My Secret Rockstar Boyfriend (30 page)

In between waitressing and hanging out with Nishi and making the most of being with my mum, I’ve had a lot of time to think this summer. I haven’t come up with any earth-shattering
revelations. But I’ve had enough time to make myself OK with everything that has happened.

As we leave the cafe and walk towards college, it’s a walk we’ve done a hundred times before and I am hit by the fact that this will be the last time. However bad my results turn out
to be today, I know I won’t be going back there. I’m ready for the rest of my life to start. I don’t want to hang around or go back. I’ll get resourceful if I have to.

We have to go to the main office, but I spot Ms Foxe, my English teacher, straight away. I haven’t even seen her since the exam fiasco, but I stuck a brief note of apology in her
pigeonhole. She smiles at me with a hint of sadness – we’ve got on well for the past two years.

‘Tuesday, it’s obvious I’m not going to be telling you anything you don’t already know – more’s the pity. You’ve just about passed, as your coursework
bolstered you up, but you didn’t get anywhere near your predicted grade. It’s a real shame for you, but you’ve got talent, Tuesday. I hope this doesn’t mean you forget
that.’

Knowing all of this for sure isn’t exactly a shock. I’ve passed everything, but I was never expecting to do extraordinarily well in anything but English, so it turns out that I
haven’t done extraordinarily well in anything at all. It’s fine.

I turn around to see Nishi crying openly, hugging Anna, a huge smile on both of their faces. I knew she’d do brilliantly, but I’m still so happy to see that she actually has.
She’ll be going to Oxford in the autumn. It’s not that far away from us, really easy to get there on the train, so she and Anna are coming up with very sensible-sounding ground rules
and visiting schedules. It’s something I love about Nishi – when she says she’s going to do something, she always does it. She deserves every bit of this.

Nishi’s parents are taking her and Anna out for a swank celebratory lunch. My mum comes to collect me, having gone to work this morning – she knew I wanted to go in with my friends,
but she offered to pick me up. Now that we’re friends again, she’s really going out of her way to show that she’s on my side. Even though it’s not exactly the funnest place
to be at the moment.

As she pulls up she takes one look at my face and I shake my head just to ensure that there can be no confusion.

‘No,’ is all I say.

Unexpectedly, given that we have been expecting precisely this all summer, my mum’s eyes fill with tears.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I know I’m being silly. It’s just I had this ridiculous idea that there might be a miracle at the last minute. If this was a film,
that’s what would happen. I know it never really does in real life.’

I have to laugh.

‘Oh, Mum . . .’

She offers to stay at home with me for the afternoon, but I tell her that she should go back to work. As well as the fact that it just wouldn’t help, I really want to be by myself.

I think of Richard telling me to ‘be proactive’ above all, but I just can’t bring myself to think about it straight away. Once my mum has dropped me off, I put on my pyjamas
and get a pack of Jaffa Cakes out of the kitchen cupboard.

I have Jackson to thank for one big thing: I think he’s cured me of rebellion for evermore. Before I met him I could feel it bubbling under the surface a lot of the time and occasionally
it would burst through like a rash. I’m totally over it all now. Amid the stress of today, I don’t want to go out partying, or binge on vodka in the park until I pass out; I don’t
want to smoke fags out of the window or even nick that open bottle of wine my mum has on the go in the fridge.

Instead I put the film version of
The Fault in Our Stars
into the DVD player – it’s my new go-to when I want to force myself to cry and can’t be bothered to read the
book. It’s always a good shortcut. Being this calm about the fact that I don’t know what I am going to do with the rest of my life cannot be normal. I don’t know why I feel so
calm and quiet, and if it lasts much longer, it might just go on forever and I will end up eating biscuits in my pyjamas in the middle of the afternoon for all eternity. Not even proper biscuits
– people can never seem to decide what a Jaffa Cake is supposed to be.

Anyway,
The Fault in Our Stars
usually does the trick. If that doesn’t work, I might watch
Up
or maybe
Titanic
next. I really think if I can just make myself
start crying, or at least start feeling
something
, then it will trigger off some kind of epiphany. A sad film should be able to make you draw some deep conclusion about your own life,
surely.

