Nick and Charlie

by Alice Oseman

  SIX

  CHARLIE

  Aled was right. Nick and I are literally two idiots.

  We spend the whole day talking about us and what it’s going to be like when we’re long distance and it honestly only makes me believe even harder that we’re going to be fine, that everything’s going to be okay.

  Everything is going to be okay. Seriously, this time.

  Fuck this university thing. It really messes stuff up, doesn’t it? God.

  Nick drives me back home, but I tell him to drive to his house instead. I text Victoria that I’m staying over his. She’ll explain to our parents.

  And it sounds really silly but we stay up late just talking and browsing the Internet and watching videos and talking again, laughing, dozing off. I wonder what it’d be like to have a whole life of this. I think it’d be pretty great. Not gonna lie.

  And then one minute we’re lying there and the next we’re kissing, and it’s not like this is anything particularly new, but it feels new, it feels different somehow. I guess I don’t want to make this too romantic or anything. At the end of the day, it’s just kissing, but… I don’t know. How is it that this still makes me so… how have two years gone by and I still feel like this in his arms?

  We kiss for a long time, like it’s two years ago and we’re on Nick’s lounge sofa trying to watch a film. Impossible. I can’t think about anything else when he’s running his hands so gently through my hair, across my back, over my hips. Suddenly he’s pulling my T-shirt off and laughing when I can’t undo his shirt buttons, I’m asking if he wants to and he’s saying yes before I’ve even finished my sentence, he’s undoing my belt, I’m reaching into his bedside drawer for a condom, we’re kissing again, we’re rolling over, obviously you can see where this is going.

  I don’t know if it’s because we’re feeling especially emotional, or we’re just tired, or these past couple of weeks have been too much, but – and this is gonna sound really weird – this time reminds me so much of the first time we had sex. We were both fucking terrified.

  That first time was so bad. So bad it was kind of good. Does that make any sense?

  We’re scared this time for a different reason, I can tell. I could pretend that we aren’t scared that we’re approaching the end of this, of us, but that would be a lie.

  Nick touches me like he’s scared that any minute I could disintegrate forever. When we’re finally completely undressed he just stops and stares like he’s trying to memorise every second of this. When we’re moving he keeps saying my name over and over until I find it too ridiculous and tell him to shut up, but he just grins and keeps on saying it anyway, whispering it against my skin just to make me laugh. I hold him so tight against me, as if that’ll keep us here, keep him here with me. I used to think I was pathetic for thinking dumb, romantic stuff like that. I don’t any more. I just keep thinking it. I keep wanting him here. I keep wanting him to stay.

  Afterwards we lie there for a while, Nick’s head on my chest and our legs entwined. I reach over to his bedside table and turn the radio on, noticing that it’s gone 3am – how did that happen? I close my eyes because I think Nick might be asleep, but several minutes later I hear a click and open my eyes to find he’s taken a photo of us lying there, this time on his phone.

  “Nick!” I grab his phone and check the photo as he laughs gleefully.

  “Nothing like a post-sex candid.”

  I don’t reply because I’m just staring at the photo – it’s like the ones he took on his disposable camera, natural and un-staged, Nick curled against me and smirking up at the camera, my head leaning on his, my eyes shut and mouth slightly open.

  “Don’t delete it,” says Nick.

  “I’m not.” I look at it for a second more, and then hand it back to him. “Don’t put it on Instagram.”

  “Can I set it as my wallpaper?”

  “What, and get rid of Henry? Do you finally love me more than your dog?”

  “Mmm, that’s going a bit far…”

  I roll over, shoving him off me and flipping us so I’m lying on top of him. “Rude.”

  Nick laughs and wraps his arms around me. “Okay, fine, I love you more than my dog.”

  “Good.”

  “I love you more than anyone, actually.”

  He says this a little quieter. I move my head out from the crook of his neck so I can meet his eyes.

  “Is that weird?” he continues, and then huffs out a small laugh. “I’m only eighteen.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe.”

