Solitaire

by Alice Oseman

  I pick it up anyway, because I’m not a horrible daughter.

  “Hello?” I say.

  “Tori. It’s me.” It’s Becky. “Why the hell are you answering the phone?”

  “I decided to rethink my attitude toward life and become an entirely different person.”

  “Say again?”

  “Why are you calling me? You never call me.”

  “I need to talk to you urgently.”

  There is a pause. I expect her to continue, but she seems to be waiting for me to speak.

  “Okay—”

  “It’s Jack.”

  Ah.

  Becky has called about her almost-boyfriend, Jack.

  She does this to me very often. Not call me, I mean. Ramble at me about her various almost-boyfriends.

  While Becky is talking, I put “Mm”s and “Yeah”s and “Oh my God”s where they need to be. Her voice fades a little as I drift away and picture myself as her. As a lovely, happy, hilarious girl who gets invited to at least two parties a week and can start up a conversation within two seconds. I picture myself entering a party. Throbbing music, everyone with a bottle in their hand—somehow, there’s a crowd around me. I’m laughing, I’m the center of attention. Eyes light up in admiration as I tell another of my hysterically embarrassing stories, perhaps a drunk story, or an ex-boyfriend story, or simply a time that I did something remarkable, and everyone wonders how I manage to have such an eccentric, adventurous, carefree adolescence. Everyone hugs me. Everyone wants to know what I’ve been up to. When I dance, people dance; when I sit down, ready to tell secrets, people form a circle; when I leave, the party fades away and dies, like a forgotten dream.

  “—you can guess what I’m talking about,” she says.

  I really can’t.

  “A few weeks ago—God, I should have told you this—we had sex.”

  I sort of freeze up, because this takes me by surprise. Then I realize that this has been coming for a long time. I’d always kind of respected Becky for being a virgin, which is kind of pretentious, if you think about it. I mean, we’re all at least sixteen now, and Becky’s nearly seventeen; it’s fine if you want to have sex, I don’t care, it’s not a crime. But the fact that we were both virgins—I don’t know. I guess it made us equal, in a twisted way. And now here I am. Second place in something else.

  “Well”—there is literally nothing I can say about this—“okay.”

  “You’re judging me. You think I’m a slut.”

  “I don’t!”

  “I can tell. You’re using your judgment-y voice.”

  “I’m not!”

  There’s a pause. What do you say to something like that? Well done? Good job?

  She starts explaining how Jack has this friend who would supposedly be “perfect” for me. I think that is unlikely unless he is entirely mute, blind, or deaf. Or all three.

  Once I get off the phone, I sort of stand there in the kitchen. Mum’s still clicking away at the computer and I start to feel, again, like this whole day has been pointless. An image of Michael Holden appears in my head and then an image of Lucas Ryan and then an image of the Solitaire blog. I decide that I need to talk to my brother. I pour myself some diet lemonade and leave the kitchen.

  My brother Charles Spring is fifteen years old and a Year 11 at Truham Grammar. In my opinion, he is the nicest person in the history of the universe, and I know that “nice” is kind of a meaningless word, but that is what makes it so powerful. It’s very hard to simply be a “nice” person, because there are a lot of things that can get in the way. When he was little, he refused to throw out any of his possessions because to him they were all special. Every baby book. Every outgrown T-shirt. Every useless board game. He kept them all in sky-high piles in his room, because everything supposedly had some kind of meaning. When I asked about a particular item, he’d tell me how he found it at the beach, or how it was a hand-me-down from our nan, or how he bought it when he was six at London Zoo. Mum and Dad got rid of most of that rubbish when he got ill last year—I guess he sort of got obsessed with it, and he got obsessed with a whole load of other things too (mainly food and collecting things), and it really started to tear him apart—but that’s all over now. He’s better, but he’s still the same kid who thinks everything is special. That’s the sort of guy Charlie is.