It doesn’t seem to be working. Once I’ve finished the Jaffa Cakes, I need some other extra distraction. So I start looking at the clearing website on my laptop. That does the trick
much more quickly than all the death and weeping on the TV screen. I scroll through lists of incomprehensible abbreviations and complicated calculations. My stomach drops out from under me, right
where I’m sitting. I keep scrolling blankly until my eyes blur, and I can’t figure out if it’s from unshed tears or eye strain from all those weird words that I can’t even
recognize passing in front of my eyes. No wonder I’m too thick to go to university.

I know I should look at this properly, as I have no other plans, but my brain shuts down and there would be no point anyway. So I get distracted by looking at the
Daily Mail
website,
which makes me feel even grosser than eating Jaffa Cakes when I’m not hungry does. So then I look at Rookie and xoJane to correct the balance and fill my brain with some decent stuff.

I have a look at my email, as I haven’t done so for at least twenty minutes. Nothing from Jackson or anyone else of particular note. Quite a lot from Amazon, as usual, and a lot of
newsletters that I should never have signed up for about pizza deliveries, low-cost holidays and horoscopes.

Then I spot one lone email, from a name I don’t recognize. My heart soars into the back of my throat before I can stop it. A few weeks ago, with Richard’s words ringing in my ears, I
looked up the heads of English at the universities I most wanted to go to. I sent them all a grovelling email, including a link to my most recent blog post, the one about wanting to be a writer
since the dawn of time. I never heard back and just told myself that at least I hadn’t lost anything by having a go.

Now, from the title of the email in my inbox, it looks as though somebody has finally replied.

Re: A Writer, of sorts

Dear Ms Cooper,

I read your email with interest and I went on to follow the link and read your blog. I must admit that I was sufficiently intrigued to keep reading; afterwards, my twenty-four-year-old daughter
kindly explained to me your recent media exploits. Last time I went to Glastonbury festival, I think it cost £1 to get in and Marc Bolan was headlining! I digress . . .

I was impressed that you had the wherewithal to find my details and get in touch – a proactive spirit is surprisingly rare in eighteen-year-olds, I find. I enjoyed your writing and I do
think you have talent. Your musings – or I should perhaps say ‘ramblings’ – are often amusing and occasionally quite astute.

Most importantly, I believe that you have learned your lesson and would be prepared to work hard. This combined with your excellent coursework and predicted grades indicates to me that you might
be worth taking a chance on.

Perhaps you just caught me in a good mood (which if you take my course you will learn is an infrequent occurrence), but if you hadn’t tried you would never have known. I commend you for
‘having a go’.

Give me a ring, and let’s discuss. My details are in the signature below.

Packing up my room has been like an archaeological dig. It’s taken me three times as long as it should have, as a result. Mum’s been wigging out, as I’ve spent most of the past
week sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor, reading old Harry Potter books, trying on clothes I’d forgotten about and sorting through shoeboxes full of things like old cinema tickets and
passport photos with all four of us crammed into the booth.

Well, Mum says I can’t take it all with me, and she’s threatening to convert my room to either a yoga studio or home cinema as soon as I’m out the door. I don’t blame
her; space is at a premium, and I’m probably not going to be back much. So I might as well wallow in the relics of my childhood while I have my last chance. After all, I’ve lived in
this house all my life. This house and my mum have basically been the only constants, and now, for the first time, I’m leaving both of them behind.

Actually, I can probably add Nishi to that list – I’ve known her since I started school and we’ve been best friends since day one, so I don’t have many memories of life
without her. It’s obvious that Nishi herself is in a panic about starting at Oxford – we know all her telltale signs by now – and her refusal to talk about it is only making it
worse. Fortunately, though, Anna has got pretty good at dealing with her these days. Failing all else, she has also got far better at rolling her eyes and laughing things off in a way that Nishi is
still getting used to.

Anyway, I can’t quite believe that this is going to be my last whole day of technically ‘living at home’. I am eighteen years old and my A levels are done, even if they
didn’t quite go to plan, and this is it. Tonight will be my last night of sleeping in my own bed.

‘Chew, you’re not actually planning to wear that, are you?’ My mum looks genuinely perturbed.

