by Tom Ellen
‘OK,’ Yorgos said. ‘Mary, Phoebe and Luke. Let’s see what you’ve got.’
Mary was straight out of her chair, handing out the leaves with a kind of smug look on her face. ‘Our piece is experiential,’ she announced, and I saw Phoebe wince slightly.
She handed Yorgos a leaf and then walked over to the door and turned off the lights. ‘Everyone close your eyes,’ she said in this slightly GCSE drama-type voice.
Me and Phoebe stood either side of her at the front of the room. ‘We want to take you on a hypnotic journey . . . through memory,’ she continued. ‘Through your own memory but also into the collective memory of everyone who has come before you.’
The side of Phoebe’s mouth twitched. Even though it was our presentation, and I was stood at the front, it was like I couldn’t concentrate on it. I just looked across the not-that-dark room at everyone with their eyes closed, holding a mouldy old leaf.
‘Feel the veins,’ Mary was whispering. She had a way of whispering that was actually louder than her normal speaking voice. ‘Think of how they reach out to one another. Think of your mother’s hand reaching out for yours on your first day of school. And think of the hand reaching out behind her, and the one behind that. And all the hands that came before you, reaching out into the darkness. Reaching back and back and back.’
People were actually feeling their leaves. ‘Think about the love you have felt,’ Mary said. ‘Think about single moments of time that have changed your – or someone else’s – life for ever.’
I tried very hard not to think about Abbey.
‘Think about the secrets you keep inside you,’ Mary continued. ‘Feel the veins connect and think about the secrets other people hold in their veins too.’ She was holding her hands out like Gandalf and speaking in a slow, kind of dream-like voice. Me and Phoebe both looked down at our sheets.
‘You were blue,’ I recited.
‘Clownlike, happiest on your hands,’ Phoebe said.
‘Think of your ancestor, walking in the snow to find food,’ Mary whispered.
‘When you can no more hold me by the hand,’ Phoebe read.
‘Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.’ I tried to match Mary’s sombre tone, but didn’t quite nail it.
Mary shuffled to the back. She shouted, ‘Speak, memory!’ then switched on the light.
No one said anything for a few seconds. They just sat there, blinking and holding their leaves. There was just this long, awkward silence. Then Phoebe cleared her throat and launched into her short, non leaf-based analysis of ‘Ariel’ by Sylvia Plath, which was scarily impressive and eloquent, and I bumbled through my bit about Ted Hughes’ ‘Last Letter’, most of which I’d nicked from the book Phoebe had lent me.
And then Mary beamed around the whole class, and said: ‘Yeah, so . . . That’s it, basically. Keep the leaves. Remember us every time you look at them.’
Everyone clapped and Yorgos shot us a big smile, and got the next three up. And I had absolutely no idea whether it had gone well or not.
Mary definitely seemed to think it had. She literally danced out of the room when it was all over.
‘I totally respect everyone else’s approach, but ours was obviously the best. I mean, the fact that Yorgos actually took his leaf with him when he left . . . Like, I actually think it made him see stuff differently. I hope so.’
She linked arms with us both and we wandered down the hall.
‘I feel like I might sleep with Yorgos at some point, y’know,’ Mary said, as if she was mulling over what to have for dinner. ‘Like, I know it’s a cliché to sleep with your tutor, but when they’re that hot . . .’
‘Yeah, seconded,’ Phoebe said. ‘I think his hotness makes him impervious to clichés.’
‘Thirded,’ I said, and they both laughed.
Mary stopped. ‘You guys are coming to Fit Sister later, right?’ She said it like it wasn’t actually a question, more a statement. And in the third person, like she wasn’t even in Fit Sister.
‘Definitely, yeah,’ I said.
‘Cool. I’ll see you there. Just need to go pick up the smoke machine . . .’
PHOEBE
I spent two hours pulling every single item of clothing out of my wardrobe, before deciding I didn’t own anything cool enough to wear to a Fit Sister gig. I settled on classic wallflower jeans and a plain T-shirt and vowed to buy an electric-blue vest dress just in case this ever happened again.
I met Luke outside Gildas Bar, and as soon as we walked in I felt self-conscious.
