by Gina Blaxill
‘It’s weird to say this, but I don’t think I ever really did.’
‘But he was your boyfriend. And he’s, well . . . got that exotic South American thing going on.’ For some reason the words ‘good-looking’ had stuck on my tongue.
‘He was never really my type,’ she replied unexpectedly. ‘Don’t think he’ll be coming back to Devereux. Everyone knows what he did. He’s probably enrolled somewhere else. It’s a shame really. He loved this school.’
I wanted to ask if she thought the school would take his face off the prospectus, as it wasn’t exactly great to have a criminal for a poster boy, but realized in time how mean that would sound. ‘Are you going to go to his house?’
‘Promised my parents I’d avoid that estate. Josh and Dale have mates there, plus it’s a craphole. No.’ She shoved her hands in her pockets. No gloves today, I noticed. ‘Part of his community sentence involves cleaning graffiti from the parade of shops at Gate Street. Thought I’d catch him there. Wanna come?’
‘Why? Do you need an escort?’
Imogen half smiled. ‘The word “escort” has a slightly different meaning round here, Northern boy – take it out of your dictionary. I’m asking cos I fancy the company. All right?’
I found myself saying I’d come. As we waited for the bus, snow began to fall, though it didn’t look like it was going to settle. Someone walked by playing a Christmas pop song from their mobile. I hadn’t thought about Christmas yet; I ought to make a start buying presents. Should I get something for Imogen? Or would she think that was weird?
By the time we arrived at Gate Street it was dusk. Imogen took me round to the back by the car park. There we found a group of about ten people scrubbing the walls. It didn’t look much fun, especially on a freezing cold day like this. I felt a little sorry for them. None of these people here looked like criminals – just like kids who were down on their luck. Ollie was at the end, working robotically. Before Imogen could call out, he spotted us.
‘How much longer?’ Imogen called. Ollie signalled fifteen minutes. Agreeing that he might find it humiliating if we watched, we had a cup of tea in a nearby Lebanese deli, which seemed to be the only place selling hot drinks around there. I watched shoppers cross the dull grey quadrangle, shuffling from shop to shop. Although the graffiti they were cleaning off wasn’t at the more imaginative end of the street-art spectrum, I could follow the thinking of whoever had decided this place needed some colour. All I could see was concrete and faded signs. It was like being in a black-and-white movie.
When a quarter of an hour had passed we found Ollie. Work had clearly finished earlier than anticipated because he was alone.
‘Hi.’ Imogen stopped a few steps short of him. ‘All right?’
Ollie shrugged. There was something different about him and after a moment I placed it; he wasn’t wearing sports gear, just jeans and an anonymous-looking sweater and jacket. It made him look less cool, less like a school pin-up.
‘Where are you studying now?’ Imogen asked.
‘Birch House. Bit shit academically, but the sports facilities aren’t bad.’
There was a silence. I looked from Imogen to Ollie. ‘D’you want me to go?’
Surprisingly it was Ollie who answered. ‘Don’t bother. This ain’t gonna take long. Im’s come to ask why I changed my statement. Right?’
‘Wrong.’ Imogen gave him her wry smile, the smile that I liked so much. ‘Came to see how you were first. Asking about the statement second.’
‘You can see how I am. I’m cleaning crap off walls.’ Ollie glanced over his shoulder, but no one else was around, save a woman with a pushchair a good ten metres away. ‘Don’t feel sorry for me, all right? Especially not you, OK?’
That last part was directed at me. I guessed part of him was still jealous of me after all.
Imogen rubbed her hands; keeping them in her pockets obviously wasn’t doing much to keep them warm. ‘They could’ve stung you with a worse sentence, y’know,’ she said. ‘You might as well tell us what happened. Trial’s over, and it’s not going to open up again unless something shifts.’
He rubbed at his chin. Something about the way he moved his hand made him seem very weary. He looked at Imogen. ‘Remember Paz?’
She nodded. The name was new to me but I didn’t ask.
‘He and Josh argued around the time we did the Guls’ shop. Dunno what about – but it was bad enough for Josh to want payback. A few days later they pushed him off the balcony of his flat.’
