It’s hard to tell if he’s a bit pissed off or just relieved. ‘Yes, yes, good idea.’ He taps three times on each arm of the chair. ‘So what do you want to do then? I suppose we could play an Xbox game if you like.’
‘If you want. But nothing violent, okay?’
‘How about Pro Skater Four? It’s a skating game.’
‘You amaze me.’
‘It’s really old, but it’s a good game to start off with.’
‘I could give it a try, I suppose,’ I say, acting like I’ve never seen an Xbox before.
He takes two controllers from the top drawer of his desk and joins me on the bed. ‘A is for jump and these other buttons are when you want to do tricks.’
‘Okay.’
‘First we have to choose the characters. I’ll be Bucky Lasek and you can be Jamie Thomas.’
I prefer Bam Margera, but best to let it pass. ‘Okay then.’
‘Well, just free-skate for a bit while you get the hang of it. That’s you on the left, the guy with the red bandana.’
‘Nice.’
It’s not fair really, because I know a lot more about him than he thinks he knows about me. So while I know not to wind him up by asking too much about his dad, he doesn’t realise that my cousin Stewart spent practically the whole of a rain-soaked holiday in Cornwall forcing me to play this game. So after we’ve skated around the college campus for a while, I kind of forget I’m supposed to be crap at it and start pulling off some triple-kick tricks and jumping off the car park roof.
‘That’s really good, Lauren. You’re a natural.’
When we started playing, there was an ocean of freshly laundered duvet cover between us. But the more we explore the tennis courts together, the more the scent of Calvin Klein overpowers the fabric conditioner.
‘Do you believe in second chances, Harry?’
‘What kind of question is that?’
‘A pretty simple one really.’
Bucky Lasek takes another tumble; Harry turns and looks me in the eye. ‘Well, yes, I do actually.’
‘What?’
‘Believe in second chances. Most of us deserve to get it right in the end.’
The next thing I know our legs are touching. Jeans meet jeggings and neither of us pulls away. And just when I get the feeling he’s about to put his arm round me, he coughs like the audience member from hell at your favourite movie and jumps off the bed.
‘Sorry, can we pause for a minute? I, er … I could really do with a drink. Can I get you anything?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘I won’t be a sec then. I’ll just go and fix myself a coffee.’
‘Oh, yes, right. You do that. I’ll see you in a —’
And while he’s gone, I check the room for elephants. At first it looks clean: a couple of dodgy CDs perhaps, but nothing that would give the game away. But then I see it, partially concealed behind the dangling legs of the wooden frog on the middle shelf – a shoebox covered in Super Mario Bros wrapping paper. I know exactly what it is. Mine’s better hidden than Harry’s, but I’ve got one in my bedroom too.
No, don’t, Lauren, you mustn’t.
And for at least five seconds I resist the urge to ease it off the bookshelf and carry it across to the bed. And once I’ve got it there, it takes at least another five seconds before I decide to open it. The three words in blue magic marker on the lid – HARRY’S HAPPY BOX – are just far too enticing.
What’s weird is that I could probably have predicted the entire contents: a can of Red Bull (strictly forbidden, ‘typical H’), the sixth season of The Simpsons (the one with Lisa’s Wedding), a deck of Pokémon cards, a photo of his mum with his older brother (Jon, is it? He’s probably at uni by now), a limited edition of ‘The Black Parade’, a battered copy of Noughts and Crosses (his twelve-year-old dystopia of choice), a squeaky red nose and a resealable sandwich bag of gummy worms.
I take out a multicoloured gelatine invertebrate and hold it up to the light. But as soon as I hear his footsteps, I grab Harry’s Happy Box and slip it back on the shelf. All that remains now is to destroy the gummy worm.
Who’d have thought that a mouthful of barely flavoured gelatine could be such a blast from the past? But not in a good way. All I can remember is how unhappy we were. Back then I found it almost impossible to cry, but these days it’s as easy as breathing. Not angry tears exactly, more like big blobs of cryogenically frozen sadness.
