by Alice Oseman
I go downstairs. Mum is on the computer. I tell her good night, but it takes her at least twenty seconds to hear me, so I just head back upstairs with a glass of diet lemonade.
EIGHTEEN
BECKY IS WITH Ben Hope at school. They are together now. They’re together in the common room, and they’re smiling a lot. After I have been sitting nearby on a swivel chair for several minutes, Becky finally notices that I’m here.
“Hey!” Becky beams at me, but the greeting sounds forced.
“Morning.” Becky and Ben are also sitting, Becky’s legs up on Ben’s lap.
“I don’t think I’ve spoken to you before,” says Ben. He is so attractive that I feel extra awkward. I hate that. “What’s your name?”
“Tori Spring,” I say. “I’m in your maths. And English.”
“Oh, right, yeah, I thought I’d seen you!” I don’t think he’s seen me. “Yeah. I’m Ben.”
“Yeah.”
We sit there for a bit, him expecting me to continue the conversation. He clearly does not know me well.
“Wait. Tori Spring?” He squints at me. “Are . . . are you Charlie Spring’s sister?”
“Yeah.”
“Charlie Spring . . . who goes out with Nick Nelson?”
“Yeah.”
Instantly all traces of smarminess drop from his face, leaving only a kind of strangled anxiety. For a moment, it’s almost as if he’s searching for some reaction from me. But then it’s gone. “Cool. Yeah, I saw him around at Truham.”
I nod. “Cool.”
“You knew Charlie Spring?” asks Becky.
Ben fiddles with his shirt buttons. “Not closely. Just saw him around, you know. Small world, innit!”
“Yeah,” I say, and then mutter, “innit.”
Becky is staring at me with a strange expression. I stare back at her, trying to telepathically tell her that I don’t want to be here.
“Tori,” says Becky, “did you do the sociology homework?”
“Yeah. Did you?”
She grins sheepishly and glances sideways at Ben. They exchange a cheeky look.
“We were busy,” she giggles.
I try not to think about the connotations of the word “busy.”
Evelyn has been here the whole time, faced away from us, chatting to some other Year 12s who I don’t talk to. At this point, she spins around on her chair, rolls her eyes at Ben and Becky, and says, “Ugh, why are you guys so adorable?”
I look at her. She has a very peculiar hairstyle today, which only emphasizes her hipster originality. She is wearing chunky earrings, and her nails are black. I know that it shouldn’t matter what you look like, or how you dress yourself, and I try very hard not to judge her, but I am a very bad person, so I fail miserably.
I rummage around in my bag, find my homework, and give it to Becky.
“Just give it back in sociology,” I say.
“Aw.” She takes the piece of paper. “You are fabulous. Thanks, hon.”
Becky has never called me “hon” in my entire life. She has called me “man.” She has called me “mate.” She has called me “dude” a hundred billion times. But she has never ever called me “hon.”
The bell goes, and I leave without saying bye.
Lucas comes up to me at break while I’m sorting out my books at my locker. He tries to start a conversation and, to be fair, just because I feel sorry for him most of the time, I try really hard to talk to him. By “try really hard” I mean that I don’t just ignore him. I feel like his hair has grown since Friday.
We get talking about Becky’s party.
“Yeah, I went home kind of early,” he says. “You sort of disappeared halfway through.”
I wonder if he saw me with Michael.
“Yeah,” I say, looking briefly at him with one hand on my locker door. “Er, I went home too.”
He nods at me and puts his hands in his trouser pockets. But I can tell. I can tell that he knows I didn’t go home. There’s a short silence before he quickly moves on.
“I don’t know if she liked my present,” he says with a shrug. Then he looks at me. “I was always really good at buying presents for you.”
I nod. This is true. “Yeah, you were.”
“April fifth, yeah?”
He remembers my birthday.
I turn away, taking longer than I need to retrieve my maths textbook. “Well remembered.”
Another awkward pause.
“Mine’s October,” he says. He’s already seventeen, then. “I thought you might not remember.”
“I’m not very good at remembering stuff.”
“Yeah. No, it’s fine.”
He laughs. I start to feel a little dazed. When the bell finally goes for Period 3, the relief almost makes me pass out.
By fourth period, Solitaire has struck again.
The only website that the school computers are now able to access is the Solitaire blog, which is currently displaying a large photo of a topless Jake Gyllenhaal, beneath the following words:
Solitairians.
We have reached 2000 followers. Your reward is the destruction of all of today’s IT lessons at Higgs, à la Gyllenhaal. For those of you who do not attend Higgs, we are sure you will appreciate The Gyllenhaal regardless.
Patience Kills
The teachers are practically hurling people out of the computer rooms, and all IT lessons are canceled until further notice. I applaud Solitaire for its efforts.
Kent has decided to take things up a notch, and I don’t blame him. At the start of lunch I find myself walking into the Sixth Form office for a “student interview,” which is teacher lingo for “interrogation.” Kent’s there at his computer and Strasser’s there too, blinking enthusiastically. I slump into a chair. On the wall opposite there is a poster that reads TALK HELPS. This is very, very pointless.