The whole place was full of people who looked like they were one hundred per cent part of the Bowl-Cut tribe. People with bright aqua hair tied in buns on top of their heads. A girl wearing a Run DMC vest top and a sequin skirt, and another one wearing baggy combats but also a wedding veil. She was just randomly wearing a full-length wedding veil. The boys were all good looking in a cool, alternative way.
Me and Luke, sitting with our drinks at the side, looked like a mum and dad who had accidentally walked into the wrong tent at a festival.
‘I do not feel cool enough to be here,’ he whispered.
I wanted to say, ‘You are, but I’m definitely not.’ But I just said: ‘Me neither.’
The lights went down and a few people cheered, and suddenly Mary was up on stage, standing behind a massive keyboard and a microphone. Under the black light you could see she had UV stars painted all over her stomach.
Next to her was a hot bloke with shaggy hair and a moth-eaten jumper. He was also stood behind a keyboard and mic stand. It took a couple of seconds for me to place him, but as soon as I did I whipped out my phone.
‘Such a groupie.’ Luke shook his head as I pressed ‘record’.
I covered the clip in hearts and sent it to Frankie and Negin: ‘Interesting Thought Boy is performing LIVE before my eyes.’
‘We are Fit Sister,’ Mary yelled into the mic. ‘You guys aren’t ready for us yet . . . but your kids are gonna love us.’
She and ITB both started whacking their keyboards, making a kind of music I have literally no idea how to describe. It sounded a bit like a computer game playing underwater, with Mary’s distorted singing over the top. She actually had a really good voice.
People at the front started dancing. Or, not really dancing dancing, but sort of swaying and nodding and jerking about wildly.
‘D’you think that bloke’s all right?’ Luke nodded at a guy in a Sherlock hat who was flailing his arms about by the speaker. ‘He looks like he’s having a seizure.’
‘Everyone here is mental, but in the coolest possible way. Like, treading the line between headlining-at-Glastonbury and being-committed-to-an-insane-asylum.’ I took a sip of my drink. ‘I’m definitely the geekiest person here.’
‘Geek power.’ Luke raised his fist in salute.
‘You are so not a geek. You’re one hundred per cent pure jock.’
Luke actually looked offended. ‘I hate that word. It’s like you’re just a dumb knobhead who’s not interested in anything except football.’
Negin and Frankie had sent a photo back; they were both in their PJs, drinking hot chocolate. Frankie had written, ‘Can’t BELIEVE you wouldn’t let us come. As if we really would have embarrassed you in front of Quidditch Bailer. Tell ITB that Negin is his ONE TRUE LOVE.’ Negin had just written: ‘Do NOT tell ITB that. How’s the date going . . .?’
On stage, ITB was now holding a small bell up to his microphone and ringing it gently in time to the drumbeat. I took another picture.
‘I’m sure you’re interested in other stuff,’ I said to Luke. Then, because it was dark, and I was half-drunk and feeling brave, I added: ‘Just not quidditch, obviously.’
He turned to look at me, and shook his head. ‘Honestly Phoebe . . . I have wanted to talk to you about that for ages. Something just . . . came up, and I felt so, so bad about it and I actually really wanted to go and—’
‘It’s fine. It is actually really fun.’ We both gla
nced at a couple exaggeratedly waltzing next to us.
The song ended, and Mary jabbed her finger at me and Luke: ‘Yes! Big up my leaf memory seminar bredrins!’
A few people whooped around to us, and we both grinned at them. Then the music started bubbling and squelching again, with Mary wailing all over it, and Luke said: ‘Come on, we’ve got to at least try to dance after she basically dedicated the gig to us . . .’
We made our way down to the front, and started copying the Sherlock guy. It went from awkward to really, really fun in the space of about five seconds. After three songs, we were both laughing and sweating so much we had to go back to the bar.
‘Honestly, can I come to the next thing?’ Luke shouted into my ear as we ordered more drinks. ‘Quidditch, I mean. I really, genuinely want to.’
He stuck his hand out.
‘We’ve shaken before, Luke Taylor,’ I said. ‘You are not a man of your word.’
He pulled a leaf out of his pocket. ‘I swear on the rotten leaf of memory.’
‘OK.’ I shook his hand.
