19: Tears on my pillow
CLAMBERING to my feet, I took my place between Sooty and Paulus, revelled in the echoing cheers, the clapping, whistling and stamping of our peers, and enjoyed the eruption of wolf-whistles for Leo from the Sixth Form and some of the staff. Did he milk it? You bet he did. Blowing kisses to the audience, he mouthed ''Oh, thank you, thank you,'' gripped his hem between finger and thumb, and dipped into a couple of curtsies.
''He's sooo gay,'' muttered Paulus.
''So what?'' I returned, high, excited, high-fiving everyone, even Turner, who'd openly hated the play, and Ali, who was firing off the remaining caps and yelling ''Fucking awesome! Fucking epic!'' He'd written this thing after all and we'd delivered it for him. ''So am I. So are you, and we love you.'' I planted a kiss on his cheek and one on Sooty's. He had been a revelation, the beaky, boss-eyed beauty.
Leaving my parents chatting with the Trents and the Pauluses over the so-called surrogate coffee served up under the glowering oil paintings of our founders and benefactors in the Refectory, I scampered into the darkness to find Ali sitting alone on a bench under an oak tree staring at the shadows on the field. He turned his head as I slid into the space beside him and slipped my arm through his. He'd draped a black sweater round his shoulders. I said he looked like a bumble-bee then kissed him tenderly, experimentally, enjoying the taste of him. When we broke for a breath, I asked if he was happy with the play.
''It was extraordinary,'' he said thoughtfully, ''Better than I ever expected, and so exciting, watching characters you created and lines you wrote coming to life. You write next year's, honey. See how great it is.''
''What was your favourite bit?''
''When the lights went wrong,'' he said, ''Your moustache coming off. The poisoned-dart umbrella. Sooty at the start. Loads. What was yours?''
''Bananas… and thick, thick custard,'' I laughed, slapping the bench with my hand.
Ali laughed. ''That Leo. Whatever is he like.''
''He's wonderful,'' I said emotionally, ''Absolutely wonderful.''
''You did like it, didn't you, J?'' he asked tentatively.
''I loved it,'' I said. ''It was the most fun thing I ever did on a stage.''
We lapsed into silence. I curled my legs up on the bench and snuggled into his shoulder against his chest. Bats were circling in the darkness, wheeling above the cricket pavilion, perhaps the very bats I'd told Fosbrook lived in the belfry. I had never felt so happy, especially when we went into the trees and made a fantastic night into the best night ever.
The post-performance flatness kicked in next morning. There was always a feeling of desperate boredom, an aching empty hole in my life. After the four-day run of Oliver, for instance, I'd moped around the house for two days, permanently on the verge of tears, exhausted and listless, and missing the buzz, the camaraderie, the energy, the excitement of doing something amazing. Gray and Paulus had been in the Chorus, doing 'Food, Glorious Food' and although Paulus was jealous that I'd got the star part instead of him, we'd had such a laugh, especially with Yates directing, and then suddenly it was all over.
The Dream had been worse because I'd known I wouldn't be acting with Ali again. Even as I'd delivered the final lines of the play for the final time, 'If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear', I'd struggled to contain my distress and cleaning off the make-up, changing out of my costume and going for pizza with my proud parents had been horrible, you know? My heart'd sunk into my socks, the pizza'd tasted like cardboard and tears prickled my eyes because ten thrilling weeks of rehearsal and four days of fantastic chemistry between me and my Oberon had abruptly stopped. It felt like something had died, a dread of returning to reality bringing choking tears of exhaustion, frustration and fury.
Our play was the talk of the town. Leo's ad-lib of ''bananas... [PAUSE, look at the audience, lick your lips] and thick, thick custard'' was being repeated everywhere. My lovely boy with the lilac eyes and candyfloss hair had stolen the night. Leeman's Ali Baba was a total disaster. The song-and-dance routine had fallen apart in the middle, two actors had got into a scuffle and Bunny went ballistic, ha ha. Rowntree's Toad of Toad Hall, on the other hand, was awesome, side-splitting and great fun, with Pip Brudenall and Nicolas Hill underpinning a superb performance from a Sixth Former called Greaves who'd played Toad. The make-up was awesome and the props even better. Gray, Tim and the other Rowntree-ites were very smug on Friday morning.
