Solitaire

by Alice Oseman

  “Tori and I happened to meet in the midst of our Solitaire investigations.”

  Her head tilts to one side. She looks at me. “You’ve been investigating?”

  “Erm, no,” I say.

  “Then . . . ?”

  “I just followed this trail of Post-it notes.”

  “What?”

  “I followed a trail of Post-it notes. They led to the Solitaire blog.”

  “Ah . . . that’s cool. . . .”

  I love Becky, but sometimes she acts like such a bimbo. It really pisses me off, because she got into grammar school, for Christ’s sake. She got ten A grades at GCSE.

  Meanwhile, Michael is helping himself to our leftover starters. With his free hand, he points ambiguously toward Becky. “Are you Becky Allen?”

  Becky slowly turns to Michael. “Are you psychic?”

  “Just a fairly capable Facebook stalker. You’re all lucky I’m not a serial killer.” His finger, still flexed, gravitates toward Lucas. “And Lucas Ryan. We’ve met already.” He smiles at him so forcefully that it comes across as patronizing. “I should thank you. You’re the one who led me to this girl.”

  Lucas nods.

  “I like your shirt,” says Michael, eyes glazing slightly.

  “Thanks,” says Lucas, definitely not meaning it.

  I start to wonder whether Lucas knew Michael at Truham. Judging by Nick and Charlie’s reaction, he probably did. Maybe he doesn’t really want to associate with Michael Holden. It’s almost making me feel sorry for Michael Holden. For the second time.

  Michael looks past Becky. “And what’s your name?”

  For a moment I don’t quite realize who he’s talking to. Then I see Rita. She pokes her head around from Becky’s other side.

  “Er, Rita. Rita Sengupta.” She laughs. I’m not sure why she laughs, but she does anyway. Rita is probably the only other girl with whom I am civil, besides Becky and Lauren and Evelyn. She hangs around with Lauren, but you tend not to notice her. She is the only girl I know who can pull off a pixie crop.

  Michael lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “Rita! That is a fantastic name. ‘Lovely Rita’!”

  By the time I realize that he is referring to the Beatles song, the conversation has already moved on. It’s surprising I even recognize it. I hate the Beatles.

  “So, you and Tori just . . . met? And started talking?” asks Becky. “That seems sort of unlikely.”

  It’s funny because it’s true.

  “Yes,” says Michael. “Unlikely, yes. But that is what happened.”

  Once again he looks into my face, casually blanking the entire group. I cannot articulate how uncomfortable I feel right now. This is worse than Drama GCSE.

  “Anyway, Tori, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  I blink, sitting on my hands.

  Lauren and Becky and Evelyn and Lucas and Rita are listening intently. Michael glances at each face over his large glasses.

  “But . . . I, erm, can’t remember what it was.”

  Lucas sneers. “You tracked her all the way down to this restaurant to tell her something and now you can’t even remember what it is?”

  This time Michael detects Lucas’s tone. “Excuse me for having a memory like a sieve. I feel I deserve credit for making the effort to come here.”

  “Why couldn’t you just send her a message on Facebook?”

  “Facebook is for trivialities such as what takeaways people are having and how many ‘LOLs’ they had the night before with their ‘gals.’”

  Lucas shakes his head. “I just don’t get why you’d actually come down here and then forget. You wouldn’t forget if it was something important.”

  “On the contrary, you’d probably be more likely to forget the most important things of all.”

  Becky interjects, “So are you and Tori friends now?”

  Michael continues to contemplate Lucas before addressing Becky. “That is a fantastic question.” Then he faces me. “What do you think? Are we friends now?”

  I genuinely can’t think of an answer, because the answer, in my opinion, is definitely not yes, but it is definitely not no either.

  “How can we be friends if you don’t know anything about me?” I say.

