by Alice Oseman
Rita nods understandingly. “Ah, okay. Well, I’m glad he’s not hurt too badly.”
After that, Michael and I end up caught inside a circle of Year 13s in the kitchen. Michael claims that he’s never spoken to any of them.
“No one knows, like, no one knows who made it,” one girl says. She has a very tight skirt on and a lot of unattractive red lipstick. “There are rumors it’s some dealer from the estate, or, like, a teacher who got sacked and wants revenge.”
“Stick around,” interrupts a guy wearing a snapback bearing the word JOCK. “Like, keep checking the blog, innit. I’ve heard things are gonna get well good when they put up the next post later.”
There’s a pause. I look down at the newspapered floor, which isn’t doing much to protect the house from the already numerous alcohol spillages. There’s a headline on one sheet reading 27 DEAD and a picture of a burning building.
“Why?” says Michael. “Why’s that?”
But the guy just blinks, like a fish, and asks, “Why aren’t you drinking?”
I decide to be a normal person and find something proper to drink. Michael disappears for a long time, so I pick up this big old bottle from somewhere and sit alone outside on a deck chair, feeling like a middle-aged alcoholic husband. It’s gone eleven and everyone’s drunk. Whoever’s DJ-ing relocates to the garden, and after a while it’s unclear whether I’m in some small-town garden or at Reading Festival. I spot Nick and Charlie through the living-room window, kissing in a corner like it’s their last day on earth, despite Charlie’s bruised face. I guess they look romantic. Like they really are in love.
I get up and go inside to look for Michael, but whatever this stuff is that’s in the bottle, it’s kind of strong, so next thing I know I’ve lost all sense of time, space, and reality, and I have no idea what I’m doing. I find myself in the hallway again, in front of that painting of the wet cobbled street with red umbrellas and warm café windows. I can’t stop looking at it. I force myself to turn around and spot Lucas at the other end of the corridor. I’m not sure whether he sees me, but he quickly disappears into another room. I wander away and get lost in the house. Red umbrellas. Warm café windows.
Michael grabs me out of nowhere. He pulls me away from wherever the hell I was—the kitchen, maybe, lost in a sea of Boy London hats and chinos—and we start to walk through the house. I don’t know where we’re going. But I don’t try to stop him. I’m not sure why.
As we’re walking, I keep looking at his hand wrapped around my wrist. Maybe it’s because I’ve had stuff to drink, or maybe it’s because I’m really cold, or maybe it’s because I’d sort of missed him while he’d been gone, but whatever it is—I keep thinking how nice it feels to have his hand around my wrist. Not in some weird perverted way. His hand is just so big compared to mine, and so warm, and the way his fingers are curled around my wrist, it’s like they were always supposed to do that, like they’re matching pieces in a jigsaw. I don’t know. What am I talking about?
Eventually, when we’re outside and in the crowd of manic dancers, he slows and does a spin in the mud. It’s sort of weird when he gazes at me. Again, I blame the drink. But it’s different. He looks so nice, standing there. His hair kind of swishing in the wrong direction and the firelight reflecting in his glasses.
I think he can tell I’ve had a bit to drink.
“Will you dance with me?” he shouts over the screams.
I inexplicably start to cough. He rolls his eyes at me and chuckles. I start thinking about proms and weddings, and for a few seconds I actually forget that we’re just in some garden where the ground looks like shit and the people are all dressed in near-identical outfits.
He removes his hand from my wrist and uses it to flatten his hair, and then he stares at me for what feels like a whole year. I wonder what he sees. Without warning, he grabs both of my wrists and literally kneels at my feet.
“Please dance with me,” he says. “I know that dancing is awkward and outdated, and I know that you don’t like doing stuff like that and if I’m honest, neither do I, and I know that the night isn’t going to last very long and soon everyone will just go home back to their laptops and their empty beds, and we’ll probably be alone tomorrow, and we all have to go to school on Monday—but I just think that if you tried it, you know, dancing, you might feel for a few minutes that all of this, all of these people . . . none of it is really too bad.”
