of my hand so I look in my/Miss Mint’s bag for something to do.
    And I reach in ‘cos there’s not much in there, only a posh looking compact and a phone and keys and a pen and a neat-but-packed diary and no mess. But then there’s also a crumpled bit of paper with something on too; numbers. Which I open in the safety of the shady leather cave and then I’m shocked again, ‘cos I’ve seen this before yet I can’t believe it’s hers.
    * * *
    “Nearly home,” Mr Morlis says, as we cruise off the slip road.
    Kids start gathering bags from overhead lockers and waking up from a kip, even though it’s only seven o’clock. Honestly, you’d think someone had made them run round London for, like, six hours, not just do a spot of light window shopping and watch a play.
    Then again some of us have had the added stress of body swaps.
    Miss Mint — Lisi — looks knackered. And then I remember: Josh’s staying over. As we clamber off the coach, I grab his arm, forgetting I’m not supposed to, but luckily no one sees. Kids, I mean.
    The school car park’s crowded; steamy windows, little siblings slipping through traffic.
    “Miss?”
    “Are you staying at Lisi’s?”
    Josh looks round like he’s lost her, but she’s just behind, standing coolly, which is something I never would.
    “Think so. Lise?”
    I jump in. “Because ... your mother called, Lisi.” I see a flicker of understanding. “She left a message.” And I press a piece of paper, swiped from her diary, with a scrawl which just says my address and how to get home and where Josh sleeps on the other, into those nail-bitten fingers.
    She says thanks and I read mixed up panic and relief but then Josh’s nabbed her, jabbed her, is moving her on and she’s gone; swallowed up by the boy and the girls and the slick, dark wetness and the homing calls of parents.
    Someone taps me on the shoulder. Mr Morlis, hands deep in his parka, asking me for a drink.
    “... but I don’t want to keep you from Taff.”
    Oh, Jesus. I don’t know what to do.
    The logical thing would be go with him to the sweaty pub down the road from school. Teachers go there; ‘course they never mention it, say ‘library’ instead, as in, “Miss Anderson, we meeting in the library later?” when they pop their heads round doors, all tired looking on, say, a Thursday.
    But what about Taff?
    I remember the keys. My speed thoughts are immense: I’m a legend. I say:
    “My car’s broken down, actually. So could I possibly beg a lift?”
    He looks happy in a Mr Morlis way and we trudge over to his knackered old Ford. In the summer, Mr Morlis cycles — clips and everything — and I think he only drives if it’s really horrible so I’m lucky really he did