Solitaire

by Alice Oseman

  T: Believe me. I’m not.

  M:

  T: I overreacted. I’m the one who has to say sorry. I called to say sorry.

  M:

  T:

  M: I’m sorry too. I don’t think you’re a psychopath.

  T: Don’t you? It’s a valid assumption.

  M: I don’t even know why we need to apologize to each other. I can’t even remember what we’re arguing about. I don’t even think we did argue.

  T: Are you in denial?

  M: Are you?

  T: What does that mean?

  M: I don’t know.

  T: I’m just sorry I snapped at you.

  M:

  T: I do want to be friends with you. Can . . . can we . . .

  M: We’re already friends, Tori. You don’t need to ask. We’re already friends.

  T:

  M: Is Charlie all right?

  T: He’s all right.

  M: Are you all right?

  T: I’m fine.

  M:

  T:

  M: I see Becky and Ben are pretty snug together.

  T: Oh yeah, they’re practically conjoined. She’s really happy.

  M: Are you happy?

  T: What?

  M: Are you happy?

  T: Yeah, I’m happy for her. I’m happy for her. She’s my best friend. I’m really happy for her.

  M: That’s not what I asked.

  T: I don’t get it.

  M:

  T:

  M: Will you still come to the Solitaire meet-up with me on Saturday?

  T:

  M: I don’t want to go alone.

  T: Yeah.

  M: You’ll come?

  T: Yes.

  M:

  T: Why can I hear wind? Where are you?

  M: I’m at the rink.

  T: The ice rink?

  M: Do you know any other rinks?

  T: You’re on the phone and skating at the same time.

  M: Men can multitask too, you know. Where are you?

  T: Obviously at home.

  M: Such a loser.

  T: What’s that music that’s playing?

  M:

  T: That’s film music, isn’t it?

  M: Is it?

  T: It’s from Gladiator. It’s called “Now We Are Free.”

  M:

  T:

  M: Your film knowledge is simply magical.

  T: Magical?

  M: You’re magical, Tori.

  T: You’re the one who can ice-skate. That’s the closest thing to flying a human can do without a vehicle.

  M:

  T: You can fly, Michael.

  M:

  T: What?

  M: I can fly.

  T: You can fly.

  M: No one’s ever . . .

  T:

  M: I’d better meet you at Hogwarts then.

  T: Or Neverland.

  M: Or both.

  T: Or both.

  TWENTY-ONE

  SITTING NEXT TO Charlie on the Wednesday-morning bus journey calms me. I have a lot of unread messages on my blog, but I don’t want to read them. It’s much, much too sunny today. We meet Nick outside Truham. Nick gives Charlie a quick kiss, and they start talking to each other, laughing. I watch him and Charlie walk in, and then head up the road to Higgs.

  I’m feeling sort of all right because Michael and I are okay now. I don’t know why I made all that fuss the other day. No, that’s a lie. I do know why. It’s because I’m an idiot.

  Mr. Compton, my unintelligible imbecile of a maths teacher, decides, for one lesson only, that we need to work in pairs with people we do not usually sit with. This is how I end up sitting next to Ben Hope in Wednesday’s Period 1 maths lesson. We exchange pleasantries, and then sit in silence while Compton begins to explain the trapezium rule in the most complicated way imaginable. Ben does not have a pencil case. He carries a pen and a small ruler in his breast pocket. He has also forgotten his textbook. I feel that this may have been deliberate.

  Halfway through, Compton leaves to photocopy some sheets and does not return for some time. To my dismay, Ben decides that he needs to talk to me.

  “Hey,” he says. “How’s Charlie doing?”

  I turn my head slowly to the left. Surprisingly, he looks genuinely concerned.

  “Um . . .” Truth? Lie? “Not too bad.”

  Ben nods. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Charlie said you used to be friends, or something.”

  His eyes open very wide. “Erm, yeah. I guess. But you know. Like, yeah. Everyone knows Charlie. You know?”

  Yeah. Everyone knows. You don’t stay off school for three months without everyone finding out why.