  He taps his chin thoughtfully. “Let’s see. I know that your name is Victoria Spring. You are in Year 12. Your Facebook indicates that you were born on April fifth. You are an introvert with a pessimist complex. You’re wearing pretty plain clothes—jumper, jeans—you don’t like embellishments and fuss. You don’t care about dressing up for people. You’ll have ordered a margherita pizza—you’re a picky eater. You rarely update your Facebook—you don’t care for social activities. But you followed the Post-it trail yesterday, just like I did. You’re curious.” He leans in. “You like to act as if you care about nothing, and if you carry on like that, then you’re going to drown in the abyss you have imagined for yourself.”

  He stops. His smile vanishes, leaving only its ghost.

  “Jesus, mate, you are a stalker!” Lauren attempts a laugh, but no one else joins in.

  “No,” Michael says. “I just pay attention.”

  “It’s like you’re in love with her or something,” says Evelyn.

  Michael smiles a knowing smile. “I suppose it is a bit like that.”

  “You’re gay, though, aren’t you?” says Lauren, forever unafraid to say what other people are thinking. “Like, I heard that you’re gay.”

  “Ooh, you’ve heard about me?” He sits back. “Intriguing.”

  “Are you, though?” asks Lucas, trying unsuccessfully to sound casual.

  Michael waves a hand about. “Some people say that.” Then he grins and points a finger at him. “You never know, it might be you I’m in love with.”

  Lucas immediately colors.

  “You’re gay!” squeaks Becky. “Tori has a gay best friend! I. Am. Jealous.”

  Sometimes I’m embarrassed to be friends with Becky.

  “I need to pee,” I say, even though I don’t, and I leave the table and find myself in the restaurant bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror while P!nk is telling me to raise my glass. I stay there for too long. Older ladies shoot me discerning looks as they waddle in and out of stalls. I don’t know what I’m doing, really. I just keep thinking about what Michael said. Drowning in my abyss. I don’t know. Why does that matter? Why does that bother me?

  Jesus Christ, why did I bother coming out tonight?

  I continue to stare at myself in this mirror, and I imagine a voice reminding me to be funny and chatty and happy, like normal people. As the voice reminds me, I start to feel a bit more positive about stuff even though any residual enthusiasm for seeing Lucas again has drained away. I think it’s because of that Hawaiian shirt. I go back into the restaurant.

  FIVE

  “THAT WAS ONE hell of a pee,” says Michael as I sit down. He’s still here. Part of me was hoping he wouldn’t be.

  “You sound impressed,” I say.

  “I am, actually.”

  Becky, Evelyn, and Lauren are now talking across the table to some other girls from our year who I don’t really know. Lucas smiles briefly at me. Rita’s laughing and smiling, mainly at Lauren. They’re discussing a girl we used to know who moved to Truham for Sixth Form because she said that she “preferred boys to girls,” and now she’s organizing parties where everyone takes acid and rolls around on the floor.

  “So you’re gay?” I ask.

  He blinks. “Wow. This is quite a big deal to you guys.”

  It’s not a big deal. I don’t really care at all.

  “Do you find boys attractive?” I ask with a shrug. “Or girls? That’s one way to check. If you’re not sure.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You think I’m not sure?”

  I shrug again. I don’t care. I do not care.

  “Everyone’s attractive, to be honest,” he continues. “Even if it’s just something small, like, some people have really
beautiful hands. I don’t know. I’m a little bit in love with everyone I meet, but I think that’s normal.”

  “So you’re bisexual.”

  He smiles and leans forward. “You love all these words, don’t you? Gay, bisexual, attractive, unattractive—”

  “No,” I interrupt. “No, I hate them.”

  “Then why label people?”

  I tilt my head. “Because that’s life. Without organization, we descend into chaos.”

  Staring amusedly, he stretches back again into the chair. I can’t believe I just used the word “descend.”

  “Well, if you care so much, what are you?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “What are you? Gay, straight, all-around horny, what?”

  “Er, straight?”

  “And are you sure that you’re straight? Have you liked a boy before?”

  I actually haven’t. Ever. This is because I have a very low opinion of most people.

  I look down. “All right, then. I’ll let you know if I fall in love with a girl anytime soon.”