  In the living room, it is extremely unclear what Charlie, his boyfriend, Nick, and my other brother, Oliver, are doing. They’ve got these cardboard boxes, and I mean there’s like fifty of them, piled up all over the room. Oliver, who is seven years old, appears to be directing the operation as Nick and Charlie build up the boxes to make some kind of shed-sized sculpture. The piles of boxes reach the ceiling. Oliver has to stand on the sofa to be able to oversee the entire structure.

  Eventually, Charlie walks around the small cardboard building and notices me staring in from the doorway. “Victoria!”

  I blink at him. “Shall I bother asking?”

  He gives me this look as if I should know exactly what is going on. “We’re building a tractor for Oliver.”

  I nod. “Of course. Yes. That’s very clear.”

  Nick appears. Nicholas Nelson, a Year 12 like me, is one of those laddish lads who actually is into all those stereotypical things like rugby and beer and swearing and all that, but he also has the most successful combination of name and surname I have ever heard, which makes it impossible for me to dislike him. I can’t really remember when Nick and Charlie became Nick-and-Charlie, but Nick is the only one who visited Charlie when he was ill, so in my books, he’s definitely all right.

  “Tori.” He nods at me, very seriously indeed. “Good. We need more free labor.”

  “Tori, can you get the Scotch tape?” Oliver calls down, except he says “thcotch tape” instead of “Scotch tape” because he recently lost two front teeth.

  I pass Oliver the thcotch tape, then point toward the boxes and ask Charlie, “Where did you get all of these?”

  Charlie just shrugs and walks away, saying, “They’re Oliver’s, not mine.”

  So that’s how I end up building a cardboard tractor in our living room.

  When we’re finished, Charlie, Nick, and I sit inside it to admire our work. Oliver goes around the tractor with a marker pen, drawing on the wheels, the mud stains, and the machine guns “in case the cows join the dark side.” It’s sort of peaceful, to be honest. Every box has a big black arrow printed on it pointing upward.

  Charlie is telling me about his day. He loves telling me about his day.

  “Saunders asked us who our favorite musicians were and I said Muse, and three people asked me if I liked them because of Twilight. Apparently no one believes that it is possible to have an original interest.”

  I frown. “I would like to meet a boy who has actually seen Twilight. Do you not both live in the realm of the FA Cup and Family Guy?”

  Nick sighs. “Tori, you are generalizing again.”

  Charlie rolls his head through the air toward him. “Nicholas, you mainly watch the FA Cup and Family Guy. Let’s be honest.”

  “Sometimes I watch the Six Nations.”

  We all chuckle, and then there’s a short, unawkward silence in which I lie down and look up at the cardboard ceiling.

  I start to tell them about today’s prank. And that leads me to thinking about Lucas and Michael Holden.

  “I met Lucas Ryan again today,” I say. I don’t mind telling this sort of stuff to Nick and Charlie. “He joined our school.”

  Nick and Charlie blink at the same time.

  “Lucas Ryan . . . as in primary-school Lucas Ryan?” Charlie frowns.

  “Lucas Ryan left Truham?” Nick frowns too. “Balls. I was going to copy off him in our psychology mock.”

  I nod to both of them. “It was good to see him. You know. Because we can be friends again. I guess. He was always so nice to me.”

  They both nod back. It’s a knowing sort of nod.

  “I also met some
guy called Michael Holden.”

  Nick, who had been in the middle of taking a sip of tea, chokes into his cup. Charlie grins, widely, and starts to giggle.

  “What? Do you know him?”

  Nick recovers enough to speak, though still coughs every few words. “Michael fucking Holden. Shit. He’ll go down in Truham legend.”

  Charlie lowers his head but keeps his eyes on me. “Don’t become friends with him. He’s probably insane. Everyone avoided him at Truham because he’s mentally disturbed.”

  Patting Charlie on the knee, Nick says, “Then again, I made friends with a mental person, and that turned out pretty spectacular.”

  Charlie snorts and slaps away Nick’s hand.

  “Do you remember when he tried to get everyone to do a flash mob for the Year 11 prank?” says Nick. “And in the end he just did it by himself on the lunch tables?”

  “What about when he gave a speech on the injustice of authority for his Year 12 prefect speech?” says Charlie. “Just because he got detentions for having that argument with Mr. Yates during his mock exams!” Both he and Nick laugh heartily.