Then the lights came up, and Mary was bouncing down into the crowd, hugging people. She came over to us, with a few other girls in tow – including Sequin Skirt and Wedding Veil, who had now taken her wedding veil off.
‘You guys came,’ Mary howled, hugging us both.
‘Of course.’ Luke smiled.
She thumped the bar. ‘I demand to have some booze.’ The barman appeared and she started ordering.
I pointed at the ‘Feminist Soc’ badge on Wedding Veil girl’s lapel. ‘I feel bad, I still haven’t been to any meetings,’ I said. ‘I signed up at Freshers’ Fair.’
‘You should totally come.’ Wedding Veil smiled at me, and then Luke. ‘You too.’
‘Yeah, I’d definitely be up for it,’ Luke said.
Mary handed him a shot. ‘Luke’s on the football team, so he’s more into oppressing women than emancipating them, aren’t you, Luke?’ She clearly meant it as a joke, but the girl with the sequin skirt bristled a bit, and stared at him hard. ‘Are you really on the football team?’
Luke nodded.
‘So, is all that Wall of Shame stuff true, then?’ she asked, and suddenly everyone was looking at Luke.
‘What’s the Wall of Shame stuff?’ I said.
‘They take photos of girls they sleep with and then rate them out of ten, and shit,’ said Sequin Skirt. ‘It’s fucking Donald Trump-level wankerdom.’
‘Yeah, and it’s only a rumour, Jen,’ frowned Wedding Veil. Then she turned to Luke. ‘Right?’
I felt myself getting hot. What if it was true? Had Will taken a picture of me when I was asleep? He might not have messaged me back, but he wasn’t that much of a bastard, surely? Panic started to rise up in my stomach. I hadn’t even slept with Will. I had just slept with him.
Luke downed his shot and winced. ‘Yeah, it’s not true,’ he said, wiping his lips.
Mary punched him on the shoulder. ‘See? If my man Taylor says it’s bollocks, then that’s good enough for me.’
Luke smiled at me, and I felt relief cooling my whole body as I thought, Me too.
LUKE
It freaked me out how quickly it was happening.
How quickly I’d gone from fancying Phoebe in this vague, daydreamy, nothingy way, to fancying her in solid, this-might-actually-happen concrete.
When I was around her, I was constantly on edge. I felt that weird, unexplainable electricity you get when you like someone new. I hadn’t felt that since Abbey sat down next to me at the start of Year Ten French, and it made me scared and guilty and excited all at the same time.
Just thinking about seeing her made me pick up my pace as I left the pitches. It was a weirdly warm morning for late October, and me and Will were strolling back through Jutland after an early five-a-side. We’d played our first proper match last week – against Chester Uni – and lost 4–2, so Will was insisting we all practise at every available opportunity.
I hadn’t really been able to focus on today’s game, because I was so caught up in Phoebe thoughts. We’d arranged to meet at our poetry lecture, and then head straight over to the quidditch thing afterwards.
‘You coming for a pint, then?’ Will asked, looking at his phone.
‘It’s not even half ten.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘I’ve got a lecture.’ I considered telling him about quidditch, but instantly decided against it. Firstly because I was fairly certain he’d take the piss, but also because I still wasn’t sure what had actually happened between him and Phoebe. I’d seen him get with tons of girls over the past few weeks, so he couldn’t have been that into her. But I still wondered what he’d think if he knew I liked her. And I wondered what she thought about him.
His phone beeped and he flashed it under my nose. ‘Fuck, man. She’s hot. Well played, Geordie Al.’
I looked at the photo, and figured this was as good a time as any to try and say something about the Wall of Shame. About how off I thought it was.
I tried to sound casual: ‘By the way, I never told you. I was out a few nights back and this girl said something about the Wall of Shame stuff. Like, how she’d heard rumours about it.’
Will’s face tightened. ‘You didn’t say anything, did you?’
‘No . . .’
His face relaxed back into a smile, which made me feel sort of dirty and complicit somehow. As if I’d told that lie out of team loyalty, rather than just panicking under the pressure and shame, and blurting it out.
‘Some girls are so fucking uptight, honestly.’ Will shook his head. ‘I mean, people take pictures of people all the time. It’s just banter.’
I nodded. But it really didn’t feel like banter.