  “Yeah.”

  The silence between us returns. The rest of our class are chattering and it is nearly the end of the lesson. Has Compton been eaten by the photocopier?

  I suddenly find myself talking. Talking first. This is pretty rare.

  “Everyone loves Charlie at Truham,” I say, “don’t they?”

  Ben begins to tap his pen on the table. A weirdly nervous grin spreads across his face.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say everyone, exactly,” he scoffs. I frown at him, and he quickly covers himself with “No, I mean, like, people can’t be liked by everyone, right?”

  I clear my throat. “I guess not.”

  “I don’t know him anymore, really,” he says.

  “Yeah. Okay.” Usually people like Charlie, nice people, are forgotten. Usually the popular people are the loudest and funniest, the ones with the opinions, with the outfits, with the big smiles and crushing hugs. Nice people are vulnerable because they don’t know how to be mean. They don’t know how to put themselves at the top. And you would think that it would be someone like Nick who was at the top at Truham—loud, attractive, house captain, rugby player. But no. It’s Charlie.

  What I’m trying to say is that Charlie is a nice person, and despite everything I’ve just explained, everybody seems to love him. And I think that is a modern miracle.

  TWENTY-TWO

  LUNCH. COMMON ROOM. I am staring into my reflection in a smudgy blank computer screen with my head in my hands. Not because I’m particularly stressed or anything—this is just a very comfortable sitting position.

  “Hello,” says Lucas, smiling and sitting in the chair next to me. I look up at him. He doesn’t look so embarrassed today, which is colossal progress.

  “Why so cheerful?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Why not?”

  I roll my eyes, faking sarcasm. “I don’t like your attitude.”

  He stares at me for a minute or so. I take out my phone and scroll through my blog feed.

  Then he says, “Hey, erm, what are you up to on Saturday?”

  “Er, nothing, I guess.”

  “Do you . . . we should do something.”

  “We should?”

  “Yeah.” Now he’s embarrassed. “I mean, if you want.”

  “Like what?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know. Just . . . chill somewhere.”

  I force myself to think very carefully about this. I could try. For once. I could try to be a legitimately nice human being. “Oh, er, I said I’d go to this thing in the evening. But I’m free in the day.”

  He lights up. “Great! What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. It was your idea.”

  “Oh, yeah . . . well, you could come round mine if you want? Just watch movies . . .”

  “Is Evelyn all right with that?”

  Yep. I went there.

  “Um . . .” He sort of laughs, like I’m joking. “What?”

  “Evelyn.” My voice starts to fail. “Are you not . . . you and Evelyn . . . ?”

  “Er . . . we’re . . . no . . .”

  “Okay. Right. Cool. Just checking.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Becky calls over to us. We both spin around in our chairs. “You look like you’re talking about something interesting
. I want gossip. Spill.”

  I put my legs up on Lucas’s lap because I just can’t be arsed to be reserved right now. “Obviously we’re flirting. God, Becky.”

  For a second, Becky thinks I’m serious. It is a truly triumphant moment.

  Later, I pass Michael in the corridor. He stops and points directly at me.

  “You,” he says.

  “Me,” I say.

  We speedily transfer our conversation to a stairwell.

  “Are you free on Saturday?” he asks. He’s got one of his stupid mugs of tea again. He’s actually spilt some on his white shirt.

  I’m about to say yes, but then I remember. “Er, no. I said me and Lucas would do something. Sorry.”

  “Ah. Don’t worry.” He sips his tea. “You’re not allowed to ditch the Solitaire meet-up, though.”

  “Oh.”

  “You forgot, didn’t you?”

  “I’m surprised you remembered.”

  “Well, everyone’s been talking about it.”

  “They have?”

  We look at each other.

  “Do I have to go?” I say. “You are aware that I literally don’t give a single fuck about Solitaire.”

  “I am aware,” he says, which means yes, I do have to go.

  The horde of lower-school girls thundering up the stairs behind us is slowly thinning. I need to get to English.

