Trouble (5 page)

As we walk by the slide, I see Anj looking at us and I stick my tongue out and grin. She pretends to disapprove with a roll of her eyes, but when she turns back to her friends she’s grinning too. We pass Tyrone and Marcy and I slide my hand into Aaron Tyler’s pocket and take out his phone.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say, aware that Tyrone has noticed as I tap my number into another boy’s phone. “Just giving you my number.”

Tyrone watches as I return the phone to the pocket I took it from, linking my arm in Aaron’s as I do. I give my audience a sly wink. Tyrone gets it elsewhere, why shouldn’t I?

The footpath leads down to the river and turns into a towpath. Neither of us says anything. My arm is still in Aaron’s, and I get a thrill from the warmth of his body next to mine. I lean in slightly and breathe deeply. He smells of something vaguely familiar. Something that makes me feel safe.

I can see the bridge. It’s a good place, quiet at this time of night and there are some nice dark shadows between the pillars.

AARON

Hannah leans into me as a breeze whistles up from the water under the bridge. It feels nice to have someone close again.

Nostalgia for the life I left behind rushes in so fast it hurts: memories of sitting on desks next to my friends, elbows accidentally clashing now and again; the girls not minding if our legs touched as we sat too many on a bench; the lads putting an arm around me and pulling me in for a celebratory hug when I once got between the ball and the goal in a semi-final I shouldn’t have been playing in. Here it’s different. People apologize when they bump into me, girls and boys seem to occupy different hemispheres and the basketball lads celebrate with high fives and backslaps. They greet each other by punching fists. It’s all very passive-aggressive.

The cynic in me suspects that Hannah isn’t just being friendly for the sake of it – but I want to believe she is.

I feel her slow her step as we get under the bridge and she pulls on my arm, turning me towards her.

Cynicism one, innocence nil.

For a second I think about it: the way it would feel to have her press that body against mine, how I’d run my hand under the hair at the back of her neck to pull her in. God. It feels like for ever since a girl looked at me like this. Her mouth is pretty and her eyes smile slightly into mine … and that’s when I know this isn’t going to happen, because there is something about Hannah, something warm beneath the cold, calculating sexiness she spends so much time projecting. Something real.

Real isn’t something I’m ready for. And whatever she might think, Hannah is not ready for me.

I duck my chin as she closes the distance between us. Her kiss lands on the side of my jaw, but she’s fast and tilts her head so she’s in line with my lips once more.

It would be too awful if she tried again, so I step back.

“Hannah, I—”

“What?” There’s a shortness to her question.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want …” What’s the right thing to say? “… to kiss anyone.”

“Me, you mean?”

Yes. I do mean that, but I’m not going to say it.

“No, I mean anyone. I’m not … it’s not…” Why can’t I get the words out?

“I knew it!” She takes a step back and studies me, hands on hips. “You’re gay.”

It takes a second for me to process her conclusion. I won’t kiss her so I’m gay? Wow. That’s pretty arrogant.

“I’m not gay.”

“It’s OK. You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone. You’d be surprised at the secrets I can keep.” She’s grinning at me, inviting me to share, inviting me to tell her something that could form a foundation for friendship.

Why can’t I just say that I’m gay? Why can’t I just
be
gay? It’s not like I’m looking to get lucky with girls any time soon.

“Look, I’m really sorry, Hannah, I’m
not
gay. Really.”

We look at each other some more and I see her features change. The open share-with-me expression is closing up and the shutters are coming down ready to protect her from the humiliation of being rejected.

I feel bad for her. It’s not as if I intended to lead her on and let her down. I hadn’t meant for her to lose face – although it’s not like anyone saw this happen. As far as everyone else is concerned, we’ve done the deed. They saw us leave the park. They know what Hannah’s like and they know nothing at all about me. They wouldn’t think I’d say no to a plateful of Sheppard pie.

HANNAH

I leave Aaron under the bridge as he fails to find the words to explain why he embarrassed me like that. Screw him. Well, not
screw
him … you know what I mean.

Heading back to the park isn’t an option, so I find the nearest bus stop that’ll take me where I need to go. It’s cold now there’s no one else here to keep me warm and I wish I’d brought my hoodie.

