Noah Can't Even

by Simon James Green

  “You gotta say something,” Harry said. “What do you want to do?”

  He swallowed and sat down weakly on the bed. “I … I kinda want things to go back to normal. Or something approaching normal.”

  “Me too.”

  Noah breathed a sigh of relief. “’Kay. Good.”

  “But I can’t.”

  “What do you mean?” Noah said, a sting of fear stabbing his stomach.

  “I mean, yes, it would be great if things could just go back to how they were, but, being totally honest, I want more than that. I really … I really like you, Noah. More than just mates. I mean, I could kiss you now…”

  “We can’t!” Noah bleated. “My mum! She’ll be totally here any minute with the drinks, and she won’t knock!”

  “Chill – I’m not gonna do anything – I was just saying I would like to. If you wanted to. That’s all.”

  Noah put his head in his hands because it was all too confusing. “Oh, God,” he muttered.

  “I don’t know,” Harry said. “There’s something about you that I just want to…”

  “Shag?” Noah suggested, looking up.

  “I was gonna say ‘protect’.”

  “Oh,” Noah said, looking down again. “Well, why? Because I’m a bit short, or something? A bit weedy? I’m not some little mouse. I don’t need protecting.”

  “Sure.” Harry smiled. “I just meant, the way you see the world. Your, I dunno, your innocence. It’s nice.”

  Noah smarted. “My innocence? I’ve seen stuff on the internet! I’ve seen some pretty mature sites, if you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, well I think we’ve all looked at porn.”

  “Well, that is actually illegal, Harry. That is against the law. I was talking about news and current affairs sites, aimed at adults. They give a very raw and uncompromising view of the world.”

  “You’ve never looked at porn?”

  Noah looked Harry straight in the eyes and swallowed.

  “Refreshments!” his mum announced, barging into the room with a tray.

  He looked up – a teacup and saucer for Harry, actual sugar cubes with some serving tongs (where the hell were they from?!), a plate with a doily on it and a biscuit selection. There were party rings, Jammie Dodgers, chocolate fingers and pink wafers. Noah narrowed his eyes. Clearly his conniving mother had a secret stash of top-quality biscuits hidden within the house. He would find them. As God was his witness, he would find them. He would Jessica Fletcher it up, follow the clues, and find them.

  “Thanks, Mrs Grimes,” Harry smiled.

  His mum went, and they sat in silence for what seemed like ages, the tea going cold on the tray, the biscuits untouched – which was when you knew serious shit was going down.

  “Look,” Harry said, “I’m sorry to have caused chaos, and I know it’s confusing—”

  “Confusing?!” Noah said, springing up from the bed. Why did Harry assume he was confused? When Harry was ruthlessly decimating that Sylvanian Family, he had been barking on about “making assumptions”. But now who was making assumptions? “You assumed I wanted to kiss you, even though you knew I liked Sophie, and you’re now the one assuming I’m engulfed in some sort of sexual confusion over the whole thing!”

  “And are you?”

  “What if I didn’t want my first kiss to be with another boy? What if I didn’t want to kiss you?”

  “Then maybe you shouldn’t have kissed me for so long.”

  “It was the punch!”

  “Sure. Fine. I was a drunken snog. Brilliant.”

  Noah scowled at him. “You’ve had time to think about all this. You’ve had months or years or whatever. You sprang it on me and it was all KABOOM! This is happening if you like it or not.”

  “And did you like it? Or not?”

  He tried to control his breathing. Why was Harry trying to force an answer out of him? How was that fair? “I don’t know. All right? Happy? I don’t know.”

  Harry nodded, while Noah tried to work out if what he’d just said was actually some sort of admission that he might be gay. Well, whatever it sounded like, it didn’t matter. The truth was, he wasn’t sure if he liked the kiss, and he wasn’t sure about anything. If Harry had left him alone last night, he might have kissed Sophie. And then he might have liked that. And then this little chat would all be pointless.

  “Well, I guess just think about it and … see,” Harry said.

  “Right. I’m sorry I shouted.”

  “No worries. I deserved it.”

  “Take a Jammie Dodger. You can have it on your way home.”

