Solitaire

by Alice Oseman

  Local teen Michael Holden has skated to victory at this year’s National Under-16 Speed Skating Championships. . . .

  Holden’s previous victories include Regional Under-12 Champion, Regional Under-14 Champion, and National Under-14 Champion. . . .

  The head of the UK’s speed skating authority, Mr. John Lincoln, has spoken out in response to Holden’s undeniably extraordinary run of victories. Lincoln claimed, “We have found a future international competitor. Holden clearly displays the commitment, experience, drive, and talent to bring the UK to victory in a sport that has never received satisfactory attention in this country.”

  I head back to the search results page. There are many more articles of a similar nature. Michael won the Under-18 championships last year.

  I guess this is why he was angry when he came second in the semifinal. And fair enough. I think I would be angry, if I were him.

  I sit there, staring at Google, for some time. I wonder whether I feel starstruck, but I don’t think that’s really it. It just seems momentarily impossible for Michael to have this spectacular life that I don’t know about. A life where he’s not simply running around with a smile on his face, doing stuff that has no point.

  It’s so easy to assume you know everything about a person.

  I click off my phone and lean back against the wire fence.

  The Year 7s have now congregated. A teacher runs out of school toward them, but she’s too late. The Year 7s shout a countdown from ten, and then they lift their party poppers into the air and let loose, and it sounds like I’ve wandered onto a WWII battlefield. Soon everyone is screaming and jumping, the streamers spiraling through the air like some crazy rainbow hurricane. Other teachers begin to show, also screaming. I find myself smiling, and then I begin to laugh, and then instantly feel disappointed in myself. I shouldn’t be enjoying anything that Solitaire is doing, but also this is the first time in my life that I have ever felt a positive emotion toward Year 7.

  FIVE

  I’M ON MY way home on the bus when Michael finally decides to make his dramatic reappearance. I’m sitting in the second seat from the back on the left downstairs, listening to Elvis Costello like the goddamn hipster I am, when he spontaneously cycles up beside me on his moldy old bike so that he is rolling down the road at the same speed as the bus. The window that I’m looking out of is all grimy and the snow has dried water droplets into it, but I can still see his smug old face in profile grinning in the wind like a dog hanging its head out of the car.

  He turns, searching along the windows, eventually realizing that I am in fact directly adjacent to him. Hair billowing, coat flapping behind him like a cape, he waves, freakishly, and then slaps his hand so hard on the window so that every stupid kid on the bus stops throwing whatever they’re throwing and looks at me. I raise my own hand and wave, feeling quite ill.

  He keeps this up until I get off the bus, ten minutes later, by which time it has started to snow again. I tell Nick and Charlie that they can go on without me. When we’re alone, we sit on a garden wall, Michael propping his bike up against it. I notice that he isn’t wearing his school uniform.

  I look to my left, up at his face. He’s not looking at me. I wait for him to start the conversation, but he doesn’t. I think he’s challenging me.

  It’s taken longer than it should for me to recognize that I want to be around him.

  “I’m,” I say, forcing the words out, “sorry.”

  He blinks as if confused, turns to me, and smiles gently. “It’s okay,” he says.

  I nod a little, and look away.

  “We’ve done this before, haven’t we,” he says.

  “Done what?”

  “The awkward apology thing.”

  I think back to the “manically depressed psychopath” comment. This isn’t the same, though. That was me being stupid and his anger getting the better of him. That was just words.

  I didn’t know Michael at all back then.

  Michael still has that spark. That light. But there’s more there now. Things that cannot be seen; only found.

  “Where’ve you been?” I ask.

  He looks away and chuckles. “I got suspended. For Monday afternoon, yesterday, and today.”

  This is so ridiculous that I actually laugh. “Did you finally give someone a nervous breakdown?”

  He chuckles again, but it’s weird. “That could probably happen, to be fair.” His face changes. “No, yeah, I—er—I swore at Kent.”

