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Best. Maths. Lesson. Ever.
“How do you know all that stuff?” Alex asked, as we gathered our belongings together at the end of the lesson. Strictly speaking, the lesson had finished a quarter hour earlier, but I’d been so engrossed in going through a practice exam question with him that I’d ignored the bell. For me, packing up my gear consisted of shoving my scruffy exercise book into a Safeway carrier bag and slipping my trusty Bic biro into my back pocket. Alex performed a more complicated ritual, involving several labelled folders, a collection of marker pens, and unzipping then re-zipping most of the pockets in his rucksack.
As he eased his sweater back over his head, my dick, which I’d managed to tame, once again perked up at a flash of flat belly and white boxer short elastic. He then donned a grey parka, which had been arranged with mathematical precision on the back of his chair, carefully fastened more zips and buttons, straightened, and picked up his rucksack.
“You quite finished?” I smirked, twirling my bag in my fingers.
“I didn’t ask you to wait for me. Won’t your gang be wondering where you are? Or are they off terrorising some poor sod who happened to glance up at the wrong moment?”
Yes, and yes, were the answers, but instead I just laughed. “This isn’t an episode ofGrange Hill, you know.”
He followed me towards the door. “Feels like it sometimes. I don’t understand why so many boys here don’t take the final year of school more seriously. You only have one chance at life in this world, you have to seize it with both hands.”
Groaning, I threw him a look. “Do you give clichéd motivational speeches for free, or should I offer you some cash?”
“I’m only pointing it out, Matt. And even though you play the fool, you’re not fooling me. I know you only pretend. You are very good at maths.”
My breath caught in my throat. He’d said my name with such familiarity, almost as if we were friends or something. Didn’t sound right in his posh voice, though, so maybe I should start referring to myself as Matthew. Brenner and Phil would never take me seriously again if I did. Pushing ahead through the door, I made as if to hold it open for him, only to let it close and practically smack him in his face. God, I could be a dick sometimes. He rolled his eyes at me and sighed before glancing heavenwards then grimaced at the leaden skies.
“Do you not own a coat, Matt? It’s December, for goodness’ sake! You must be freezing.”
“Coats are for losers,” I replied automatically. “And posh kids who are shit at maths.”
“Does that mean I’m not a loser, then?”
He’d fallen right into it. With an evil little smile, I hitched my collar up. “I didn’t say those groups were mutually exclusive, did I? You ever heard of Venn diagrams? You’re sitting in the overlapping bit in the middle, posh boy.”
Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I sauntered away from him, trying not to outwardly shiver or hunch my shoulders. Alex was right. I needed a fucking coat. Biting wind sliced through me, colder than a witch’s tit.
“I’ll give you a lift home if you like. But only if you promise to stop being such a wanker.”
I halted, my heart thudding against my chest wall. With as much casualness as I could muster, I turned back to him and shrugged, as if I didn’t care either way. “‘Wanker’? Does Mummy know you use naughty words?”
He shook his head. “If you don’t shut up and get over here now, you prick, you’ll be walking home in the rain.”
That wonderful grin flashed at me, the one that made my insides gooey, as if I were spinning inside a Waltzer at the fair.
Game on.
As Alex started the car engine, Radio Four hummed into life, doing its tedious thing. The Maastricht Treaty blah blah blah. Reaching into my plastic bag, I retrieved a CD I’d swapped with Phil that morning and slotted it into the CD player before turning the volume up as loud as the clever German engineers at Volkswagen intended. The rough, swaggering, and unmistakable tones of Shane McGowan, accompanied by a hurdy-gurdy mix of banjo, tin whistle, and mandolin, filled the car.
Alex cheered with delight. “Hey! I know this band! They did that Christmas song, didn’t they? The one about New York; she calls him a scumbag!”
I nodded, affecting a world-weariness. He continued, tapping long fingers on the steering wheel. “What are they called again?”
Jesus wept.
“The Pogues.” I raised my voice so he could hear me above Shane’s dulcet tones. “This album is calledRum, Sodomy and the Lash.”
He nodded and smiled, his eyes fixed on the road, one shoulder swaying and fingers tapping as he drove. Every molecule of my horny homosexual being wanted to lean across and lick his cheek.
“That’s an invitation, by the way,” I added, my wicked suggestion lost under the frantic mashup of punk and Irish folk. Mmm. Rum then sodomy; we’d skip the lash until we were better acquainted.
“What?” he shouted back innocently. “Didn’t hear you! Do you always play music this loud? And is the singer the guy with all those horrid black and yellow broken teeth?”
Blimey, what was it with this bloke and teeth?
“Yeah. This is one of my favourite songs on the album.The Sickbed of Cuchulainn.”
