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I didn’t have a maths lesson on Wednesday.
I did have a maths lesson on Thursday.
Alex sat with that evil cow Binita again. They laughed about stuff again. Denise sidled in, and to my surprise, made herself comfortable in the chair next to mine. She didn’t query why Alex had chosen a seat somewhere else, which was decent of her. We talked maths and about a band called Suede I thought were overhyped. Denise said she fancied the lead singer, who looked like a girl and sang like a man. Judging from the pics and the interview in the NME, he fancied no-one but himself. Once more, mathematical wisdom might, or might not, have been imparted by Mrs Goodman.
I didn’t have a maths lesson on Friday, but only because I skived it.
On Saturday afternoon at the café, I broke the news to Denise that our non-relationship-relationship was over. She was possibly relieved. I’d miss Kurt’s pretty face a lot more than the bad sex.
“It’s because of him, isn’t it?”
More of a statement than a question and delivered about an hour later. We were having our fag break out the back, leaning against the giant wheelie bins. I didn’t deny it, but only because I might cry if I did. Boys who loved other boys cried perhaps, but boys like Matt Leeson never did.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I responded loftily.
Denise smirked, smoked a bit more and changed the subject. “You know that girl who sits at the front of the bus, on the top deck on her own?”
I nodded. I was more familiar with the back of her head than her facial features, seeing as she sat in front of everyone else. She had an ordinary face, with very short brown hair, and wore glasses that made her eyes appear bigger than they actually were. She was a bit spotty, too. To be honest, the first time she’d sat down, I’d mistaken her for a bloke.
“She’s called Rachel,” Denise continued, squashing her fag butt under her shoe. “She likes Metallica, and she plays the clarinet in a big youth orchestra. I’m going to ask her out.”
Saturday night drew on all my Thespian skills. Maybe I should try a career as an actor when I left school. I’d had enough fucking practice. Brenner and Phil rounded on me afterGladiatorsfinished. Hunter had barely featured, fuelling my irritableness. Handling Brenner on my own was a piece of piss, in combination with Phil they were a force to be reckoned with. Especially when Phil had fallen out with Alison, had a face like a wet weekend in Bognor, and was itching for a fight.
“Your chauffeur has good taste in birds,” he remarked.
On the surface, his observation could be mistaken for an idle comment; in reality, he knew he was pushing every single one of my buttons.
“Huh?” I stalled, reaching for my fags.
“Alex. Your new bezzie. He’s now got the delectable Binita’s bum warming the passenger seat on the drive home.” He gave me a nudge. “A hell of a lot more attractive than your skinny arse. Looks as if you’re back to slumming it on the bus with Brenner.”
“Thank God,” Brenner interjected. “That weirdo at the front keeps staring at me. I think she’s gonna have a crack at me soon.”
Under the scorn I detected a hint of hopefulness. From my newfound insider knowledge, it was safe to say that Brenner would be holding onto his virginity a little longer. I kept my insider knowledge to myself.
“Great tits,” Phil added. “Binita, not the psycho on the bus. If your mate’s patient enough to wait, she’ll let him cop a feel of them.”
“Is she frigid?” Brenner, of course, further demonstrating the emotional intelligence of a toilet brush. Normally, I picked him up on it, however my stomach appeared to have folded in on itself and a peculiar kind of stinging sensation had developed behind me eyes.
Phil made a face, as if considering the possibility. “Nah. Just posh.”
In contrast to Brenner, when he put his mind to it, Phil’s emotional intelligence was the stuff of legend. Add in his baby blues, floppy fringe, and repertoire of innocent facial expressions, and the ladies didn’t stand a chance. The shit he came out with when he sweet-talked Alison on the phone had me and Brenner in stitches. He was the reason I was so au fait withThe Bodyguard—research apparently.
“Binita’s really fit, but she told me she’s got the hots for someone else, that’s why she wouldn’t play nice with me.”
He shook his handsome head as if bewildered that could possibly be a thing. “And anyway, at the time I had Alison gagging for it.”
I swallowed down some sick. The eye-stingy thing worsened. In the space of a week, I’d swung from the exhilarating high of the Pogues gig to the depths of despair. All because Alex Valentine had kissed me, been repulsed by me, and now blanked me. Oh, and he’d invited a paragon of female virtue with great tits to take my seat in the Polo, no doubt listening to my bloody mixtapes. There were no prizes for guessing who Binita held out for.
Fuck my life.
The sick churned up again, and the stinginess migrated from the back of my eyes to the front. I stood quickly. “I’m going to the bog.”
It didn’t take Phil and Brenner long to notice I was acting weird. Phil hadn’t yet put his finger on a cause, and the rational part of me knew there wasn’t a cat in hell’s chance they’d put it down to closeted homosexuality and unrequited love. My deep voice was on point, for god’s sake, and I had a straight man’s gait! They’d blame my dad and his handiness with his fists, the usual reason I behaved oddly once every few months, then say nothing until everything settled down again.
I had zero energy for Monday lunchtime footie, so I occupied myself wandering aimlessly through town, dodging familiar faces. Bored and tired, I headed for the multistorey carpark, with a plan to climb to the usually empty top floor. Not to throw myself off it, but just to escape everyone for an hour.
“Matt! Matt! Wait!”