And I’m crying so hard that I don’t hear him come back. It’s only when I feel his arm on my shoulder that I realise he’s sitting beside me.
‘What’s the matter?’ he whispers. ‘Why don’t you tell me, Lauren? Maybe I can help.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’
‘Okay, if that’s what you want. Like I said, we can take it as slowly as you like.’
‘… Thanks.’
‘But please don’t cry, Lauren. There’s actually nothing to cry about.’
And I want to believe him, really I do.
NOVEMBER
If one gesture symbolises more poignantly than any other the hollowness of the school experience it is the cringeworthy hugging ritual now considered necessary when girls greet even the most casual of acquaintances. Phonier than their friendship bracelets, they mask their insecurities behind a shallow facade of intimacy.
Dido’s Lament: 1,000 Things I Hate About School
22
ANOTHER BRICK IN THE WALL
This would be even better if I’d talked Tilda into changing her mind. It’s Friday after school in the sports hall, and our first rehearsal with the music is going really well until the three teachers step onto the runway and Mr Catchpole freezes.
‘Not there, sir,’ says Magda, struggling as usual to hide her frustration. ‘Don’t you remember, you have to get right to the front before you start posing?’
Mr Catchpole waves his arms at Katherine and Grunt (her friend/boyfriend?). ‘Stop the music please. I said stop the music.’
The sports hall falls silent.
Izzy jumps in before Magda can go off on one. ‘Don’t worry, sir, you’re doing fine. We can try it again if you like.’
‘It’s not that,’ says Mr Catchpole. ‘It’s the song.’
‘What’s the matter with it?’ says Magda. ‘Don’t you like Pink Floyd?’
‘The sentiment is completely inappropriate. Not only that, it should be we don’t need any education – which is clearly nonsense, otherwise you couldn’t possibly tolerate such a glaring grammatical error.’
‘So what do you want us to do?’ says Izzy.
‘Find something more suitable. What are we supposed to be wearing anyway?’
Harry’s been practising his commentary. He reads directly from his notes: ‘The staff are preparing for their big night out. Miss Hoolyhan is modelling a full-length taffeta ball gown with matching accessories, Mr Peel is looking cool as usual in brushed denim and a vintage Axe Poll Tax T-shirt, and Mr Catchpole is wearing grey flannels, a tweed sports jacket and a green paisley tie – perfect for the PSHE teacher about town.’
‘Yes, thank you, Harry, I think we get the idea.’
‘How about “Take a Walk on the Wild Side”?’ says Mr Peel. ‘I know it’s a bit left field, but it’s got the same subversive vibe you guys are looking for.’
‘Or maybe something from Oliver!’ says Miss Hoolyhan.
The sports hall falls silent again. Mr Catchpole grinds his teeth.
Conor Corcoran tries to lighten the mood. ‘I like your moustache, miss. Didn’t know you were growing one too.’
‘Not now, Conor,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘We’re trying to decide on the music.’
The room erupts with a riot of ‘helpful’ suggestions.
All I’m worried about is the trail of eczema climbing my legs. There’s never a good time for a flare-up, but the thought of parading down the catwalk in a yellow beach dress alongside Conor Corcoran’s Speedos is enough to bring anyone out in a ras
h.
‘Shut up!’ screams Magda. ‘This isn’t helping, okay?’
‘For heaven’s sake,’ says Mr Catchpole. ‘This is your own time you’re wasting.’
I sneak a secret glance at Harry. He sneaks one back. We’ve been taking things slowly – Ice Age slowly. Neither of us wants to go public yet, so we’ve been careful not to leave school together or sit at the same tables, and Mum thinks I’ve been ‘hanging out’ with my new friend Katherine, which she’s obviously delighted about.
In fact, everything was going fine until the ‘weirdness’ started.
‘All right, let’s leave it there for today, shall we?’ says Magda. ‘But remember, guys, there’s only a week until the big night, so if you’re planning on having your hair done or any other beauty treatments, don’t leave it too late.’