  I snort. “You swore? You got suspended because you swore?”

  “Yep.” He scratches his head. “Turns out Higgs has some sort of policy on that.”

  “‘The Land of Oppression.’” I nod, quoting Becky. “So how did that happen?”

  “It sort of started in history, I guess. We had our mock-mocks a couple of weeks ago, and we got our marks on Monday, and my teacher held me back after the lesson because predictably I did really badly. I think I legitimately got an E or something. So she started having a real go at me, you know, raving on about how much of a disappointment I am and how I don’t even try. That’s when I started to get pretty annoyed, because, like, I clearly tried. But she kept going on and on, and she held up my essay and pointed at it and was like, ‘What do you think this is? Nothing in this makes sense. Where’s your Point Evidence Explanation? Where’s your P.E.E.?’ Basically she ended up taking me to Kent’s office like I was some primary-school kid.”

  He pauses. He isn’t looking at me.

  “And Kent started his big speech about how I should be better than this and I’m not committing enough to schoolwork and I’m not putting in enough effort. And I tried to defend myself, but you know what Kent’s like—as soon as I started trying to reason with him, he got all aggressive and patronizing, which made me even more angry, because, you know, teachers simply cannot admit to a student that they could possibly be wrong, and then, like, I didn’t mean to, but I was like, ‘You don’t even fucking care, though, do you?’ And, erm, yeah. I got suspended.”

  This reminds me of the Michael who Nick described the first day of term. But instead of finding this story a little strange, I actually feel pretty impressed.

  “What a rebel,” I say.

  He gives me a long look. “Yes,” he says. “I’m awesome.”

  “Teachers really don’t care, though.”

  “Yeah. I should have known that, really.”

  We both return to staring at the row of houses opposite. The windows are all orange from the setting sun. I scuff my shoes on the snowy pavement. I kind of want to ask him about his skating, but at the same time, I feel like that’s his thing. His special, private thing.

  “I’ve been pretty bored without you,” I say.

  There is a long pause.

  “Me too,” Michael says.

  “Did you hear about what the Year 7s did today?”

  “Yeah . . . that was hilarious.”

  “I was there. I always sit on the field Wednesday Period 5, so I was literally right there. It was like . . . it was raining streamers, or something.”

  He seems to stop moving. After a few seconds, he turns his head slowly toward me.

  “That was a lucky coincidence,” he says.

  It takes me a minute to get what he’s saying.

  It’s ridiculous. Solitaire would have no way of knowing that I always skip that lesson and sit on the field. Teachers hardly notice most of the time. It’s ridiculous. But I start thinking about what Michael said before. About Star Wars. “Material Girl.” The cats. The violin. And the Ben Hope attack—that was about my brother. But it’s impossible. I’m not special. It’s entirely impossible. But—

  There have been a lot of coincidences.

  “Yes,” I say. “Just a coincidence.”

  We both stand up and start to walk along the gradually whitening path, Michael pushing his bike along beside him. It leaves a long gray line behind us. Little white dots of snow rest in Michael’s hair.

 
“What now?” I ask. I’m not quite sure which “now” I’m talking about. This minute? Today? The rest of our lives?

  “Now?” Michael considers my question. “Now we celebrate and rejoice in our youth. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”

  I find myself grinning. “Yes. Yes, that is what we’re supposed to do.”

  We walk a little farther. The snow grows from a light sprinkling to flakes as large as five-pence pieces.

  “I heard about what you said to Becky,” he says.

  “Who told you?”

  “Charlie.”

  “Who told Charlie?”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

  “When did you talk to Charlie?”

  He avoids my eye. “The other day. I just wanted to make sure you were all right—”

  “What, do you think I’m depressed or something?”

  I say this much too angrily.

  I don’t want people to be worried about me. There’s nothing to worry about. I don’t want people to try and understand why I am the way I am, because I should be the first person to understand that. And I don’t understand yet. I don’t want people to interfere. I don’t want people in my head, picking out this and that, permanently picking up the broken pieces of me.

