I’M LATE BECAUSE Mum thought I said eight. I said seven thirty. How can you confuse eight with seven thirty?
“Whose birthday is it?” she asks while we’re in the car.
“No one’s. We’re just meeting up.”
“Do you have enough money? I can sub you.”
“I’ve got fifteen pounds.”
“Will Becky be there?”
“Yep.”
“And Lauren and Evelyn?”
“Probably.”
When I speak to my parents, I don’t actually sound very grumpy. I’m usually quite cheerful sounding when I talk. I’m good at that.
It’s Tuesday. Evelyn organized some “start of term” thing at Pizza Express. I don’t really want to go, but I think it’s important to make the effort. Social convention and all.
I say hello to the people who notice my entrance and sit at the end of the table. I nearly die when I realize that Lucas is here. I know, already, that I’m going to find it difficult to think of things to say to him. I successfully avoided him for the rest of yesterday and all of today for this exact reason. Obviously Evelyn, Lauren, and Becky took the opportunity to make him the “boy” of our group. Having a boy in your social group is the equivalent of having a house with a pool, or a designer shirt with the logo on it, or a Ferrari. It just makes you more important.
A waiter hurries over to me, so I order a diet lemonade and stare down the long table. All the people are chatting and laughing and smiling, and it sort of makes me feel a bit sad, like I’m watching them through a dirty window.
“Yeah, but most of the girls who move to Truham only move because they want to be around boys all the time.” Becky, seated next to me, is talking at Lucas, who is seated across from us. “So many attention whores.”
“To be fair,” he says, “Truham girls are basically worshipped.”
Lucas catches my eye and smiles his awkward smile. He’s got this hilarious Hawaiian shirt on: the tight-fit kind with the collar done right up and the sleeves slightly rolled. He doesn’t look as embarrassed as yesterday—in fact, he looks fashionable. I didn’t think he would be that sort of guy. A sort of guy who wears Hawaiian shirts. A hipster sort of guy. I make the deduction that he definitely has a blog.
“Only because boys at all-boys schools are sexually deprived,” says Evelyn, who is next to Lucas, waving her arms around to emphasize her point. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Single-sex schools damage humanity. The number of girls in our school who are socially clueless because they haven’t spoken to any boys . . .”
“. . . it’s way out of control, man,” concludes Lauren, who is on the other side of Evelyn.
“I love the Truham girls’ uniform,” sighs Becky. “They all look so good in that tie.” She gestures abstractly to her neck. “Like, thin stripes look way nicer than thick stripes.”
“It’s not real life,” says Lucas, nodding and nodding. “In real life, there are boys and there are girls. Not just one or the other.”
“But that tie,” says Becky. “I mean, I can’t even.”
They all nod and then start talking about something else. I continue to do what I do best. Watch.
There is a boy sitting next to Lauren, talking to the girls at the opposite end of the table. His name is Ben Hope. Ben Hope is the guy at Higgs. And by the guy, I mean that one boy in the Sixth Form who every single girl in the entire school has a crush on. There is always one. Tall and slim built. Skinny trousers and tight shirts. He usually straightens his dark-brown hair, and I swear to God it defies gravity because it swishes in a kind of organized vortex, but when he doesn’t straighten it, it’s all curly and he just looks so cute you want to die. He always appears to be serene. He skateboards.
I, personally, do not “fancy” him. I’m just trying to express his perfection. I actually think that a lot of people are very beautiful, and maybe even more beautiful when they are not aware of it themselves. In the end, though, being beautiful doesn’t do much for you as a person apart from raise your ego and give you an increased sense of vanity.
Ben Hope notices me staring. I need to control my staring.
Lucas is talking at me. I think that he’s trying to involve me in this conversation, which is kind of nice but also irritating and unnecessary. “Tori, do you like Bruno Mars?”
“What?”
He hesitates, so Becky steps in. “Tori. Bruno Mars. Come on. He’s fabulous, right?”
“What?”
“The. Song. That. Is. Playing. Do. You. Like. It?”
I hadn’t even registered that music was playing in this restaurant. It’s “Grenade” by Bruno Mars.
I quickly analyze the song.