  It is weird. We both know it’s weird. We both know we’re weird, we’re not like other couples our age. It’s weird that we hang out every single day, it’s weird that we’d rather just be with each other all the time. Every day we wonder when we’re going to stop feeling like this and get over our teenage relationship. But it never happens. We just keep on going.

  But it’s good too. God, it’s so good.

  “I’m weird too,” I say, because saying ‘I love you more than anyone too’ back to him doesn’t feel quite adequate, even though I honestly love him more than anyone else in the entire world.

  Nick squeezes me and says, “Yeah,” because he already knows.

  NICK

  The next morning I wake up to the sound of Charlie’s phone alarm and he makes honestly the most adorable grumbling sound I’ve ever heard and even though I’m half-asleep I just start laughing. He turns the alarm off and rolls over and asks, “What?” and I’m like, “Don’t go to school today. You don’t have to go to school… it’s only study leave…” And I reach out my arms and pull him closer to me and he shuts his eyes and mumbles, “Fine.”

  “I don’t ever remember not being serious. As far as I’m concerned, I came out of the womb spouting cynicism and wishing for rain”

  My name is Tori Spring. I like to sleep and I like to blog. Last year – before all that stuff with Charlie and before I had to face the harsh realities of A-Levels and university applications and the fact that one day I really will have to start talking to people – I had friends. Things were very different, I guess, but that’s all over now.

  Now there’s Solitaire. And Michael Holden.

  I don’t know what Solitaire are trying to do, and I don’t care about Michael Holden.

  I really don’t.

  “The Catcher in the Rye for the digital age” The Times

  Turn the page to read an extract from Solitaire…

  ONE

  I AM AWARE as I step into the common room that the majority of people here are almost dead, including me. I have been reliably informed that post-Christmas blues are entirely normal and that we should expect to feel somewhat numb after the ‘happiest’ time of the year, but I don’t feel so different now to how I felt on Christmas Eve, or on Christmas Day, or on any other day since the Christmas holidays started. I’m back now and it’s another year. Nothing is going to happen.

  I stand there. Becky and I look at each other.

  “Tori,” says Becky, “you look a little bit like you want to kill yourself.”

  She and the rest of Our Lot have sprawled themselves over a collection of revolving chairs around the common-room computer desks. As it’s the first day back, there has been a widespread hair-and-make-up effort across the entire sixth form and I immediately feel inadequate.

  I deflate into a chair and nod philosophically. “It’s funny because it’s true.”

  She looks at me some more, but doesn’t really look, and we laugh at something that wasn’t funny. Becky then realises that I am in no mood to do anything so she moves away. I lean into my arms and fall half asleep.

  My name is Victoria Spring. I think you should know that I make up a lot of stuff in my head and then get sad about it. I like to sleep and I like to blog. I am going to die someday.

  Rebecca Allen is probably my only real friend at the moment. She is also probably my best friend. I am as yet unsure whether these two facts are related. In any
case, Becky Allen is very pretty and has very long purple hair. It has come to my attention that, if you have purple hair, people often look at you. If you are pretty with purple hair, people often stay looking at you, thus resulting in you becoming a widely recognised and outstandingly popular figure in adolescent society; the sort of figure that everyone claims to know yet probably hasn’t even spoken to. She has 2,098 friends on Facebook.

  Right now, Becky’s talking to this other girl from Our Lot, Evelyn Foley. Evelyn is considered ‘retro’ because she has messy hair and wears a necklace with a triangle on it.

  “The real question though,” says Evelyn, “is whether there’s sexual tension between Harry and Malfoy.”

  I’m not sure whether Becky genuinely likes Evelyn. Sometimes I think people only pretend to like each other.

  “Only in fan fictions, Evelyn,” says Becky. “Please keep your fantasies between yourself and your blog.”

