IN MY YOUNGER years, every day after school, I used to walk down the road and meet Charlie outside Truham. We’d then either ride the bus home or we would walk. Despite it only being a ten-minute bus journey, I would have to put my iPod on near full volume. I knew that I would be deaf by the time I was twenty, but if I had to listen to these kids every single day, I don’t think I’d make it to twenty. I don’t think I’d make it to seventeen.
Still, despite my two-year-long bus boycott, I started getting the bus again on Wednesday to keep Charlie company, and it hasn’t been too bad so far. We’ve had a good chance to talk about stuff. I don’t mind talking with Charlie.
Anyway, it’s Friday today, and Michael has decided that he is coming home with me.
Which is sort of nice, to tell you the truth.
Nick is waiting for me outside Truham. Nick always looks particularly dashing in his tie and blazer. The RUGBY patch above his school crest reflects a little sunlight. He is wearing sunglasses. Ray-Bans. He sees Michael and me approach.
“A’ight.” Nick nods, hands in pockets, Adidas bag strapped across his chest.
“All right,” I say.
Nick studies Michael. “Michael Holden,” he says.
Michael has his hands held behind his back. “You’re Nick Nelson.”
I see Nick’s initial uncertainty ease at Michael’s uncharacteristically normal reaction. “Yup. Yeah, I remember you. From Truham. You’re infamous, man.”
“Yes, yeah. I’m awesome.”
“Rad.”
Michael smiles. “Nicholas Nelson. You have a really excellent name.”
Nick laughs in that warm way of his, almost as if he and Michael have been friends for years. “I know, right?”
Flocks of Truham boys soar past us, running for inexplicable reasons, while the traffic on the road is unmoving. A group of Year 10 Higgs girls cozy up to a group of Year 10 Truham boys against the gate several meters away from us. There are at least three couples within the group. God.
I scratch my forehead, feeling agitated. “Where’s Charlie?”
Nick raises his eyebrows and turns back toward Truham. “He’s the only guy in his class who cares about classics, so he’s probably been dragged into a long conversation with Rogers about, like, Greek proverbs or something—”
“Toriiiiii!”
I twirl around. Becky is dodging traffic and skipping my way, her purple locks flailing behind her.
When she arrives, she says, “Ben said he had to go to Truham and get something from last year, coursework or something, so I’m just going to wait with you guys. I don’t want to stand by myself like a Larry.”
I smile. It’s starting to become really difficult to do that sometimes around Becky, but I make the effort and force it.
Michael and Nick are both staring at her with empty expressions that I can’t read.
“What are you all doing here?”
“We’re waiting for Charlie,” I say.
“Oh, yeah.”
“Shall we just go in and find him?” Nick suggests. “He’s being majorly slow.”
But none of us moves.
“It’s like we’re in Waiting for Godot,” murmurs Michael. I’ve heard of the play, but I haven’t got any idea what Michael is talking about.
And as if things could not get any more awkward, Lucas appears out of nowhere.
Nick raises his arms. “Lucas! Mate!” They embrace in a manly sort of hug, but Lucas just looks silly. They proceed to exchange pleasantries, and each of them uses the words “mate” and “man” far too many times, resulting in Michael snorting “Oh my God” much too loudly. Fortunately, Lucas and Nick appear not to hear. I chuckle, faintly.
“What are you all doing here?” asks Lucas, deliberately pretending not to see Michael.
“Waiting for Charlie,” says Nick.
“Waiting for Ben,” says Becky.
“Why don’t you just go look for them? I’ve got to go inside too, to pick up my art GCSE coursework.”
“That’s what Ben’s doing,” says Becky.
At the repeated mention of Ben, Nick seems to frown at Becky. But I might just be imagining it.
“Well, let’s go then,” he says, and pushes his sunglasses farther up his nose.
“We can’t,” whispers Michael, oozing sarcasm, so quiet that only I hear. “Why not? We’re waiting for Charlie. Ah.” He might be quoting, but I haven’t read or seen Waiting for Godot, so it’s lost on me.
Nick turns on the spot and walks into the school. Becky follows immediately. Then the rest of us.
I remember instantly why I chose not to go to this school for Sixth Form. The boys who pass us are more than strangers. I feel trapped. As we enter the main building, the walls seem to creep higher and higher and the light bars are dim and flashing, and I experience a brief flashback of the back of Michael’s head, leading me toward the Truham maths classrooms last year. Every so often we pass these rusty old radiators, none of which appears to be emitting any heat. I start to shiver.
“God, it’s like an abandoned mental asylum, isn’t it?” Michael is on my left. “I’d forgotten what it’s like here. It’s as if they built it out of misery.”
