Bitter Sixteen

by Stefan Mohamed

  S’not fair.

  Ben jumped off the table and ran at me again, and I compromised by grabbing him by both shoulders and slamming my head forwards, cracking him right on the bridge of his nose. This seems to be becoming my signature move. No blood came out this time, but he covered his face with his hands and sprawled on the floor, rolling around, moaning in pain.

  FINISH HIM!

  No. Don’t.

  I stood there, hands shaking, breathing deeply, trying to calm myself down, the voices of teachers and students a muffled blur at the very edge of my perception. Zen. Enlightenment. The philosophy of calm.

  I am a detached, dispassionate observer.

  I am Stanly’s sense of self-satisfaction.

  It’s funny how things that seem major at the time can end up being pretty small. As I walked towards the headmaster’s office, flanked by two silent teachers, my thoughts were clear. I was going to be suspended, my parents would be called, it would go on my permanent record, Ben’s parents would come, maybe the police. The usual suspects, and all the trouble they’d bring. But I didn’t care about that. For one thing, it was all heavily diluted by the memory of Kloe slapping Ben around the face, an image I knew I would treasure forever.

  No, the only thing I was worried about was being taken off the play three days before opening night and leaving Miss Stevenson in an impossible position. Well. That and ruining all of Kloe’s hard work.

  And not getting to act with her.

  And . . . hmm.

  No, I couldn’t possibly do that to them, and it was the first thing I said to Mr Dylan (the headmaster) when I got in there. ‘Will I be taken off the play?’

  The answer was no. Mr Dylan had talked to Ben and Ben had done his noble thing. It was his fault, he had started it, I’d been defending myself, he didn’t want to involve anyone, he didn’t want me to be punished, he shouldn’t have done what he did, he was sorry, blah, blah, blah. I was almost angry with him for being so selfless, because I knew that he didn’t regret attacking me. OK, I’m being a hypocrite because I didn’t regret attacking him either, but it’s the principle of the thing. Possibly.

  I got away with a lunchtime detention, probably on the grounds of it being a first offence. I can’t describe the relief. I spoke to Kloe, who was still seething, and told her about the fight. ‘Good,’ she said, and I was delighted inside, and before I walked away I was pretty sure we held eye contact slightly longer than normal. I was also pretty sure I saw something in her eyes. Some sort of . . . something. It made funny things happen in my stomach so I decided to make a sharp exit. ‘Stanly?’ she said.

  I spun around a little too enthusiastically. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I . . . why would you think I’d want to be with Ben?’

  ‘Um. I . . . dunno. He’s nice, I suppose? And . . . I mean . . .’

  ‘No, he’s not nice,’ said Kloe, as if I were challenged in some way.

  ‘No . . . I suppose he’s not.’ I shrugged. ‘I dunno. I guess . . . I don’t know why he’d make it up? And I mean, you and me don’t know each other that well, and . . .’ Aaaaargh please say something before my out of control bibbling kills us both, and please can it be what I want to hear, please, thanks!

  ‘Well, I don’t like him,’ said Kloe. ‘Not at all.’ And she smiled, and I knew – or at least I was pretty sure that I knew – what the smile meant, and I smiled back, probably far wider than could be considered cool under the circumstances.

  ‘Brilliant,’ I said. ‘I . . . I don’t like him either.’

  When I got home I gave Daryl a blow-by-blow account of the fight, which didn’t take long. ‘It’s about bloody time,’ he said. I was tempted to tell him about my little moment with Kloe, but I doubted that he would consider ‘I don’t like him either’ to be as much of a deal-sealer as I thought it was.

  It definitely was, though.

  Probably.

  Chapter Ten

  THURSDAY ARRIVED, ALONG with a cocktail of trepidation, excitement and a strange kind of weightlessness. I coasted through lessons, my eyes lingering on the clocks and on my watch longer than they did on questions regarding alkanes and interquartile ranges and what the character of Candy brings to Of Mice and Men. The final lesson of the day was Drama, and as Tamsin and Dani were both away I helped Miss Stevenson set things up while the rest of the class practised their devising. We didn’t say much to each other and I could sense that she was angry about something. Finally, when we were behind the curtain and no-one could see or hear, I asked her what was wrong.