Anyway, during the house meeting, we celebrated our success. Jacko, fists above his head, called each of us in turn so we could get a cheer from the others. Standing with Burridge, I grinned, red as a cranberry, when Jacko praised me. Laud, Turner, Anderson, Warburton basked at the front then Sonning thanked Jacko for his support and encouragement and for having faith in our writer/director. Home-grown plays were unfashionable. Our rivals opted for tried-and-tested one-act plays by famous writers but we had taken a risk with one of our own and we'd shown everyone what we could do, as a team, as a house, when we trusted each other and believed in each other. Tears welled in my eyes. Ali stood with his head bowed as we chanted his name, a hundred boys in unison going ''A-li, A-li, A-li'', and when he spoke, it was in a halting, quiet voice. My own emotions were quivering like a volcano on the edge of eruption. Choking down a sob of sheer bloody pride, I just wanted to chuck my arms round him and love him.
''I want to thank every single one of you for trusting me to put this show on. I know it wasn't easy at times, and I know we had our moments…'' Turner, grinning, nodded agreement. Ali's voice gathered strength. ''But I never lost faith in our wonderful cast, in our team, in our friends. Thanks to you all. Next stop, the Debating Cup!''
PE today was water-polo. The swimming pool was its usual warm, welcoming self. It seemed remarkable to us that the school heated the staff changing-rooms to sauna-levels yet left the water in much the same state as when it left those mountain tarns. In fact, it was only heated for visiting parents on Open Day. Morreson muttered something about the Titanic being at the bottom of the pool. Lewis wondered about polar bears. Suddenly Maxton's verruca and Fosbrook's eczema played up. I considered having an asthma attack and sitting out the lesson on a bench watching Paulus in his dinky green Speedos for half an hour. But I liked PE so unbuttoned my shirt (celebration white today) and hung it on a peg with my house-tie while Mr Vickers, in dark blue tracksuit and white trainers, told us not to be so cynical and detailed the excused to mop the changing-room floors, ha ha, the skiving bastards. Though he was new, we'd come to like Vicarage's brisk, 'man up' approach. As I wriggled into my red-and-white trunks and dashed through the icy shower with Gray, I recalled the fun I'd had here with Ali and Leo, the fun I'd had with Ali last night, Paulus in his Speedos…
''Peters!'' bawled Vicarage, ''Get your head out of the clouds and back to the game.''
''Yes, sir,'' I said dreamily, but things were already beginning to unravel.
''Hey, Poorly,'' Seymour jeered at Paulus, ''Keep your eyes off JP's packet this week.''
''For Claire's eyes only, eh, JP?'' Brudenall added. I gave this kind of sickly grin.
I was on Gray's team, with Huxley, Paulus and some others. Adjusting my goggles and wading out to the middle of the shallow-end, I called ''All-out attack then, skipper?''
''What else?'' grinned Gray as Vicarage lobbed this orange ball into the midst. We all piled in on top of each other.
''This isn't rugby!'' yelled Vicarage, as Roy Walton tossed the ball to Brudenall, a good swimmer who set off immediately for the other end, offloading to Morreson. Noting my team had taken 'all-out attack' to mean 'abandon all defence', I swam back to the goals as Morreson fired in a shot, leapt out of the water and got a full-stretch hand to deflect it wide.
''Great save, Jonny!'' cried Gray. ''Stay in goal!''
''Poorly's the goalie!'' I shouted. ''Hux, get in the centre.''
Burridge flicked the ball over Harri
son's head. Walton caught it, slipped it to Cooke.
''Someone tackle him!'' I screamed. ''Poorly, tackle him!''
Too late. Cookie passed to Brudenall, leaving Paulus splashing about like a wounded walrus. I lunged out of the goal but tangled with Huxley so Brudenall scored.
''Bloody hell, Peters,'' grumbled Gray, ''What you doing fox-trotting with Hux when you should be keeping goal?''
''Hux, you spaz, get stuck in!'' shouted Stewart.
''I haven't got my glasses on,'' said Huxley. ''I can't see a bloody thing.''
''You can't see a bloody thing when you got your glasses on!'' I shouted back.
''Just get stuck in!'' bawled Stewart again as Huxley fumbled the ball to Walton who lobbed over my head to make it two-nil.