“I think . . . it’s unlikely anyone would want to catch a grenade for anyone else. Or jump in front of a train for someone else. That’s very counterproductive.” Then, quieter, so no one hears: “If you wanted to do either of those things, it would be for yourself.”
Lauren smacks her hand on the table. “Exactly what I said.”
Becky laughs at me and says, “You just don’t like it because it’s Top Forty.”
Evelyn steps up. Dissing anything mainstream is her personal area of expertise. “Chart music,” she says, “is filled with Auto-Tuned girls who only get famous because they wear tight shorts and bandeau tops, and rappers who can’t do anything except talk quickly.”
If I’m completely honest, I don’t even like music that much. I just like individual songs. I find one song that I really love, and then I listen to it about twenty billion times until I hate it and have ruined it for myself. At the moment it’s “Message in a Bottle” by the Police, and by Sunday I will never want to listen to it again. I’m an idiot.
“If it’s so crap, then why does it make it into the charts?” asks Becky.
Evelyn runs a hand through her hair. “Because we live in a commercialized world where everyone buys music just because someone else has.”
It is right after she finishes saying this that I realize silence has swept over our table. I turn around and experience minor heart failure.
Michael Holden has swooped into the restaurant.
I know immediately that he is coming for me. He’s grinning like a maniac, eyes locked on this end of the table. All heads turn as he pulls over a chair and makes himself comfortable at the head of the table between me and Lucas.
Everyone sort of stares, then murmurs, then shrugs, and then gets on with eating, assuming that he must have been invited by someone else. Everyone except me, Becky, Lucas, Lauren, and Evelyn.
“I need to tell you something,” he says to me, eyes on fire. “I absolutely need to tell you something.”
Lauren speaks up. “You go to our school!”
Michael actually holds out a hand for Lauren to shake. I find myself genuinely unable to tell whether he is being sarcastic or not. “Michael Holden, Year 13. Nice to meet you . . . ?”
“Lauren Romilly. Year 12.” Lauren, bemused, takes the hand and shakes it. “Er—nice to meet you too.”
“No offense,” says Evelyn, “but, like, why are you here?”
Michael stares at her intensely until she realizes that she needs to introduce herself.
“I’m . . . Evelyn Foley?” she says.
Michael shrugs. “Are you? You sound uncertain.”
Evelyn does not like to be teased.
He winks at her. “I needed to talk to Tori.”
There is a long and grating silence before Becky says, “And . . . er . . . how do you know Tori?”
“Tori and I happened to meet in the midst of our Solitaire investigations.”
Her head tilts to one side. She looks at me. “You’ve been investigating?”
“Erm, no,” I say.
“Then . . . ?”
“I just followed this trail of Post-it notes.”
“What?”
“I followed a trail of Post-it notes. They led to the Solitaire blog.”
“Ah . . . that’s cool. . . .”
I love Becky, but sometimes she acts like such a bimbo. It really pisses me off, because she got into grammar school, for Christ’s sake. She got ten A grades at GCSE.
Meanwhile, Michael is helping himself to our leftover starters. With his free hand, he points ambiguously toward Becky. “Are you Becky Allen?”
Becky slowly turns to Michael. “Are you psychic?”
“Just a fairly capable Facebook stalker. You’re all lucky I’m not a serial killer.” His finger, still flexed, gravitates toward Lucas. “And Lucas Ryan. We’ve met already.” He smiles at him so forcefully that it comes across as patronizing. “I should thank you. You’re the one who led me to this girl.”
Lucas nods.
“I like your shirt,” says Michael, eyes glazing slightly.
“Thanks,” says Lucas, definitely not meaning it.
I start to wonder whether Lucas knew Michael at Truham. Judging by Nick and Charlie’s reaction, he probably did. Maybe he doesn’t really want to associate with Michael Holden. It’s almost making me feel sorry for Michael Holden. For the second time.
Michael looks past Becky. “And what’s your name?”
For a moment I don’t quite realize who he’s talking to. Then I see Rita. She pokes her head around from Becky’s other side.
“Er, Rita. Rita Sengupta.” She laughs. I’m not sure why she laughs, but she does anyway. Rita is probably the only other girl with whom I am civil, besides Becky and Lauren and Evelyn. She hangs around with Lauren, but you tend not to notice her. She is the only girl I know who can pull off a pixie crop.