  She stopped in the middle of lifting a stool, put it down and turned to me. ‘I was so angry when I found out about you and Ben.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, even though I knew.

  ‘Imagine if Mr Dylan hadn’t been so lenient,’ said Miss Stevenson, her face red. ‘Imagine if he’d taken you off the play. What would I have done then? You’re essential. Without you, there would be no play. There almost wasn’t.’

  ‘Mr Dylan wouldn’t have done that,’ I said, although that wasn’t the point and I knew it.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ said Miss Stevenson, ‘and you know it.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s complicated how it happened . . . and that’s the first thing I asked him, anyway.’

  ‘What?’

  Ah, I thought. Our dear headmaster neglected to mention this. ‘That was the first thing I said when I went into his office,’ I said. ‘I asked him if I was going to be taken off the play. Do you think I’d have left you in the lurch like that if there was anything I could have done? I would have taken any punishment, just so long as . . . it was the only thing I was worried about. This play is currently the most important thing in my life.’ I wasn’t exaggerating. Right now, flight and telekinesis were firmly in second and third place.

  What about Kloe?

  Shut up, brain.

  Miss Stevenson didn’t say anything for a minute, but the redness was draining slowly from her cheeks. Finally she said, ‘I should hope so,’ and smiled.

  I smiled too. ‘And if I’d let Ben beat me up, we would have had a Romeo with a black eye and possibly some teeth missing. I doubt Juliet would have given him a second glance if he’d looked like that.’

  ‘Don’t push your luck,’ said Miss Stevenson.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, but now we were both almost laughing. ‘He did kind of start the fight as well, to be fair, I only finished it —’

  ‘I said, don’t push your luck!’

  ‘Yes, Miss.’ I saluted. ‘It’s going to go off.’

  ‘It had better.’

  I hung around the Drama Hall reading until half past five, then donned my costume (black cargo trousers, a white long-sleeved T-shirt, black trenchcoat, black shoes and fingerless gloves), put my prop gun into the shoulder holster that somebody had found for me and sat waiting to be called for make-up. After about twenty minutes Mark came over to me, along with another Sixth Former named Becky, who was playing Juliet’s mother. ‘Have you seen this?’ she asked, handing me a newspaper clipping. It was a very short piece about the play and Kloe and I were the only ones mentioned by name. I nodded. She looked at Mark with an amused expression. ‘You were right.’

  ‘I told you,’ said Mark. ‘Nothing phases him.’

  ‘There was one thing I noticed,’ said Becky. ‘I think they spelled your name wrong.’

  I looked. S-T-A-N-L-Y. No, that was right. ‘That’s how my name is spelled,’ I said.

  ‘Really?’ asked Becky. ‘Oh. Why?’

  ‘My parents thought it would be interesting,’ I said. ‘Or at least, my mum did. I think my dad wanted me to be called Ron.’

  ‘You’re not a Ron,’ said Mark.

  ‘I know,’ I said.

  My parents were coming tonight and Saturday night, and somehow I had managed to persuade the school to let th
em bring Daryl on the Saturday. I didn’t know whether Ben would be there tonight. A great many people were going for the opening, people who I had just recently started to call friends. It was as though my life was suddenly developing several years too late. I was happy.

  I got made up and thought about my first lines. They were there, crystal clear. No problem. Satisfied, I went backstage and found Kloe fiddling with some props. She saw me and smiled, and my stomach did more funny things. ‘I’m really nervous,’ she said. ‘Are you?’

  I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway because I felt like that would look better, which was all kinds of pathetic. Kloe smiled a tense smile, then checked her watch and gasped. ‘Oh my God! We’re starting in fifteen minutes!’ She hugged me. ‘Good luck.’

  ‘You too,’ I said, hugging her back. By my calculations, the hug lasted about two seconds longer than it would have if there weren’t something between us, and I could still feel it long after she’d broken away and headed for the changing rooms.

