“Just give me fair warning so I can make sure there’s something glamorous I can die on nearby – a chaise longue or sweeping staircase, perhaps.”
“Screw you.”
“Again?” Jack retorts.
Dylan gives him the finger and stomps off.
“Just to confirm, I don’t have lice!” Jack repeats, loud enough for half the room to hear.
All I want is for this to be over. And by “this”, I mean life. Maybe if I just keep staring up at the ceiling, it’ll be fine.
Jack looks down at me again. “Let’s write some phrases to describe the perfect sixth former,” he says. “I’m going to start with ‘Not a twat’.”
“Are we allowed to use inappropriate language?”
“Who cares?” Jack says. “Shift off the paper else I’ll write it on your forehead.”
I roll off and heave myself to a sitting position, watching as Jack finishes “Not a twat” and then adds “Truthful” and “Loyal”.
“Add something!” Jack tells me.
I take a lid off a pen and write, “Kind to animals”.
Jack narrows his eyes at me, then crosses out “animals” and replaces it with “their boyfriend”. “I think that’s what you meant,” Jack says.
Twenty minutes later, the exercise is complete, and I can’t speak for Jack, but part of me feels a tiny bit better for scrawling down certain home truths about Dylan and Tariq. And you know what? They are all completely relevant because the perfect sixth former is not someone who goes around lying and cheating, so this all feels pretty justified. Anyway, I’m hoping we can now move on to the next activity and then ideally go home, when Mrs Taylor says,
“Right! Let’s have some of you up here to discuss what you’ve written – Lottie and Beth, Dylan and Tariq…”
There’s a collective held breath as everyone waits and prays – in my case, that this doesn’t head the way we all know it will, and in everyone else’s case, that it absolutely does.
“And, yes, since you were late, Jack and Nate!” Mrs Taylor says triumphantly.
A prickle of anticipation ripples through the room.
I glance at Jack. “Huh,” he says, chewing his lip
“No, no, no,” I whimper. My main thought is whether running straight out of the exit is a viable plan, and if I could plead a breakdown or something. Or a sickness bug. I feel sick, I think it could be a legit excuse.
“Chop chop, boys!” Mrs Taylor says, clapping her hands. “Up you get – has your nose stopped bleeding, Nate? Yes? Good. Let’s have a nice line of you along the front here, one of you hold your sheet of paper up, so we can all see.”
Jack’s on his feet first, and he offers me his hand to pull me up, which I ignore because if we hadn’t been late this wouldn’t be happening, and who made us late? Whose ridiculous plan to get us out of this workshop backfired? Jack’s. He is such a dick. And thanks to him, the hotly anticipated next episode of this Big Gay Soap Opera is about to continue – which is probably what he was hoping for all along.
My feet and legs barely cooperate as I haul myself towards the front of the hall. It’s like they know this is a mistake. And then, just as I’m shuffling behind Jack, picking our way through the audience to the front, I glance up and there he is – Tariq. He smiles at me. He frigging smiles. A gentle, sweet, apologetic, hope-you’re-OK kind of smile. And I know that’s what sort of smile it is, because I know him and he was my boyfriend (and technically still is, since he hasn’t formally broken up with me with words that unequivocally say that).
I try to smile back but instead I nearly start crying, and then he’s no longer looking so it doesn’t matter anyway.
So we’re standing in our pairs in front of everyone, Dylan and Tariq on the far right, Lottie and Beth in the middle, and then me and Jack.
“So, what we’ll do is have one word or phrase from each group and go along the line, until we’ve done them all, so just shout them out!” Mrs Taylor says.
“Hard-working,” Dylan says.
“That was Mrs Taylor’s example to start with!” Jack immediately complains.
“So?” says Dylan.
“It’s fine,” Mrs Taylor interrupts. “It’s a perfectly good start. Lottie and Beth?”
“Organized,” Lottie says.
“Excellent! Hard-working, organized…” Mrs Taylor looks at us. “Jack and Nate?”
“Not a twat,” Jack replies, flicking his eyes to Dylan as he says it.