Katherine and Grunt stage a loud discussion about their up-coming Botox injections.
‘I’ll see you tonight then,’ whispers Harry.
‘Yeah.’
‘You all right?’
I fight the urge to scratch. ‘Yeah, course. I’ll see you later.’
All I really want is to run home and slap some emollient on, but Katherine ambushes me on the way to my locker.
‘George wants to know if you’ve done the slideshow yet.’
‘Kind of. I’ve been getting some photos together on my portable hard drive.’
‘There’s not much time you know,’ says Katherine. ‘I suppose I could help if you like.’
‘Yeah, fine, that’d be good.’
‘What’s the matter with you anyway? I thought fashion was your thing.’
‘Sorry, I’ve had … stuff on my mind.’
Katherine smiles, like she thinks she knows something. ‘You mean Harry, I suppose?’
‘What? No. Why would you say that?’
‘I may not be one of the beautiful people, Lauren, but I do know how these things work.’
‘Well, you should do. I’ve seen you flirting with that Grunt guy.’
‘Oh please,’ says Katherine, the light in her eyes flicking on for a second.
‘Are you two seeing each other or what?’
‘We’re not interested in your moronic mating rituals. It’s a meeting of minds, not … you know.’
‘You sure about that, Katherine?’
And suddenly she’s all businesslike again. ‘So when are we going to get these photos done?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Let’s fix a time, shall we?’
‘All right, all right. How about after school on Monday in the ICT suite?’
‘I’ll be there,’ says Katherine, reaching back and playing with her ponytail. ‘And just so you know, Lauren, his name’s not Grunt, it’s George, okay?’
By the time I get to the lockers, the thought of a whole weekend away from St Thomas’s Community College has almost put a smile on my face. And I’m looking forward to my date with Harry tonight, if it is a date. Holding hands for a few seconds is about as far as it’s gone. Maybe if neither of us hits the garlic, our first kiss could be on the cards.
I unhook the padlock and pull open my locker. The ghost of my smile is spirited away.
Holy shit, not again.
A green scaly monster is baring its teeth at me. With his tail horribly mutilated and jaws smeared with blood (or wait, is that lipstick?), he fixes me with a grey beady eye and my heart stops dead in its tracks …
Three seconds later, it springs back to life again at twice the original speed.
And as soon as I rediscover the power of movement, I chuck the monster in my messenger bag with the others and start running.
23
SHOW AND TELL
A hooded black figure is chasing me across the courtyard. Unlike the star of some of my nightmares, this one can actually talk. ‘Lauren, Lauren, wait!’
‘What is it, miss?’
‘There’s nothing the matter is there? Only I saw you running down the corridor and you looked a bit … out of sorts?’
‘Did I?’
Miss Hoolyhan hands me a tissue. ‘You’d better have this. I think your mascara is running.’
I try to stem the tide, like the little Dutch boy who shoved his finger in the dyke. ‘It was a bit hot in the sports hall.’
‘Yes, yes it was rather,’ says Miss Hoolyhan, tugging at the toggles of her cagoule. ‘I tell you what, why don’t you come back to the music block and cool down for a bit?’
And even I’m surprised by how meekly I follow. ‘Okay then, miss.’
I gave up violin lessons in Year Seven so I’ve never been up here before. There’s a long curvy corridor with fluorescent lighting and fading photos of the great twentieth-century composers on the wall. ‘That’s Shostakovich,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘He was a qualified football referee.’
‘That explains the little round glasses then.’
‘What? Oh yes, referees are supposed to be short-sighted, aren’t they? That’s very good.’
She opens the door to a room full of keyboards and instrument cases. Somewhere in the distance, a certified sadist is strangling a clarinet. ‘Take a seat, Lauren. I could make you some tea if you like – I’ve got herbal.’
‘No thanks, miss.’
She sits on the front table, tapping out a tune on an imaginary piano. ‘Do you remember what I said to you when you first arrived here?’
‘Not really, miss.’