  Evelyn laughs. “I’m just saying. Malfoy helps Harry in the end, right? He’s a nice guy deep down, yeah? So why does he bully Harry for seven years? Enormous. Closet. Homosexual.” With each word, she claps her hands together. It really doesn’t emphasise her point. “It’s a well-established fact that people tease people they fancy. The psychology here is unarguable.”

  “Evelyn,” says Becky. “Firstly, I resent the fangirl idea that Draco Malfoy is some kind of beautifully tortured soul who is searching for redemption and understanding. Secondly, the only non-canon couple that is even worth discussion is Snily.”

  “Snily?”

  “Snape and Lily.”

  Evelyn appears to be deeply offended. “I can’t believe you don’t support Drarry when you ship Snape and Lily. I mean, at least Drarry is a realistic possibility.” She slowly shakes her head. “Like, obviously, Lily went for someone hot and hilarious like James Potter.”

  “James Potter was a resplendent twat. Especially to Lily. J.K. made that quite clear. And dude – if you don’t like Snape by the end of the series, then you miss the entire concept of Harry Potter.”

  “If Snily had been a thing, there would have been no Harry Potter.”

  “Without a Harry, Voldemort might not have, like, committed mass genocide.”

  Becky turns to me, and so does Evelyn. I deduce that I am under pressure to contribute something.

  I sit up. “You’re saying that because it’s Harry’s fault that all these muggles and wizards died, it would have been better if there’d been no Harry Potter at all and no books or films or anything?”

  I get the impression that I’ve ruined this conversation so I mumble an excuse and lift myself off my chair and hurry out of the common-room door. Sometimes I hate people. This is probably very bad for my mental health.

  *

  There are two grammar schools in our town: Harvey Greene Grammar School for Girls, or ‘Higgs’ as it is popularly known, and Truham Grammar School for Boys. Both schools, however, accept males and females in Years 12 and 13, the two final years of school known countrywide as the sixth form. So, now that I am in Year 12, I have had to face a sudden influx of the male species. Boys at Higgs are on a par with mythical creatures and having an actual real boyfriend puts you at the head of the social hierarchy, but personally, thinking or talking too much about ‘boy issues’ makes me want to shoot myself in the face.

  Even if I did care about that stuff, it’s not like we get to show off, thanks to our stunning school uniform. Usually, sixth-formers don’t have to wear school uniform; however, Higgs sixth form are forced to wear a hideous one. Grey is the theme, which is fitting for such a dull place.

  I arrive at my locker to find a pink Post-it note on its door. On that, someone has drawn a left-pointing arrow, suggesting that I should, perhaps, look in that direction. Irritated, I turn my head to the left. There’s another Post-it note a few lockers along. And, on the wall at the end of the corridor, another. People are walking past them, totally oblivious. What can I say? People aren’t observant. People don’t question stuff like this. They never think twice about déjà vu when there could be a glitch in the Matrix. They walk past tramps in the street without even glancing at their misfortune. They don’t psychoanalyse the creators of slasher-horrors when they’re probably all psychopaths.

  I pluck the Post-it from my locker and wander to the next.

  Sometimes I like to fill my days with little things that other people don’t care about. It makes me feel like I’m doing something important, mainly because no one else is doing it.

  This is one of those times.

  The Post-its start popping up all over the place. Like I said, everyone is ignoring them; instead, they are going on with their day and talking about boys and clothes and pointless stuff. Year 9s and 10s strut around in their rolled-up skirts and thigh-high socks over their tights. Year 9s and 10s always seem to be happy. It makes me hate them a bit. Then again, I hate quite a lot of things.

  The penultimate Post-it I find depicts an arrow pointing upwards, or forwards, and is situated on the door of a closed computer room on the first floor. Black fabric covers the door window. This particular computer room, C16, was closed last year for refurbishment, but it doesn’t look like anyone’s bothered getting started. It sort of makes me feel sad, to tell you the truth, but I open C16’s door anyway, enter and close it behind me.

  There’s one long window stretching the length of the far wall, and the computers in here are bricks. Solid cubes. Apparently, I’ve time-travelled to the 1990s.

