My Side of the Story

by Will Davis

  Mum leads the way to the hospital reception, where we find out Grandma's ward. Then there's this era of corridors and elevators in which people in blue pyjamas seem to be randomly wandering, probably lost. The whole place is totally creepy, but The Nun's loving it and keeps smiling like an idiot at all the nurses who obviously think she's retarded or something because they all nod and smile back at her.

  We find Grandma asleep in this contraption that looks more like a pony trap than a bed. But at least she's by the window, which is thankfully open, since the whole place stinks of decaying flesh.

  About not wanting to come, by the way. It's not that I don't want her to get well or anything, 'cos I do. In fact this may sound arrogant but I actually think I care about her way more than anyone else does, 'cos I reckon I've got the most in common with Grandma. I don't mean being old and shrivelling up or anything. I mean 'cos it often feels like we're both not wanted in our own home. It's like I'm just waiting to grow up and she's just waiting to keel. I know that she wouldn't like to be cooped up in hospital, but I also know that the last thing she'd want to do is force me to be cooped up there with her. And sure enough the first thing she says when she wakes up is, You didn't have to bring the children, Lois (and yes, we've all got bad names in this family).

  Mum's like, They wanted to come, in this voice that's, like, so unconvincing it's embarrassing.

  We all kiss Grandma in turn and The Nun takes her hand and sits there clutching it like this is supposed to provide some kind of pillar of support or something. If I ever end up in hospital and someone does that to me I'm going to squeeze their hand so hard I cut off the circulation and it has to be amputated.

  Anyway, we all sit around making earth-shattering observations about how cold the weather's getting, and then of course we all fall silent. It's like, totally awkward, and Grandma looks like she wishes they'd come and put her back to sleep or something. Finally, after pretending to fix Grandma's hair for several minutes, Mum goes, So Jaz, why don't you tell us about school these days?

  I find this pretty mean, since it's not my fault she can't think of anything to say and I don't see why I should be the one to suffer. But Grandma gives me such a look of hope I decide to make a stab.

  I'm like, Well … we're studying Shakespeare in English and, er, oil in geography. And um . . . that's it really.

  I run out of ideas. Mum glares at me with eyes that could fry. I hear myself continue, I can't understand why everyone gets married in Twelfth Night at the end. They do it in all his comedies and it just seems to me like it's a big whitewash.

  I sound like this total reject but Grandma nods enthusiastically like it's the most intelligent thing she's ever heard. The Nun rolls her eyes like she can't understand how I've managed to survive this long.

  I mean, why is that supposed to make everything OK? I go, It's like they've had all this fun running around and making mistakes and fancying each other, and then all of a sudden bang, someone comes along and says, time's up folks. Time to live happily ever after.

  I look around but no one seems to have a clue what I'm talking about or even to be listening, apart from Grandma. It's totally depressing. Then I look at Mum and the next thing I know is there are tears slipping out of her eyes and falling on to Grandma's hair. At first I think she must be, like, moved by what I was saying, but then Grandma looks up to see where the shower is coming from and Mum goes, I really thought I was going to lose you, in this wailing voice like she's just taken a breath of helium.

  Grandma's like, No, not this time, Lois, in this wise voice like the old master in Karate Kid.

  Mum turns away and goes to the window, where she presses her forehead against the glass. It's like she thinks she's trapped in here with us, whereas it's like, so the other way around.

  She's like, We need to talk.

  Then there's this moment in which the whole awkwardness of the situation seems to be like, making the air thicken or something. Then Dad, in this like, paranormal display of initiative, comes to the rescue. He taps me on the shoulder and nods his head towards the door like we should probably step outside. Since The Nun's totally immune to subtlety he practically has to prise her hand off of Grandma and like, personally escort her through the door.

  We hang out in the corridor playing dodge with this constant stream of fat nurses pushing tea trolleys and ga-ga patients in wheelchairs around. Dad looks like he's having the life slowly sucked out of him and I'm almost tempted to offer him one of his cigarettes. The Nun's like, It's so nice that Mum and Grandma are bonding over this. Then she decides she's thirsty so Dad sends her off with forty pence to look for a drinks machine.

