Tracey was Mike McAdam’s little sister. Which meant, by definition, she was chaos in eyeliner. Mike was the school bully — the kind of lad who’d copy your homework, then hand it in with “Robbie is an idiot” scribbled in the margins. Tracey had the same gleam in her eye, but with lipstick.
I met her at the Tennis Club. I thought I was doing alright — hitting the ball vaguely in the same postcode as the court — when Tracey shouted across, “You’re holding it like a mop handle!” Charming. Next thing, she’s showing me the correct grip, hand practically wrapped round mine, and I’m thinking, Is this flirting or just attempted manslaughter?
Tracey didn’t wait for darts. She invented her own system. Snooker balls. Each lad got a number, and she’d pot them in order. I was the black, apparently. “Save you for last,” she said, with a grin that made me want to check the pockets for sharks.
She was bold. Impulsive. One minute she’s leaning against the jukebox, telling me she likes my hair (a lie), the next she’s pulling me into the garage and asking if I’ve ever kissed someone with chewing gum in their mouth. (Answer: not successfully.)
Tracey didn’t want romance. She wanted mayhem. She’d drag me into schemes just to see if I’d go along. Sneaking into discos through the cloakroom window. Pinching pints from her brother’s lock-up garage. Once she convinced me to ring her house phone from the box outside just so she could appear dramatically in the doorway, as if by fate.
Did we kiss? Sort of. Once in her garage, surrounded by bikes, tools, and her dad’s suspicious Labrador. Half-snog, half-wrestling match. The dog licked my hand at a crucial moment. Tracey called it “atmosphere.”
She wasn’t a dart, she was a grenade. Pull the pin and hope you’ve got enough time to duck.
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