There’s laughter, which Mrs Taylor immediacy quells. “All right! All right! Let’s keep it clean and sensible, shall we, Jack? You’re going to be a sixth former now, after all.”
Dylan rolls his eyes. “Exactly.”
I glance down the line to Tariq. He’s not smiling any more.
“Back to Tariq and Dylan!” Mrs Taylor says brightly.
“Committed,” Tariq says.
I find myself nodding in agreement, just because it’s Tariq.
“Good!” Mrs Taylor beams, as Jack pipes up with, “Committed to what?”
“We’re just going through the words for now, Jack,” Mrs Taylor says.
“OK, but committed to what? Like, committed to bettering themselves? To world peace? I think it’s good to clarify, or else you might mistakenly think they were referring to, oh, I don’t know” – he blows out a breath – “committed to backstabbing and cheating on your partner, for example.”
“Shut up, Jack!” Dylan says.
Jack shrugs. “That’s just an example.”
“Shut up, Jack!” I hiss.
Jack glares at me like I’ve just stabbed him in the back.
“Lottie and Beth!” Mrs Taylor says, moving it immediately on.
“Enthusiastic!”
“About what?” Jack asks Beth. “Enthusiastic about your subjects, or about backstabbing and cheating on your partner, for example?”
“Argh!” Dylan screams.
I take an unsteady breath, then lock eyes with Tariq down the line. He looks awkward and embarrassed and there’s a small shred of comfort to be had in the fact we’re both clearly feeling the same right now.
“Truthful!” Jack continues, pointing to our paper, like a TV weather person. “Which I happen to know at least two people in this room not so far away from me would definitely struggle with, so maybe they shouldn’t be allowed to study here, I don’t know.”
“Mature,” Dylan growls.
“Sorry, is that an item on your list or something you just wish you were?” Jack asks, peering down the line towards Dylan.
“Forgiving when people make mistakes,” Dylan replies.
“HA! Oh, the LOLs!” Jack replies. His face turns from mirth to deadly serious. “Not a lying BITCH.”
“Not your turn, and no offensive language,” Mrs Taylor jumps in.
“Responsible,” Lottie says. Lottie and Beth are so not involved in this at this point, but they’re carrying on either valiantly or obliviously.
“Able to take criticism,” Tariq says.
“Here’s some criticism!” Jack announces. “Tell the truth! Don’t lead people on!” He points to our paper. “Be kind to YOUR BOYFRIEND!”
“That says ‘animals’,” Lottie says.
“I think both count,” Dylan says.
Jack snaps his fingers. “Exactly!” he says triumphantly.
“Exactly,” Dylan echoes. “They’re basically the same thing – my ex-boyfriend is behaving like an absolute pig right now.”
“Such an obvious choice of animal!” Jack hurls back. “And also, THIS IS YOUR FAULT, NOT MINE!”
“OK! OK, that’s absolutely enough!” Mrs Taylor says. “Whatever is going on here, I don’t want to hear any more about it. OK? We need to learn to leave our personal lives outside the sixth form. OK? OK, Jack?”
“OK.”
“OK, Dylan?”
“OK.”
Mrs Taylor looks between me and Tariq. We both nod.
“OK, then,” Mrs Taylor sa
ys. “One more example each, please.”
“A team player,” Jack mutters.
“Able to manage workloads,” Beth adds.
Dylan’s eyes have a dangerous twinkle in them. “Doesn’t. Have. PUBIC LICE!”
It’s at that point that Jack launches himself at Dylan, and they both topple to the floor in a mess of squeals and flailing limbs, none of which look like actual punches, but more like a very homoerotic wrestling match. Various classmates have their phones out, filming. Once again, Jack’s made this whole thing into The Jack Show. Suddenly I’m so completely furious I have to stop myself jumping into the scrum and wringing his stupid neck.
Mrs Taylor is straight on her walkie-talkie. “Office? I need some backup in the main hall, please?”