I look down and meet his eyes.
I start to laugh before kneeling down too.
And then I do something really weird.
Once I’m on my knees—I really can’t help it—I kind of fall forward into him and fling my arms around him.
“Yes,” I say into his ear.
So he puts his arms around my waist, lifts us both to our feet, and resumes pulling me through the adolescent expanses.
We reach the center of the crowd clustered around the DJ.
He puts his hands on my shoulders. Our faces are centimeters apart. It’s so loud he has to scream.
“Yes, Tori! They’re playing the Smiths! They’re playing the beautiful Smiths, Tori!”
The Smiths are the band of the internet—more specifically, and unfortunately, a band that many people listen to simply because Morrissey has that vintage, self-deprecating coolness that everyone seems to crave. If the internet were an actual country, “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” would be its national anthem.
I feel myself slightly step backward.
“Do you . . . do you have . . . a blog?”
For a second he’s confused, but then he just smiles and shakes his head. “Jesus, Tori! Do I have to have a blog to like the Smiths? Is that the rule now?”
And this is the moment, I guess, when I decide that I can’t care less about anything else tonight, I can’t care less about blogs or the internet or films or what people are wearing, and yes, yes, I am going to have fun, I am going to have a good time, I am going to be with my one and only friend Michael Holden, and we are going to dance until we can’t even breathe and we have to go home and face our empty beds. So when we start jumping up and down, smiling so ridiculously, looking at each other and at the sky and not really at anything, Morrissey singing something about shyness, I really don’t think things could be so bad after all.
TWENTY-SIX
AT 12:16 A.M. I go inside because if I don’t pee I think my bladder will erupt. Everyone is waiting for Solitaire’s blog post, which, according to recent rumor, will be published at 12:30 a.m. People are sitting, phones in their hands. I find the bathroom and when I leave it, I see Lucas, alone in a corner, texting. He sees me staring and jumps up, but rather than walking toward me, he quickly exits. Like he’s trying to avoid me.
I follow him into the living room, intending to apologize for forgetting about hanging out with him today, but he doesn’t see me. I watch as he wanders up to Evelyn. She is wearing these hooped earrings, chunky heels, leggings with upside-down crosses on them, and a faux-fur coat. Her messy hair is piled up on the top of her head. Lucas, similarly, is in tonight’s hipster getup—a loose Joy Division T-shirt with the sleeves rolled, too-tight jeans, and desert boots. Lucas says something to her, and she nods back at him. That’s it, I’ve decided. Despite what Lucas said, they are definitely a couple.
I go back outside. It has finally started to snow. Properly. The music’s over, but everyone’s skipping around, screaming, trying to catch flakes in their mouths. I look out at the scene. The flakes float on the water and dissolve, joining with the river as it sails past me toward the sea. I love snow. Snow can make anything beautiful.
It’s then that I see Becky again.
She’s with a guy up against a tree, and I know she’s definitely still drunk because they’re not even kissing romantically. I’m about to turn away, but then they move around a little and I see who the guy is.
It’s Ben Hope.
I don’t know how long I stand there, but at some point he opens his eyes
and sees me. Becky looks too. She giggles and then she realizes. I got a drink on my way out but it’s spilt on the snow now and my hand is just cupping the air. They recoil from me, and then Ben hurries past me and into the house. Becky stays by the tree.
She raises her eyebrows at me when I reach her and says, “What?”
I wish I were dead. My hands clench and unclench.
She laughs. “What, for God’s sake!”
Becky has betrayed me anyway. Because she doesn’t care.
“Everything I thought about you,” I say, “is wrong.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Am I hallucinating this?”
“Are you drunk?”
“You are a nasty bitch,” I say. I think I’m shouting, but I can’t really tell. I’m only seventy percent sure I’m saying any of this out loud. “I used to think that you were just forgetful, but now I have solid proof that you just don’t care.”