  This confirms my suspicion that Michael Holden is not the sort of person with whom I would like to be friends. Ever.

  Charlie looks up at Nick. “He’s gay, isn’t he? I heard he’s gay.”

  Nick shrugs. “Well, I heard that he figure-skates, so it’s not entirely impossible.”

  “Hm.” Charlie frowns. “I thought we knew all the Truham gays.”

  They pause, and both look at me.

  “Listen,” says Nick, gesturing sincerely to me with one hand. “Lucas Ryan’s a cool guy. But there’s something wrong with Michael Holden. I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was behind that prank.”

  The thing is, I don’t think that Nick is right. I don’t have any evidence to support this. I’m not even sure why I think this. Maybe it was something about the way Michael Holden spoke—like he believed everything he said. Maybe it was how sad he was when I showed him the empty Solitaire blog. Or maybe it was something else, something that doesn’t make sense, like the colors of his eyes, or his ridiculous side part, or how he managed to get that Post-it note into my hand when I can’t even remember our skin touching. Maybe it’s just because he’s too wrong.

  As I’m thinking this, Oliver enters the tractor and sits down in my lap. I pat him affectionately on the head and give him what’s left of my diet lemonade, because Mum doesn’t let him drink it.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “To be honest, I bet it was just some twat with a blog.”

  FOUR

  I’M LATE BECAUSE Mum thought I said eight. I said seven thirty. How can you confuse eight with seven thirty?

  “Whose birthday is it?” she asks while we’re in the car.

  “No one’s. We’re just meeting up.”

  “Do you have enough money? I can sub you.”

  “I’ve got fifteen pounds.”

  “Will Becky be there?”

  “Yep.”

  “And Lauren and Evelyn?”

  “Probably.”

  When I speak to my parents, I don’t actually sound very grumpy. I’m usually quite cheerful sounding when I talk. I’m good at that.

  It’s Tuesday. Evelyn organized some “start of term” thing at Pizza Express. I don’t really want to go, but I think it’s important to make the effort. Social convention and all.

  I say hello to the people who notice my entrance and sit at the end of the table. I nearly die when I realize that Lucas is here. I know, already, that I’m going to find it difficult to think of things to say to him. I successfully avoided him for the rest of yesterday and all of today for this exact reason. Obviously Evelyn, Lauren, and Becky took the opportunity to make him the “boy” of our group. Having a boy in your social group is the equivalent of having a house with a pool, or a designer shirt with the logo on it, or a Ferrari. It just makes you more important.

  A waiter hurries over to me, so I order a diet lemonade and stare down the long table. All the people are chatting and laughing and smiling, and it sort of makes me feel a bit sad, like I’m watching them through a dirty window.

  “Yeah, but most of the girls who move to Truham only move because they want to be around boys all the time.” Becky, seated next to me, is talking at Lucas, who is seated across from us. “So many attention whores.”

  “To be fair,” he says, “Truham girls are basically worshipped.”

  Lucas catches my eye and smiles his awkward smile. He’s got this hilarious Hawaiian shirt on: the tight-fit kind with the collar done right up and the sleeves slightly rolled. He doesn’t look as embarrassed as yesterday—in fact, he looks fashionable. I didn’t think he would be that sort of guy. A sort of guy who wears Hawaiian shirts. A hipster sort of guy. I make the deduction that he definitely has a blog.

  “Only because boys at all-boys schools are sexually deprived,” says Evelyn, who is next to Lucas, waving her arms around to emphasize her point. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Single-sex schools damage humanity. The number of girls in our school who are socially clueless because they haven’t spoken to any boys . . .”

  “. . . it’s way out of control, man,” concludes Lauren, who is on the other side of Evelyn.

  “I love the Truham girls’ uniform,” sighs Becky. “They all look so good in that tie.” She gestures abstractly to her neck. “Like, thin stripes look way nicer than thick stripes.”

  “It’s not real life,” says Lucas, nodding and nodding. “In real life, there are boys and there are girls. Not just one or the other.”