‘Christ!’ Imogen cried. ‘They didn’t kill him, did they?’
Ollie shook his head. ‘It was only on the first floor. But he broke his leg. Remember I said he was a great footballer? Not any more.’ A funny look crossed his face – hurt and angry but also resigned. ‘He dropped me, y’know, Paz. So much for being the brother I never had.’
‘You thought Josh and Dale might do something to you?’ I asked.
Ollie shot me an annoyed look, as though he’d forgotten I was part of the conversation. ‘Didn’t think. Knew. By then Josh and Dale were in custody, but their mates were more than happy to do the dirty work for them. Told me they were gonna take a hammer to my knees if I didn’t withdraw the statement. I’m not like you.’ He nodded at me. ‘No nice house, no big telly or computer games and all that stuff. But what I have got is basketball and football. Maybe I could make a living playing professionally some day. Or maybe they’ll get me a scholarship to some uni. Who knows? But someone breaks my knees . . . that’s it, game over.’ He paused. ‘I told them to get lost. Said I didn’t deserve a future any more, not after what I’d done. They didn’t scare me. But then . . .’
‘Then?’ Imogen prompted.
‘They started going into a lot of detail about what they’d do to my mum if I didn’t play ball. And that . . .’ Ollie pulled a face. He was trying to look nonchalant, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. ‘Well, I’ve put my mum through enough grief. The thought of her getting hurt, of more trouble because of me . . .’
I realized Imogen had been wrong. The McAllisters weren’t thick. They would never be able to think up something like this if they were. A sports injury was bad. They’d be taking everything from Ollie. They must have been surprised when he’d thrown their threats back in their faces. So they’d decided to bring Ollie’s poor mum into the equation. It was funny. Somehow I respected Ollie more for caving in because he loved his mum. That was something I could relate to. Imogen too, I suspected. She’d kept quiet to protect her brother, and what Ollie was doing now was no different.
Imogen swore. Ollie looked at his feet. We stood letting the snowflakes fall on our hair. After what seemed like ages Ollie said, ‘Gotta go. Not meant to be out after six. They got a tag on me.’
He walked away without saying goodbye. Imogen watched. Almost without thinking I put my arm around her shoulder.
‘You OK?’
She nodded. Then she said, ‘D’you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with you?’
It was such a strange question. Even stranger than me putting my arm around her and her not shaking it off. ‘Not sure what you mean.’
‘All the girls fancy Ollie.’ Imogen stated it as though it was a fact. ‘In Year 11 they went on about me spending time with him. Don’t get me wrong – I liked him. He was good company. But he didn’t, y’know, do anything for me. On paper he should’ve. Maybe good looks and stuff in common isn’t enough to make you go for someone after all. Maybe there needs to be that mysterious X-factor.’ She pulled a face. ‘Or maybe I’m just weird. I’ve never been as bothered about boys and having a boyfriend as every other girl I know. Other things just seemed more interesting. More important. It gets to the point where you feel like you’re on a different planet.’
I really wished she hadn’t picked me to have this conversation with but I was a little hooked to find out where this was leading too. I couldn’t help wondering how Imogen really felt about me? Nadina had said she found me ‘strangely
intriguing’.
I realized that Imogen expected me to say something. I fumbled about for the words. ‘So, if you weren’t interested in having a boyfriend, how did you end up with Ollie?’
‘Shall we make a move?’ Imogen looked at me and suddenly I felt as if the situation had become very intense. ‘Snow’s a right pain when you wear glasses.’
As we began to head towards the bus stop – which meant removing my arm from her shoulders – she continued, ‘Everyone was already treating us as a couple. It was easy to fall into. We got on. Seems obvious now there was nothing really deep there – emotionally, I mean.’
‘D’you think it was the same for him?’
She nodded. From how calm and accepting she seemed, I realized she must have thought about this a lot. ‘Ollie’s just like me, Sam. We’re both so focused on getting on in life I guess neither of us realizes stuff like this until it hits us over the head. We’re not thinkers.’
I’m the opposite, I thought. I think far too much, about things that haven’t happened yet and maybe never will.