“Wh—”
“Don’t try acting like you don’t know what you’ve just done. Grow a backbone. Go on, try and defend yourself. I am literally dying to hear your justification. Are you going to tell me that I don’t understand?”
Becky’s eyes begin to fill with tears. As if she’s actually upset. “I’m not—”
“That’s it, isn’t it? I’m your naive little friend whose sad little life makes you feel better about yourself. Well, you’re absolutely spot-on there. I haven’t got a single clue about anything. But you know what I do know? I know when someone is being a nasty bitch. Go ahead and cry your stupid little crocodile tears if you want to. You don’t fucking care at all, do you?”
Becky’s voice is sober now, if a little wobbly, and she begins to shout at me. “Well—you—you’re the one being a nasty bitch! Jesus Christ, just calm down!”
I pause. This is bad. I need to stop. I can’t. “I’m sorry—do you have any comprehension of the level of betrayal you have just committed? Do you have any concept of friendship? I didn’t think it was possible for someone to be that selfish, but clearly I’ve been wrong all this time.” I think I’m crying. “You’ve killed me. You’ve literally killed me.”
“Calm down! Oh my God, Tori!”
“You have solidly proven that everyone and everything is shit. Well done. Gold star. Please delete yourself from my life.”
And that is it. I am gone. I am gone. I guess everyone is like this. Smiles, hugs, years together, holidays, late-night confessions, tears, phone calls, one million words—they don’t mean anything. Becky doesn’t care. No one really cares.
The snowfall is blurring my vision, or maybe it’s the tears. I stumble back to the house and just as I enter, people start screaming and holding their phones above their heads. I can’t stop crying, but I manage to get out my phone and find the Solitaire page and there is the post:
00:30 23 January
Solitairians.
We would like you to collaborate on our latest venture.
At our meet-up tonight, there is a Higgs Year 12 named Ben Hope who has deliberately injured a Truham Year 11. Ben Hope is a known homophobe and a bully, who hides behind the facade of popularity.
We hope that you will join Solitaire in preventing such acts of violence in the future by giving him exactly what he deserves.
Act accordingly. Protect the unprotected. Justice is everything. Patience Kills.
TWENTY-SEVEN
THERE IS A tornado of people around me, screaming in all directions, and I can’t go anywhere. After several minutes of pandemonium, the flow steadily softens into one direction rather than a whirlpool, and I am torn out of the house in the current. Everyone is in the garden. Someone cries out, “Karma, motherfucker!”
Is this karma?
Two boys hold Ben Hope while several others hurl punches and kicks at him. Blood splatters onto the snow, and the spectacle gets wild cheers every time a hit is made. Only a few meters away, Nick and Charlie are standing in the crowd, Nick’s arm around Charlie, both of their expressions unreadable. Charlie steps forward, as if he’s about to intervene, but Nick pulls him back. They exchange a look and then turn away from the show. They walk out of the crowd and disappear.
I couldn’t stick up for Charlie, and now Solitaire’s doing my job for me. I’ve never been able to do my job properly, I suppose.
Then again, maybe this isn’t about Charlie.
I think back to what Michael said to me in Café Rivière.
Oh God.
Maybe it’s about me.
I laugh, tears still falling, so hard that my stomach aches. Silly. Silly thought. Silly me. Selfish. Nothing is ever about me.
Another hit. The crowd shrieks with joy, waving their drinks in the air, like they’re at a concert, like they’re happy.
Nobody is trying to help.
Nobody
nobody.
I don’t know what to do. If this were a film, I would be there, I would be the hero stopping this false justice. But this isn’t a film. I am not the hero.
I start to panic. I turn back into the crowd and break out through the other side. My eyes won’t focus. Sirens start to blare, distant in the town. Ambulance? Police? Justice is everything? Patience Kills?
Michael, out of nowhere, grabs me by the shoulders. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the scene, just like the rest of the crowd, watching but doing nothing, not caring.