  “But that tie,” says Becky. “I mean, I can’t even.”

  They all nod and then start talking about something else. I continue to do what I do best. Watch.

  There is a boy sitting next to Lauren, talking to the girls at the opposite end of the table. His name is Ben Hope. Ben Hope is the guy at Higgs. And by the guy, I mean that one boy in the Sixth Form who every single girl in the entire school has a crush on. There is always one. Tall and slim built. Skinny trousers and tight shirts. He usually straightens his dark-brown hair, and I swear to God it defies gravity because it swishes in a kind of organized vortex, but when he doesn’t straighten it, it’s all curly and he just looks so cute you want to die. He always appears to be serene. He skateboards.

  I, personally, do not “fancy” him. I’m just trying to express his perfection. I actually think that a lot of people are very beautiful, and maybe even more beautiful when they are not aware of it themselves. In the end, though, being beautiful doesn’t do much for you as a person apart from raise your ego and give you an increased sense of vanity.

  Ben Hope notices me staring. I need to control my staring.

  Lucas is talking at me. I think that he’s trying to involve me in this conversation, which is kind of nice but also irritating and unnecessary. “Tori, do you like Bruno Mars?”

  “What?”

  He hesitates, so Becky steps in. “Tori. Bruno Mars. Come on. He’s fabulous, right?”

  “What?”

  “The. Song. That. Is. Playing. Do. You. Like. It?”

  I hadn’t even registered that music was playing in this restaurant. It’s “Grenade” by Bruno Mars.

  I quickly analyze the song.

  “I think . . . it’s unlikely anyone would want to catch a grenade for anyone else. Or jump in front of a train for someone else. That’s very counterproductive.” Then, quieter, so no one hears: “If you wanted to do either of those things, it would be for yourself.”

  Lauren smacks her hand on the table. “Exactly what I said.”

  Becky laughs at me and says, “You just don’t like it because it’s Top Forty.”

  Evelyn steps up. Dissing anything mainstream is her personal area of expertise. “Chart music,” she says, “is filled with Auto-Tuned girls who only get famous because they wear tight shorts and bandeau tops, and rappers who can’t do anything except talk quickly.”

 
If I’m completely honest, I don’t even like music that much. I just like individual songs. I find one song that I really love, and then I listen to it about twenty billion times until I hate it and have ruined it for myself. At the moment it’s “Message in a Bottle” by the Police, and by Sunday I will never want to listen to it again. I’m an idiot.

  “If it’s so crap, then why does it make it into the charts?” asks Becky.

  Evelyn runs a hand through her hair. “Because we live in a commercialized world where everyone buys music just because someone else has.”

  It is right after she finishes saying this that I realize silence has swept over our table. I turn around and experience minor heart failure.

  Michael Holden has swooped into the restaurant.

  I know immediately that he is coming for me. He’s grinning like a maniac, eyes locked on this end of the table. All heads turn as he pulls over a chair and makes himself comfortable at the head of the table between me and Lucas.

  Everyone sort of stares, then murmurs, then shrugs, and then gets on with eating, assuming that he must have been invited by someone else. Everyone except me, Becky, Lucas, Lauren, and Evelyn.

  “I need to tell you something,” he says to me, eyes on fire. “I absolutely need to tell you something.”

  Lauren speaks up. “You go to our school!”

  Michael actually holds out a hand for Lauren to shake. I find myself genuinely unable to tell whether he is being sarcastic or not. “Michael Holden, Year 13. Nice to meet you . . . ?”

  “Lauren Romilly. Year 12.” Lauren, bemused, takes the hand and shakes it. “Er—nice to meet you too.”

  “No offense,” says Evelyn, “but, like, why are you here?”

  Michael stares at her intensely until she realizes that she needs to introduce herself.

  “I’m . . . Evelyn Foley?” she says.

  Michael shrugs. “Are you? You sound uncertain.”

  Evelyn does not like to be teased.

  He winks at her. “I needed to talk to Tori.”

  There is a long and grating silence before Becky says, “And . . . er . . . how do you know Tori?”