“We won’t keep you long,” says Strasser. “This is a safe space. Anything you say in this room will remain anonymous.”
Kent gives Strasser this look.
“We just want to know if you’ve seen or heard anything that might be of any help,” he says.
“No,” I say, even though there’s the messages, and the C13 hack, and the meet-up. “Sorry. Nothing.”
I know that this is a lie. And I do not know why I lied. I just feel that if I say something about what I’ve seen and heard, that will make me involved. And I do not like being involved.
“Fine,” says Kent. “Just be on the lookout. I know you’re not a prefect, but . . . you know.”
I nod and get up to leave.
“Tori,” says Kent. I turn around. He gives me a look. A different look.
But then it’s gone.
“Be alert,” he says. “We can’t have things getting any worse.”
I’m scrolling through a blog in the common room at the end of lunch when Our Lot enter and sit at a table, having just come back from the cafeteria. Today that’s Becky and Lauren and Rita. No Lucas or Evelyn. I forgot to make myself a lunch and I don’t have any money, but to be honest, the thought of food is making me feel slightly ill. Becky sees me at the computers and comes over. I exit the blog and put up an English essay I haven’t finished.
“Why are you here by yourself?”
“I haven’t done that English essay.”
“What English essay? I thought we had that other homework!”
“The mini essay. The heroes in Pride and Prejudice. It’s due tomorrow.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s so not happening. I’ve started to realize that I’d much rather live my life than do work.”
I nod as if I understand. “Fair enough.”
“You saw my Facebook update, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She sighs and puts her hands on her cheeks. “I’m just so happy! I can’t even believe it! He’s, like, the nicest guy I have ever met.”
I nod and smile. “I’m so happy for you!” I keep on nodding and smiling.
“Like,
on Saturday, I texted him, like, did you mean all the things you said at my party, or was it just the drink talking, and he was like, no, I meant everything, I really like you.”
“That’s cute!”
“I really like him as well.”
“Good!”
She takes out her phone and scrolls through it and then waves it around and laughs. “I haven’t been this happy in ages!”
I hold my hands together in my lap. “I’m really glad for you, Becky!”
“Hehehehehe, thanks.”
We don’t say anything for a few seconds. We just smile.
“What did you do this weekend?” she asks, out of obligation.
I run my hand through my hair. A strand had been flicked over the wrong side. “Nothing. You know me.”
She keeps eye contact. “I think you could be a lot more outgoing than you are. You just, like, don’t try. If you tried, you could get a boyfriend really easily.”
“I don’t really need a boyfriend,” I say.
After a little while, the bell goes for afternoon Form and I wonder whether there’s even any point me turning up, seeing as my Form tutor really does keep marking me as late in the register. I’ve finished and printed that essay. Everyone goes off to their Form groups except me. I start walking to my Form room, but when I turn right, Michael walks past me, and seeing him makes me want to start kicking and punching things. He stops and asks, “Where are you going?” but I just walk out of the school gate and keep on walking. There is barely anyone in our dying town and it’s literally arctic temperatures, but I left my coat at school, and when I finally get home I am totally alone, so I get into bed and sleep until Mum wakes me for dinner, not having any idea that I ran away from school.
That evening, Charlie has an appointment with his psychiatrist at the hospital, and we all decide to go—Mum, Dad, and me—so we leave Oliver at home with Nick babysitting. Mum and Dad go in for a meeting first, leaving Charlie and me to wait in the visiting room. This is the first time I’ve been to the hospital since Charlie stayed here last year, and it’s still just as creepily optimistic. On the wall there is a big painting of a rainbow and the sun with a smiley face.
The adolescent ward has patients with every type of mental illness. Currently with us in the room is an anorexic girl reading The Hunger Games, and the irony of this is too cruel to laugh at. There is also a younger boy, perhaps thirteen, watching Shrek and cackling manically at everything Donkey says.
Charlie has not talked to me since Friday. But I haven’t talked to him, either. After several minutes, he breaks our silence.
“Why haven’t we been talking?” He’s wearing a loose-fitting checked shirt and jeans. His eyes are dark and dead.
“I don’t know” is all I can say.
“You’re angry at me.”
“I’m definitely not.”
“You should be.”
I fold my legs up on the sofa. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?” He leans on one hand. “Who is responsible for this?”
“No one,” I snap. “Shit happens. Shit happens to the wrong people. You know that.”
He looks at me for a long time, head slightly lowered. He’s holding on to his shirtsleeves so I can’t see his wrists.
“What have you been up to?” he asks.
I pause before telling him. “I was with Michael Holden all weekend.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Not like that,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“But you were thinking it.”
“Why were you with him all weekend? Are you friends now?” His eyes glimmer. “I didn’t think you did that.”
I frown. “He told me I was a ‘manically depressed psychopath.’ I don’t think he . . .”
The water machine bubbles. The windows are open a crack, and they are rattling the 1980s blinds. Charlie looks at me.
“What else is happening?” he asks. “We haven’t talked properly in ages.”
I list the things. “Becky is going out with Ben Hope. She talks about him all the time. I haven’t talked to Mum and Dad properly since Saturday. I haven’t been sleeping a lot. And . . . Michael.”