  Michael’s eyes twinkle, but he doesn’t comment. I hope I haven’t come across as a homophobe.

  “Are you going to remember what you came to tell me?” I ask.

  He strokes his sharply parted hair. “Maybe. Maybe tomorrow. We’ll see.”

  Soon after that everyone declares that they’re leaving. I accidentally spent sixteen pounds, so Lucas insists on giving me the extra pound, which I guess is pretty nice of him. Once we’re all standing outside the restaurant, he starts chatting earnestly with Evelyn. Most of the people here are heading to Lauren’s house for a big sleepover thing or whatever. They’re all going to get drunk and stuff even though it’s a Tuesday. Becky explains that she didn’t invite me because she knew that I definitely wouldn’t want to come (it’s funny because it’s true), and Ben Hope overhears her and gives me this kind of pitying look. Becky smiles at him, the pair momentarily joined in feeling sorry for me. I decide that I’m going to walk home. Michael decides that he’s coming with me and I don’t really know how to stop him, so I guess this is happening.

  We have been moving in silence through the high street. It is all Victorian and brown, and the cobblestone road is sort of curved like we’re in the bottom of a trench. A man in a suit hurries past, and he’s asking someone on the phone, “Do you feel anything yet?”

  I ask Michael why he is walking home with me.

  “Because I live this way. This world does not revolve around you, Victoria Spring.” He’s being sarcastic, but I still feel kind of put out.

  “Victoria.” I shudder.

  “Huh?”

  “Please don’t call me Victoria.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It makes me think of Queen Victoria. The one who wore black all her life because her husband died. And ‘Victoria Spring’ sounds like a brand of bottled water.”

  Wind is picking up around us.

  “I don’t like my name, either,” he says.

  I instantly think of all the people I dislike named Michael. Michael Bublé, Michael McIntyre, Michael Jackson.

  “Michael means ‘who resembles God,’” he says, “and I think that if God could choose to resemble any human being . . .”

  He stops then, right in the street, looking at me, just looking, through the panes of his glasses, through the blue and green, through depths and expanses, bleeding one billion incomprehensible thoughts.

  “. . . he wouldn’t choose me.”

  We continue to walk.

  Imagine if I had been given some Biblical name like Abigail or Charity or, I don’t know, Eve, for God’s sake. I’m very critical of religion, and it probably means that I’m going to hell, if it even exists, which, let’s be honest, it probably doesn’t. That doesn’t bother me very much, because whatever happens in hell can’t be much worse than what happens here.

  “Well,” I say, “I support the Labour Party, but people call me Tori. Like the Tories. If that makes you feel any better.”

  He doesn’t say anything, but I’m too busy looking at the pale-brown cobblestones to see if he’s looking at me. After a few moments: “You support the Labour Party?”

  I realize then that I’m freezing. I’d forgotten it was the middle of winter, and all I’ve got is this shirt and jumper and thin jeans. I regret not calling Mum, but I hate bothering her because she always does this sighing thing where she’s all like, “No, no, it’s perfectly fine, I’m not bothered,” but I can tell that she is most definitely bothered.

  Silence and a faint smell of Indian takeaway continue all the way up the high street, and then we take a right onto the main town road where the three-story houses are. My house is one of these. Two girls walk past in gargantuan heels and dresses so tight that their skin is spilling out, and one of them says to the other, “Wait, who the fuck is Lewis Carroll?” and in my imagination I pull a gun out of my pocket, shoot them both, and then shoot myself.

  I stop when I get to my house. It’s darker than the others because the lamppost closest to it is not working.

  “This is where I live,” I say, and start to walk off.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” he says. I turn back around. “Can I ask you something?”

  I cannot resist a sarcastic comment. “You just did, but please continue.”

  “Can we really not be friends?”

  He sounds like an eight-year-old girl trying to win back her best friend after she accidentally insulted her new school shoes and got herself disinvited from her birthday party.

  He’s wearing only a T-shirt and jeans, too.

  “How are you not freezing?” I say.

