Golden Boy (12 page)

I kill three zombies and glance at him. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

He picks bits out of my carpet. ‘Nothing. Why?’

‘Don’t do that,’ I say.

‘Sorry.’

‘I thought Mum said you were sick. Aren’t you supposed to be lying down somewhere?’

‘No. I’m fine. I just . . . had a shock today. I told her I was fine. Didn’t want to make her worry.’

‘Suck up,’ I say, teasing him like he teases me sometimes. Max just looks at me and his eyes roll around in his head like he’s thinking. Not right back or anything, just from side to side.

‘I’m only joking,’ I say.

‘I’m not a suck up,’ he says.

I pause the game and put the controller down. ‘What shock?’

Max shrugs. ‘Nothing. I’m over it now,’ he says, picking up the controller and turning the loud music back on. He instantly kills a Gnomobear, which is sixty-five points. That’s triple the points you get for wiping out a zombie. He gives me a big, blank smile, like a line stretching across his face and showing one sliver of tooth. He giggles, promptly killing another Gnomobear, watching the frustration on my face because I have yet to kill any of them the whole game.

‘Nothing,’ he says again.

It beats and it beats and it beats,
This beast . . .

T
hat’s all I have. It just came to me this morning, while I was doing my homework on the computer in the IT room. It repeats in my head, along a rhythm, but no other words come. I love writing poetry, but it comes slow sometimes. I often write a bit while I do my homework in the IT room in the morning, or at lunchtime. I’ve noticed it’s the place where all the kids without friends go.

Let’s face it: I do not have friends. It’s not by choice. I don’t know why. I used to have one in primary school. We were tight, we used to make up all sorts of stories together and play imaginary games all the time. We had imaginary dogs and cats. Mine was a kitten called Tabby and she had a puppy called Max. I don’t like to be arrogant, but I was a good friend. We used to swap presents we made for each other all the time. I always made a big deal out of birthdays. But then when we were twelve I moved away, here, to Hemingway. We lived in Islington in North London. Then my mum and dad moved jobs to ones in Oxford and we moved here.

I never see my old friend now. It’s OK. It’s been four years. I never really met anyone at this school who was like me. There were a few near hits, and a lot of misses. I don’t mind it being just me now. I’m used to it, I guess, but I do miss knowing there’s someone out there who can stand me, who maybe thinks I’m funny, and is funny back. I miss having someone to be ridiculous and piss myself for ages with; I miss having someone who makes me feel like I’m not weird, or maybe that, no matter how weird I am, there’s someone out there who is just as weird as me. Sometimes I panic about that, but then that’s crazy. I’m only sixteen. I’ll meet someone cool.

After I’ve done my homework, I go to the common room. I sit alone as usual. Emma, Laura and Fay are nearby. They are halfway girls. Halfway pretty, halfway popular, halfway mean and halfway nice. Sometimes I hang out with them when I’m bored.

‘OMG,’ says Emma. ‘Did he really? He’s so hot.’

‘Oh my god, yeah, totally.’ Laura nods.

‘But his girlfriend is such a slaaaaag,’ Fay chimes in.

‘Right, Sylvie?’ says Emma, looking at me.

‘Right.’ I nod. I don’t know who they’re talking about. I don’t know why they talk to me. My guess is that I make a good audience. Everyone here bitches about each other and talks about boys all day. I don’t get it. I thought they were joking when I first came here, because who bitches so much about their friends behind their backs? And who would make boys like the ones at Hemingway the centre of their universe? Blah people. Small town blah people. So I don’t say anything. I just listen.

Not that the boys are so bad, but . . . they’re just people. In fact, the only people I’ve had fun hanging out with here have been boys. But here it is weird for boys to hang out with girls. In Hemingway, the boys hang out with the boys (‘boy’ = footballer who plays video games, drinks beer, wears blue, listens to rock music, likes tits, and will likely one day become a politician/work in finance and have a mild coke habit) and the girls hang out with the girls (‘girl’ = would-be accountant/footballer’s wife/housewife who dyes her hair blonde, drinks wine, wears pink clothes and orange make-up, dances to light RnB, likes pretty-boys and will likely one day have a mild coke habit).