‘Why not? It’s so awesome I’m not sure why it’s been shoved to the back of my cupboard for the past five years.’

The garment we are referring to is a Technicolor 1960s monstrosity that I remember buying in a charity shop (where else?) when I was about thirteen. I don’t know why I would have bought it
then – it’s still enormous on me now. Then again, there has never been much in the way of rhyme and reason to my chazzing habits – sometimes I just want something so that nobody
else can have it. I am always filled with good intentions to alter the fit or ‘use the fabric’, which invariably come to nothing. One day I hope I can become the kind of person who
actually does that sort of thing. In the meantime, I have discovered that I own an entire wardrobe stuffed full of ill-fitting, mismatched and moth-eaten clothes that are of no use to anyone
– and I love them all.

It feels just right for today. I don’t know yet how I will feel at university. Maybe I’ll want to start wearing black polo necks and dressing like a Serious Writer. Maybe my
personality will change entirely and I will start wearing small hoop earrings and picking delicately at my food. I doubt it. Still, today will be the last day for a while when I am surrounded by
people who know me this well.

‘You’re starting to look worryingly like Mama Cass,’ my mum notes.

‘Funny, I could murder a ham sandwich . . .’

I’ve never been sure if that story was an urban legend or not, but we really do have ham sandwiches. As well as Marmite, tuna and Nutella. All my favourites. I was up until two in the
morning making an epically gigantic three-layered chocolate cake. It’s probably too much food just for me, Mum, Nishi and Anna, but it feels fitting. Today is supposed to be a celebration of
us all.

‘Dude, what do you think you look like?’ is all Nishi says when she turns up, before she has even got through the door.

Anna is more polite and at least gives me a hug as she hands over a box of flapjacks she has made.

‘Hey, what’s with the soundtrack? Not pining, are you?’

‘No!’ I feel myself blushing, even now. ‘It’s just the End of Summer Mix Tape I’ve made. I’ve done you all a copy. You’ve got to admit that it’s
fitting.’

As Anna noted straight away, Jackson’s voice is coming from the kitchen stereo. I couldn’t exactly leave him off my official End of Summer Mix Tape. If his voice has any effect on
me, then it’s definitely just an involuntary physiological reaction by now – honest.

‘Hi, girls!’ my mum announces herself with exaggerated fanfare.

Nishi and Anna both burst out laughing as Mum enters the kitchen. That’s when I see that she has followed my lead and also put on a variety of my charity shop acquisitions – a floppy
purple hat and some shorts with braces that I used to really like, plus my first Nirvana T-shirt.

‘Mum, you look awesome!’ I say, doing my best to keep a straight face and make it sound like a sincere compliment.

Of course Nishi and Anna then end up raiding the bin bag of clothes that my mum has earmarked to go back to the charity shop ‘if they’ll even have them’. Nishi looks the
weirdest I have ever seen her, in an old-lady 1950s housecoat that I have been meaning for ages to adapt into some sort of cute dress. Anna, though, somehow manages to look just as stylish as ever
in a slightly manky 80s prom dress, from my unfairly maligned Madonna-in-
Desperately-Seeking-Susan
phase.

‘Oh, come on, girls,’ my mum says, getting a bottle of champagne out of the fridge. ‘You’re all so sensible these days – let’s have a glass.’

‘Well, the last time Nishi got drunk,’ I explain helpfully, ‘she told me in the pub toilets that she hated me and never wanted to speak to me again. So don’t let her have
too much.’

‘Unlike Chew,’ Anna chips in, ‘who’s
so
sensible she marries pop stars in fake Las Vegas wedding ceremonies in a field.’

‘Oh, by the way,’ says Nishi, ‘I saw Seymour yesterday. He’s going out with that girl Sophie now, and he’s working in that annoying men’s clothes shop in
town. You know, the one that sells all the pointy shoes.’

‘Probably saving up his money for “going travelling”,’ I cackle – meanly, yes, but I feel I’ve kind of earned it. ‘Then he’ll come back wearing
wooden beads around his neck on a bit of string, and he’ll change his Facebook cover photo to a picture of, like, a Vietnamese temple.’

‘Oh, turn this one up!’ Nishi interrupts unexpectedly. ‘It’s actually a really lovely song.’