  Everyone assembled backstage, and Miss Stevenson gave us a very short pep talk before heading out to the front. I chanced a quick glance around the side of the curtain and saw that the place was absolutely full, although I deliberately didn’t focus on specific faces, not wanting to recognise anyone. Then Lauren, the Social Inclusion teacher, who was doubling as prop mistress, said, ‘Go out into the hall, we can’t afford to clutter up back here.’

  I nodded and went and sat by Harry Taylor, who was playing Paris. Neither of us said anything. Time passed. People talked non-stop around us but I just sat calmly and thought about everything. I was perfectly at peace. It was an amazing feeling. I suddenly felt like —

  The door opened and Lauren poked her head through and said that I was due on stage.

  I got up. Various people whispered good luck and I thanked them tonelessly, then went and stood behind the curtains, stage right, ready, listening.

  ‘Many a morning hath he there been seen,’ said Lord Montague, a sixth former named Adrian, ‘with tears augmenting the fresh morning’s dew.’

  And now the fear blossomed. In fact, erupted would probably be a better word. My stomach had been lined with Sambuca and now somebody took a lit match to it, and butterflies emerged from the inferno, and my brain and my stomach were alive with beating, flaming wings, and I didn’t know my first line.

  ‘My noble uncle, do you know the cause?’ asked Benvolio. Charlotte. One of the few male characters played by a girl. Maybe the only one. At that moment I couldn’t remember.

  I tried to calm myself again, to achieve enlightenment. Zen. Cool. I thought of people in films being cool. I thought of the Fonz and I thought of William the Bloody. I thought of Chow-Yun-Fat. I thought of Brad Pitt in Fight Club. I thought of Humphrey Bogart. I thought of his little nod to the band playing the Marseillaise in Casablanca.

  ‘Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,’ said Adrian, ‘we would as willingly give cure as know.’

  I slouched onstage just as Lord and Lady Montague left, and Charlotte looked at me and waved. ‘Good-morrow, cousin.’

  I pretended to sip from the empty can of beer in my hand. ‘Is the day so young?’

  ‘But new struck nine,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Ay me,’ I said, crunching the can in my fist and tossing it away. ‘Sad hours seem long.’ I looked towards the other end of the stage. ‘Was that my father that went hence so fast?’

  Charlotte nodded. ‘It was.’ She sat down on a low prop wall and started to clean her gun. Nice bit of business, that. ‘What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?’

  ‘Not having that, which having, makes them short,’ I said, staring into the middle distance, trying not to let my real emotions show.

  It was a revelation. There was nothing. No bullies out there in the world, no wars, no missing children. There were no looming exams, no parents, no girl trouble, no London. No powers. No audience, even. Just me and my fellow actors, and for the two hours traffic of our stage we were the world. A bubble, microcosmic. I truly felt I belonged somewhere and revelled in it, and when Kloe and I kissed in the party scene . . . something definitely happened. Something that was definitely different from every rehearsal we’d had.

  That’s definitely something.

  It definitely was.

  Shit, I hope nobody in the audience can tell.

  We reached the interval without making any major mistakes, which was fairly amazing, and as I headed backstage I was showered with congratulations, people shaking my hand and clapping me on the back. Kloe hugged me and I hugged her back, and for a second I wondered if we were going to kiss again . . . but we didn’t. Whether it was because she felt nothing of what I felt or simply because there were too many people I didn’t know, but there were no lips.

  Must be the second thing.

  Hopefully.

  All of the words were kind, the faces were masks of happiness, contentment, companionship. It was a headrush. Miss Stevenson ran backstage and she hugged me too. I didn’t shy away, hugging her back. She had tears in her eyes and smiled through them. ‘It was OK?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she laughed. ‘It was OK.’

  The interval lasted for fifteen minutes, and I stood outside and stared up at the sky, a blackboard scattered with chalk dust, with clouds gathering at the edges. I could smell rain in the air, moisture on concrete, but it didn’t matter.

  I wondered what my parents thought. Were they proud? I hoped so. Suddenly, more than anything, I hoped that they were proud of me and that they appreciated my achievement. I decided not to go and see them now, I would wait until the end. Maintain the illusion of the theatre. I wondered whether my elation showed, whether it was obvious, or whether I just channelled it into my performance. I wished that Daryl was there.

  ‘Stanly!’