So mostly I just hang out by myself, and sometimes Emma Best will come over with Laura, Fay and a few other people and talk to me. She blatantly digs for dirt all the time. On anyone. I can only take so much of them. I’m just not built for it. It’s not like I’m not incredibly observant and witty (and cocky); it’s just I’m not interested in bitching about or to people. But for some reason, Emma, Fay and Laura always come up to and sit right next to me. This morning I stuck my headphones in as soon as they arrived, to indicate I was busy.

If I’m not in the IT room, I usually like to hang out in the library to avoid them, but it’s only open at lunchtime, so I have to come to the common room. Not many people from my year hang out there, and none of the boys come in the IT room or library, of course (the boys say: ‘work = gay’). Max Walker doesn’t come into the library either.

I think of Max Walker at this point because he is standing in the frame of the common room doors. The sun is shining on him. Doesn’t it always.

Max moves out of the halo ray of sun in the doorway and moves slowly up to a group of the popular people. Carl turns around and notices him. He reaches out with his arms.

‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KID!’

‘Hi!’ Max grins, and then Carl runs round him and jumps on his back and Max yelps and wriggles out. Max mumbles something, and looks half-pained and half-happy.

‘I was just saying happy birthday.’ Carl holds up his hands in mock reproach.

Max smiles at him. Max talks considerably quieter than Carl so I can’t really hear what he’s saying.

I don’t know why I’m listening to the exchange. I’m so bored. B-o-r-e-d. I’m trying to zone out by watching YouTube videos of Ash Sarkar and Kate Tempest on my iPhone. They’re badass performance poets, and they are just a few years older than me. I wish I still lived in London. If you come of age there, you’re at the epicentre of the performance poetry scene already. But I notice, after a few minutes of listening to Max talk, that I have let the YouTube video play out and stop. Instead of searching for another one, I pretend I’m still listening to my iPhone, so no one talks to me, but I take one earphone out and try to listen to him instead.

He doesn’t look as nervous as yesterday. I kind of want to go over and ask him if he was OK. He probably hasn’t told anyone. He is the Walker offspring, after all. Must keep up appearances.

‘Heyyy!’ Marc Paulsson yells, running past me, over to Max. ‘Happy sweet sixteen, mate!’

They high five and then they all sit down on the comfy chairs and talk more quietly, so I can’t hear them. Maria and a few girls walk over in tiny pleated skirts and give Max hugs and wish him a happy birthday. He has a conversation with Suzanne and Nikki, which I give him a plus point for, because Suzanne and Nikki are cool. They are kind of bookish. Outside of school, they wear very fifties gear. Some of the other girls call them the Pink Ladies, after the girls in
Grease
. It’s supposed to be an insult, but if I acted like Rizzo or looked like Sandy, I wouldn’t complain.

I watch Max laughing with them, and waving to other people who wish him happy birthday, but he looks a little . . . subdued, or reserved, like he’s trying to be excited but isn’t, or doesn’t have the energy. He smiles at everyone, like he is a sweet little eleven-year-old, who hasn’t a clue how bitchy people can be at secondary school. I guess Max Walker wouldn’t know how bitchy people can be. All the girls love him. But he seems so young to me. Weird, I know. But he seems young.

Watching him now, he looks the kind of happy where you’re sad, but you’re doing your best to be upbeat, and I wonder if any of his friends notice that. It always seems strange to me how little people notice about each other’s lives. One good thing about being a loner is that I notice a lot, because I’m outside everything, with nothing to do but watch and write it down in poetry. It’s clear to me that Max is miserable, but his friends don’t seem to see. He shrugs at something Maria says, and laughs. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek and he blushes, looks at his lap, and smiles.

I frown and look away. I don’t know why I frown. It’s fine if he likes Maria. She’s OK. A bit blah, but still OK. She is the type of blonde, swishy-haired girl who would be a golden boy’s girlfriend. They are both normal, predictable and kind of boring: the golden people of school, and who knows in the life after school? Maybe golden people tarnish fast.

Later, on the school field, at lunch:

‘His lips were gross and tiny. Like, there was almost no lip there,’ Laura Narne says thoughtfully, pulling at her own full bottom lip, as I rub my stomach. I have period pains. Hate, hate, hate. Who cares about his lips? Whose lips? I’m not lipsning.