  “Please, Tori. Why don’t you want to be friends with me?” It’s like he’s desperate.

  “Why do you want to be friends with me?” I shake my head. “We’re not in the same year. We’re not similar in any way whatsoever. I literally do not understand why you even care about—” I stop then, because I was about to say “me,” but I realized midway through that that would be a truly horrific sentence.

  He looks down. “I don’t think that . . . I understand . . . either. . . .”

  I’m just standing there, staring.

  “You know, it’s said that extreme communism and extreme capitalism are actually very similar,” he says.

  “Are you high?” I say.

  He shakes his head and laughs. “I remember what I was going to tell you, you know,” he says.

  “You do?”

  “I remembered it the whole time. I just didn’t want everyone to hear it, because it’s not their business.”

  “Then why did you come and find me at a busy restaurant? Why not just find me at school?”

  For a second he genuinely seems to be offended. “Don’t you think I’ve tried?” He laughs. “You’re like a ghost!”

  It takes a lot of willpower not to turn around and leave.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’d seen you before.”

  Jesus Christ. He already told me that.

  “You told me that yesterd—”

  “No, not at Higgs. I saw you when you came to look round Truham. Last year. It was me who took you round the school.”

  The revelation blossoms as rain begins to fall. I remember exactly now. Michael Holden had shown me attentively round Truham when I was deciding whether to go there for Sixth Form. He’d asked me what A-levels I wanted to do, and whether I liked Higgs very much, and whether I had any hobbies, and whether I cared much about sports. In fact, everything he’d said had been utterly unremarkable.

  “But—” It’s impossible. “But you were so . . . normal.”

  He shrugs and smiles, and the raindrops on his face almost make him seem as if he’s crying. “There’s a time and a place for being normal. For most people, normal is a default. But for some, like you and me, normal is something we have to bring out, like putting on a suit for a posh dinner.”

  What—now he’s being profound? “Why did you need
to tell me this? Why did you need to track me down? Why was it that important?”

  He shrugs again. “It wasn’t, I guess. But I wanted you to know. And when I want to do something, I usually do it.”

  I stare at him. Nick and Charlie were right. He’s absolutely insane.

  He holds up a hand and sends me a slight wave.

  “See you soon, Tori Spring.”

  And then he wanders away. I’m left standing under the broken lamppost in my black jumper and the rain, wondering whether I’m feeling anything yet and realizing that it’s all very funny because it’s all very true.

  SIX

  I HEAD INSIDE, go into the dining room, and say hello to my family. They’re still at dinner, as usual. Well, except Oliver. Since dinner’s kind of a two-to-three-hour job in our house, Oliver’s always allowed to leave the table once he’s done, and I can hear him playing Mario Kart in the living room. I decide to join him. If I could swap bodies with someone for a day, I would choose Oliver.

  “Toriiii!” As soon as I enter, he rolls over on the futon and stretches his arm toward me like a zombie rising out of the grave. He must have got yogurt all down his school jumper today. And he has paint on his face. “I can’t win on Rainbow Road! Help me!”

  I sigh, sit down on the futon next to him, and pick up the spare Wii remote. “This track is impossible, bro.”

  “No!” he whines. “Nothing’s impossible. I think the game’s cheating.”

  “The game can’t cheat.”

  “It is. It’s cheating on purpose.”

  “It’s not cheating you, Ollie.”

  “Charlie can win. It just doesn’t like me.”

  I produce a large and exaggerated gasp, springing up from the futon. “Are you suggesting that Charlie is better at Mario Kart than moi?” I start to shake my head. “Nope. Nuh-uh. I’m the Mario Kart empress.”

  Oliver laughs, his fluffy hair waving around atop his head. I fall back onto the futon, lift him up, and sit him on my lap.

  “All right,” I say. “Rainbow Road is going down.”

  I don’t keep track of how long we’re playing, but it must be quite a while because when Mum comes in, she’s pretty irritated. And that’s extreme, for her. She’s a very emotionless person.