I throw his hands off me, muttering crazily, “This is what we are. Solitaire. We could just—they just—they’ll kill him. You think you’ve met bad people, and then you meet people who are worse. They’re doing nothing—they’re not—we’re just as bad. We’re just as bad for doing nothing. We don’t care. We don’t care that they could kill him—”
“Tori.” Michael takes hold of my shoulders again, but I step backward and his arms drop. “I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t want you to take me home.”
“I’m your friend, Tori. This is what we do.”
“I don’t have any friends. You are not my friend. Stop pretending that you fucking care.”
Before he can argue, I’m gone. I’m running. I’m out of the house. I’m out of the garden. I’m out of the world. The giants and demons are rising and I am chasing them. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be sick. Am I hallucinating this? I am not the hero. It’s funny because it’s true. I begin to laugh, or maybe I’m crying. Maybe I don’t care anymore. Maybe I’m going to pass out. Maybe I’ll die when I’m twenty-seven.
PART
TWO
Donnie: A storm is coming, Frank says. A storm that will swallow the children, and I will deliver them from the kingdom of pain. I will deliver the children back to their doorsteps. I’ll send the monsters back to the underground. I’ll send them back to a place where no one else can see them. Except for me, ’cause I am Donnie Darko.
—Donnie Darko: The Director’s Cut (2004)
ONE
LUCAS WAS A crier. It happened most days in primary school, and I think it was one of the main reasons I was his friend. I didn’t mind the crying.
It would come on slowly and then explode. He’d sport this odd expression for a few minutes before: not sad, but as if he were replaying a television program in his head, watching the events unfold. He’d look down, but not at the ground. And then the tears would start falling. Always silent. Never heaving.
I don’t think that there was a particular reason for the crying. I think that was just his personality. When he wasn’t crying, we played chess or lightsaber duels or Pokémon battles. When he was crying, we’d read books. This was the time in my life when I read books.
I always felt at my best when we were together. It’s funny—I’ve never found that relationship with another person. Well, maybe Becky. In our early days.
When Lucas and I left primary school, we left with the assumption that we would continue to see each other. As all those who have left primary school can guess, this never came to fruition. I saw him only once more a
fter that time—before now, of course. A chance meeting on the high street. I was twelve. He told me that he’d sent me an Easter egg in the post. It was May. I hadn’t got any post since my birthday.
At home that evening, I wrote him a card. I said that I hoped that we could still be friends, and I gave him my email address, and I drew a picture of myself and him for good measure. I never sent that card. It stayed in the bottom of my top desk drawer for several years until I cleared out my room. When I found it, I tore it up and threw it away.
I think about all these things as I’m wandering the school on Monday. I can’t find him. All this time, I’ve just been sitting around, moaning about how shit everything is, not bothering to try and make things better. I hate myself for that. I’m like all those people in the crowd at the Solitaire meet-up, not bothering to help. I don’t think I can be like that anymore.
Michael isn’t anywhere to be seen, either. He’s probably decided to leave me alone for good now, which is fair enough. I screwed it all up again. Classic Tori.
Anyway, I want to talk to Lucas about Saturday, apologize for not meeting up with him like I said I would. Tell him he doesn’t have to avoid me anymore.
Twice I think I see his lanky limbs swish around corridor corners, but as I run to catch him, I realize it’s just another of the thin-faced Sixth Form boys. He’s not in the common room before school, at break, or at lunch. After a while, I forget who I’m looking for and just continue on walking forever. I check my phone several times, but there’s only one message on my blog:
Anonymous: Thought for the day: What is the point in studying literature?
Becky and Our Lot have not talked to me all day.
Ben Hope did not go to the hospital. He wasn’t anywhere near death. Some people seem to feel sorry for him, whereas others say he deserved what he got for being a homophobe. I am not sure what I think about it anymore. When Charlie and I talked about it, he seemed pretty shaken up.