  I find the final Post-it note on the back wall, bearing a URL:

  SOLITAIRE.CO.UK

  In case you live under a rock or are home-schooled or are just an idiot, Solitaire is a card game you play by yourself. It’s what I used to spend my IT lessons doing and it probably did a lot more for my intelligence than actually paying attention.

  It’s then that someone opens the door.

  “Dear God, the age of the computers in here must be a criminal offence.”

  I turn slowly around.

  A boy stands before the closed door.

  “I can hear the haunting symphony of dial-up connection,” he says, eyes drifting, and, after several long seconds, he finally notices that he’s not the only person in the room.

  He’s a very ordinary-looking, not ugly but not hot, miscellaneous boy. His most noticeable feature is a pair of large, thick-framed square glasses, the sort similar to those 3D cinema glasses that twelve-year-olds pop the lenses out of and wear because they think it makes them look ‘rad’. God, I hate it when people wear glasses like that. He’s tall and has a side parting. In one hand, he holds a mug; in the other a piece of paper and his school planner.

  As he absorbs my face, his eyes flare up and I swear to God they double in size. He leaps towards me like a pouncing lion, fiercely enough that I stumble backwards in fear that he might crush me completely. He leans forward so that his face is centimetres from my own. Through my reflection in his ridiculously oversized spectacles, I notice that he has one blue eye and one green eye. Heterochromia.

  He grins violently.

  “Victoria Spring!” he cries, raising his arms into the air.

  I say and do nothing. I have a headache.

  “You are Victoria Spring,” he says. He holds the piece of paper up to my face. It’s a photograph. Of me. Underneath, in tiny letters: Victoria Spring, 11A. It has been on display near the staffroom – in Year 11, I was a form leader, mostly because no one else wanted to do it so I got volunteered. All the form leaders had their pictures taken. Mine is awful. It’s before I cut my hair so I sort of look like the girl from The Ring. It’s like I don’t even have a face.

  I look into the blue eye. “Did you tear that right off the display?”

  He steps back a little, retreating from his invasion of my personal space. He’s got this insane smile on his face. “I said I’d help someone look for you.” He taps his chin with his planner. “Blond guy … skinny trousers … walking around like he didn’t reall
y know where he was …”

  I do not know any guys and certainly not any blond guys who wear skinny trousers.

  I shrug. “How did you know I was in here?”

  He shrugs too. “I didn’t. I came in because of the arrow on the door. I thought it looked quite mysterious. And here you are! What a hilarious twist of fate!”

  He takes a sip of his drink. I start to wonder if this boy has mental problems.

  “I’ve seen you before,” he says, still smiling.

  I find myself squinting at his face. Surely I must have seen him at some point in the corridors. Surely I would remember those hideous glasses. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”

  “That’s not surprising,” he says. “I’m in Year 13, so you wouldn’t see me much. And I only joined your school last September. I did my Year 12 at Truham.”

  That explains it. Four months isn’t enough time for me to commit a face to memory.

  “So,” he says, tapping his mug. “What’s going on here?”

  I step aside and point unenthusiastically to the Post-it on the back wall. He reaches up and peels it off.

  “Solitaire.co.uk. Interesting. Okay. I’d say we could boot up one of these computers and check it out, but we’d probably both expire before Internet Explorer loaded. I bet you any money they all use Windows 95.”

  He sits down on one of the swivel chairs and stares out of the window at the suburban landscape. Everything is lit up like it’s on fire. You can see right over the town and into the countryside. He notices me looking too.

  “It’s like it’s pulling you out, isn’t it?” he says. He sighs to himself. Like a girl. “I saw this old man on my way in this morning. He was sitting at a bus stop listening to an iPod, tapping his hands on his knees, looking at the sky. How often do you see that? An old man listening to an iPod. I wonder what he was listening to. You’d think it would be classical, but it could have been anything. I wonder if it was sad music.” He lifts up his feet and crosses them on top of a table. “I hope it wasn’t.”