  “Anyway,” he says. “Yes. Get to mine Saturday evening. When you and Lucas are finished . . . canoodling.” He moves his eyebrows up and down.

  I slowly shake my head. “I don’t think I have ever heard anyone use that word in real life.”

  “Well then,” he says. “I’m glad I’ve made your day that bit more special.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  IN MY YOUNGER years, every day after school, I used to walk down the road and meet Charlie outside Truham. We’d then either ride the bus home or we would walk. Despite it only being a ten-minute bus journey, I would have to put my iPod on near full volume. I knew that I would be deaf by the time I was twenty, but if I had to listen to these kids every single day, I don’t think I’d make it to twenty. I don’t think I’d make it to seventeen.

  Still, despite my two-year-long bus boycott, I started getting the bus again on Wednesday to keep Charlie company, and it hasn’t been too bad so far. We’ve had a good chance to talk about stuff. I don’t mind talking with Charlie.

  Anyway, it’s Friday today, and Michael has decided that he is coming home with me.

  Which is sort of nice, to tell you the truth.

  Nick is waiting for me outside Truham. Nick always looks particularly dashing in his tie and blazer. The RUGBY patch above his school crest reflects a little sunlight. He is wearing sunglasses. Ray-Bans. He sees Michael and me approach.

  “A’ight.” Nick nods, hands in pockets, Adidas bag strapped across his chest.

  “All right,” I say.

  Nick studies Michael. “Michael Holden,” he says.

  Michael has his hands held behind his back. “You’re Nick Nelson.”

  I see Nick’s initial uncertainty ease at Michael’s uncharacteristically normal reaction. “Yup. Yeah, I remember you. From Truham. You’re infamous, man.”

  “Yes, yeah. I’m awesome.”

  “Rad.”

  Michael smiles. “Nicholas Nelson. You have a really excellent name.”

  Nick laughs in that warm way of his, almost as if he and Michael have been friends for years. “I know, right?”

  Flocks of Truham boys soar past us, running for inexplicable reasons, while the traffic on the road is unmoving. A group of Year 10 Higgs girls cozy up to a group of Year 10 Truham boys against the gate several meters away from us. There are at least three couples within the group. God.

  I scratch my forehead, feeling agitated. “Where’s Charlie?”

  Nick raises his eyebrows and turns back toward Truham. “He’s the only guy in his class who cares about classics, so he’s probably been dragged into a long conversation with Rogers about, like, Greek proverbs or something—”

  “Toriiiiii!”

  I twirl around. Becky is dodging traffic and skipping my way, her purple locks flailing behind her.

  When she arrives, she says, “Ben said he had to go to Truham and get something from last year, coursework or something, so I’m just going to wait with you guys. I don’t want to stand by myself like a Larry.”

  I smile. It’s starting to become really difficult to do that sometimes around Becky, but I make the effort and force it.

  Michael and Nick are both staring at her with empty expressions that I can’t read.

  “What are you all doing here?”

  “We’re waiting for Charlie,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Shall we just go in and find him?” Nick suggests. “He’s being majorly slow.”

  But none of us moves.

  “It’s like we’re in Waiting for Godot,” murmurs Michael. I’ve heard of the play, but I haven’t got any idea what Michael is talking about.

  And as if things could not get any more awkward, Lucas appears out of nowhere.

  Nick raises his arms. “Lucas! Mate!” They embrace in a manly sort of hug, but Lucas just looks silly. They proceed to exchange pleasantries, and each of them uses the words “mate” and “man” far too many times, resulting in Michael snorting “Oh my God” much too loudly. Fortunately, Lucas and Nick appear not to hear. I chuckle, faintly.

  “What are you all doing here?” asks Lucas, deliberately pretending not to see Michael.

  “Waiting for Charlie,” says Nick.

  “Waiting for Ben,” says Becky.

  “Why don’t you just go look for them? I’ve got to go inside too, to pick up my art GCSE coursework.”

  “That’s what Ben’s doing,” says Becky.

  At the repeated mention of Ben, Nick seems to frown at Becky. But I might just be imagining it.