''Bloody hell!'' I shouted as Gray splashed a wave of freezing water into my face. ''You go in,'' I said, chucking him the ball.
Walton dived forward, wrestling with Huxley, stealing possession, slipping it to Cooke who passed high over my head into Collins' hands. Three-nil. As the opposition high-fived each other, I bawled at Huxley to move about a bit, block the shot. ''After all, one of you makes two of me!''
''Bloody HB pencil makes two of you, JP,'' roared Collins to general merriment.
Sighing deeply, Huxley heaved himself out of the pool to retrieve the ball from its resting place against the stone-cold, blood-red radiator.
''Ho bloody ho,'' I muttered. ''Give us the ball!''
Huxley did so, with devastating effect. He didn't throw it especially hard, but it caught me full in the face, and since I was treading water, it knocked me backwards so I swallowed a mouthful of cold, chlorinated water. Coughing madly, rising like an angry kraken and bawling that Huxley was the twattiest spazmoid in the whole spazmoid universe, I sent a tidal-wave slopping towards him as he hovered hesitantly on the edge. Unfortunately I missed and the whole lot cascaded over Mr Vickers instead. His lopsided grin switched to a tight, white-lipped mask of anger as, sopping wet, he glared at me then at Huxley then back at me. The whole form was laughing. Vicarage's face seemed almost black with fury. Crimson and choking, I stammered an apology and awaited nuclear destruction.
''It's like being with the Chuckle Brothers, isn't it, sir?'' Collins called. ''To me, to you – you should see 'em on the footie pitch. Makes grown men weep.''
Vicarage suddenly grinned, said I was not only a prize pillock but King Pillock of Pillockland, which made my friends roar, and that Huxley was Crown Prince Pratt. The tension evaporated into appreciative laughter and five minutes' free time for splashing, ducking and general horseplay. Gray and me sang The Rainbow Song ('Up above the streets and houses, rainbow climbing high') in the showers and Gray did this hilarious double-impression of George and Zippy arguing over the bar of soap while I vigorously shampooed chlorine out of my hair.
''No, George, you can't eat it. But it's called a cake, Zippy. Oh, George you're so stupid.''
As we got dressed, someone shouted 'The bravest animals in the land' and we were off with our song, all twenty of us, marching out, double-file, into the drizzle under Morreson's supervision and my conducting at the head of the crocodile while Vicarage grinned from the door-frame, shaking his head.
''Welcome to King Henry's, sir!'' I called over Lewis and Arnold's tooted theme. Our new PE teacher simply waved and shook his head again. He'd do well with us, we figured. Anyway, U5H left that PE lesson hyper, high and happy. So obviously Maths, coming next, was a total bloody disaster.
's is given by the formula s = vyz.
af
a) Calculate s when v = 1.5, y=0.9, z= 2.4, a= 16 and f=0.02.'
OK. Piece of piss. 3.24 divided by 0.32 = 10.125. So s = 10.125.
I think.
'The volume of a cone is given by the formula V = πr2 h
3
V is the volume in cubic cm. r is the radius of the base, in cm. Calculate the height of a cone who base radius is 5.3 cm and whose volume is 435 cubic cm.'
Right. 5.3 squared is 28.09. 28.09 x 3.14 = 88.2026…. shit. What next? Do I divide 435 by 3? That's… I tapped the keys of my Casio calculator.
145.
Fuck knows. Do I have to move h?
My shoulders dropped despondently. Surely I should know this. Everyone else did. I could see them beavering away whilst I sucked the rubber orange on the end of my pencil and stared uncomprehendingly at the graph-paper. I scribbled something down, moved to the next set of gibberish, peered over Paulus' shoulder but realised he had even less idea what he was doing than I did, exchanged a grimace of despair with him, and focused on the last page of the orange exercise-book where I had recorded, in pencil, this game of Search and Destroy:
7 Mar 1966 Phu Yen Province
1 US 2nd Platoon fr S to rd.
1st P NW towards village & river
Co. down rd. Gds to L & R of ridge.
discover Peasants
NLF Wound Co. Cmr (US).