  If that’s what friends do, then I don’t want any.

  He smiles. A proper smile. Then he laughs. “You really cannot accept that people care!”

  I don’t say anything. He’s right. But I don’t say anything.

  He stops laughing. Several minutes pass in silence.

  I start to think about four weeks ago, when I didn’t know Michael. When Solitaire hadn’t happened. I am aware that I feel sadder about things now. A lot of things around me have been very sad, and I seem to be the only one who can see it. Becky, for example. Lucas. Ben Hope. Solitaire. Everyone is okay with hurting people. Or maybe they cannot see that they are hurting people. But I can.

  The problem is that people don’t act.

  The problem is that I don’t act.

  I just sit here, doing nothing, assuming that someone else is going to make things better.

  Eventually Michael and I end up at the edge of town. It’s getting dark now, and more than one streetlamp flickers on as we pass, casting a yellow glow across the ground. We walk down a wide alley between two large houses and break out into the fields, slick with snow, that stretch between the town and the river. Whites, grays, blues; everything is a blurry mist, rain on the windscreen, a painting.

  I stand there. It all kind of stops, like I’ve left Earth. Like I’ve left the universe.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say. “Don’t you think the snow is beautiful?”

  I expect Michael to agree with me, but he doesn’t.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “It’s just cold. It’s romantic, I guess, but it just makes things cold.”

  SIX

  “SO, TORI.” KENT scans his eyes over my next essay. “What was your opinion this time?”

  It’s Friday lunchtime. I didn’t really have anything to do, so I came to give in my next English essay early: “To what extent is marriage the central concern of Pride and Prejudice?” It appears that Kent is talkative today—my least favorite character trait.

  “I wrote a normal essay.”

  “I thought you might.” He nods. “I still want to know what you thought.”

  I try to think back to when I wrote it. Monday lunch? Tuesday? All the days blur into one.

  “Do you think marriage is the central concern?”

  “It’s a concern. Not the central concern.”

  “Do you think that Elizabeth cares about marriage at all?”

  I picture the film. “I think she does. But it doesn’t really occur to her when she’s with Darcy. Like, she doesn’t relate the two together. Darcy and marriage. They’re two separate problems.”

  “Then what would you consider to be the central concern of Pride and Prejudice?”

  “Themselves.” I put my hands in my blazer pockets. “They spend the whole thing trying to merge who they really are and who they’re seen as.”

  Kent nods again as if he knows something that I don’t. “That’s interesting. Most people say that love is the main theme. Or the class system.” He puts my essay in a cardboard folder. “Do you read many books at home, Tori?”

  “I don’t read.”

  This seems to surprise him. “Yet you decided to take English literature A-level.”

  I shrug.

  “What do you do for fun, Tori?”

  “Fun?”

  “Surely you have a hobby. Everyone has a hobby. I read, for example.”

  My hobbies are drinking diet lemonade and being a bitter asshole. “I used to play the violin.”

  “Ah, you see? A hobby.”

  I don’t like the implications of the word “hobby.” It makes me think of crafts. Or golf. Something that cheerful people do.

  “I gave it up, though.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. I just didn’t enjoy it much.”

  Kent nods for the hundredth time, tapping his hand on his knee. “That’s fair. What do you enjoy?”

  “I like watching films, I guess.”

  “What about friends? Don’t you like being with them?”

  I think about it. I should enjoy being with them. That’s what people do. They hang around with friends for fun. They have adventures and they travel and they fall in love. They have fights and they lose each other, but they always find each other again. That’s what people do.

  “Who would you consider to be your friend?”

  I again take my time to think and make a list in my head.

  Michael Holden—Most qualified candidate for friend status.

  Becky Allen—Was best friend in past but obviously no more.

  Lucas Ryan—See above.

