Only We Know (4 page)

‘Who’s that?’ I say.

Even Katherine’s voice softens. ‘Oh that. That’s Harry Heasman. Fancy him, do you?’

‘What … no … course not.’

‘Why not?’ says Katherine. ‘Everyone else does.’

‘Even you?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. Put it this way, Harry’s “good” popular. Not the kind of popular you are when you wear the “right” shoes and only talk to the “right” people – the kind you are from treating everyone the same and being a gentleman.’

H a gentleman? It’s not exactly the first description that springs to mind. And now he’s so close I can smell him. But it’s not the stench of stale Benson & Hedges I’m expecting – more like soap and maybe even a hint of Calvin Klein.

‘Hi, I’m Harry,’ he says, in a voice about an octave deeper
than the one I remember. ‘You’re new here, aren’t you?’

I can’t speak.

Katherine speaks for me. ‘This is Lauren, Harry. Guess who’s supposed to be looking after her?’

‘Nice name,’ he says, glancing down at my legs, but pretending not to. ‘Suits you.’

At first I think he’s trying to mess with my head. It’s the sort of thing that H would have found funny.

‘And how are you settling in at St Thomas’s?’

But I still can’t speak.

H speaks for me. ‘Takes a bit of getting used to, doesn’t it? Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

And suddenly I realise I’m not thinking straight. Okay it’s true, I want to believe it more than anything in the world, but actually, when you look at it rationally, it seems like a perfectly reasonable explanation: he doesn’t know who I am.

Thank God for that.

But it’s H all right, although of course I pretend not to recognise him. The trouble is, ‘playing it cool’ isn’t nearly so easy when you’re sweating like a triathlete and you’ve lost the power of speech.

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ He smiles. ‘Are you all right?’

The field starts turning somersaults; my head starts spinning in the opposite direction. But just as I’m surrendering myself to the inevitable sickly blackout, a powerful
instinct for self-preservation enables me to stumble my way through half a sentence. ‘I’ve got to go. Miss Hoolyhan said I should …’

And I turn on my heels and run.

I just about keep it together for the rest of the day. Katherine does most of my talking for me anyway, but even she remarks on how quiet I am. And there’s a nasty moment when I spot H walking towards us in the corridor. Luckily I have the presence of mind to duck down behind the lockers and pretend I’m looking for my ELR.

The first thing I do when I get home is run upstairs and find him on Facebook. I stare at his profile picture, wondering how a face can have changed so much and yet still be so unmistakable.

It’s the one doomsday scenario I’ve never even considered. There was always a slim chance that someone from my old school might track me down, but I haven’t seen H since we were both into Pokémon.

That was four summers ago. We only knew each other for about a month. Unfortunately, that’s all it takes. Because the whole idea of moving here was that no one would have a clue about me. What was the point of
uprooting my whole family if there’s someone at school who already knows?

And what do I do now? Track him down tomorrow and beg him to keep his mouth shut? Supposing he refuses? And even if he does go along with it, what are the chances of him letting something slip by mistake? This time next week it could be all round the school.

Except
.

I’m forgetting the one good thing about the whole situation: I’m ninety-nine per cent certain he hasn’t recognised me.

And it’s not that surprising. H could never hold eye contact. He spent most of the time staring at the floor. Even if he did sneak the occasional glance in my direction, I’ve changed far more than he has. There’s my hair for a start, plus I’m nearly two feet taller and wear make-up now. Like Big Moe said, even my own sister wouldn’t recognise me.

Maybe it’s not such a big deal after all. If I could just act normally around him, there’s no reason he should remember me.

Is there?

That’s what I want to believe. The truth is, I’ve done enough running away to last a lifetime. I like it here. I’m starting to feel almost human at last. Why let one little setback ruin everything? I can do this, I know I can.

And that’s the mantra I repeat to myself as I stand in front of the mirror, checking my eyelids for telltale signs of eczema. ‘You can do it, you can do it, you can —’

‘It’s the first sign of madness you know.’

‘Eh?’

Mum is standing in the doorway. ‘Talking to yourself.’

‘Oh, no I was …’

‘Is everything okay, Lauren? You ran upstairs so quickly we didn’t get time for our usual chat.’

