Noah Can't Even

by Simon James Green

  He handed it over in a daze and tried to work out what was happening. He wasn’t sure if this was pity or actually genuine. He made a mental checklist of the evidence so far:

  Being nice ✓

  Leg touching ✓

  Playful pushing into side of sofa (technical term: horseplay) ✓

  Invite to party ✓

  Offer of mobile number to allow more contact ✓

  It was, on the face of it, pretty positive. There was even a slim chance she might fancy him. He wasn’t sure how he really felt about that… It was something approaching panic, which wasn’t great, but he guessed it was just first-time nerves or something. If Sophie did like him, maybe he should like her back? Then he would be a normal boy, doing normal things, and everyone would forget about his mum… Maybe his dad would get to hear that he was dating a girl and he would think, Oh, that’s cool and normal, I’ll come back, then. Perhaps, he thought, he should say something nice back. Something that maybe hinted at the fact he maybe quite liked her. What, though? You’re nice was lame. Pretty. That just sounded creepy. I really like you might be pushing it too far; no one likes someone who’s too keen. She handed back the phone and his eyes were immediately drawn to the second half of her number… 4412144… Something about those numbers…

  You’re very kind and sweet… (Urgh! Vom!)

  4412144

  Me and you, it could be great! (Cheesy.)

  … 4412144… That number…

  Be with me always – take any form – drive me mad! Only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you! (Words by Emily Brontë, but delivered with heart and meaning by Noah Grimes, so maybe the best choice?)

  It was palindromic! 4412144! The second half of her phone number was palindromic!

  “I LOVE palindromic numbers!” he squealed.

  She looked at him weirdly and managed a half-smile.

  Arse! He’d actually said that, hadn’t he? Oh God, you even sounded genuinely excited! She shook her head, turned to him and looked really serious. He’d made himself look like a complete unshaggable geek, he knew he had. Why, when she had been so nice and possibly flirtatious, was this the best he could do? “I love palindromic numbers!” What was wrong with him?!

  “That’s great, Noah, and yeah, palindromic numbers are … really cool.” She nodded, unconvincingly. “Um, look, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but…”

  Noah closed his eyes briefly. He knew the sound of bad news when he heard it, and this, this was about to be bad news.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He took a deep breath and composed himself. Nothing ever went right. “What is it?”

  “I’m leaving,” she said.

  “What? Now? But what about the…”

  “No. Next week. For ever.”

  He blinked in confusion. “What?”

  “I’m having to move house,” she explained.

  “But … where to?

  “Milton Keynes.”

  “Moving house. I see. Huh,” he said, trying to keep his voice neutral-sounding while he let the enormity of the situation sink in. Bloody brilliant. Milton Keynes. Somewhere miles and miles away from there. Of course she was.

  “So, you know my folks got divorced years ago, right? And I stayed with Dad here because Mum’s job meant she was based in Milton Keynes and working away a lot?”

  “Yes, right.” He had no idea about any of that.

  “So now Dad’s got a promotion at work that involves him spending loads of time abroad, and Mum’s not travelling as much from Milton Keynes, so they’ve decided the best thing is for me to go and live with her…”

  “Really?”

  “I know, right? Like I can’t possibly look after myself! I mean, I’m only sixteen; how will I know how to brush my teeth or shower or even make toast? Never mind that my dad’s not even capable of operating Netflix, rebooting the internet or understanding the washing machine programmes, so I do everything anyway. I’ve told them it’s crazy, especially with GCSEs coming up in May and everything, but it all fell on deaf ears.”

  Noah nodded and tried not to show his devastation. Was this some sort of cruel joke? What sort of All-Powerful Being would dangle all this hope and possibility in front of him and then whip it away again?

  “We can keep in touch,” she suggested.

  Oh yeah, that sounded really good, he thought. “Keep in touch.” That sounded full of promise for potential snogging and social redemption. Damn Sophie’s dad! Why couldn’t he just decline his promotion and stay in Little Fobbing?

  “So, what’s it like in Milton Keynes?”