  “Oh. Right, yeah, I should probably get going, then.”

  “OK. Cool.”

  Harry took a biscuit and went to the door.

  “What about school?” Noah asked. “We’ll get so much hassle.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Harry said. “Remember Zach Donovan from three years ago?”

  Noah nodded. “But the thing with Zach Donovan is that he was a six-foot-two football player with model good looks and everyone loved him. In case you haven’t noticed, most people don’t seem to feel that way about us. Plus, he went to uni shortly after he came out and hasn’t come back since. You can hardly compare the situation.”

  “What I’m saying is, people these days are more open-minded than you think. Anyway, who cares? We were seen holding hands – big deal! People have better things to think about, right?”

  Noah looked at him, doubtfully. “You’d better be right.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  “Let us pray.”

  “Our Father, who art the gay boy? Noah be his name…”

  Oh yes, “people have better things to think about.”

  “He makes Harry come. He gives him one. On earth as it is in heaven…”

  Noah looked over at Harry, a few rows down. He had his eyes closed and head bowed.

  It was almost all OK yesterday, or at least as OK as it could be when your best mate has snogged you and declared his undying gay love and you were like, That’s great, but I don’t know if I feel the same and now my whole life has been turned upside down. Cheers for that. But standing in Monday morning assembly, the eyes of the school on him, the red-hot gossip of the day, with some halfwits (who was it standing behind him?) making fun of him – it was quite clear the simple act of holding hands with another boy had unleashed a new form of total hell.

  “And lead him straight into temptation. Right into a gay bar. For Noah is a gay boy. Who likes to suck cock. For ever and ever. He’s gay.”

  “OK, sit yourselves down!” said Mr Baxter, head of year.

  The Year Elevens all shuffled back into their seats. Noah despondently plopped back down, straight on to a banana that the hilarious occupants of the row behind had placed on his seat during the prayer.

  “Awww – right up his arse!” said one of the lads. (It wasn’t.)

  “He loves it!” said another. (He didn’t.)

  “Oh, Harry! Do it to me!” sighed a girl. (Not a phrase he would ever use. He wasn’t a porn star with no class.)

  “Right, folks!” said Mr Baxter. “The Christmas Fayre is coming up…”

  Noah wasn’t sure what to do about the banana. If he pulled it out from underneath him it was bound to elicit further jibes from the knobs in the row behind. Yet to leave it there, when he had so obviously sat on it, seemed odd. There was also the fact the banana had been very ripe and had burst open on impact, the mush and juice now seeping into his trousers.

  “He’s still sat on it!” giggled the girl behind. “He’s getting off on it!”

  He glanced across at Harry again, who was staring straight ahead and clearly had no idea that any of this was happening. Right. That was enough. Screw them. Noah shifted slightly and reached underneath himself to extract the banana.

  “He’s gonna pull it out his arse!”

  “Dirty bastard!”

  “Noah, do you have ants in your pants?” said Mr Baxter, cocking an eyebro
w.

  Laughter. All eyes turned to Noah. “No…” he muttered.

  “OK. Well stop shifting about and sit nicely, then. If you can’t sit still on a chair, you’ll sit on the floor.”

  Noah sat still and bowed his head in shame while the kids behind pissed themselves over their brilliantly mature joke. The mush had even soaked through his boxers. He could feel it against his skin now. He was going to spend the day smelling of banana – probably the worst fruit of all to smell of.

  With Mr Baxter continuing to deliver exciting news about how this year’s Christmas Fayre was to be a German-style outdoor market affair, Noah very slowly moved his right hand under his bottom, so he appeared to be sitting on it. Ignoring the gasps of disbelief from behind (“He’s got his whole hand up there!”), he subtly attempted to scrape together the bits of banana that had pressed themselves to the seat of his trousers. As it turned out, the adhesive qualities of bananas were quite considerable. He needed more leverage. There simply wasn’t enough height between his bottom and the seat to get enough purchase on the banana skin. He was so deeply involved in the manoeuvre that he hadn’t noticed Mr Baxter was no longer talking, but was instead looking directly at him, horrified, as he apparently fiddled with his bottom. When Noah finally looked up he realized the whole room was back looking at him again. He froze, his hand still wedged underneath him, mid-grope.