‘I said I hoped you’d come and talk to me if you were ever worried about anything.’
‘Oh yeah, I remember now.’
She swings her legs in time to the imaginary music. ‘Now I could be wrong of course, but I get the feeling something’s not quite right.’
‘I …’
‘Yes?’
‘I think that …’
‘It won’t go beyond these four walls, I promise.’ Miss Hoolyhan thinks for a moment. ‘Well, not unless you’re in some kind of danger that is.’ She thinks again. ‘You’re not in some kind of danger, are you, Lauren?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All I wanted was to be left alone.’
‘It’s been going well, hasn’t it?’ she says. ‘I’ve been so impressed with the way you’ve handled things.’
‘That’s what I thought, until …’
‘Until what, Lauren?’
If I say it, it will make it real. But I can’t pretend any more. ‘I think someone must have worked it out.’
‘You mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘But how?’
‘I don’t know. But I keep getting these – I’m not sure what you’d call them – presents, I suppose.’
‘What kind of presents?’
‘Weird presents.’ I unzip my Beatles messenger bag in preparation for the creepiest show and tell ever. ‘They left this on my table before registration.’
‘It’s just a toy car, isn’t it?’
‘The Lamborghini LP640. But look – all the windows are broken and there’s a dent in the roof.’
‘I don’t really think you should read anything into that, Lauren. It probably belongs to some unlucky Year Seven. I doubt very much it was meant for you.’
‘That’s not the only thing. Last week l found this in my bag.’
‘A water pistol?’
‘It’s a replica of a Beretta 92F handgun.’
‘Ah, no,’ says Miss Hoolyhan, taking aim at Tchaikovsky. ‘I think I can explain that one. Some of the Year Tens started bringing them in last summer. They didn’t seem to understand how serious it was. I think I’d better have that, don’t you?’
‘All right then. But how do you explain this? I found it just now in my locker.’
‘Now that is strange …’ She runs her finger across its bumpy forehead. ‘But boys do like dinosaurs, Lauren. My nephew has got dozens of these.’
‘Yes, and how old is he? About seven?’
‘Well, yes, but —’
/> ‘And look, its mouth is smothered in lipstick and they’ve hacked off its tail.’
‘Maybe this one didn’t have a tail.’
‘It’s an allosaurus, Miss. They definitely had tails.’
‘So what are you trying to say?’
‘This is how it started last time. Silly stuff to begin with. And then it turned nasty.’
‘I think you might be overreacting, Lauren. We’ve had this sort of thing before at St Thomas’s. In fact, a few years back, someone started leaving tomato plants in my pigeonhole. I was quite rattled for a while. But it turned out Mr Willcock had the idea I was a keen gardener.’
‘There’s more to it than that. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’
‘You know what you’re doing, don’t you, Lauren?’
‘What, miss?’
‘You’re catastrophising. You’ve had some … traumas in the past and you’ve got this unconscious expectation that you’re doomed to carry on repeating them.’
‘You sound like a psychiatrist, miss.’
She seems about to say something, but moves swiftly on. ‘What I mean is that you shouldn’t go reading too much into a few random incidents. Perhaps you could mention it to Harry.’
‘What for?’
‘I thought you two were seeing each other.’
‘Why do people keep saying that?’
‘So it’s not true then?’
‘No, no, we’re just friends, that’s all.’
‘Well, whatever your “relationship status”’ – she smiles at her deft use of contemporary jargon – ‘it might be good to talk to someone your own age. He’s a nice lad. I’m sure he’d put your mind at rest.’
‘Maybe I will, miss,’ I lie.
‘You can always come to me, of course. But whatever you do, don’t bottle things up. At least have a good old heart-to-heart with your mum.’
‘I will, miss.’
Except I won’t, of course.
24
BURNT HAIR AND BODY BUTTER
Mum sits on the end of the bed while I straighten my hair. I wish she’d go, then I could sort out my neck. But she insists on distracting me with random conversation starters that don’t lead anywhere.
Only We Know Page 9