2 US 2 find ammo.
3 US 2P Co finds rice. US Co Cmr – rice
NLF sniper at bridge. pins US unit (2 Plat)
VC unit D. US Air strike – fails. 1 US P cmr WIA
4 P US rush to help cmr. 1st Rice B
NLF turn to fight US nr far E forest with lower River. Air strike hits small wood
5
NLF cadre leader K. in battle nr E. for. Last rice found. 2nd Rice. D. AS→d sniper & bridge 2P int. peasant.
1st attempt = 02nd attempt = 0r3teasexd.
6 US 150NLF30
√
I'd played this game with Martin Cooke some time last year. I sought him out from the bowed U5H heads in Room 31. His blond hair hung round his head like a bell. I glanced sideways at Paulus. He'd got the hang of the Maths and was furiously scribbling down a load of meaningless shit. He saw me looking, grinned like Zippy and covered his book with his arm. While I fancied him like fury and loved him almost as much as I loved Ali, I hated him too. He was such a swotty little lick.
At break, I bought a red poppy for Remembrance Day and promptly lost it playing football so had to get another one. Adding insult to injury, the footie wasn't good anyway. I got stuck in goal because Maxton wanted to play out for a change and, when Seymour was charging towards me, I couldn't decide whether to come out and tackle him or stand my ground and hope to block his shot. In the end I did neither and let the ball through my legs. Then I kind of flapped at a shot from Collins and, as the opposition celebrated two goals in as many minutes, had to endure Lewis calling me a 'big girl' and Maxton saying it looked like I was trying to hit it with my handbag. Worse, my holiday homework turned out to be total bollocks. The music I'd written came back with 'DIDN'T UNDERSTAND THIS' printed underneath and a load of corrections in red to the parallel fifths I was not supposed to use. The German story came back scored at 26/50, with just 9/20 for the content, a ton of mistakes and the comment 'Another daft story.' Dammit. I thought it would amuse him. I'd written about cycling to a castle where 'Der Herzog war geizig und unglücklich, weil seine Frau neulich tot war.' To compound his misfortune, I managed to set fire to his house and roll his car into a stream but it didn't matter 'weil es herrlicher Sonnenschein war' (the line we were supposed to incorporate into the tale). Well, bollocks to you, Beaky. I liked it.
The history essay assessing Lenin's contribution to Russian Communism and covering seven pages of pink exercise-book got just 10/20, despite a mass of red ticks in the margins, and drew the comment 'You haven't answered the question. Russia didn't become Communist overnight. Instead of describing Lenin's takeover you should have spent more time on his activities after 1917, i.e. War Communism, Civil War, NEP and efforts to retain power.' When I re-read the essay, I noticed a load of stuff: ''In 1915, the Tsar took command of the army but this made no difference. The Tsarina Alexandra ruled the country but she was only interested in preserving the throne for her son Alexis. Also a so-called monk, Grigory Rasputin, was 'helping' the Tsa
rina look after the country. He looked after Alexis, who was a haemophilliac,'' which, being a total fuckwit, I'd misspelt, ''The people knew Rasputin to be a drunkard and liar. In December 1916 he was murdered by Prince Yusupov.'' Yes, it was a fantastic story, Ra-Ra-Rasputin, lover of the Russian Queen, and I found Alexis, the sickly, teenage Crown Prince bleeding internally every time he fell over, a fascinating figure. What kind of Tsar might he have made? Would he have survived the war? Had he ever masturbated? Could haemophiliacs masturbate? What if, like the bleeding, they couldn't stop coming? Just spurt after spurt, like till you died. Man. Death by Orgasm. I never heard of anyone dying of an orgasm. What a way to go. Beats fucking lung cancer any day. Still, great story though it was, Hellfire had a point. It wasn't strictly relevant, was it? But I was more fucked off that he'd deducted a mark 'cos I hadn't used a fucking ruler to like underline the title, you know?
The English essay, a six-page 'account of the relationship between Henchard and Farfrae' in Mayor of Casterbridge, got a 'good in parts' 15/30 - 'too generalized, and inadequate and inaccurate at the end.' ''Driven to desperation,'' I'd written, ''Henchard meets Farfrae in the granary loft and they have a fight. After several near misses, the 'infuriated Prince of Darkness' forces his opponent's head over the precipice. Farfrae submits and prepares to die but Henchard cannot deliver the knock-out blow.'' Willie had underlined the last phrase twice in red. ''He lets Farfrae live and throws himself into a corner saying 'I care nothing for what comes of me!' Farfrae thus wins due to Henchard retiring form the fight to be counted out in the corner.'' Willie had written 'Don't be stupid!' in the margin.