Imogen was still talking. ‘I didn’t feel anything when we, you know . . . acted coupley. Just thought it was all right, then got worried because surely I ought to be thinking it was more than all right. Kissing’s like chocolate, you know? You’re not allowed to not like it.’
I couldn’t help but laugh. Remembering what people said in some of the films I’d watched with Mum, I said, ‘Maybe he just wasn’t the right person.’ Then, because that sounded far too knowing to be taken seriously, I added, ‘It’s not like I’m an expert, but when you’re . . . well, when you’re with someone you do like, it’ll feel different.’
She made a rude noise. ‘I’ve never even had a proper crush on someone, Sam. I even pretended I had one back in Year 9 cos I wanted to seem normal. How sad is that? I have absolutely no clue why I’m telling you all this, by the way.’ She poked me in the ribs. ‘You ever fancied anyone? Promise I won’t spread it around.’
Her tone was jokey and I really wished it wasn’t. I could feel myself start to blush. It wasn’t just that it was a personal question; it was also that Imogen was the one asking it, apparently completely innocently.
The answer’s yes, I thought. Obviously. I’d taken ages to acknowledge it, but . . . I noticed everything Imogen did. When she wore her hair differently. How patient she was when she spoke to the younger pupils. Her smile. I’d spent far too long wondering exactly what kind of person she was, even way back when we didn’t speak. And I really liked hanging out with her, even if it was just walking to the bus stop together. That all pointed to one thing, didn’t it?
‘Not really.’ I avoided her gaze. Then, realizing which direction we were walking in, I said, ‘Imo, stop. If we keep going this way, we’ll end up at the arcade.’
The arcade was the kind of place gangs of kids with nothing better to do hung out. Most of the shops were deserted or vandalized. It was only a very short walkway, but in the dark, with the McAllisters after our blood, it was somewhere to be avoided.
Imogen gave a start. ‘Man, I was so busy talking I went straight past the bus stop. I’m so used to going about without worrying I forgot.’
As we retraced our steps I saw a figure running towards us and tensed. Imogen glanced back and I saw her face freeze. I grabbed her arm, poised to run, though where to I had no idea. But just in time the figure got near enough for us to make him out and I saw it was a man in a long coat, carrying an umbrella – not either of the McAllisters. He pushed past us without a second glance. Just running for the bus, I thought in relief. The sooner we got clear of this place the better.
Imogen started hunting in her bag for her Oyster card. ‘Maybe magic things will happen for us at the Christmas party. It’s meant to be the season of slush and happiness, right?’
‘Party? Whose?’
‘Samuel, please. Don’t give me that “I haven’t been invited look”. It’s at sixth form, day we break up. It’ll just be dancing and music and food in the school hall, nothing to rock your socks, but it’ll be a laugh.’
We got on the bus. I didn’t want to say that I hadn’t been to a party like that for years. At least, not since Mum died. But maybe by the time this party came round I might feel ready to celebrate for once, providing the McAllisters stayed off our backs.
And maybe, just maybe, I would finally manage to say something to Imogen about how I felt.
IMOGEN
WEDNESDAY 18 DECEMBER
Mum opened my door as I was getting ready for the party. I swivelled round on my chair in front of the mirror where I’d been applying mascara.
‘Mum, please. Can’t you master knocking? I could’ve been naked or something.’
She ignored the sarcasm. ‘I came to see if you wanted a lift.’
‘Thanks but Sam’s stepmum’s giving me a lift. And she’s on call to pick us up when the cheesy Christmas songs get too much to handle.’
Mum nodded. I waited for her to go. When she didn’t I said, ‘Kinda tight schedule here, Mum. If there’s nothing else, d’you mind giving me a bit of space?’
But she closed the door and came in and sat on the bed. ‘Carry on with your make-up, Immy. I wanted to ask about your dad.’
‘What about him?’ I turned back to the mirror.
‘You two have been funny since your chat. Funnier, that is,’ Mum added as I opened my mouth to argue. ‘Enough is enough. Your dad’s in agony, waiting to see if you can forgive him. He loves you, Immy. He loves all of us. He made a mistake, but he’s only human.’
‘He doesn’t look like a man in agony to me.’