CHAPTER NINE
JACK
Nate is so super furious, I mean, honestly, talk about overreaction. Personally, it felt good to air my considerable grievances, plus, don’t Dylan and Tariq deserve to be embarrassed in public for what they’ve done? Also, thanks to the element of surprise, I basically won a wrestling match with the football captain, so that’s another humiliation for Dylan.
Nate clearly does not feel the same, though. I can barely keep up with him as he charges down the street, all red-faced and breathing heavily.
“Nate! It’s not like it even matters!”
He doesn’t look at me. “I have never been thrown out of a class in my life!”
“OK, (a) it wasn’t a class. Not a proper one. It was a—”
“Seriously, you should shut up.”
“OK, but also, (b) we’re not officially at school, we’re technically—”
“Jack, shut up.”
“OK, but finally, (c) the school gets money for each sixth former they recruit, so all this ‘compulsory orientation session’ thing is just them pretending they’ve actually got power over us because they’ll want us regardless, like, whatever we’ve done wrong, they will still want us in September because otherwise we’ll just probably go to Downham College and they’ll get the money for us instead. Literally, we could have committed a heinous atrocity, nuked an entire continent, millions dead and they’d be like, ‘Yeah, OK, you can still study A level English here.’”
He stops dead and turns right into me, so we’re almost nose to nose. “I just want you to leave me alone.”
I can tell it’s more than that. I can tell he actually wants to wring my neck. His left eye is twitching, which always used to happen when he was stressed. It’s kind of sweet. “Maybe talking about it will help,” I suggest.
“What’s there to talk about, Jack? How I’ve been humiliated? How I just want to crawl under a rock right now? How you’re making everything a billion times worse by being so…”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Fabulous in the face of adversity?” I suggest.
He scowls at me. “I don’t want to talk.”
And off he goes again, charging down the street.
Trouble is, I do want to talk. I’d love to. Between us, maybe we could piece this whole thing together, get some answers. And there isn’t anyone else I can talk to about this. It’s not like I have anyone I would call a best friend. I mean, Nate was my best friend, once, so I guess he’s the closest thing, even if he does now hate me. “Nate!”
He doesn’t look back.
“Don’t make me wrestle you, Nate!”
But he doesn’t seem to care.
I try to catch him up, until I’m literally doing a light jog next to him as he strides along. “This is crazy,” I tell him.
He gives me nothing.
“Our boyfriends both cheated on us. Don’t you think we have something in common to talk about?”
“No.”
“Talking helps!”
“No.”
He arrives at his house, where his mum and dad are both in the driveway, packing things into a camper van.
“Hey, Nate!” his dad chirps. “We’re just—”
Nate barges past, doesn’t even acknowledge either of them, heads in through the front door and slams it shut behind him.
His parents glance at one another, and then at me. “Jack!” his mum says.
“Hey,” I say, smiling. Nate’s mum hasn’t changed a bit – she’s dressed practically (but not unstylishly) in jeans and a floral blouse, and her whole vibe still exudes “mum”, if you get me? It’s like, you can tell she’s caring, she’d protect you from bad guys, and would always have a tissue handy, but you’d better not swear in front of her. His dad, who always was a little rough around the edges, is slightly rougher these days (he totally wouldn’t care if you swore in front of him), although it’s nothing a trip to the barber, a shave – and possibly a spa day – wouldn’t solve.
“We haven’t seen you since you were—” Nate’s mum illustrates my height as a thirteen-year-old with her hand. “Look at you! All handsome and grown-up!”
“It’s true, very grown-up – I actually had to shave two weeks ago. Sort of.”
“You and Nate used to hang out all the time,” Nate’s dad says, putting down a box which has “cooking stuff” written on it in marker pen.
“Yes, well, that was before your son turned against me because he turned out to be a massive prick,” is what I want to say. Instead, I give a shy smile and go with, “We kind of started doing our own thing.”
His parents nod.
“I miss him,” I add, and as soon as I say it, I realize just how much I really do. Until we were thirteen, I had a wingman. I had someone to laugh with about everything, someone who was there for me and who I never needed to be anything other than me with. Nate was my best friend, and we were unstoppable, until we … weren’t.
His dad gestures towards the house. “So, um, what’s going on with him?”