‘I just wanted to get started on my homework.’

‘Really?’ says Mum. ‘I thought there might be … problems.’

‘No, no,
no
,’ I say, flipping down my laptop before she notices the smiley profile picture. ‘It’s this textiles project I’m working on. I’m really excited about it.’

‘Right,’ says Mum, removing a mouldy coffee mug from my bedside table. ‘So it’s all good then?’

Well, I can’t tell her about H, can I? She’d have a fit. I probably shouldn’t even mention it to Big Moe. And I’m certainly not telling Tilda – she’s scared enough as it is. They say that talking makes things better; sometimes it’s more sensible to keep quiet.

‘Yes, Mum,’ I lie. ‘It’s all good.’

The next day, I realise how blind I've been. Everywhere you look there are photos of Harry Heasman: standing with the other prefects in the main corridor, part of the victorious basketball team in the sports hall trophy cabinet, and even more surprisingly for someone who witnessed his frequent attempts to murder Arctic Monkeys' songs, if you look carefully at the cast photos of
Oliver!
outside the drama studio, you'll see he makes a pretty convincing Artful Dodger.

It all makes sense now, the stuff he told me about his school: the music teacher who wanted to mother him, the funny-shaped corridors, the mad PSHE guy who always carries a Tesco bag.

But even if I have to keep my distance for the next ten months, I'm still glad to know he's doing okay –
better
than okay. In fact, if you'd told me four summers ago that he'd end up as ‘deputy head student' I'd have said you were crazy. And I couldn't help smiling when I saw
him chugging up the hill this morning on a little red moped (a 50cc Honda City Express). H was only twelve when I knew him. Back then he wouldn't have been seen dead on that thing, although he would probably have made a pretty good stab at killing himself on it. But if his mode of transport was a touch surprising, it wasn't half as weird as walking into assembly and finding him standing on the stage telling the Year Tens to shut up.
And some of them actually did.

So by the time I arrive at my first English lesson (can't believe they've put me in the top set) and see H sitting by the window, my heart might skip a beat or two, but at least I don't go into total meltdown mode. And I'm making my way to the spare seat next to Magda and Izzy when a cold vice-like hand grips me by the wrist.

‘It's all right, Lauren, I've saved you a place,' says Katherine.

‘Oh, thanks.'

‘Did you get to maths all right?'

‘Yeah, thanks, no problem.'

‘Don't worry about the big bad Woolf,' she says, nodding at the woman in the Marks & Spencer suit. ‘She's not the worst teacher at St Thomas's. Though I never know why such an obvious stranger to passion thinks she has anything worth saying about the great works of literature.'

‘Well, I suppose she …'

And that's when I catch a glimpse of the old H. He's taking two ballpoints, a blue paperback, his ELR and an
exercise book from his leather messenger bag and laying them out in front of him. Two seconds later he puts them back in his bag. Two seconds after that he lays them out again. The third time he gets it ‘right'.

‘Are you staring at Harry?' says Katherine. ‘I knew you fancied him.'

That girl is too observant for her own good. ‘No, it's not that. I —'

‘It's all right,' says Katherine. ‘If you're going to get passionate about anything, Harry Heasman's a good place to start. Except if you're a teacher, of course. Not that
that
would ever happen.'

Mrs Woolf certainly doesn't look like a man-eater. ‘You must be Lauren. Mr Catchpole said you'd be joining us.'

‘Yes, miss.'

‘You may have covered some of the set works already. But it won't do you any harm to go over them again. What play were you studying?'

‘Romeo and Juliet
, miss.'

There's a sort of collective snigger.

Mrs Woolf licks her lips. ‘I'm afraid we're not doing that this year. We decided to look at
Pygmalion
by George Bernard Shaw instead.' She faces the class with a don't-mess-with-me glare. ‘So what can any of you tell Lauren about the play?'

‘It would make a good musical, miss.'

‘And it's got swearing in it.'

The whole class, apart from me and Katherine, recites
the only quotation everyone knows:
‘Walk! Not bloody likely. I am going in a taxi.'

‘All right, that's enough,' says Mrs Woolf. ‘I expect you know the basic plot, don't you, Lauren?'

‘It's the one about the professor guy who turns the flower-girl into a lady, isn't it?'

‘Sexist rubbish,' mutters Katherine.

‘I tell you what,' says Mrs Woolf, ‘why don't we read a bit? Lauren, perhaps you'd like to be Eliza Doolittle – you'll have to share with Katherine, I'm afraid.' She smiles adoringly at the deputy head student. ‘Harry, can you read Professor Higgins, please?'

‘So what do we think?' says Mrs Woolf. ‘Some critics have said that
Pygmalion
's not about turning a flower-girl into a duchess, but about turning a woman into a human being. Could a person really change like that?'

‘It all depends who you're trying to convince, doesn't it?' says Katherine. ‘I mean some people are so shallow, they only judge you by your looks.'

‘Guilty,' says Magda, pointing at Katherine like she's a witch.

‘How about you, Lauren? What do you think?'

I can almost feel the eczema bubbling up on the back of my neck. ‘Well, I'm not sure, miss. I suppose if —'

‘I think it's possible for someone to change,' says Harry. ‘But it's a lot easier if no one knows what you were like in the first place. Like the guests at the embassy dinner
– it's the first time any of them have seen Eliza Doolittle, so they've got no preconceptions.'

‘A bit like Lauren, you mean,' says Izzy with a sly smile.

‘What are you talking about?' I say, tightening my calves and preparing to be attacked.

Unlike her highlights, Izzy's timing is less than perfect. ‘Well, I stalked your Facebook, didn't I?'

‘So what?'

‘Well, there's nothing on it,' says Izzy, almost like she's taken it as a personal insult. ‘No profile picture, no status updates, no nothing.'

‘It's my mum,' I say, grabbing the first unlikely explanation that comes into my head. ‘She's a bit weird about social networking.'

‘What, like that girl with the purity ring?' says Magda. ‘She's not even allowed to watch
The Simpsons.
'

‘And anyway,' I say, ‘Facebook's pretty uncool these days, isn't it?'

Mrs Woolf checks the ceiling for cobwebs. ‘I'm not sure I see the relevance of this, Izzy.'

‘It's what we do, miss. Even my dad Googles everyone before he meets them. How are we supposed to know what she's like if there's nothing about her online?'

‘Because you couldn't possibly try asking her, could you?' says Katherine.

Questions rain down on me from every side:

Are you on Twitter?

What school did you go to?

How tall are you?

KFC or Nando's?

Are you in a relationship?

Is it with a teacher?

Is that why you left your old school?

Battlefield or COD?

But it's not Mrs Woolf who comes to my rescue. It's H.

‘Look, if you really want to know about Lauren, I'll tell you, okay?' he says.

Everyone goes quiet. Shit, what's he going to say?

‘She's an international drugs dealer, right? So she's hiding out at St Thomas's because the FBI are after her and she's heard how tight security is.'

A few groans, and one enormous sigh of relief.

‘Now can we get on, please?' says Mrs Woolf. ‘Perhaps we should go through a couple of possible exam questions.'

‘Sorry,' whispers Katherine. ‘I should have warned you that might happen. Well, at least Harry's got your back.'

That's what's so worrying. Why would he try to protect me like that? I could have coped with their stupid questions (I've been kind of expecting them anyway), but if H has the slightest suspicion about who I am, I really need to know.

The fingerprint system in the canteen reminds me of a prison. I’d normally steer well clear of any situations involving large groups of teenagers and food, but Katherine’s taken her sandwiches to the Millennium Pagoda, so it seemed like my best chance.

I grab my tray and race towards H, hurdling rucksacks and swerving to avoid the flying sachets of tomato sauce. If I don’t bust a gut, someone else will get to him first.

‘Is this seat taken?’

‘Go for it,’ says H.

‘Thanks.’

Now that I’m here, I’m not sure what I can say without making him suspicious. So I take a sip of healthy option Slush Puppie and stare into my pasta.

‘Sorry about English,’ says H. ‘That lot can be a right pain. I could have a word if you like.’

‘No,
don’t
, please. I mean, thanks, but I’d rather you didn’t.’

‘No worries.’ He’s the only person in the canteen attacking his panini with a plastic knife and fork. ‘It’s not bad here you know, Lauren. You’ll be all right.’

‘Why shouldn’t I be all right?’

‘No reason. I like people to be happy, that’s all.’ He sticks his finger down his throat and mimes puking. ‘Something like that, anyway.’

The hair really suits him – different, but in a good way. I almost feel like putting it off for a bit and enjoying the moment. Except I’m not here to admire his new hairstyle; the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can breathe easy again.

‘Can I ask you something … Harry?’

‘Nothing personal, I hope. Whatever they’re saying about me, it’s not true, okay?’ He sees that I’m serious. ‘Yeah, sure, what is it?’

‘Don’t I … know you from somewhere?’

He hesitates, swallowing a mouthful of panini before carefully positioning his plastic cutlery on the side of the tray. ‘Is that a chat-up line or something, Lauren?’

‘No, course not. I just have this funny feeling we might have met before.’ I study his face for telltale signs of recognition.

Not a flicker, just the ghost of a seductive smile. ‘I think I’d remember a girl like you.’

‘Really?’

‘You weren’t at Glastonbury, were you? My dad took me to see Neil Young.’

‘You’re not still into him, are you?’

‘What do you mean “still”?’

‘Nothing. I just didn’t think anyone was any more,’ I add quickly.

‘I take it you weren’t there then?’ says H.

‘No, I think me and my mum were in the States.’

‘Oh, right. And what were you doing over there – running from the FBI, I suppose?’

I really shouldn’t have mentioned America. ‘Oh, you know …’

‘What, sightseeing and stuff?’

‘Yeah, kind of.’ One more question and I’ll know for sure. ‘So … Harry?’

‘Yes.’

‘How do you make an elephant laugh?’

And he stares at me like I’m absolutely mad. So mad that just for a moment he almost seems lost for words. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

He really doesn’t remember.

And you know what? A small part of me is actually disappointed.

‘Forget it. You must remind me of someone else.’

‘Thank goodness for that!’ He slings his messenger bag over his shoulder and prepares to leave. His face turns serious for a moment. ‘A word to the wise, Lauren.’

‘Yes?’

‘Whatever you do at St Thomas’s, never
ever
touch the spicy sausage pasta. It’s like puke in a plastic cup.’

‘Oh right. I’ll remember that – thanks.’

‘Anyway, got to go, Duke of Edinburgh Award meeting. See you around perhaps.’

‘Yeah … perhaps.’

When he gets to the drinks machine, he turns and smiles at me. And for some reason, I can’t help smiling back. But my smile gets even broader when I see who’s slipped into the empty seat opposite. I had a nasty feeling she was avoiding me.

‘Hi, Tilda, how’s it going?’

She opens her pot of pasta and sniffs suspiciously.

‘It’s not spicy sausage, is it?’

‘Yeah, so what?’

‘Apparently it’s disgusting.’

But my sister’s in no mood for small talk. ‘No, I’ll tell you what’s disgusting, shall I?’

‘What?’

‘You. What do you think you’re doing?’

‘Having lunch. What do you think I’m doing?’

‘Ha ha,’ says Tilda, stabbing a gobbet of sausage with her plastic fork. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘No, Tilds, I really don’t.’

‘Talking to that Harry bloke … the prefect guy.’

‘So I’m not allowed to talk to anyone now?’

‘Don’t act all innocent. I saw the way you smiled at him.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Yes you do.’

Her little red face is starting to do my head in. ‘I don’t actually, Tilda. But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

‘You were flirting with him.’

‘What? No, you’re joking aren’t you?’ My laugh comes out a bit fake.

‘You were all over the guy.’

‘We were just talking … about
Pygmalion
.’

‘Yeah, right.’

‘We were actually.’

‘You can’t do this, okay?’

‘Do what?’

‘Get close to anyone. Well, not another boy anyway. We talked about this. Don’t you remember?’

‘Trust me, Tilda, me and Harry are never going to “get close”.’

‘So it’s Harry now, is it?’

(I suppose that’s how I’ll have to think of him from now on.)‘That’s his name. What else do you want me to call him?’ I know she’s scared, but I just wish she could see it my way. ‘Oh come on, Tilds, it’s not —’

‘
Please
, just don’t be an idiot, okay? You know what happened last time. If you carry on like this, it’ll be the same story all over again.’