Michael lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “Rita! That is a fantastic name. ‘Lovely Rita’!”
By the time I realize that he is referring to the Beatles song, the conversation has already moved on. It’s surprising I even recognize it. I hate the Beatles.
“So, you and Tori just . . . met? And started talking?” asks Becky. “That seems sort of unlikely.”
It’s funny because it’s true.
“Yes,” says Michael. “Unlikely, yes. But that is what happened.”
Once again he looks into my face, casually blanking the entire group. I cannot articulate how uncomfortable I feel right now. This is worse than Drama GCSE.
“Anyway, Tori, there’s something I want to tell you.”
I blink, sitting on my hands.
Lauren and Becky and Evelyn and Lucas and Rita are listening intently. Michael glances at each face over his large glasses.
“But . . . I, erm, can’t remember what it was.”
Lucas sneers. “You tracked her all the way down to this restaurant to tell her something and now you can’t even remember what it is?”
This time Michael detects Lucas’s tone. “Excuse me for having a memory like a sieve. I feel I deserve credit for making the effort to come here.”
“Why couldn’t you just send her a message on Facebook?”
“Facebook is for trivialities such as what takeaways people are having and how many ‘LOLs’ they had the night before with their ‘gals.’”
Lucas shakes his head. “I just don’t get why you’d actually come down here and then forget. You wouldn’t forget if it was something important.”
“On the contrary, you’d probably be more likely to forget the most important things of all.”
Becky interjects, “So are you and Tori friends now?”
Michael continues to contemplate Lucas before addressing Becky. “That is a fantastic question.” Then he faces me. “What do you think? Are we friends now?”
I genuinely can’t think of an answer, because the answer, in my opinion, is definitely not yes, but it is definitely not no either.
“How can we be friends if you don’t know anything about me?” I say.
He taps his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see. I know that your name is Victoria Spring. You are in Year 12. Your Facebook indicates that you were born on April fifth. You are an introvert with a pessimist complex. You’re wearing pretty plain clothes—jumper, jeans—you don’t like embellishments and fuss. You don’t care about dressing up for people. You’ll have ordered a margherita pizza—you’re a picky eater. You rarely update your Facebook—you don’t care for social activities. But you followed the Post-it trail yesterday, just like I did. You’re curious.” He leans in. “You like to act as if you care about nothing, and if you carry on like that, then you’re going to drown in the abyss you have imagined for yourself.”
He stops. His smile vanishes, leaving only its ghost.
“Jesus, mate, you are a stalker!” Lauren attempts a laugh, but no one else joins in.
“No,” Michael says. “I just pay attention.”
“It’s like you’re in love with her or something,” says Evelyn.
Michael smiles a knowing smile. “I suppose it is a bit like that.”
“You’re gay, though, aren’t you?” says Lauren, forever unafraid to say what other people are thinking. “Like, I heard that you’re gay.”
“Ooh, you’ve heard about me?” He sits back. “Intriguing.”
“Are you, though?” asks Lucas, trying unsuccessfully to sound casual.
Michael waves a hand about. “Some people say that.” Then he grins and points a finger at him. “You never know, it might be you I’m in love with.”
Lucas immediately colors.
“You’re gay!” squeaks Becky. “Tori has a gay best friend! I. Am. Jealous.”
Sometimes I’m embarrassed to be friends with Becky.
“I need to pee,” I say, even though I don’t, and I leave the table and find myself in the restaurant bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror while P!nk is telling me to raise my glass. I stay there for too long. Older ladies shoot me discerning looks as they waddle in and out of stalls. I don’t know what I’m doing, really. I just keep thinking about what Michael said. Drowning in my abyss. I don’t know. Why does that matter? Why does that bother me?
Jesus Christ, why did I bother coming out tonight?
I continue to stare at myself in this mirror, and I imagine a voice reminding me to be funny and chatty and happy, like normal people. As the voice reminds me, I start to feel a bit more positive about stuff even though any residual enthusiasm for seeing Lucas again has drained away. I think it’s because of that Hawaiian shirt. I go back into the restaurant.