We wind through corridors that appear to materialize in front of our feet. Michael starts whistling. Truham boys give us a lot of funny looks, particularly Michael. One group of older boys shout, “Oi—Michael Holden—wanker!” and Michael spins on the spot and produces a strong double-thumbs-up in their direction. We pass through a set of double doors and find ourselves in a large maze of lockers, not unlike our own Higgs locker room. It seems empty at first. Until we hear a voice.
“What the fuck did you say to them?”
All five of us freeze.
The voice continues. “Because I don’t remember saying that you could spread lies about me to your retard sister.”
Whoever else is there murmurs something inaudible. I already know who it is. I think everyone already knows who it is.
I spot Becky’s face. I haven’t seen that expression on her for a very long time.
“Do not make me laugh. I bet you couldn’t wait to run and tell someone. Everyone knows you’re just an attention-seeking prick. Everyone knows you’re doing it for the attention. And you’re telling your sister lies about us so she can spread shit around? You think you’re so much better than everyone because you don’t eat, and now you’re back at school, and even though you haven’t even looked at me since you hooked up with that rugby gay, you think you can spread shit about me that isn’t even fucking true.”
“I don’t know what you think you’ve heard,” says Charlie, louder now, “but I literally haven’t told anyone. Anyway, I seriously can’t believe you’re still terrified of people finding out.”
There is a sharp smack and a crash. I start running toward the voices before I realize what I’m doing, and I turn the corner of a locker row and Charlie is crumpled on the floor. Ben Hope is in some kind of rage, just hitting Charlie’s face, and there’s blood and Nick tackles Ben in his side and the pair topples down the row and into the wall at the end, and I’m kneeling down by Charlie and I’m holding my hands up by his face, not daring to touch him, but his eyes are barely open and I think I’m shaking and everything seems a bit I don’t know and Nick is screaming “I’LL KILL YOU” over and over and then Michael and Lucas are dragging Nick away and I’m still just sort of sitting there with my little brother with my shaking hands, wishing that I hadn’t woken up this morning, I hadn’t woken up yesterday, I hadn’t ever woken up—
“That dick deserves it!” Ben shouts, panting. “He’s a fucking liar!”
“He didn’t even say anything to me,” I say, calm at first. Then I’m screaming it. “HE DIDN’T EVEN SAY ANYTHING TO ME!”
Everyone is silent. Ben is breathing heavily. What I thought was attractive about him has now died and been cremated.
Michael kneels down with me, leaving Nick in the care of Lucas. He clicks his fingers lightly next to Charlie’s ear. Charlie stirs, and his eyes open.
“Do you know my name?” asks Michael, not Michael anymore, someone entirely different, someone serious, someone all-knowing.
After a pause, Charlie croaks, “Michael Holden.” Then he grins manically. “Holden . . . funny . . .”
Something changes in Nick, and in one swift movement he’s down on the floor with us. He takes Charlie into his arms. “Do we need to take him to hospital? What hurts?”
Charlie lifts his hand, waves a finger at his face, then drops it. “I think . . . I’m fine.”
“Maybe he’s concussed,” says Nick.
“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” says Charlie firmly. His eyes have focused.
I look around. Becky appears to have vanished and Ben is struggling to his feet and Lucas doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself.
Charlie stands up surprisingly quickly. He wipes away a smear of blood. He’ll have bruises, but at least his nose is still straight. He looks at Ben. Ben looks back, and that’s when I see it in Ben’s eyes.
Fear.
“I’m not going to tell,” says Charlie, “because I’m not a dick like you.” Ben snorts, but Charlie ignores it. “But I think that you should at least try and be honest with yourself, even if you can’t be honest with everyone else. It’s just sad, you know?”
“Get away from me,” Ben snarls, but his voice wobbles, sort of like he’s on the verge of tears. “Just fuck off with your boyfriend, for fuck’s sake.”
Nick very nearly lunges for the second time, but I see him fight to stop himself.
Ben catches my eye as we leave. I stare at him, and his expression changes from hatred to what I hope might be regret. I doubt it. I want to be sick. I try to think of something to say to him, but nothing summarizes it. I hope I’m making him want to die.
Someone places a hand around my arm and I turn my head.
“Come on, Tori,” says Lucas.
So I do.
On our way out, Lucas with a hand on my back, Nick and Michael supporting Charlie, who is still a bit wobbly, we pass Becky, who has for some reason pushed herself to the end of another locker row. We lock eyes. I know she’s going to break up with Ben. She has to break up with Ben. She must have heard everything. She’s my best friend. Charlie is my brother.
I don’t understand what has happened.
“Should we feel sorry for Ben?” someone asks, maybe Michael.
“Why are there no happy people?” someone else asks, maybe me.
