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He waved away my concern with misplaced optimism. “When Jess tells me to fuck off, she’s just playing hard to get.”
According to Phil, (and I bowed to his greater expertise in matters of the heart) when Jessica Parker told Brenner to fuck off, she endeavoured to be polite.
Brenner’s eyes and tongue followed the track of Jet’s impressive flick-flack out of the gladiatorial ring. Bouncing up to the mic for a post-conquest interview, Hunter pushed his hands through his sweaty mop of blond curls and treated his devoted fans (me, me, me!)to his trademark cheeky grin.
“And that Sarah Coxon is frigid.”
Getting through to Brenner that not wanting to go out with him didn’t equate to frigid was a tough gig. Phil and I had exhausted our supply of variations on those-girls-are-out-of-your-league. And don’t get me started on his desperate need for regular deodorant, or that stuff you spray in trainers to make them smell marginally less skunky.
“I think you caught her at a bad moment,” I hedged, watching Hunter’s perky rear view as he swaggered off the stage. A toned, muscly arse and blond hair—my personal kryptonite.
“Yeah, maybe.”
A look of abject misery crossed Brenner’s face, instantly raising my hackles. I loathed Brenner being unhappy even more than I hated not being able to confess to my best mates I fancied boys. Phil felt it too, in his own egotistical way. He stuck by him, at any rate, despite being high enough up the school pecking order to turn his back on an uncool old mate.
In the last couple of years, Brenner had lost his dad, his dad’s wage packet and the family home. His mum battled depression while Brenner shared a bedroom with his eight-year-old sister and a million fucking cuddly toys. His life had become officially more shite than mine, and nothing I could do or say would make it better. So, yeah, I gave him leeway on his unconventional chat-up techniques. So what if he had no fucking clue how to behave around a girl, let alone kiss one? And if his body shape lent itself more to a wobbly cone than the perfect inverted triangle, possibly because his main sources of affordable nutrition were Sainsburys cola and cheese and onion crisps, then who was I to nag him? Not everyone had the fortune of being dealt Alex Valentine’s generous set of playing cards. My blood boiled that not a single girl could see through all the bravado and fucking give him some attention anyway. If they did, if they took a chance, they’d discover they were holding a precious fucking diamond.
I’d never tell him any of that, of course; I was his best mate, not his fucking psychologist. Take the piss out of him? Yes. Coach him in the delicate art of bagging a bird? No.
“That Hunter bloke.” Brenner gestured to the telly. “He’s bloody massive, isn’t he? I bet he injects bucketloads of steroids, like the rest of them. That’s how they get muscles so big.”
“I need to borrow some from him, in that case.”
Pale and scrawny were my middle names. Which made portraying myself in a full-blown, heterosexual, masculine fashion even more of a challenge. Another of God’s little jokes at my expense.
“No, you bloody don’t.” Proceeding to idly dismiss the object of my wanking fantasies, Brenner continued. “We talked about steroids in PE last week. Richie asked where he could buy some, and Mr Tucker told him not to bother unless he wanted an even smaller cock. Steroids shrink your willy, apparently.”
He waggled his little finger at me, like a maggot, and, all of a sudden, Hunter’s attractiveness palled. And then, as if he hadn’t pissed on my parade enough, Brenner announced, “I’m ditching school at Easter.”
The closing credits ofGladiatorsbegan to roll. “What???”
“Phil’s dad’s gonna get me a job up at the MB factory. I can start in April.”
The annoying jingle on the Lemsip adverts rattled my stunned brain as it tried to make sense of his words. I stood abruptly, and switched off the telly. Brenner continued to stare at the blank screen, picking his nails and scowling. As I contemplated the prospect of negotiating the last bleak term of school without my wingman, I wondered how long he’d been building up the courage to tell me.
“I’m not gonna pass any exams. And I’m fed up with being skint. So there’s no use me being there anyway, Matt.”
“I’m staying,” I pointed out. “And Phil is, too.”
It was a lame argument because he was right. After his dad died, me and Phil were the only reason he turned up at all. He had planned to get a job, to train to be a mechanic at the garage where his dad had worked. But after his death, staying on at school and drifting along with his mates seemed the easier option.
“It’s all right for you, Matt. You’re gonna pass all your exams. Phil too, probably. But I’m wasting my time; the only good bit is playing soccer at lunchtime.”
“Yeah, but why do you want to work at MB? The pay will be shit, and everyone who works there is, like, at least fifty.”
The MB factory. I didn’t know what the initials stood for, but, like a greedy toad, the hulking grey hangar with its heavy steel gates and twenty-four-hour security guard cast a mean shadow over the town. Phil’s dad did something in an office there, I wasn’t sure what. The industrial Midlands was built on factories, but MB was by far the biggest and ugliest. The gates only opened to let lorries in and out; for years Simon had lied it was a prison full of axe murderers preying on little boys. I used to take a detour to avoid walking past it until a couple of years ago. Phil and Brenner pissed themselves when they found out.
“It’s done, Matt. I’ve told school already and signed up at MB. You’re gonna be fucking off to university next summer anyway, and if Alison has her way, Phil will probably be engaged or be a dad or something by then.”
Only one of those statements bore some truth, and unfortunately, not the one about me. Sure, I’d cruise the exams like always, but Matt Leeson wouldn’t be going to university, although everyone kept saying so. Not if my mum and dad had anything to do with it. Not next summer, not ever. My dad’s mocking voice still rang in my ears from the first time I’d mooted it.
The school had given us a talk about the university application process. A whole day dedicated to it. They marketed it as a careersfair, except the hosts had clearly never spent an afternoon at a fair, because there wasn’t a candyfloss stall or a crusty with a three-legged dog in sight. In their place, fanned out across the desks, lay hundreds of glossy brochures promising glittering routes out of my shitty, drab existence. Seducing me with future careers in journalism, history degrees, politics degrees, and MAs in political anthropology (whatever the fuck they were).
After the chat, I’d been plucked out by the careers woman, who plied me with confusing stats about courses and accommodation and bursaries and grants. I’d wanted to invite her to come home with me and explain it all to my mum and dad, to show them the heaps of shiny brochures, to tell them how smart their son was, and how he must, must,mustgo to university. How the school insisted. How the world had changed, how opportunities had opened up for people like me.
I didn’t invite her, of course, but I’d been buzzing when I reached home, high on hope, feeling special. Me, Matt Leeson, had been singled out especially, because I was so clever. I waited patiently until my dad came home from the pub, my exciting news bubbling inside. I bit my tongue until he’d gobbled his chippy tea and watched the six o’clock news. I might as well have waited until the end of the fucking millennium.
His response had been mocking laughter, as if I’d shared a huge, fucking hilarious joke. I should have walked away then, but instead, like a mug, I’d hung around, pleaded, willed him to listen for just a second. I explained to him how, if I had this chance, I could better myself, make something of myself, earn some decent cash, escape the fucking shithole we called home.