  “You may well go bright red,” said Mr Baxter, giving Noah a look of utter disappointment. “Stand up, please.”

  Noah looked back at him with startled eyes. He really didn’t want to stand up. Couldn’t he just apologize and promise to sit still?

  “Noah Grimes!” Mr Baxter shouted. “If you still want to be on the prefect list for next year, STAND UP!”

  Noah sprang up, the adhesive properties of the fruit immediately failing, and clumps of banana falling from his bottom like elephant dung.

  “What the hell is that?” asked Mr Baxter.

  “I accidentally sat on a banana, sir,” Noah explained, desperately trying to salvage the situation by adopting a strategy of complete honesty.

  Noah was expecting laughter, but the room was totally silent. Horribly silent. Oh God. Noah knew exactly why. Everyone already knew about the gay holding hands thing, so they would be thinking this was just a natural progression. He must remedy the situation. He must explain. Else things would only get worse…

  “It’s not a sex thing, sir,” Noah ventured.

  Mr Baxter looked at him, aghast and silent, which Noah interpreted as an expectation of further explanation.

  “I wasn’t putting it up my bottom.”

  Somewhere, someone quietly said, “Oh my God.”

  “Right, Year Eleven – assembly over!” Mr Baxter shouted, suddenly jolting himself into action. “Everyone to classes now, please! Noah Grimes, remain here. And absolute quiet on the way out, please. Go!”

  Noah stood motionless as the lines of students filed out of the hall in hushed silence. He glared at Harry as he moved off with the line. Yeah, it was definitely all “fine”. It was going really bloody well.

  “OK, Noah,” Mr Baxter said, walking over to him as the last stragglers left.

  Noah swallowed in panic. “Will I still be on the prefect list? Because I can explain, I—”

  Mr Baxter put a hand on Noah’s shoulder. “Are you being bullied? Be honest. Tell me.”

  “Um, well…?” What was the best thing to do in this situation? Should he be a “snitch”, a “squealer”, a “grass”? Answer: yes, of course. Those fools deserved their comeuppance! “Yes, Mr Baxter, sadly I am. I’m unsure of the exact identity of the students behind me, other than they were from Form 5B, so I suppose the best thing might be to put the entire form group in detention, I don’t know.”

  “Listen, kids play pranks sometimes, they get high-spirited, there’s ‘banter’ and so on. But I want you to know you can come to me, OK? You can talk to me about it any time. I want to crack down on this sort of nonsense.”

  Noah looked at Mr Baxter. He was somewhere between thirty and sixty, Noah had no idea. He’d been at the school for ever, though, and had shaved his balding head, which gave him the slight look of a right-wing extremist. That was probably one reason why he was head of Year Eleven – he was terrifying when he needed to be. But now … he was being nice. Very nice. OK, he wasn’t really doing anything to help, but was making a show of caring. Why?

  “How’s … stuff at home? Everything OK?”

  Noah’s eyes widened. Why was he so interested in this? What was he getting at? “Everything is fine, thank you very much,” Noah said, quickly.

  Mr Baxter stood looking at him and smiled. “Hey, you like theatre? Plays?”

  Noah gave a tentative nod.

  “Great! I’m helping the English department organize the Year Eleven theatre trip. I was thinking … The Mousetrap?”

  Noah’s eyes lit up. “The Mousetrap? That’s an Agatha Christie, I love Agatha Christie!”

  “Yeah, I know,” Mr Baxter chuckled.

  “Excellent. That is an excellent choice,” Noah beamed.

  “Well, let’s make it happen, then. And pop in and see Mrs Peters at reception. She can, er, arrange for some lost-property trousers sans banana mush for you.”

  He patted Noah on the back and strolled off, humming. Noah watched him go and smiled. Maybe things would be OK after all, and a trip to London to see The Mousetrap would be WAIT A MINUTE HOW DID MR BAXTER KNOW HOW MUCH HE LIKED AGATHA CHRISTIE?!