‘I’d better go,’ I said.
I sprinted all the way across campus, hoping I’d get to the lecture early enough to get a seat next to Phoebe. But in the end I was still five minutes late. I took a deep breath and pushed the doors as gently as possible, but they squeaked ridiculously loudly, and about a hundred heads turned to look at me.
‘Ah . . . There’s always one, isn’t there?’ said the lecturer, peering up over his glasses. ‘In you come, quick as possible.’
There was only one free seat – in the middle of a packed row near the back. I squeezed my way through, apologizing to the muttering people who had to stand up. Finally, I sat down, massively relieved not to be the centre of attention any more.
And then my phone went off.
And a hundred heads turned. Again.
‘There’s always one, isn’t there?’ said the lecturer. ‘Although, it’s not usually the same one.’ The muttering had now blossomed into full-blown laughter.
‘Right . . .’ said the lecturer, sternly, as I put my phone on silent and took out my copy of Modern Romantic Poetry. ‘Let’s get back to it. Now then, by 1542, Henry VIII’s alliance with the Holy Roman Emperor Charles V causes him to intervene in the Italian War . . .’
I stopped unpacking my bag and looked around the hall. I couldn’t see Phoebe. In fact, I couldn’t see a single person I recognized, apart from the massive Game of Thrones bloke who’d walked out of the football initiation. And he’d definitely not been in any of my other lectures. He was sat two seats down, scribbling notes and scratching his stubbly rust-coloured beard. He looked across at my poetry book, and wrote something on his phone. He slid it over to me: ‘WRONG ROOM PAL’.
I slumped forward on to the desk as he tried to stifle his laughter.
An hour later, I had a decent – if ultimately useless – grasp of Henry VIII’s foreign policy, and me and the giant shuffled out of the hall and introduced ourselves properly. He was called Ed, and since he was in Gildas College – where the quidditch thing was happening – we ended up walking in the same direction. He was so tall that his dirty blond afro nearly brushed the top of the covered walkway.
‘How was the rest of that initiation, then?’ he asked.
‘Your
walkout was probably the highlight.’
He smiled. ‘That Dempers seemed like a right knobhead.’
‘Yeah. He is a bit. But the rest of them are cool. Mostly.’
Ed just shrugged.
‘Do you really not drink, then?’ I asked him.
‘Nah, never,’ he said. ‘Tried it once. Had five pints of lager. It had no effect whatsoever. Must be my size, I suppose. So I don’t bother with it now. Just stick to the pineapple juice. Much tastier.’
‘But didn’t you think about drinking just for that night? So you could get on the team?’
‘Not really. I mean, I like football and that, but if being on the team means putting up with all that lads-lads-lads bullshit, then I’m best off out of it, I reckon. Plenty of other stuff to do here.’
We crossed the Stephanie Stevens bridge, and something stopped me in my tracks.
‘Fuck. I know that smell . . .’
Rita and Arthur were lying on the grass, both leafing through massive books while Arthur ate a wedge of brie like a pizza slice. He almost choked on it when he spotted Ed. ‘Jesus, look at the size of him,’ he sputtered.
Ed sniffed deeply. ‘That’s good-quality brie, is that. Very nice.’
‘Exactly.’ Arthur snapped his book shut. ‘I wish you were on our corridor. I’m surrounded by fucking savages. No offence, Luke.’
‘None taken,’ I said. ‘Ed, this is Arthur and Rita. Arthur and Rita, Ed.’
‘Where are you guys off to?’ Rita asked.
‘I’m going to this quidditch thing. You lot should come if you want.’
Rita’s lips twitched. ‘Ah . . . Accidental Text Girl?’
‘Who’s Accidental Text Girl?’ Ed asked.
‘No one. It’s too long to explain. Look, are you lot coming or not?’ I checked my phone. ‘I’m late as it is. And it could be quite fun. It’s just a friendly match, I think. There’ll probably be free food. And free pineapple juice.’
‘I’ve got a seminar,’ Rita said, but Arthur stood up and dusted his coat off. ‘Yeah, fuck it, I’m in.’
Ed shrugged. ‘Me too. Though if anyone tries to handcuff me, I’m straight out the door.’
PHOEBE