  I'm like, What is the deal here?

  Dad sighs deeply, like he's holding up the world or something. He's like, It's complicated. Your mother's one of those unfortunate people who never got on with her parents very well, so it was a real shock for her when your grandpa died and Grandma had to come live with us.

  I'm like, Why didn't you just put her in a home? but he just shakes his head like I'm too young to understand. I'm properly curious now, and I kind of feel like it's all this big game of Cluedo and if I could just put the scraps together I could figure out what's going on. At the same time I'm kind of annoyed, because it's like, why can't he just tell me? The only way to respond is to say LIC GAS, but it's kind of sad because it's not like I haven't tried to. That's what happens though when people treat you like you're only half a person. It's like my parents think I'm this interesting experiment they've had together and are waiting to see if it'll work out. Maybe it's the same for everyone, I don't know, but I think it's pretty dumb.

  We don't go back in again so the whole trip was pretty much a waste of time as far as seeing Grandma was concerned, since we only saw her for about ten minutes. When she comes out Mum's got tears in her eyes still, and she says Grandma's asleep. On the way to the car Dad puts his arm around her and surprisingly she doesn't shove him away. She even leans into him a bit, and I give The Nun a glance to see if she's noticed, but she's far too busy concentrating on being a saint.

  But for a second it's actually like they're working together as a team, like the sort of team two married people are supposed to be, instead of these two arch-enemies who've been like, handcuffed to each other all their lives. It's kind of sad that by the time we get home Mum's feeling more like her real self, because just as she's about to get out of the car she looks around inside and goes, Lawrence, your car is absolutely filthy these days. If you're not going to trade it can't you at least give it a clean? and Dad's like, Why can't you just let me look after my own car? and Mum glares at him and they both go to opposite ends of the house. Which just goes to show that losers will always be losers.

  8

  Anyway, this section is all about Fellows. We're fast-forwarding a bit: it's a week after our visit to Grandma's, and also a week after my fight and make-up day with Al, and also a week after I saw Fellows and he slapped me and I punched him, and also a week after I drew Joseph aka Bull Face above an arrow pointing towards one of the cows on the junior-school collage in full view of him. So in case you haven't got the message yet, it's a week after all that.

  First things first. I've started meeting Al at the bus stop instead of her house, since the idea of another freak sesh with her creepy parents isn't much of a turn-on. She says she's working on their education, but she's not having much luck now they've found out about her sneaking out and have decided I'm like, spawn of Satan or something. It's lucky our parents don't get on 'cos otherwise I bet her mum would have called mine and then the shit would be really flying.

  Second thing is that at school I've been playing like this cat-and-mouse game with Fuck Face (which is what I rechristen him with Al after telling her about what hap­pened). It's pretty freaky stuff, 'cos him and the Tweedles have been leaving me notes with stuff like U R DEAD MEET and FAGS GO TO HELL creatively written on them. But he can't get me in class so long as I turn up right after the bell and leav
e the second it goes at the end, and I'm watching out like a laser for him and being especially careful round corners. Meanwhile someone's torn down the bit of the collage I wrote on (I wonder who) and, almost as though whoever did it was a large graceless beast with the coordination of a total spaz, they also tore down most of the rest of the collage in the process. The school's supposed to be launching an 'investigation', whatever that means. In our Monday morning assembly the headmaster, who's this ultra-fat blimp who tries to make up for it by acting like every single one of us is his very best friend, went off on one and called it a 'heinous act of barbarism' on 'what was a shining collective work of art'. When he said this last part the whole hall was full of people choking on their own tongues, and even some of the teachers sat behind him were studying the floor in a desperate effort to restrain themselves.

