SOMEONE CALLS ME on my mobile at 9:04 a.m., but I am in bed and my phone is more than an arm’s length away, so I just let it ring on. At 9:15 a.m. someone rings the house phone and Charlie comes into my room, but I keep my eyes closed and pretend I’m still asleep and Charlie goes away. My bed whispers at me to stay. My curtains bar out daytime.
At 2:34 p.m., Dad throws my door open and huffs and mutters and I suddenly feel sick, so after another five minutes I go downstairs and sit on the sofa in the living room.
Mum comes in to get some washing.
“Are you going to get dressed?” she asks.
“No, Mum. I’m never going to get dressed ever again. I’m going to live in my pajamas until my death.”
She doesn’t say anything else. She leaves.
Dad comes into the living room. “Alive, then?”
I say nothing, because I do not feel alive.
Dad sits next to me. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
No, I am not.
“You know, if you want to be happier, you have to try. You have to put in the effort. Your problem is that you don’t try.”
I do try. I have tried. I have tried for sixteen years.
“Where’s Charlie?” I ask.
“Round Nick’s.” Dad shakes his head. “Still can’t believe Charlie got himself hit in the face with a cricket bat. That kid really does attract misfortune.”
I do not say anything.
“Are you going to go out today?”
“No.”
“Why not? What about Michael? You could spend the day with him again.”
I don’t really reply, and Dad looks at me.
“What about Becky? I haven’t seen her round here for quite a while.”
I don’t reply again.
He sighs and rolls his eyes. “Teenagers,” he says, as if the mere state of being a teenager explains every single thing about me.
And then he leaves, huffing and puffing and sighing.
I sit under my duvet on my bed, a diet lemonade in one hand and my phone in the other. I find Michael’s number in my contacts and press the green button. I don’t know why I’m calling him. I think it might be Dad’s fault.
It goes straight to voice mail.
I drop the phone on the bed and roll over so I am completely buried by the covers.
Of course I can’t expect him to just show up any old time. He has a life, after all. He has a family and coursework and stuff. His entire existence doesn’t revolve around mine.
I am a narcissist.
I rummage around the sheets and eventually locate my laptop. I flip it up. If ever in doubt about anything, my first port of call is always Google.
And I am certainly in doubt. About everything.
I type “Michael Holden” into the search bar and press enter.
Michael Holden isn’t an overly uncommon name. Lots of other Michael Holdens show up, particularly MySpace pages. Since when was MySpace still a thing? Lots of Twitters also show up, but I can’t find my Michael Holden’s Twitter. He doesn’t seem to be the sort of guy who would have Twitter. I sigh and close my laptop. At least I tried.
And then, as if I’d summoned him with the closing of my laptop, my phone begins to ring. I pick it up. Michael Holden’s name glares on the screen. With a kind of enthusiasm entirely unknown to me, I press the green button.
“Hello?”
“Tori! What is up?”
It seems to take me longer than necessary to say something in reply.
“Erm . . . er, not a lot.”
Behind Michael’s voice, the low chatter of a crowd can be heard.
“Where are you?” I ask. “What’s happening?”
This time it is he who pauses. “Oh, yeah, I didn’t tell you, did I? I’m at the rink.”
“Oh. Do you have practice or something?”
“Er, no. It’s, erm . . . I’ve got a sort of competition today.”
“A competition?”
“Yeah!”
“What competition?”
He pauses again. “It’s, er, it’s kind of . . . it’s the National Youth Speed Skating Semifinals.”
My stomach gives up.
“Look, I’ve got to go. I promise I’ll call you when it’s finished, yeah? And then I’ll see you tonight!”
“. . . yeah.”
“Okay, talk later!”
He hangs up the phone. I remove it from my ear and stare at it.
National Youth Speed Skating Semifinals.
That’s not just some stupid local competition.
That’s—
That’s important.
That’s what he was going to invite me to today, but I’d said no, I’d said I was hanging out with Lucas. And then I decided to avoid him anyway.
Without any further hesitation, I leap out of bed.
I park Charlie’s bike outside the rink. It’s 4:32 p.m. and dark. I’ve probably missed it. I don’t know why I even tried, but I did. How long are speed-skate races?
Why didn’t Michael tell me about this before?
I run, yes, actually run, through the empty foyer and the double doors into the stadium. A scattering of supporters fills the stadium seating around the rink, and to my right, psyched-up skaters sit on benches. Some of them could be sixteen, some could be twenty-five. I am not good at judging boys’ ages.
I walk closer to the plastic casing of the rink and make my way around until I find the gate where the casing isn’t so high. I stare over.
There is a race going on. For a moment I don’t know where I’m looking or who I’m looking for, because they all look exactly the same in these ridiculous suits that are like catsuits and rounded helmets. Eight guys blast past me, and the rush of air tears at my face and my hair that I definitely forgot to sort out before I left the house, and they lean round the corners of the rink, so close to the ice, brushing it with their fingertips. I don’t understand how they don’t just fall over.