  “It’s OK. There’s a multiplex cinema, a theatre,” she said, playing it down like any of these things didn’t make it a billion times better than Little Fobbing. “Indoor ski slope, shopping centre…”

  “Cool,” he nodded, knowing damn well that he would never hear from or see her again, like everyone else who moved away. She would be too busy skiing indoors and having frozen coffee drinks in shopping centres.

  “I just thought I should tell you that. You know…”

  “OK.” He cut her off before she could say, “Don’t get your hopes up about the chance of any romance.”

  She turned towards him, put an arm across his shoulders and gave him a little cuddle. I should definitely cuddle her back. To show I’m keen and like cuddling. But where do I lift my arm? I can’t hug her across her boobs. And round the stomach is weird. So that only leaves the neck. Can you hug someone round the neck? Oh. She’s stopped now.

  “Maybe I should get going,” she said.

  “What about the homework, though?”

  “It’s easy. We’ll be against the proposal. We’ll talk about how the new supermarket will decimate local shops, kill the high street and ruin community spirit. It’ll increase traffic and pollution whilst eroding the distinctive identity of the town. Faceless corporate giants versus independent, diverse and ethical trading. We’ll stand up for the little man. Someone’s got to.”

  Noah nodded and smiled. There was every chance their presentation would be ace. Ace, yet tinged with massive sadness, as the person who had made it ace would be leaving just hours after it was delivered.

  “If you can do some case studies on similar proposals in other towns, I’ll research some actual employment statistics to show the overall adverse effect on the labour market. We’ll busk it from there,” she continued. “And I’ll come by at seven tomorrow to pick you up for the party, yeah?”

  “Is there a dress code?”

  “Noah, it’s a party. At someone’s house.”

  “Like, casual?”

  “Yes. Like, casual. Like any other party you’ve been to.”

  “Sure,” he said, doubtfully, wondering if the ones with jelly and pass the parcel counted.

  “Laters, then,” she said, standing up and collecting her belongings.

  “Er, yeah, laters,” he replied, the word sticking in his throat it felt so out of place.

  He showed her to the door, and she breezed out. A really nice girl had been really nice to him. He felt he could justifiably call her a friend. Not only that, she hadn’t completely knocked the idea of romance on the head. She had merely announced she was leaving for a faraway town and he would probably never see her again.

  It could definitely be worse.

  And Sophie’s very presence in the house … it had somehow made life seem more joyful. Lighter. He sighed and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with…

  AAARGH! What was that … stench?! Jesus! He flailed around, watering eyes eventually settling on a device that was plugged into the wall. What vile thing was this? He bent down and pulled it out of the socket. “AirDivine: Essence of Passion Flower.” So! His mother, complaining as she always was about never having any money, had seen fit to purchase some sort of air freshener. God forbid the air should be made clean and wholesome by her not smoking or maybe addressing the blocked drains and obvious damp issue. No, better to douse the house in a h
eavy dose of chemicals that would probably trigger an asthma attack. Heartless old crone. He tossed the device into the bin and returned to the lounge just as his mother came through the front door.

  “From Barry at the Red Lion,” she said, dropping a carrier bag of raw mince on the table and slinging her fake fur coat on the back of the armchair.

  Noah looked despairingly at the mince. His mother liked to be paid cash in hand for her gigs. When that wasn’t possible for reasons of accounting and bookkeeping, it wasn’t unusual for her to receive payment in kind. Catering-sized portions of meat, vast tubs of ketchup and sometimes even cases of beer all regularly made an appearance. Whatever else he and Mum might want for, they would certainly never go hungry.

  “Pity he didn’t give you teabags,” he muttered.

  “What you prattling on about?” she asked, lighting a cigarette and taking a deep drag.

  “We’re out of teabags.”

  “Well, what do you care? You don’t drink tea,” she said, adjusting her hair in the mirror above the gas fire. Her hair looked different, but he couldn’t quite place it. Was it blonder? A bit more styled? Hard to tell through the fog of cigarette smoke.