‘Why did you even kiss him, then?’ Fay asks, sitting on the grass outside the art block, inspecting her legs in her gross polyester school skirt.

‘He was cute otherwise.’

‘He was the only one there who wasn’t heinous,’ Emma says with a smirk, and Laura punches her. ‘Everyone else there was fug.’

‘What’s fug?’ asks Laura.

‘Fugly, you dick.’ Emma sits up. ‘Err, why is Wonder Boy Three walking over this way?’

Who is Wonder Boy 3? Who cares? My back is killing me and I feel totally grumpy from listening to Emma bleat on all lunch. But I have itchy feet for company. You can’t talk to yourself alone for too long. You’ll go crazy.

‘Is Max Walker Wonder Boy Three?’ asks Laura. ‘I thought he was Number One?’

‘Huh?’ I look up, across the field. Max Walker is walking towards us.

‘No, he’s Three,’ Emma says. ‘Todd Z is Wonder Boy One, Marc Paulsson is Wonder Boy Two and Max Walker is Three.’

‘Max Walker’s way fitter than Marc Paulsson.’ Laura frowns. ‘And Todd Z.’

‘It doesn’t matter how attractive they are really. They are all dicks.’

‘Ems, that’s not true. Marc Paulsson’s OK. I have him in Biology,’ says Fay.

‘Er, he is definitely walking this way.’

‘OMG,’ says Laura.

‘He’s a dick.’

‘Shut up, Emma!’ Fay nudges her.

‘OMG!’ Laura yelps, like she’s pissed herself.

‘Hi, Sylvie.’

‘Err . . . hi,’ I say awkwardly, putting my arm over my eyes to shield them from the sun. I squint up at Max Walker, and blink at him uncertainly.

‘Hi guys,’ Max says shyly to Laura, Emma and Fay.

‘Hi Max,’ says Fay.

‘Hello, Max Walker,’ says Emma, and giggles maliciously, staring at me like she wants me to catch her eye.

‘What’s up, Max?’ I say, in the bored fashion you use when you are sitting next to a group of girls who will make it a
huge
deal if you seem at all interested in a guy.

Over the field I see Maria looking at us. She’s standing next to the football field, watching the boys play with all the rest of her group of girls. She has long blonde hair that’s perfectly straight. She’s like an extra from
High School Musical
. No, the lead. Of an erotic version of the same. She turns back to watch the football. I don’t know why. The players do the same thing every bloody lunchtime.

‘I just wanted to see if, um . . .’ Max is mumbling. He clears his throat. ‘If maybe you wanted to hang out?’

‘Oh,’ I say, tearing my eyes slowly away from Maria. She flicks her hair away from her face and I remember Max blushing earlier. ‘I’m kind of . . . busy,’ I finish lamely.

‘Oh, OK, that’s cool.’ Max shrugs and looks down at his feet. Then he takes a deep breath, lifts his head and gives me a big smile. It’s his usual beam but it looks like it takes a lot of effort today. ‘Maybe we could hang out another time. We’re going to the cinema on Saturday for my birthday, if you wanted to come?’

‘Who’ll be there?’

‘Um . . .’ He looks around at the football pitch vaguely, like he’s having difficulty remembering. ‘Marc, Carl, Todd, Grant, Maria, Olivia, Karina . . . Some other people. I dunno.’

‘And you’re asking me because you need another girl whose name ends in “a”?’

‘Oh yeah, Sylvia,’ he says, as if he had never considered that this would be my full name before. Everyone calls me ‘Sylvie’. I see a peak of a genuine grin. He laughs a little. ‘Yeah, we need symmetry. The world is just . . . too illogical to handle without it. Your friends are welcome to come too,’ he adds, gesturing to the girls. ‘I think afterwards we’re going to go to the Pancake Café.’

There’s a silence while I think about going to the Pancake Café with that many people and being so awkward with them I don’t know what to say and don’t speak the entire time, and then when I’m at school we pass in the corridors and I don’t know whether to wave so I don’t, and then they think I’m a bitch.

Then Max says, ‘I’ll buy your popcorn!’ which sounds a bit desperate, and may or may not mean that he really wants me to come.