When they pass me the second time, that’s when I see him; he turns his head, showing me his bulbous eyes behind large goggles and a ridiculously concrete expression. The eyes find me and his body turns, his hair swept backward, and his face, beyond surprised, stays parallel to mine. I know instantly that something has changed.
He stares. At me, maybe. His whole face expands, it illuminates, and all else seems to fade into fog and I place a hand against the plastic casing and everything inside me rushes to my feet.
I’m not sure if he really sees me. I don’t cheer. I just stand there.
He pulls out in front. The crowd screams, but then some other blur of boy flies from the group, and he’s reached Michael, and he’s passed Michael, and I realize that the race is over and Michael has come second.
I back away from the rink and shelter myself slightly behind the stands as the skaters make their way to the gate. Older men in tracksuits greet the boys, and one of them pats Michael on the back, but something is wrong, something is very wrong, something about Michael is wrong.
He’s not “Michael Holden.”
He’s removed his skates and goggles. He takes off his helmet and gloves and drops them onto the floor.
His face contorts into a kind of scrunched-up snarl, his fists curl so his skin drains of color, and he storms past the man and tramps over to the benches. He reaches a row of lockers and looks into them, blankly, chest visibly expanding and contracting. With an almost terrifying malice, he throws a crazed punch at the lockers, wailing a subdued howl of rage. Turning, he hurls a kick at a pile of racing helmets, scattering them about the floor. He clutches his hair, as if trying to pull it out.
I’ve never seen Michael like this.
I know I shouldn’t be so surprised. I haven’t even known Michael for three weeks. But my perceptions of people rarely change, and when they do, it’s never this drastic. It’s weird how you see someone who smiles all the time and you assume that they are happy all the time. It’s weird how someone is nice to you and you assume that they’re a wholly “good person.” I did not think Michael could be so serious about something, or so angry. It’s like watching your dad cry.
What scares me the most, though, is that absolutely no person in this entire swarm of human beings seems to notice.
So I barge my way toward him. I’m furious. I hate all these people for not caring. I’m hurling them out of the way as I walk, Michael Holden never leaving my eyesight. I reach him, breaking out of the crowd, and watch as he begins to manically attack some piece of paper that he had in his pocket. For several seconds, I don’t really know what to do about it. But I then find myself saying:
“Yes, Michael Holden. Tear that fucking paper.”
He drops everything, spins around, and points directly at me.
The anger softens into sadness.
“Tori,” he says, but I don’t hear it; I only see his mouth form the words.
He’s wearing a catsuit and he’s quite red and his hair is slick with sweat and his eyes are spinning in an electrified fury, but it’s him.
Neither of us really knows what to say.
“You came second,” I blurt eventually, pointlessly. “That’s amazing.”
His expression, passive, sad, so odd, doesn’t change. He retrieves his glasses from his pocket and puts them on.
“I didn’t win,” he says. “I didn’t qualify.”
He looks away. I think he’s welling up a little.
“I didn’t think you were actually here,” he says. “I thought I’d imagined you.” A pause. “That’s the first time you’ve called me Michael Holden.”
His chest is still moving quickly up and down. He looks older, somehow, in the spandex suit, and taller. The suit is mostly red, with some orange and black areas. He has a whole life that I don’t know about in this suit—hundreds of hours on the ice, training, entering competitions, testing his stamina, trying to eat right. I don’t know about any of that. I want to know.
I open my mouth and close it several times.
“Do you get angry a lot?” I say.
“I’m always angry,” he says.
Pause.
“Usually other things override it, but I’m always angry. And sometimes . . .” His eyes drift vaguely to the right. “Sometimes . . .”
The crowd buzzes, and I hate them even more.
“What happened to you and Lucas?” he asks.
I think about the phone calls that I’d “been asleep” for. “Oh. Yeah. No. That’s not . . . no. I didn’t feel very well.”
“Oh,” he says.
“You know . . . I don’t actually like Lucas . . . like that,” I say.
“Okay,” he says.
We are silent for several long moments. Something in his face changes. It looks a bit like hope, but I can’t really tell.
“Aren’t you going to criticize me?” he asks. “Tell me that it’s just a skating competition? That it doesn’t mean anything?”
I ponder this. “No. It means something.”
He smiles. I would say that he looks like the original Michael again, but he doesn’t. There’s something new in the smile.
“Happiness,” he says, “is the price of profound thought.”
“Who’s that a quote from?” I ask.
He winks. “Me.”
And I’m alone again in this crowd and I feel an odd feeling. It’s not happiness. I know that it’s brilliant that he came second in a national qualifier, but all I can think about is how Michael is just as good at lying as I am.