  The third thing is another person I'm avoiding like a virus is Fabian. Every time we see him me and Al end up walking in this massive circle so we don't have to cross paths. He looks kind of put out when he notices, which makes me wonder if I was supposed to think his whole freak show with the knife was cool rather than an indication of raving-mad loony disorder.

  But the biggest issue is Fellows.

  He arrives on Monday with this circle of dark blue on his face, inside which his left eye sits blinking like a target or something. Cue the usual jokes from the front-row lame-Os about him rescuing damsels in distress or secretly attending Fight Club. But of course I recognise my handiwork. He didn't ring my parents, which is a good thing, but neither does he make eye contact with me, which means when I sit there in class (back beside Al) it like, redefines the word awkwardness. To be honest I feel ever so slightly guilty. It looks painful, man. But he deserved it. You don't hit kids. Full stop.

  At least that's what I think to begin with. Then I speak to him a couple of days later. This is, like, a sappy bonding scene.

  It's after class, and I'm increasingly in guilt-ridden mode. I don't know if it's got something to do with the fact that Fuck Face might be lurking behind every corner waiting to blast me out of this life with his death breath, and if I've got like this subconscious urge to tie up all loose ends or something, but I decide the man has to be spoken to. He just looks suicidally unhappy of late, and his face still looks like he's been attacked by an eye-shadow-wielding maniac. I didn't know that I'd have that much effect, but still he won't look me straight in the face. Instead he lectures the class all lesson with this dry voice, which now sounds all cracked and like the hope's been liposuctioned out of it. Meanwhile he stares into the distance as if behind the far wall of the classroom there's this wonderful thing he can never have. He looks well depressed, and the fact is it's as killing for me as it is for him.

  Anyways, everyone has gone, 'cept for me and Al, and I eyebrow Al out of the room, like she needed telling. She's another reason I'm talking to him, since she reckons there are bridges to be rebuilt, and that otherwise this will come back and haunt me when I'm older. It's like, get a foothold.

  So I go up to the front desk, where Mr Fellows is shuffling his papers and doing a pretty foul job of trying to look busy.

  I'm like, Look, I'm sorry, OK?

  He looks up. I guess he thought I was going to say something else, or blackmail him or something, because the relief in his eyes is pathetic, but touching in a weird sort of way. I smile a little and his whole face lights up even more, like his skeleton's gone fluorescent under his skin or something.

  That's OK, he says. I shouldn't have hit you either.

  Yeah well, I begin. But it doesn't seem right to harp on about it, so I just shrug like as if to say who gives a fuck.

  He's like, I was trying to be helpful.

  I'm like, Oh right. Um . . . thanks.

  He's like, I know. I screwed it up. I was shocked that you were even at that place. It's for . . . older men. He pauses and looks at me closely, as if he's trying to put together a puzzle. Jarold, do your parents know? he says in this soft voice like he's afraid of waking some sleeping demon or something.

  I'm like, About you?

  No. About you. About your . . . sexuality? He's gone red as a beetroot.

  Kind of, I say. He's making me want to laugh, but I know from our last experience I should keep this urge to myself at all costs.

  Kind of?

  Yeah.

  He looks all sincere, and I have this sudden desire to tell him about that night when they found out. Then, without even realising it, I find that I've started talking. I give him a pretty condensed version.

  I think they're hoping it'll go away, I tell him, realising that it's the first time I've really considered it, and it's true – they are hoping it'll go away, like the measles or chickenpox. Either that or they think that maybe it'll develop into something healthier, like heterosexuality.

  Mr Fellows takes what I say very seriously. He positively bristles, and I remember the comment he made about his valid choice that started the whole punching business in the first place.

  Do you want me to speak to them? he goes very gravely. I could give them a call and arrange a meeting. Would that be helpful?

  I'm like, Er, no. I can handle them. Plus I know when Mum goes supersonic down the phone it's a real killer on your eardrums.

  I'd like for you to think of me as a friend, says Mr Fellows, I'd like for you to come and tell me when you have any problems.

  At this point he oversteps the mark and things get a little too cutesy-poo for me, so I'm like, Sure. Whatever. Bye.