  I turned. A girl in my year named Emma, who was playing the Nurse, was standing in the doorway looking worried. ‘Ben came backstage,’ she said. ‘He’s hassling Kloe.’

  I started to walk, determined, striding. Purpose. I nodded at Emma as I passed her and headed backstage, where I saw Kloe staring defiantly at Ben, her arms folded. ‘You’re so amazing,’ he said, his melodramatic sincerity turning my stomach. ‘You really are! Amazing! I love you!’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kloe, ‘that’s nice, but . . . how can I say this? I don’t like you at all. In fact lately I absolutely despise you.’ There was real satisfaction in the word.

  ‘Please,’ he said, ‘just give me a chance . . .’

  ‘Just. Piss. Off!’ she said, raising her voice.

  ‘Ben,’ I said. ‘Just go, man.’

  He turned around and the simpering plea for adoration left his face. The hatred came back and it was a scary thing. The gloves were off. ‘Oh,’ he said, walking torwards me. ‘I’ve been waiting for this.’

  ‘What?’ I asked. ‘Oh, you’ve got to be f —’

  He punched me in the face and I staggered backwards and hit the wall. He’d got me on the cheek, and the punch stung like a bastard. ‘Ow!’ I yelled.

  ‘Ben, you prick, just get lost!’ cried Kloe. I heard the distant hubbub behind the curtain evaporate, and now Ben grabbed me and threw me through the curtain. I lost my balance, hit the floor and rolled out past the stage, and people jumped. Several cried out. My dad, who had been talking to my English teacher, said, ‘Stan? What —’

  Ben came out after me and Miss Stevenson yelled, ‘Ben! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  Ben ignored her. He aimed a kick at my ribs, but I rolled sideways and got wobbily to my feet. ‘You bastard!’ he yelled, throwing a punch. I dodged. ‘It’s your fault!’

  ‘What is?’ I asked. Everyone was watching. My parents, Miss Stevenson, Mr Dylan, kids from school, Kloe, everyone was staring in amazement, some were even shouting, but no-one came near us. Even my parents seemed too shocked to
intervene.

  ‘Everything!’ he yelled. ‘You ruined everything!’

  ‘You ruined it yourself!’ I shot back. ‘I just happened to be there!’ I’m Yoko.

  ‘I hate you!’ screamed Ben. ‘I fucking hate you!’ He threw another punch. I grabbed his arm and threw him away from me, and he sprawled on the front of the stage, right next to the big wooden stick that had been used during Mercutio’s fight with Tybalt. He saw it, picked it up and got to his feet. I saw what was going to happen. Mr Dylan yelled his name furiously.

  Ben swung. I ducked but I lost my balance and fell on my back, and Ben leapt towards me, his face a terrifying, snarling mess. He was going to bring the stick down on my head. It arced down towards my face.

  I didn’t even think. I just raised my hand and he stopped in mid-air.

  And it was as though I’d stopped everyone else as well, because everything halted, freezing like a spell. Nobody spoke. I could feel eyes and I could see Ben’s face as he tried to comprehend what was happening. Then I heard a glass smash on the ground. I shook my head and realised that for the first time I didn’t hate Ben. I pitied him. This might be the ruin of my fledgling life and it was his fault, but I didn’t hate him. I spoke and the deadness of my tone actually scared me. ‘You couldn’t even let me have one night,’ I said.

  ‘What?’ asked Ben. It was peculiar, him responding to me so normally, considering that I was keeping him suspended above the ground.

  ‘You couldn’t have come tomorrow?’ I asked. ‘You couldn’t have ruined everything tomorrow? You couldn’t have given me one night?’ I shouted the last two words and flung Ben with my mind.

  OK. Maybe I do hate him.

  A lot.

  He flew, smashing into the doors that led out of the Drama Hall and breaking them open. Wood splintered and glass shattered, and Ben landed on his back in the hallway and lay there, shifting subtly in pain. I got to my feet and took a few steps towards him. Now my gloves are off. I was going to do what I should have done yesterday. I was going to bounce him off the walls and the ceiling with my brain, dribble him all around the school like a bleeding, screaming human basketball. Break him and fix him and break him again. I felt drunk.