I scrunch my eyes tight shut. There will be no tears over this. None over Aaron stupid Tyler.

When I get home I go up to Jay’s room and flop into the bean bag like I used to whenever I wanted to vent. The place is almost empty – most of the stuff Jay took to uni came from here rather than his mum’s. Even though the walls have been stripped bare and the bed’s made up with the wrong duvet cover, it still feels like he’s here.

I wish he was.

I get out my phone, leaving a new text from Katie unopened as I scroll down to the last message I had from Jay. Two weeks ago. There’s no room in his life for the things he left behind – I’ve seen the Facebook photos of all the fun he’s having at Warwick, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. It hurts, but I’ve got to get over it. Besides, it’s not like he’d want to hear all my problems even if he was here.

MONDAY 12
^TH
OCTOBER

AARON

“Thought you had better taste than that, mate,” says Mark Grey, who is sweating all over me as we sit on the subs bench during PE. Despite being nothing short of MASSIVE, Mark is not a particular asset on the basketball court and Mr Prendergast has grown tired of calling fouls on him.

“Huh?” I’m not really listening since I’m too busy wondering when I’m going to be called up. Basketball isn’t my kind of sport – not that any of them are – and I can imagine my ineptitude mattering more than it should.

“… Hannah.”

That’s when I pay attention.

“What about Hannah?” As if I didn’t know.

“On Friday. Doesn’t take a genius to work out what you were up to.”

“Obviously not,” I murmur but Prendergast calls me up before Mark has time to process the insult.

I’m on the team that’s playing against Tyrone’s. Prendergast hasn’t given much thought to balancing the teams since mine consists of Gideon, who considers Converse All Stars suitable sportswear, a couple of shorter-than-average girls and a boy who spends a lot of time chatting to the token girl on the other side. Excluding her, the other team are made up of the best basketball players the school’s got.

“You left in a bit of a hurry the other night,” says the guy marking me, whose name I never quite caught. Might be called Rad. Or Rod. Or neither. He was the one Mark Grey had been talking to in the park and he’s wearing an expression somewhere between a smirk and a leer. It’s unpleasant. I ignore him, jump to intercept a pass and bounce it on to Gideon, who runs with it to score two much-needed points.

“So, what did you get up to?” Rad/Rod/Neither asks, as Gideon takes a victory lap.

I shrug. I did a lot of shrugging on Friday when Mum questioned me about my night out as a normal teenage boy, punctuating my shrugs with grunts like a normal teenage boy, which seemed to please her. I know how to hide things.

“Saw you left with Hannah, my man,” Tyrone chips in as he walks to the centre, head tilted back so he can look down his nose at me. I’m guessing the effect he’s going for is gangster, but it’s spoiled by a bogey in his left nostril that flutters with each breath. All this attention is unnerving. No one made this much of a fuss over the Mark Grey/Katie interaction and that was so public a live show may as well have been projected into the sky like a Bat-Signal.

The ball bounds in and I track back to try and stop Rex from belting down the wing. I underestimated how good Rex is at basketball; he might be short, but he’s fast and springy. He’s better than Tyrone, but no one admits this. It is not OK to be better at anything than Tyrone.

“You wanna steer clear of that skank,” Tyrone says behind me. I turn around, not understanding the venom in his voice and Rex dodges right past me.

Tyrone isn’t paying any attention to the game; he’s looking at me, eyes narrowed, then he nods, once, like I’m to obey him and turns away.

FRIDAY 16
^TH
OCTOBER

AARON

Today is the first time that Hannah acknowledges me since she ran off last week.

“Can we borrow your copy of
Jane Eyre
?”

“Of course.” I hurry to hand it over, but I don’t let go when she takes hold of it. I want to at least
try
and clear the air. I’m frustrated that I’ve ended up involved in something that didn’t even happen. There’s been a seismic shift in Tyrone’s love for my jokes and I’m certain it’s linked to Hannah in some way. “Hannah, about last Friday…”

“Huh?” For a moment it looks like she’s forgotten she even knows my name.

“What happened with me and you…?” I prompt.

“Yeah. Let’s just leave it there, shall we, Ty?”

