LIZBETH PRETENDS.

A 13YR OLD GIRL ONE SATURDAY IN 1961 AND HER THOUGHTS AND DESIRES AND WANTS AND IMAGINATIONS OVER A BOY SHE WANTS TO HAVE SEX WITH BUT WHO WON'T.

Lizbeth closes her bedroom door. Click closed. She leans against it. Back to wood. Her room is a mess: clothes, cup, glass, milk stained, books  left open, on floor, on shelf, small tea plate under the bed, soiled linen by the side of the bed cabinet. Her mother has moaned about the state of her room, nag nag, Lizbeth utters. She gazes at the room. The record player by the window. Scattered LPs. Elvis Presley, Fats Domino. Others less well known. None her parents like. Good, she thinks walking from the door, stepping over clothes, books, and sitting on the bed. Your brother never left his room in a mess, her mother had said, he always kept his room neat and tidy. She moves the cup with a foot. She'd just cycled back from the small village and seen Benedict and went to the small church. She had wanted to, but he didn't, least not there, he had said. It was rather a small place, out of the way, small pews,wooden. She was keen, he wasn't. We're only thirteen, he had said. She knew how old she was. The church was warm. Sunlight came through windows of the church, warmed them. Brass crucifix, white altar cloth. Might have been o.k, she muses, looking at the Fats Domino LP on the floor. I wonder if there is a Blueberry Hill? She says to herself. What a place to have a thrill. Tidy the room up, her mother had said, poking her finger at the door of her bedroom. Her mother's thin features, hawk like eyes, thin mouth that looks as if it was sliced across skin. Her mother's red hair, turning grey, brushed back, tied by ribbon. Nervous wreck. Likes things tidy, neat, in order, in check. She moans at her father, too. Either he's too late home or always around the place making a mess. He just smiles, gives her a glass of something, her tablets, rest your eyes, he says, on the bed. Lizbeth stands up from the bed and slowly picks up the books and LPs and clothes and puts the cup, glass and plate on the top of her bedside cabinet. The soiled linen she throws in the basket by the door. Five minutes at most. Done. Peace and quiet. She stares at herself in the long mirror of the tallboy. She grimaces, pokes out her tongue. Her red hair is shoulder length, brushed, loose. She looks at her freckles. Hates them. Her snub nose, thin mouth, white even teeth. She does a twirl, the dress rises, legs show. Not her favourite dress, but the shortest, shows more, angers her mother. She gazes at her narrow frame, small bust, narrow hips. She places her hands on her hips and does a wiggly walk to the mirror and back. The farm hands the other day, at the farm, where he was doing work after school, gawked at her as she went by. She could feel their eyes. Could smell the leer from them. But he had not been interested, even when she was in the hay barn with him and suggested things. No, he  had said, not here. And that time when he showed her his collection of bird eggs and bones in his bedroom and there was his double bed vacant, but no, he just talked about birds and the bones he had found in the woods. His mother had shown her in and was pleasant and knew they went upstairs, but nothing clicked, with him or his mother. At school she gapes at him when she sees him. Once she even considered pulling him into the gym, but he said no, he had to be elsewhere, and she stood there, fired up, burning inside, watching him go, giving him her stare. She's still a virgin. It boils in her like soup. Sometimes she senses she can smell the scent of it. A few months ago, when her brother came with his wife(scrawny b***h), they had his room back, and she would creep along to their room and put her ear to the door and listen in the dark. Noises, giggles, kisses. Bedspring. Her eyes grew large in the dark. Some girls at school still talk about girly things, pets, birds, dolls. One or two mention boys, having had a kiss or such, not much.  Most of the boys in her class are sexless. Not a clue what to say or do. Pretend, guffaw, imagine. She puts on the Elvis LP. Does a kind of dance. Twirls, watches herself in the mirror, her dress rising higher, legs, thighs. The only girl in the whole school(who she knows) who she can talk of such things is Mandy and she's laugh. Things she comes out with. Things she says she does. She says she had a big picture of Elvis on her bedroom wall until her father ripped it down and tore it in to small pieces. Should have seen his face, Mandy had said. Mandy was fourteen, big busted, black hair, blue eyed. Still a virgin, she had said in the dining hall, after their meal, bad luck. Lizbeth goes to the window and stares out. The garden is neat and the lawn well groomed. Her father is hoeing a bed. Her mother is downstairs having her umpteenth nervous breakdown over the Saturday dinner, she suspects. Elvis sings. Guitars and drums. She imagines bring him back here, the boy she loves or fancies or likes or whatever, and do it here. Right there on her single bed. Get rid of her virginity once a for all like chicken pox or whatever you have only once. But getting him by her mother would be nigh impossible. She'd have to blindfold her or drug her or whatever, to get him into the house, let alone her room and bed. But she can pretend, imagine it, set in place in her head, set it out in the room.  She looks at her bed, the two pillows, pillowcases, sheets, candlewick cover. She walks to her bed and lies down. Head on the pillows, arms folded, legs out straight, toes touching. She sighs. Elvis sings. Guitars twang, drums thump. She can't pretend or imagine, no sex for her, she's moody now, got the hump.