  Who else was my friend before this? I can’t really remember.

  “Things certainly are a lot easier the fewer friends that you have.” Kent sighs, folding his arms against his tweed jacket. “But then, friendship comes with a lot of benefits.”

  I wonder what he is talking about. “Are friends really that important?”

  He clasps his hands together. “Think about all the films you’ve seen. Most of the people who do well, and turn out happy, have friends, yes? Often it’s just one or two very close friends. Look at Darcy and Bingley. Jane and Elizabeth. Frodo and Sam. Harry, Ron, and Hermione. Friends are important. People who are alone are usually the antagonists. Like Voldemort.”

  “Even Voldemort had followers,” I argue, but the word “followers” just makes me think about my blog.

  “Followers: yes. Friends? Real friends? Definitely not. You can’t always rely just on yourself, even though it can seem like an easier way to live.”

  I disagree, so I choose not to say anything.

  Kent leans forward. “Come on, Tori. Snap out of it. You’re better than this.”

  “Better than what? Sorry my grades haven’t been good.”

  “Don’t be dumb. You know this isn’t about that.”

  I frown at him.

  He frowns right back—a sarcastic frown. “Get a grip. It’s time for you to stand up. You can’t continue to let life’s chances just drift by.”

  I stand up out of the chair and turn around to leave.

  As I open the door, he murmurs, “Nothing’s going to change until you decide you want it to change.”

  I shut the door behind me, wondering if I just imagined this entire conversation.

  SEVEN

  LAST PERIOD IS a free period, so I sit in the common room. I keep looking at Becky, who’s working at another table, but she doesn’t look at me. Evelyn is also there. She stays on her phone for the entire hour.

  I check my blog and there’s a message:

  Anonymous: Thought for the day: Why do people believe in God?

  I check the Solitaire blog, and the top post at the moment is
a GIF of a little boy blowing bubbles out of one of those plastic pots. A barrage of bubbles burst into the air and up into the sky, and the camera looks up at them and sunlight shines through, lighting them up pink and orange and green and blue. Then the GIF repeats, and you see the little boy again, blowing the bubbles into the sky, the boy, the bubbles, the sky, the boy, bubbles, sky.

  When I get home, even Mum notices that something’s changed, and she tries halfheartedly to get it out of me, but I just end up back in my room. I walk around for a little bit and then lie down. Charlie comes into my room and asks me what’s wrong. Just as I’m about to tell him, I start crying and it’s not even silent tears this time, it’s proper bawling, and I hate myself so much for it that it makes me literally barricade my face from the air with my arms and cry so hard that I stop breathing properly.

  “I’ve got to do something,” I keep saying. “I’ve got to do something.”

  “Do something about what?” asks Charlie, clutching his knees to his chest.

  “Just—I don’t know—everyone—everything’s gone crazy. Everyone’s gone crazy. I’ve ruined everything with Becky and I keep ruining everything with Michael and I don’t even know who Lucas is, not really. My life was so normal before. I used to hate being so bored, but I want that back. I didn’t care about anything before. But then—on Saturday—all those people, like, no one gave a single shit about it. They didn’t care that Ben Hope could have been kicked to death. And I know he wasn’t. But like, I don’t—I can’t be like that anymore. I know it doesn’t make any sense. I know I’m probably just stressing about nothing. I know I’m shit, I’m a ridiculous excuse for a human being. But before Solitaire, everything was fine. I was fine. I used to be fine.”

  Charlie just nods. “All right.”

  He sits with me while I’m raving and crying, and when I calm down I pretend I need to sleep, so he goes away. I lie with my eyes open and think about everything that has happened in my entire life, and it doesn’t take me very long to get to where I am now. I decide sleeping is impossible, so I start searching through my room for nothing in particular. I find my box of special things in my desk drawer—a box of keepsakes, I guess—and on the top is a diary that I kept in the summer of Year 7. I read the first page: