Bitter Sixteen

by Stefan Mohamed

  But I didn’t. I couldn’t. Instead I jumped off the roof, landed by the phone box next to the clock tower and phoned the police to tell them what was going on. Their response time was legendarily useless, but it was worth a shot.

  For once they were prompt, and the high street was suddenly lit by the blue lights of their car. It roared into the Saint George’s car park and two large officers got out and headed for the fray. I had lost my appetite for crime-fighting (not that you could really call it that) and went home, slid into bed and dreamed about smashing glass and broken teeth.

  The next morning I switched on the TV and saw a news report: a house in east London had been broken into. A family of four had been living there and the parents had been murdered, the children were missing and there was speculation that no forensic evidence had been found. Just a lot of smashed glass (déjà vu), a man and a woman with broken necks and two missing eight-year-olds. I switched the TV off and sat boiling, thinking about how wasted I was in sodding Tref-y-bloody-Celwyn while stuff like that was going on elsewhere. I was deluding myself, though. Even if I did become London’s Dark Avenger, I couldn’t hope to battle every criminal and psychopath operating there. As much as I’d enjoyed entertaining the possibility, in truth it was a dumb and probably unhealthy fantasy, so I had scrambled eggs and did some Drama coursework badly, and brooded.

  Chapter Nine

  THE PERFORMANCE DATE was closing in. Rehearsals were becoming more intense and we were being nagged mercilessly about revision by every teacher. I kept up with the lessons I enjoyed, but my attitude to the others didn’t change – I sat, practically catatonic, through every science, maths, RE and German lesson, feeling information drift into one ear and immediately exit from the other, without even considering leaving anything behind. Teachers had mostly given up telling me off for zoning out. By now I think they were relieved I turned up at all.

  On the last Thursday in February I was sitting on my bench at school, reading, when I heard raised voices. This was nothing new – quiet voices would be more unusual on the playground at break time – but something made me look up. The two Sams, and a third kid called Dan, had cornered a boy from the year below who had had the temerity to wear a Slipknot hoody over his school jumper. They were giving him the usual treatment – the stream of homophobic insults, elegantly counterpointed by questions about what vile sexual perversions he got up to with the ‘Goth sluts’ in his year who liked ‘all that shit music’, the comments about his mum, the threats – and the boy was just taking it, resigned, just wanting it over with, and as I watched I felt that anger rising again, the rage I’d felt when they’d ambushed me after rehearsal, that feeling of how dare they, fury at what kinds of people got their kicks by degrading and terrifying those who were weaker, but it was mixed with the frustration I’d been feeling lately, the feeling of powerlessness, of uselessness, an unholy chemical reaction, and God at that moment I wanted more than anything to reveal my powers to the school, I wanted it so much that I almost ripped my book in half from gripping it so hard. I wanted to soar into the air and rush towards them, tear my bench from the ground and hurl it at them, take their legs out from under them, and then I wanted to pick them up, psychically wedgie them and parade them through the corridors, smashing windows as I flew, picking up any other bullies I happened to come across, the rest of the abusive scum that crawled around in this school, I wanted to drag them all kicking and screaming to the canteen, rub their faces in the bins, overturn the tables to make a dock and hover over them, eyes glowing, judge and jury and —

  I snapped out of the fantasy so abruptly that I jerked where I sat. I couldn’t. Couldn’t do any of that. No. Not happening.

  Calm the hell down, Stanly.

  Of course I couldn’t do any of that. What I could do, however, was get up and stride towards them with my best mean face on. I’d heard some of their Neanderthal crew talking about me since that first fight, they’d used words like psycho and nutter. Sitting on his own in the playground, not talking to people. Fighting. They thought there was something wrong with me. Good.

  ‘Oi,’ I said.

  They turned, and there was actual fear there. They really were scared of me.

  If only they knew.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said. Part of me kind of wanted them to take offence, to try and fight me – I could tell Daryl I was defending myself, that’d be OK surely – but they didn’t. They just looked at one another and sloped off, sneering. If I hadn’t been so angry, I might even have laughed at how easily, how abruptly I’d taken away their power. The kid in the Slipknot hoody muttered a thank you and scampered away, and I went and got my stuff from my bench, headed inside and found an empty music practise room, where I psychically battered the shit into a drumkit with a pair of ragged sticks.

  That evening, Eddie called again. I was upstairs fiddling with my guitar and Daryl – who I hadn’t told about my little episode earlier in the day – was watching Fight Club and reciting the entire script at the same time. The companionable silence was so noisy that I didn’t even notice the phone until my mum called up the stairs. ‘It’s Eddie for you,’ she said, neutrally. I was surprised, partly because I hadn’t heard it ring, but mostly because Eddie’s call was actually being passed on, and not fielded away. ‘Oh,’ I called. ‘Thanks.’ I picked it up and waited for the click as Mum hung up the downstairs receiver. Didn’t particularly want her listening in. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hey, Stanly. How’s it going?’

  ‘Yeah, fine. How are you?’

  ‘OK, thanks. Just . . . checking you’re all right.’

  ‘Why? What’s the matter? Why wouldn’t I be all right?’

  ‘Nothing. Just checking.’

  I gestured at Daryl to switch off the volume on the DVD. ‘Are you all right?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, fine, fine. Just got a feeling.’

  ‘And why did you get this feeling?’

  ‘I just . . . I just did.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I was starting to lose patience. ‘Why do you have to be so bloody cryptic? Why can’t you just tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘Sorry, Stanly. I just . . . you’ve got your abilities now. And as far as I know I’m the only other person you know who knows.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘So I feel a bit responsible. That’s all.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘That’s all.’

  ‘There’s not some mysterious danger you’re trying to keep from me?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘OK then.’

  ‘Great.’ Eddie paused. ‘Well . . . I’d better go.’

  ‘No wait! Eddie —’

  ‘Sorry mate, I need to get to work. I’ll call again. Take care of yourself.’

  Click.

  Saturday. I was walking on my own in the woods, absently picking up twigs and pebbles and tossing them about. The sky was a watery shade of blue and soft sunbeams highlighted the skeletal trees, and every now and then I heard birds disagreeing in sweet voices.

  CRACK.

  I stopped and looked around. There was nobody there, but I could definitely hear rustling and footsteps a little way away, and low humming. I had a feeling that I recognised the voice.

  I looked up at the tree next to me. It was over thirty feet tall, not as high as some of them could get, but it would serve my purpose. I ran up the trunk and hid in the topmost branches, wishing for spring and the cover of leaves. It wasn’t until I was settled in what seemed like a great hiding place that I remembered how well this had worked out last time.

  Too late now though, as somebody had just appeared over a hill of dead leaves and bracken. It was Ben King. I rolled my eyes. He didn’t live in Tref-y-Celwyn. What was he doing here? These were my woods. They had been since I was a child. I
silently descended from the tree and dropped the last few feet without the aid of my powers, and Ben spun around. He scowled. ‘Oh. It’s you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, casually. ‘How’s it going? What are you up to?’

  ‘Walking,’ he said.

  ‘Mmm,’ I nodded. ‘I thought you lived outside Llangoroth?’

  ‘I do,’ he said. ‘I walked a long way.’ He said it as if I would be impressed.

  I nodded again. ‘OK. Fair enough. Carry on.’ I turned to leave but Ben said, ‘Hey. Wait.’

  I turned back. ‘What?’

  His face was complicated. Part resentment, part . . . respect? And also part something else . . . something I couldn’t read. ‘Yes?’ I prompted.

  ‘I really do think that we should sort this out,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘I think we should just stay away from each other.’

  ‘It’s going to be tricky,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at the play every night.’

  ‘Well, that’s up to you,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to quit just because one member of the audience doesn’t like me.’

  ‘I think lots of members of the audience don’t like you,’ said Ben, ‘but that’s not what I mean. I’m going to be there for Kloe.’

  ‘OK,’ I said, frowning with confusion, and then understanding. ‘So . . . are you two . . . having a thing?’ It was the first I’d heard of it.

  ‘Well,’ he said, smiling smugly. ‘We’re . . . she’s . . . yeah, we are.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I said, forcing a jovial smile. ‘But nothing to do with me. Be there for Kloe, that’s great of you, really. I commend you for your exquisite manliness. But there’s nothing to sort out. Like I said, let’s just stay away from each other.’

  ‘She’s mine,’ he said.

  ‘Cool,’ I said. ‘Good for you. I’m not interested in her.’ It came out sounding more offensive towards Kloe than I’d intended. And I wasn’t convincing myself at all. I could feel that jealousy coming back, stirring in my mind like a sleeping dragon. I could feel its heat, and I knew Ben could too. ‘Just make sure you’re not,’ he said.

  Aha, I thought. Now I see what it’s all about. I allowed myself a small smile.

  ‘What does that mean?’ Ben snapped.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I just . . . I think I’ve got you figured out. That’s all.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, shifting, looking like he was ready for a fight. ‘What have you “figured out”, then?’

  ‘Do you really want to know?’ I was dying to tell him, I’m sorry to say.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You’re worried that I’m going to try and steal Kloe from under your nose,’ I said. ‘Like I nabbed the part.’

  Ben’s scowl was pure volcanic hatred; his voice dripped with it. ‘You’d better not even be fucking contemplating it.’ To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t even fucking contemplating it, but all I did was shrug. ‘Whatever,’ I said. ‘Ciao.’ I turned and walked away, and as I walked I heard him pick something up, heard him throw it. Felt him throw it. Yeah. There was definitely something sixth sense-y going on. Without looking I psychically moved whatever it was, altering the trajectory by about a quarter of an inch, and the rock missed my head by millimetres and sailed past, arcing down the bank and bouncing off piles of stones and fallen tree trunks. I considered turning around and seeing just how much damage my superpowered mind could do to someone Ben’s size, but common sense prevailed, and I kept walking without breaking stride or even glancing back. He couldn’t possibly have realised that I’d done it. I tried to make my back look nonchalant, but I certainly didn’t feel that way.

  So he’s throwing rocks now.

  This might be bad.

  Freeze-frame on school canteen. Caption: Monday. Un-freeze. I’d forgotten to make sandwiches today, so grabbed a burger and some rice – the only genuinely edible-looking items on the menu – and sat on my own. I was halfway through eating when Kloe appeared and sat down opposite me. ‘Hi,’ she said, brightly. She had pasta.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. Don’t be awkward. Don’t be awkward.

  ‘Are you ready?’ she asked. ‘Three days to go!’

  ‘I think we’re all ready, pretty much,’ I said. Don’t be awkward. ‘Do you . . . reckon it’s going to go well?’ Don’t be awkward.

  ‘Yeah!’ she grinned. ‘I mean . . . up until last week it was looking a bit bad, but then we had the dress rehearsal and it all just came together. It’s amazing. I think it’s going to be amazing. Well, when I’m not panicking and nearly hyperventilating I think it’s going to be amazing.’

  I smiled. ‘Me too. To . . . both. Of those things.’ Don’t be awkward!

  Kloe swallowed a mouthful of pasta and shook her head. ‘God. I’ve been getting so stressed lately.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah! Haven’t you? Just thinking about performing the play makes me nervous. And all the coursework as well. You’ve not been getting stressed?’

  Really and truthfully, I hadn’t been, but now I realised that I’d agreed with her about panicking, and I hurriedly nodded. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I mean . . . a bit. Mostly it’s OK. But yeah, the odd panic, definitely.’ DON’T. BE AWK —

  OH. GOD. JUST. SHUT. UP. PLEASE. BRAIN.

  ‘You’re so lucky,’ said Kloe. ‘It’s even been affecting my dreams.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah! I had one last night, it was so weird, I was performing to an empty room . . . at least I thought it was empty. Then I realised there was actually someone there, in the front row, this little girl in red pyjamas just . . . watching. Really freaked me out.’ She ate some more pasta.

  I was at a loss. This is why you don’t talk to girls. I offered a sort of non-committal ‘Dreams are weird’ response and tried to avoid eye contact. You absolute berk. Now I noticed that Ben was sitting a few tables away with a group of his friends, most of whom I actually quite liked. He was glowering at me. ‘I think your boyfriend’s getting jealous,’ I said. Finally, something to say. Not ideal, but something.

  ‘You what?’ asked Kloe.

  ‘Boyfriend,’ I said. ‘Ben. I don’t think he likes you sitting with me.’

  Her face was a mask of bewilderment. ‘Ben?’

  ‘Ben King?’ I asked. ‘Aren’t you two, like . . . going out?’

  ‘No!’ she said. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘He did,’ I said. ‘At the weekend. I met him and he basically said you two were . . . going out.’

  ‘He didn’t!’ Hmm. Interesting.

  ‘He said . . . he said “Kloe’s mine”. And got pretty arsey, to be honest.’ I couldn’t help feeling a lot better, even though Kloe did not look happy.

  ‘That lying bastard,’ she said, anger trickling into her voice like oil in a spring. ‘He tried it on with me at Katy’s party and I basically told him to shove it up his arse and now he’s . . . prick!’

  ‘Kloe —’ Have I gone too far?

  Nope.

  She stood up and turned around, scanning for the Prince of Lies. The two of them locked eyes, and Ben’s face switched from simmering resentment to ‘oh shit’ in about half a second. To be fair, it wasn’t the best-laid plan, was it pal?

  ‘You lying little shit!’ yelled Kloe.

  Silence. No more knives and forks, no more indefinable hubbub of chatter, no more chewing and swallowing. If there’d been someone playing bar room piano in the corner, now would have been their cue to stop. Everyone was looking over in our direction, and I could see a number of teachers standing up, some of them looking like they were about to come over. Ben stood up, raising his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘Kloe —’

  ‘How many more people have you told?’ asked Kloe, volume rising, her face getting quickly redder. ‘Have you been saying it to everyone? Does everyone think that
I’m your girlfriend? Did you tell them how you tried to stick your hands down my pants at Katy’s party, you nasty little pervert?’

  ‘I was just —’

  ‘Fuck. You!’ She slapped Ben around the face so hard that he staggered backwards a few paces. It made a stunningly loud noise, and left a blossoming crimson rose on his cheek. Teachers were shouting but Kloe ignored them and stormed out of the hall. Ben looked stunned . . . and then his eyes landed on me, and the mercury burst free of the thermometer.

  We have just lost cabin pressure.

  Please put your tray and seat backs in their upright positions.

  Place your head between your legs and kiss your —

  ‘Asshole!’ he bellowed, running towards me.

  ‘Me?’ I said. ‘What did I do? You’re the one who did the lying, you dick —’

  Oddly, Ben wasn’t keen to debate this line of enquiry. He seemed rather more keen on yanking my table aside, dragging me to my feet by the collar of my polo shirt, driving his knee into my stomach and hitting me in the face. I fell to the ground, tasting copper in my throat and on my tongue, struggling to breathe. My jaw hurt. People were cheering, some were yelling ‘Pwn him, Stanly’ and others were yelling ‘Kick his ass, Ben’ and the teachers were just generally shouting. Mr Jones PE was coming towards us and Ben was ignoring him, too busy aiming a kick at my face.

  Right. So this is what’s happening, then.

  I grabbed his foot and pushed him backwards hard, and he lost his balance and fell onto a table, scattering plates of food. I got to my feet, suddenly feeling quite righteously pissed-off, clenching and unclenching my fists and making a major effort not to psychically blast all the tables aside and bounce Ben around the room. Should really lob him out of the window or something.

  No. Can’t. Remember?

  Couldn’t do it to Dan and the Sams, can’t do it now.

  Typical. I’d never been in a fight before I’d got my powers, and since they’d materialised I’d been in two, and had barely even been able to use them.