I wish she wouldn’t call me that.

“I just wanted to say—”

“Leave it, Emo Boy. She doesn’t want to talk to you, yeah?” Katie leans round her friend and snatches the book – doesn’t even say thank you as she cracks the spine open, and gives Hannah’s arm a squeeze.

Did Katie just call me “Emo Boy”?

No one here has a clue who I am. Maybe that’s for the best.

HANNAH

Katie’s sympathy isn’t fooling me. What she really wants is for me to tell her more about what happened. As far as she’s concerned it was a really disappointing shag, but she’s annoyed that I’ve gone light on the details. Katie overshares to the point that I could play pick-the-ex by looking at nothing more than snapshots of their penises. Thing is, there’s a lot I’ve not been sharing with her. Whatever I haven’t told her about Aaron, or the on/off thing with Tyrone is nothing compared to what she doesn’t know about Jay’s party.

AARON

Neville chews on the inside of his cheek, reaches for a card, then changes his mind. It’s like playing whist with a tortoise – right down to the sagging skin at his neck and the shell of a cardigan he’s wearing. I can’t see a clock – Cedarfields isn’t fond of showing its residents how slowly time moves round here – and I gently twist my wrist to look at my watch.

“Getting bored, sonny?” Neville’s voice croaks out amidst his too-loud breathing.

I am, but I don’t say anything.

“You don’t have to sit with me, you know. I’ve got plenty to entertain myself.
Countdown
is on in a moment.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve missed it, Mr Robson,” I say.

Neville works his jaw so I can hear his teeth clicking together. Looking down at my cards, I wonder why I’m going to the park at all. After a week of being out of favour I’m certain no one will miss me. And if I “forgot” my sacrificial offering of alcohol, I could get myself frozen out entirely.

“Well, I’m bored.” Neville takes the cards out of my hand and works them effortlessly back into the pack. “Every Friday, you come, you spend some time with the loneliest oldies and then you leave. Not staff, not family…” His voice might be timorous, but I can feel his gaze, straight and steady, pinning me down. “What’s your business about?”

“No business, Mr Robson, just volunteer work,” I reply, standing up to turn on the light.

“Why?”

“Because I’m a Good Samaritan.” I try to sound like I’m joking but it comes out a little bitter. I’m not bitter, I just don’t want to talk about it.

“Suit yourself,” he says, wincing as he stands. I think about helping him, but I’m not sure he’d appreciate it, then I hear him mutter, “Don’t mind me,” and I hurry to offer him a hand, only to be ignored.

I look at my watch and figure I could leave now. There’s a McDonald’s on the way to the park and I’ve got my book with me. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’ve got one arm inside my coat and I’m turning to say goodbye.

“Have a g—” I stop.

Neville is standing over the waste paper bin unzipping his flies. I bound across the floor and put a hand on his arm.

“Hey!” Neville shrugs me off, spraying a trail of urine over his bedside table. “Do you mind?” And he swings back over the bin.

I turn away and stifle a laugh as I hear a wet patter on the contents of the bin. Neville zips up and turns to face me.

“Poofter.”

I don’t bother correcting him – what good did it do with Hannah? – I just say goodbye and leave, stopping to warn someone about the contents of Neville’s bin.

“He likes you, you know,” the manager says, as she hunts around reception for a set of keys to the cleaning cupboard.

“Really?” I’m not sure Neville likes anyone.

“He does. He asks about you when you’re with one of the others. Wants to know whether you’ll be popping in on him.”

I feel a pang of guilt.

“There you are!” She snatches the keys from under a folder, then turns to me. “Same time next week?”

Somehow I hear myself offering to take care of it. As I head to the cleaning cupboard to fetch rubber gloves and a bin liner, it occurs to me that I find the prospect of cleaning up Neville’s urine-soaked bin more appealing than a night in the park. Not something to tell my mum.

THURSDAY 22
^nd
OCTOBER

HANNAH

Shit. Not any old shit. The real kind that’s about to hit the fan. I found two tampons at the bottom of my school bag whilst I was looking for my favourite pen this evening. Forget the pen, now I’m standing looking at the kitchen calendar trying to remember when my last period was.