I SPEND THE rest of the day thinking about what Michael said in C16. Later on I go back to have a look myself, but he was right—there’s nothing.
I guess getting locked in an IT room kind of shook me up.
I don’t tell Becky about any of the Solitaire stuff. She’s very busy spreading the word about her fancy-dress birthday party, which is to be held on Friday, and I don’t think she’d really care much.
At lunch, Lucas finds me in the common room. I’m trying to read another chapter of Pride and Prejudice, but I think I’m just going to watch the film version, because this book is brain melting. The common room is pretty empty—everyone’s probably walked up to McDonald’s because the food in our school is prison food.
“All right?” Lucas says, seating himself at my table. I hate that. “All right.” I mean, is it a greeting or a question? Do you respond with “good, thanks” or “hello”?
“Not too bad,” I say, sitting up a little. “You?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
I can physically feel him searching for something to say. After a stupidly long pause, he reaches toward me and taps the book I’m holding. “You hate reading, right? Why don’t you just watch the film?”
I blink at him and say, “Er, I don’t know.”
After another stupidly long pause, he asks, “You going to Becky’s on Friday?”
What a dumb question.
“Er, yeah,” I say. “I assume you are too.”
“Yes, yeah. Who are you dressing up as?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He nods as if what I’ve said actually means something.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll look good,” he says, and then quickly adds, “Because, you know, when we were little, you were really into dressing up and stuff.”
I don’t remember ever dressing up as anything except a Jedi. I shrug at Lucas. “I’ll find something.”
And then he just turns bright red, like he does, and sits there watching me attempt to read for some time. So awkward. Jesus Christ. Eventually he gets out his phone and starts texting, and when he goes off to talk to Evelyn, I get to wondering why he is always hovering around like some ghost who doesn’t want to be forgotten. I don’t want to talk to him, really. I mean, I thought that it’d be nice to try and rekindle this friendship, but it’s too hard. I don’t want to talk to anyone.
Of course, I tell Charlie everything when we get home. He does not know what to say about Solitaire’s mysterious message. Instead, he tells me I should stop talking to Michael so much. I am not sure what I think about that. At dinner, Dad asks, “How’d it go this morning?”
“We didn’t find anything,” I say. Another lie. I must be borderline pathological.
Dad starts talking about another book that he’s going to lend me. He’s always lending me books. Dad went to university when he was thirty-two and did an English literature degree. He now works in IT. Nevertheless, he is always hoping that I’ll turn out to be some magnanimous thinker who has read a lot of Chekhov and James Joyce. Coming out as a book hater to my dad is comparable to coming out as gay to homophobic parents. I’ve never been able to tell him, and he’s lent me so many books now that it’s just too late to repair the damage.
Anyway, this time it’s Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. I nod and smile and try to sound a little interested, but it probably isn’t at all convincing.
Charlie quickly changes the subject by telling us about some film he and Nick watched over the weekend, An Education, which from Charlie’s description sounds like a total mockery and patronization of teenage girls worldwide. Oliver then tells us about his new toy tractor and why it is so much more majestic than all his other toy tractors. To Mum and Dad’s delight, we finish dinner within one hour, which must be a new record.
“Well done, Charlie! Great job!” says Dad, slapping him on the back, but Charlie just winces away from him. Mum nods and smiles, which is about as expressive as she gets. It’s like Charlie’s won the Nobel Prize. He escapes the kitchen without saying a word and comes to watch The Big Bang Theory with me. It’s not a very funny program, but I still seem to watch at least one episode every single day.
“Who would I be,” I ask at some point, “if I were any of the Big Bang Theory characters?”
“Sheldon,” says Charlie, without hesitation. “But, like, not as loud about your views.”
I turn my head toward him. “Wow. I’m offended.”
Charlie snorts. “He’s the only reason this show is any good, Victoria.”
I think about this, and then nod. “That’s probably true.”
Charlie lays still on the sofa, and I watch him for a minute. His eyes are sort of glazed, like he’s not really watching the TV, and he’s fiddling with his shirtsleeves. Charlie always wears long-sleeved shirts these days.
“Who would I be?” he asks.
I stroke my chin thoughtfully before declaring, “Howard. Definitely. Because you’re always chatting up the ladies—”
Charlie chucks a cushion at me from the sofa. I scream and cower in the corner before hurling a barrage of cushions back at him.
Tonight I watch the Keira Knightley Pride and Prejudice and find it to be almost as dreadful as the book. The only tolerable character is Mr. Darcy. I don’t see why Elizabeth finds him proud at the beginning, because it’s quite clearly obvious that he’s just shy. Any normal human being should be able to identify that as shyness and feel sorry for the poor guy because he’s dreadful at parties and social gatherings. It’s not really his fault. It’s just the way he is.
I blog some more and lie awake listening to the rain and forget what the time is and forget to change into my pajamas. I add Metamorphosis to the pile of unread books. I put The Breakfast Club on but I’m not really watching, so I skip to the best part, the part where they’re all sitting in a circle and they reveal those deep and personal things and they cry and all that. I watch that scene three times and then turn it off. I listen for the giant/demon but it’s more of a rumbling tonight, a deep growling rumble like a drum. In the swirly wallpaper of my room, stooped yellow figures creep back and forth and back and forth until I’m hypnotized. In my bed someone has placed an enormous glass cage on top of me and the air is slowly stewing sour. In my dreams I’m running around in circles atop a cliff, but there’s a boy in a red hat catching me every time I try to jump off.