Charlie nods. “That’s a lot of things.”
“I know. A real array of First World Problems.”
In the corridor outside the visiting lounge, the emergency alarm begins to sound, signifying that somewhere in the building, a patient needs to be restrained. I watch through the blinds as a girl runs past, wailing, only to be pursued and leapt on by three large care assistants. It’s almost comical. Charlie doesn’t even blink.
“Hang on,” he says, “Becky is going out with Ben Hope?”
“Yeah.”
“Ben Hope who used to go to Truham?”
“What, do you know him?”
The question almost appears to startle him. After a short pause, he says, “Yeah, we used to be friends. Not really anymore, though.”
“Okay.”
“I’m staying off school tomorrow as well.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Mum and Dad are making me. They’re blowing this kind of out of proportion.”
I snort. “I found you in the kitchen covered in blood, idiot.”
He leans back. “Well, aren’t I a fabulous drama queen?”
“Do you want me to get the bus with you on Wednesday?” Usually I walk to school, and Charlie gets the bus. I hate the bus.
Charlie’s expression softens, and he smiles. “Yeah. Thanks.” He adjusts himself on the sofa so that his body is facing me. “I think you should give Michael a chance.”
A chance?
“I know Nick and I said he’s weird—and he is weird—and I know you think that it’s easier to be by yourself, but every minute you spend thinking about what you’re not doing, that’s another minute forgetting about how to be around other people.”
“I don’t—”
“Michael’s okay. He’s proven that. I don’t understand why you can’t accept things like this. If you can’t accept things you don’t understand, then you’ll spend your life questioning everything. Then you’ll have to live out your life in your own head.”
We’re interrupted by a nurse, who enters the room and asks Charlie to join Mum and Dad in the meeting. Charlie stands up but doesn’t walk off. He looks down at me.
“Is that a bad thing?” I ask.
He blinks slowly, eyes flickering to the anorexic reading The Hunger Games.
“Victoria, that is how you end up in a place like this.”
NINETEEN
THE FIRE ALARM goes off in Period 5 the next day. I had just settled into a seat in the common room, iPod playing “Fix You” by Coldplay over and over on repeat (pathetic, I know), when the siren began to wail. Now we’re all here in the freezing wasteland of the school field, lined up in our Form groups.
I hear at least three people say something about a fire in Kent’s office, but having been at an all-girls school for over five years, I’ve learnt not to trust anything by word of mouth.
No one I really know is in my Form, so I shiver and look around. I see Michael in a Form a few lines away, sort of out of place among the Year 13s. He looks sort of out of place everywhere.
I start to wonder whether my outburst on Sunday is the reason why he hasn’t called me or looked for me at school. I wonder whether he’ll still want to be friends. Maybe I should listen to Charlie. If he thinks that Michael is okay, then he probably is, and I should give him a chance. Not that that matters, because I declined his offer anyway. It’s not like he’s going to give me another chance. That’s okay. That’s fine. I don’t want to go to that Solitaire meet-up this Saturday, so I’ve at least gotten out of that.
I keep looking at him because there’s something not quite right.
With half-shut eyes, he’s staring blankly into a book, and his face is so frozen that it makes me tense up. In fact, I almost think he’
s about to cry. I can’t quite see what the book is called, but it’s very thick and he’s nearly at the end. Also, his tie isn’t tied—he’s wrapped it around his neck like a scarf—and his side part is much too far over. I wish I knew what he was reading. I know I don’t like books, but you can always tell what someone is thinking by what they’re reading.
A little way off Lucas wanders onto the field with Evelyn and an anonymous boy with large hair, part of the last group to arrive. Lucas looks equally sad. I begin to feel that everyone is sad. Everything is sad. All sad.
I wonder whether Lucas is Evelyn’s secret boyfriend. It’s possible.
I don’t want to think about Lucas or Michael anymore. I withdraw my phone and load up the Solitaire blog. I can at least have another look at Jake Gyllenhaal. He is a beautiful human being.
But there’s a new post that’s overtaken Jake. It’s a photo of a hand, maybe a girl’s but potentially a boy’s, forefinger outstretched, just about to break the glass of a school fire alarm button. Underneath, the text reads:
DO I DARE
DISTURB THE UNIVERSE?
I stare at the photo for a long time and I start to feel a bit claustrophobic. That question, those two lines of poetry, keeps spinning around my head like it’s asking it of me. I get to wondering how I even know that those two lines came from a poem, because I don’t think I’ve even glanced at a poem that hasn’t been part of schoolwork. I then wonder whether I could ask Michael, because he would probably know what poem it was from, but then I remember that he thinks I’m a manically depressed psychopath. So that is the end of that.
TWENTY
I GET HOME. Everything normal happens. I say hello to Nick and Charlie. I turn on my laptop. I put a film on. And then I do something weird.
I call Michael.
16:49 p.m.
Outgoing Call
M: Hello?
T: Hi. It’s Tori.
M: Tori? Really? You called me again? That’s twice in a fortnight. You do not strike me as one who enjoys making phone calls.