  And that's that. Only next time I see him Mr Fellows doesn't look any happier. Or the time after that, though this is Thursday now and his bruise is hardly visible any more. I kind of realise that maybe I was being a bit arrogant to think that I was the problem. In fact, it's obvious what the real problem is - the poor old git's lonely as. I notice that he never really talks to any of the other teachers, which I wouldn't want to do either, but hey, this was his choice of profession. He eats his sandwiches alone in the classroom after we've all gone, and trudges off after school all on his lonesome.

  Me and Al watch him all week. I mean, he's kind of fascinating. We try to figure out which of the other teachers know. Fatty, the headmaster, blatantly can't - It's just not possible, I say - though Al reckons he must do. Fellows is open with everyone, she says like he's this super dude she aspires to one day be. Actually it's funny, 'cos Al really starts to like Mr Fellows, almost in a creepy stalker sort of a way. She gets this thing about him being unhappy, and she makes a point of always saying hello to him in this ridiculous bright voice every morning. He says hello back but looks totally freaked out by this greeting, which is understandable since it's a totally weird thing to do. I tell her to stop speaking to him when I'm around. In fact I start to wonder if she doesn't have a crush on him. It's like, impossible, but I don't know how else to explain her behaviour. Trust Al to get a crush on someone with whom she'd only stand a chance if she had a lot of surgery and he had a lot of alcohol.

  It's Friday morning, and we're having a cigarette behind the bike shed. Al's sucking on the butt while I keep a careful watch at the corner for anything shaped even vaguely like Fuck Face.

  So I'm like, What is your deal with Fellows?

  Al's like, Nothing, I just think it's really sad that he doesn't have anyone. It must be really hard to get a man when you're in his shoes.

  I'm like, Like whatever, since it can't be any harder for him to get a man than it is for someone like Fatty the headmaster to get a woman, but I don't see her bursting her guts with sympathy for him.

  But Al's like, I feel seriously sorry for him.

  I'm like, Brother.

  Then she goes, You ought to as well, as though I've got this special connection with Fellows now or something. It's like, Return to this planet, please.

  She's like, He probably just needs a push in the right direction. We should totally go and offer him our support, in this sugary voice which she does when she gets all romantic.

 
; I'm like, Vom.

  We should!

  And little do I know it but seeds of this terrible plan start germinating in her brain, and it's not long before she's worked out this whole scheme for getting us into serious trouble. That comes this evening. But before that comes Fabian, who must have been watching us from a bush and waiting to ambush me, because the second Al heads off to buy us some gum he materialises behind me like a ninja assassin. He actually comes up behind me and puts the knife against my neck and goes, So how's my favourite faggot today?

  At first I'm, like, totally gobsmacked, but then I feel kind of annoyed. Thing is, maybe it's because of the whole nicotine rush but I kind of know he's not really planning on cutting my throat. And having Fuck Face the hulk after me kind of makes Fabian seem about as scary as a mutant gerbil, even if he does have that stupid knife.

  So I'm like, Just fuck off, you freak!

  Fabian's like, Brave words. Brave indeed, but will they save you? in this old-world style of speech, like he's impressed at me actually using my mouth or something.

  I'm like, What are you, Yoda?

  He's like, You've got a smart mouth. One of these days someone's gonna have fun cutting it all up.

  The freak then takes the knife off my neck and goes to the wall of the shed where he sets to work on carving out a swastika. While his back is turned I consider running, but it's like that would be an admission of defeat or something, and I can't be doing with that so I decide to stand my ground. I stare at his back, trying to see if I've inherited Mum's superpower of making stuff burst into flame by looking at it hard enough. Maybe it works a bit, 'cos Fabian turns round and gives me a funny look before going back to his swastika. Then he starts singing this totally stupid song that sort of goes like, Fuck the blacks, Fuck the whites, Fuck the women, Fuck the men, Fuck the cripples, Fuck the faggots, etc.