I saw Mum lean forward in the reflection. ‘Imogen, he’s your dad. What he did was a long time ago. It’s Christmas. You can’t carry on like this. But because you’re exactly like me – and don’t argue! – I know that you will. When it comes to things like this, you brush them under the carpet rather than tackling them head-on.’
I laid down my mascara. ‘Mum, you really pick your moments. I’m trying to make myself beautiful here.’
‘That shouldn’t take long.’ Mum smiled. I sighed and swivelled round again.
Mum held up her hands. ‘Don’t worry, I’m going back downstairs. But make up with your dad. Please.’
‘Do you forgive him? Sometimes it doesn’t seem as though you care.’
I realized I’d been very blunt. Mum raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t call me on it.
‘I’ve forgiven him. What he did was bad, but we all make mistakes. Your dad’s a good guy really.’ She smiled again. ‘The last month has been hell for us all, but if one good thing’s come out of it, it’s made me realize I’ve been running on autopilot. I’d been neglecting my family.’ She paused. ‘We’ve had our wake-up call. All of us. If we’re going to mend things, you need to give us a chance. OK?’
She didn’t need to say any more. ‘Point taken.’
Mum got up. ‘Think about it. Let’s have a nice Christmas.’
I watched her leave. For a second I felt low, as I always did when something reminded me that my family was basically a big load of fail. But then I thought, Sod it. I wanted to have a good time tonight. Mum was right really. I couldn’t hate Dad forever for what he’d done. He was my dad. I only had the one. Perhaps if I gave him a chance, we could start to feel like a proper family again?
I was downstairs five minutes before Sam was due to ring the bell. Benno, who was sitting in front of the telly watching a Christmas film, wrinkled his nose at me.
‘You smell.’
‘It’s called perfume,’ I snapped. ‘One day it’ll drive you wild.’
‘Gross. What’re you even meant to be? Mum said it was fancy dress.’
I ruffled his hair, mostly because I knew it annoyed him. ‘Isn’t it obvious, squirt?’
‘No.’ Benno gave me a look that said I was stupid. ‘You’re just wearing a black thing with white blobs on it.’
‘Those blobs are cotton-wool balls. Promise me
you’ll never work in fashion. You’ll sink.’ I smoothed down my top. It was a long one which stopped at the top of my thighs, and I’d paired it with a pair of black leggings. Most of the other girls would probably wear dresses, but that wasn’t my style. ‘I’m snow! That’s Christmassy, right?’
‘It’s lame.’
‘Stop teasing your sister.’ To my surprise Dad appeared. He smiled at me, rather tentatively. ‘You look very nice.’
‘Thanks.’ Hearing the doorbell, I picked up my bag and slung it over my shoulder. Dad was still looking at me. Taking a breath, I gave him a hug. ‘See you later.’
‘Be good.’ Dad hugged me back. He was smiling properly now. I felt a bit like I was ten years old again.
SAM
WEDNESDAY 18 DECEMBER
I kept looking at Imogen as Tamsin drove us to school. She glared at me.
‘Stop it.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘But I’m just not getting the snow thing. I know you told me this is the kind of fancy-dress party where no one really goes in fancy dress – which by the way doesn’t make any sense. But your outfit, well, it just looks weird.’
‘That’s not very polite, Sam,’ Tamsin said. ‘You’re meant to compliment a lady on how she looks.’
‘Good job I’m no lady!’ Imogen gave me a poke.
I was glad it was dark enough for her to not see me blush. While I might not have realized what the costume was supposed to be, that didn’t mean I didn’t think Imogen looked great, because I did. What I liked most was that it was so very her. I admired her for being strong-minded enough not to cave into the pressure of competing with the other girls, whom I knew would bling up. The only concession she seemed to have made was that she was wearing heels, which I suspected she’d borrowed from her mum. And her hair was loose again.
The fancy dress had been a bit of a cop out for me. I hadn’t wanted to look lame but I also hadn’t wanted to stand out. So I’d gone for a Santa hat and a red hoody, which didn’t look too bad. I’d never be as good-looking as someone like Ollie – but that was OK. And after spending such a long time feeling negative about myself, feeling OK was enough to make me happy.