I shake my head. “He’s in the foulest of moods.”
“Is it Tariq-related?”
“I think, yes, it is.” I am not going to elaborate.
His mum sighs and shakes her head. “That terrible boy. Nate wouldn’t really say much about it – just that he was secretly seeing some other shameful individual.”
“Otherwise known as my boyfriend,” I say.
“Oh,” she says, flushing in the cheeks.
“Well, ex-boyfriend now.”
She nods. “Sorry, I didn’t realize he … so, you didn’t know—”
“Correct. I found out at the prom too. It was a great night. One to remember.”
“That’s terrible,” his mum says. “You poor boys.” She steps closer to me. “And how are you holding up?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out.
“Came as a shock, I imagine?” she continues.
My throat tightens, and I nod, panic shooting through my veins because I can feel myself about to lose it.
“It’s OK, you don’t have to talk about it.”
“It’s not that I mind talking, it’s just that Nate won’t,” I say.
“That’s Nate all over,” his dad says.
I glance at the camper van and the boxes over the drive, keen to talk about something else. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Kind of a freewheeling road trip,” Nate’s dad says.
His mum clears her throat. “Can you stop telling everyone that, Mick? Most of the neighbours already think this is part of a midlife crisis.”
“A road trip with a bit of structure,” his dad concedes.
“Well, with quite a lot of structure because it’s ultimately a perfectly ordinary planned family holiday that normal people would have, and, yes, we could have gone to the stunning south of France like Jean from reception, but we simply chose not to, probably out of concern for the environment.” She gives Nate’s dad a tight smile. “Right, dear?”
“Right, dear,” he replies. He turns to me. “Getting a head start on the packing because we’re off in a couple of days. Well, we are. Nate’s still saying he’s not coming, last we heard.”
I break into a wide smile. “Na
te being unenthusiastic? How unusual!”
They both laugh.
Then Nate’s dad turns to his mum and sort of cocks his head towards me, at which she raises her eyebrows, and then nods.
“Jack,” his dad says, rubbing his hands together. “Got a little proposal for you.”
CHAPTER TEN
Nate
I’m so angry. I’m angry with Tariq for doing this to me. I’m angry with Jack for making it worse. And I’m angry with myself for being so utterly stupid in the first place. Guys like me are better off just keeping our heads down and getting through life as best we can, maybe occasionally being thrown a scrap of something that isn’t completely horrible, awkward, or unfortunate. Romance? Actually dating someone? Big announcements in front of classmates? What was I thinking?
Meanwhile, everyone can just go to hell.
Especially Jack.
I slam my bedroom door, whip my curtains closed, whack my headphones on, crash on my bed, squeeze my eyes tight shut and blast “Total Eclipse of the Heart” at an obscene, eardrum-shattering volume.
Do not judge me on my song choice.
I think about Tariq, forensically analysing his every facial expression and body language from this morning. Is there a part of him that’s regretting this whole thing? Does he still like me? Before I can think better of it, I do it. I message him:
Hey.
And after thirty seconds that feels like thirty hours, he replies:
Hey.
Nate: I’m sorry about Jack earlier.
Tariq: No worries.
Nate: So I guess I’m not your boyfriend any more? I just wondered what I did wrong?
Tariq: You did nothing wrong, Nate. It was all me, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But, I guess… We were always kind of hiding. And that’s cool, I know you weren’t ready to tell people, but I wanted to get out there and live life. I didn’t mean for it to happen like this, but Dylan just made me feel like I could. I hope we can still be friends.
Nate: That’s OK.
Wow. I put my phone on airplane mode and crank the music volume up. After the original song, there are five remix versions, which gives me ample time to dwell on the fact that, once again, I find myself watching everyone else doing their thing and getting on, while I sit quietly at the sidelines, wishing, so hard and so much, that I could do the same. Nate Harrison: a masterclass on missing out on life. Maybe this whole thing was my fault? I feel like I don’t ever want to open my eyes again, just lie here and shut it all out, but I eventually let my eyes drift open and there’s Jack standing at the foot of my bed, grinning demonically.
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