  Noah looked around in panic, replaying the exchange. He’d said that he loved Agatha Christie. “Yeah, I know,” Mr Baxter had replied. “I know.” HOW DID HE KNOW? And why, WHY was he being so nice and … fatherly?

  Noah was totally channelling Miss Marple, Jessica Fletcher and Poirot, all at once.

  Was Mr Baxter his mother’s new man?

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Noah walked round to reception in a daze. This was all he bloody needed. If it turned out his no-good mother was dating the head of Year Eleven from school, he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions.

  Now he came to think of it, he remembered Mr Baxter had recently caused a stir by driving into the car park in his new two-seater convertible sports car. He was showing all the signs of a midlife crisis and was therefore exactly the unstable sort of man his mother would be naturally drawn to.

  It. All. Made. Sense.

  And then he shut his eyes because, horrifically, that would mean he had recently pissed all over his head of year. Brilliant.

  This insane relationship could not be allowed to continue. He must drive them apart. He must plant seeds of doubt in both their minds, and then water those seeds with the poison of paranoia.

  He wasn’t a bad person. This was for the good of all parties.

  They would thank him. One day.

  Mrs Peters was the surly woman who guarded reception (and photocopier access) like it was Fort Knox and, like most people who worked in schools, she utterly despised kids.

  “Mrs Peters? I’ve been told I have to wear the lost-property trousers,” Noah said.

  “You’re a Year Eleven, aren’t you?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t think we’ve got any trousers for Year Elevens. Year Elevens don’t normally wet themselves.”

  “Yes, but I haven’t wet myself.”

  “Why do you need the lost property trousers, then?”

  “I accidentally sat on a banana.”

  Mrs Peters scowled at Noah and went to hunt in the cupboard at the back of reception. She returned and flung a scabby old pair at Noah, who was dismayed to discover the label read “11–12 years”.

  “I think they’ll be too small,” Noah told her.

  She wasn’t listening. She was staring out through the glass doors of the main entrance. Noah turned to look, and watched as Josh Lewis from Year Thirteen walked by outside, in his rugby kit.

  Josh Lewis – captain of every spo
rts team. Josh Lewis – loved by the school so much they kept him back a year. Josh Lewis – heart-throb, prefect, role model. Girls loved him. Boys wanted to be him. Teachers adored him. He had gone through every step of puberty at precisely the right age. He had real stubble on his face and proper muscle definition that came from playing a lot of sport. He was so butch he could pull off wearing a square, glistening diamond stud in his ear, although Noah had noticed he hadn’t had it in recently – not that he had been obsessively checking or anything, because he definitely hadn’t.

  Josh waved at Mrs Peters, who gave a cheerful wave back, accompanied by a girlish giggle. Then her eyes refocused on Noah, her lip curling as she took in the complete contrast between Josh and him. Noah lifted the trousers up into her field of vision.

  “Sorry, Mrs Peters, but I’m worried these might be too small.”

  “It’s that or nothing. You’re pretty skinny, so they’ll probably fit,” she suggested, biting into a Weight Watchers digestive.

  “Right,” Noah sighed. “Well, thank you for your time.”

  Remarkably, the trousers did fit around the waist, although the legs were too short by a good two inches and the crotch was incredibly tight, displaying in vivid high definition his most private of regions. “Skinny fit” trousers might well be en vogue, but Noah wasn’t convinced they were meant to cut off circulation to your entire lower body.

  “Wow!” said Jess, looking at his crotch as he made his way to his seat in geography. “It’s got a bit X-rated in here!”

  “Nice penis, Noah!” someone shouted.

  “Jeez, that should be illegal, man!”

  Beyond caring now, Noah pulled his chair out from under the desk and flopped down on it, the trousers wildly constricting as he sat, slicing his testicles in twain whilst simultaneously ripping into his flesh from the top of his thigh and across the bottom. He gaped in agony as he felt his bollocks ricochet into his stomach and back again, trying to find someplace to be.

  “All right, Noah?” said Sophie, who arrived to sit next to him with a small pile of supporting papers for their presentation. “I’m looking forward to this; we’ve got a strong case.” She stopped and looked at him. “Are you OK?”