  “Well, let’s go then,” he says, and pushes his sunglasses farther up his nose.

  “We can’t,” whispers Michael, oozing sarcasm, so quiet that only I hear. “Why not? We’re waiting for Charlie. Ah.” He might be quoting, but I haven’t read or seen Waiting for Godot, so it’s lost on me.

  Nick turns on the spot and walks into the school. Becky follows immediately. Then the rest of us.

  I remember instantly why I chose not to go to this school for Sixth Form. The boys who pass us are more than strangers. I feel trapped. As we enter the main building, the walls seem to creep higher and higher and the light bars are dim and flashing, and I experience a brief flashback of the back of Michael’s head, leading me toward the Truham maths classrooms last year. Every so often we pass these rusty old radiators, none of which appears to be emitting any heat. I start to shiver.

  “God, it’s like an abandoned mental asylum, isn’t it?” Michael is on my left. “I’d forgotten what it’s like here. It’s as if they built it out of misery.”

  We wind through corridors that appear to materialize in front of our feet. Michael starts whistling. Truham boys give us a lot of funny looks, particularly Michael. One group of older boys shout, “Oi—Michael Holden—wanker!” and Michael spins on the spot and produces a strong double-thumbs-up in their direction. We pass through a set of double doors and find ourselves in a large maze of lockers, not unlike our own Higgs locker room. It seems empty at first. Until we hear a voice.

  “What the fuck did you say to them?”

  All five of us freeze.

  The voice continues. “Because I don’t remember saying that you could spread lies about me to your retard sister.”

  Whoever else is there murmurs something inaudible. I already know who it is. I think everyone already knows who it is.

  I spot Becky’s face. I haven’t seen that expression on her for a very long time.

  “Do not make me laugh. I bet you couldn’t wait to run and tell someone. Everyone knows you’re just an attention-seeking prick. Everyone knows you’
re doing it for the attention. And you’re telling your sister lies about us so she can spread shit around? You think you’re so much better than everyone because you don’t eat, and now you’re back at school, and even though you haven’t even looked at me since you hooked up with that rugby gay, you think you can spread shit about me that isn’t even fucking true.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’ve heard,” says Charlie, louder now, “but I literally haven’t told anyone. Anyway, I seriously can’t believe you’re still terrified of people finding out.”

  There is a sharp smack and a crash. I start running toward the voices before I realize what I’m doing, and I turn the corner of a locker row and Charlie is crumpled on the floor. Ben Hope is in some kind of rage, just hitting Charlie’s face, and there’s blood and Nick tackles Ben in his side and the pair topples down the row and into the wall at the end, and I’m kneeling down by Charlie and I’m holding my hands up by his face, not daring to touch him, but his eyes are barely open and I think I’m shaking and everything seems a bit I don’t know and Nick is screaming “I’LL KILL YOU” over and over and then Michael and Lucas are dragging Nick away and I’m still just sort of sitting there with my little brother with my shaking hands, wishing that I hadn’t woken up this morning, I hadn’t woken up yesterday, I hadn’t ever woken up—

  “That dick deserves it!” Ben shouts, panting. “He’s a fucking liar!”

  “He didn’t even say anything to me,” I say, calm at first. Then I’m screaming it. “HE DIDN’T EVEN SAY ANYTHING TO ME!”

  Everyone is silent. Ben is breathing heavily. What I thought was attractive about him has now died and been cremated.

  Michael kneels down with me, leaving Nick in the care of Lucas. He clicks his fingers lightly next to Charlie’s ear. Charlie stirs, and his eyes open.

  “Do you know my name?” asks Michael, not Michael anymore, someone entirely different, someone serious, someone all-knowing.

  After a pause, Charlie croaks, “Michael Holden.” Then he grins manically. “Holden . . . funny . . .”

  Something changes in Nick, and in one swift movement he’s down on the floor with us. He takes Charlie into his arms. “Do we need to take him to hospital? What hurts?”

  Charlie lifts his hand, waves a finger at his face, then drops it. “I think . . . I’m fine.”