  “I had a guest round who wanted a cup of tea, actually.”

  “Harry’s drinking tea these days, is he?”

  “It was Sophie,” he said, nonchalantly, in the hope she might leave it there.

  His mother blew a long plume of smoke out through her mouth and fixed him with one of her piercing stares. “You had a girl round?”

  “Mum…”

  She immediately scooted round the table and sat down next to him, wiggling her finger in her ear, pretending to dislodge the wax. “I don’t think I heard correctly, say that again.”

  “Mu-um! Stop making a big deal out of it…”

  “Oh my God. It’s finally happened. The hormones have finally kicked in, haven’t they?”

  “It’s not like that.” He hated talking to her about anything like this. She’d once tried to have a chat about puberty with him. He stopped her at the first mention of “testicles”. It just wasn’t on.

  “So, tell me about this Sophie! Is she pretty?”

  Noah rolled his eyes. Even though he’d been at school with Sophie since they were five, his mum didn’t know who she was. And even though it was a small town with a small population and even smaller number of teenagers, she still didn’t know. Because his mother was entirely selfish and wholly wrapped up in her own little world. Other than Harry, she didn’t know who anyone his age was. “Mum! All I said was we’re out of teabags. That’s all. What’s for tea?”

  “I don’t know. I’m popping out, to be honest. Why don’t you boil yourself up some mince?”

  Noah wrinkled his nose. “I think I’ll go and see Gran. Have my tea there.”

  “Up to you.”

  “Well, you know, it’s nice for Gran to have some visitors.”

  “You know I don’t like that care home. Smells funny. Plus, she’s your dad’s mum, so I don’t see why she’s all my responsibility, like every other damn thing!”

  “Nice, Mother. Charming. You’re a shining beacon of selflessness and charity.”

  “Oh, piss off, Noah. Have you kissed this girl, then?”

  “I’m going now.”

  “I’m taking an interest! Like all the TV programmes tell you to!”

  “I don’t care,” he said, grabbing his coat and heading out the front door. He was in no mood for her drivel. “By the way –” he turned back “– you’ll be pleased to know your stupid flyers have been pinned up all over the school.”

  “Oh, that’s good.”

  “No, it isn’t good. I’m a laughing stock.” It would take many years for him to forgive her latest idiotic marketing efforts. Thanks to her, his life had plumbed new depths of piss-taking and misery.

  “Well, you’ll just have to get over it. Do you think Alan Carter’s son got all moody when he had his business cards made?”

  “He’s an accountant!”

  “And I’m an actress!”

  “You are many things, Mother, but one thing you are not is an actress!” he hissed, opening the front door.

  “Hey! Hey, Noah?!” She threw him a massive bag of Skittles from her bag. “Catch!”

  “What are these for?”

  “Those ‘stupid flyers’ have already got me a few gigs, so I’m sharing the spoils.”

  He took a long, tight-lipped look at her. Did she really think she could get round him this easily? That she could make everything better with a big bag of Skittles?

  Yes, of course she could. Epic. He loved Skittles. “Hmmph,” he grunted, ripping the bag open and shovelling a handful in his mouth.

  “Love you!” she called out as he left.

  Bribery. It was just the kind of thing that confirmed for Noah that his mother was the worst.

  CHAPTER SIX

  He could hear “The Final Countdown” by Europe blaring out of his gran’s bedroom even from the far end of the corridor. Noah smiled to himself. She loved her eighties music.

  His knocking on the door yielded no response, so he cautiously opened it and poked his head round. “Gran? GRAN!” he shouted.

  “George? Thank God you’re here!” she said, spinning round from a small bag she was packing on the bed. Her grey hair was coiffed in her normal, elegant style, but she was bizarrely dressed all in black, like some sort of ninja. A ninja who was also wearing floral slippers.

  “It’s Noah, Gran.”

  “What?”

  “NOAH!” he shouted, above the din.

  “I can’t hear you…”

  He turned the music off. “I’m Noah, Gran.”

  “Peanut!”

  “Yes, Gran, Peanut.”

  It had been her nickname for him for as long as he could remember. He was maybe four or five and had exploded in a fit of rage in a John Lewis in Nottingham because he’d been denied the opportunity to purchase an iron.

  Not a toy iron.

  An actual iron.

  He’d wanted an actual iron that heated up and made steam and everything. His reasons for wanting it remained a mystery to this day, even to him, but at the time it had resulted in a full-on tantrum in the middle of the small appliances department, during which Noah had been so cross he tore most of his clothes off, flapping around on the floor like a dying cod.

  Security were called in the end, as the disturbance was putting off the diners in the store restaurant.

  “You’re a nutter,” Gran had told him on the way home. “You’re a nutty little nutcase, aren’t you, little Peanut?”

  “Peanut?”

  “Peanut! ’Cause you’re nutty and you’re small!” his gran had declared.

  And the name had stuck. At first he didn’t mind it, but now he was older he had hoped she would stop using it. And, if she must, could she not now choose a more exclusive and desirable type of nut? A cashew or pistachio, maybe?

  “Where’s George?” Gran demanded.

  “Granddad? He’s dead, Gran.”

  “Dead? DEAD? Oh, for bleedin’ hell’s sake…” she said, slumping down on the bed.

  “What are you packing for?”

  “I’m trying to escape, Peanut. They are keeping me here against my will. They’ve killed George, and they want to kill me too. It’s a conspiracy, you see. And you know who’s responsible? Your no-good father, my terrible son! This is his doing! He’s bribing them to keep me here! Bribing them!”

  “Gran, no one’s seen Dad for, like … ages,” he sighed.

  “You mark my words. He has put me in here to get his filthy, lying hands on my money. He’s greased a few palms to make it happen. How many times have I told you?”

  “Loads,” he admitted. But that didn’t make it true. It was her paranoia. She didn’t want to admit the real reason for her being in this place was that she couldn’t look after herself any more. It made him sad. Of course she would prefer to be in her own home. If only he
had time, if only he didn’t have to be at school, he would have gladly moved in there to look after her. He hated seeing her like this. Miserable, alone, often angry.

  “Do you know the code for the main entrance?”

  “No,” he lied, knowing she’d tried that escape route several times already, luckily to no avail.

  “Damn it. Damn it.”

  Noah sat down in the armchair while his gran, with no immediate escape options left, fished a box of jelly fruits out of her bedside drawer. She opened it, selected one for herself and then offered the box to Noah.

  “It’s horrible here,” she said, conspiratorially. “No, not an orange one. They’re my favourite.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” asked Noah, picking a red one instead.

  “At night, little boys break in and they hit my knees with toffee hammers.”

  Noah chewed his jelly fruit and tried to do a face that showed how awful he thought that was. He felt sorry for her. Losing your mind must be utterly horrible. But he felt the loss too, in other ways. He used to be round at hers most weekends, while his mum was doing her shows. Gran would make brilliant dinners, and then they’d watch Murder, She Wrote on telly. It was a really good telly, much better than the one they had. And she would cook proper food, with genuine vegetables, and they’d eat it at a proper dining table with all the correct knives and forks. She taught him how to fold a napkin like a swan and a million other social graces he would have had no idea about otherwise.

  But it was different now.

  Now, it was Noah who felt like the grown-up, and Gran who seemed like a little kid. He wasn’t ready for that. He still wanted Gran to tell him what he could and couldn’t do and when he had to go to bed and to give him sage advice about school and life in general – pearls of ancient wisdom passed down through generations. If Gran wasn’t able to do that any more, then who the hell would? Sure, there was Harry, but he was a kid too. Sometimes a situation just needed an adult. And Gran had been the only adult he could depend on.

  There was a knock at the door, and Gran quickly grabbed her dressing gown and wrapped it around herself. “Evening, Millie,” said a ruddy-faced matron, pushing the door open with a trolley of food. “Oh, hi, Noah. How are you?”