The Biology was even crappier. 8/20 and 'very poorly answered.'
''Bacteria in the sewage needs to respire and takes in the oxygen from the river, replacing it with carbon dioxide. This is why the oxygen content drops'' got two marks - 'do you really think 2 sentences qualify for 5 marks at this level?'
Er… I don't actually, like, know, Herbie? I'm not the fucking examiner, am I?
'Note: ''bacterium'' = singular; ''bacteria'' = plural!'
Well, fuck me! That is sooo useful to my life.
''The ammonium is in the sewage at first but then bacteria gets to work on it and converts it to nitrate ions'' attracted a big red NO! and a 'read N2 cycle notes' and the last answer ''Algae feeds on bacteria and as there is a high bacteria content, algae will flourish and grow larger'' was scribbled out altogether, with a big fat 0 and another massive 'NO! Algae are plants!' Blimey. Herbidacious must've enjoyed marking that lot. I didn't know algae were plants. Mr D. Bimp of Kent said I must be a quote total muppet unquote.
Even Chamber Orchestra was grim. We were preparing for this charity concert on December 12th, Save the Children, Save the Aged, Save the Aged Children, something beginning with Save. It was a nice programme. We were starting with this overture by Cimarosa (The Secret Marriage), then the woodwind section was doing the first movement of Mozart's C major Serenade K388, me and Max on clarinet, Dell and Keighley on oboe, Brooke on French horn and Nick Shelton on bassoon. We'd already rehearsed once and it was a lot of fun. The strings were doing Corelli's Christmas Concerto with Woodward and Rubenstein on violin, Paulus on 'cello and Williams on harpsichord. Then we all came together for Haydn's Symphony 103 in E flat major, the so-called 'Drum Roll'. During the interval we were gonna sell mince-pies and mulled wine then, in the second half, the jazz band were doing some Duke Ellington and the Lower School Choir was doing Captain Noah and his Floating Zoo. The Handbell Ringers were playing some seasonal pieces before we got the audience up for Christmas carols. The chamber orchestra was small, some twenty-four players, the jazz band smaller, with eight, the Lower School Choir had about twenty singers, so it was quite an intimate group, and we hoped to create an intimate atmosphere, even in that acoustically dry barn of the Beckwith Hall.
''Have you got the Haydn?'' shouted Maxton over the cacophonous racket of tuning instruments. He was fitting his clarinet together whilst I adjusted the shared music-stand, bantered gently with Shelton, sitting to Maxton's left, and set this thick white ring-binder on the stand. The cover was adorned with a marvellous drawing of Munko from Pinka's Gang, proclaiming in a speech bubble 'JDP's Music Folder', the remains of four games of noughts and crosses in blue biro I'd drawn with Max during some rehearsal long ago, my proposed England XI to play in the upcoming Ashes tour, stickers of Barcelona and AC Milan and Gray's scrawled declaration that 'Madness Rule'.
Wilf said we'd start with the Haydn. Flicking at the folder, I watched in despair as the rings sprang open to send the contents tumbling over the shiny black-marble floor of the Britten Room. Grade 8 theory papers, letters from school about concerts going back three years, copies of music, Grade 3 piano pieces, clarinet solos, songs, notes… some of the sheets had not been hole-punched anyway, but at least they hadn't fallen out on the bus.
As Wilf swept up his arm to bring in Arnold's opening timpani-roll and then the lower register instruments, Finch's double-bass, the 'cellos and Shelton's bassoon, which were playing the same notes, I stretched out my left leg to trap and drag Five Romantic Pieces for B-flat Clarinet back from under Kevin Lees' chair. It was OK. We didn't play till Bar 46, so Maxton and the two oboists, Keighley and Dell, scrabbled up Mozart's Litaniae Laurentanae, Chopin's D flat major nocturne and Saint-Saens' clarinet sonata whilst Trent, sitting with Mark Williams, principal flute, genius pianist and the squarest square in the universe, doubled over with laughter. Williams just shook his head. He hated me anyway. Of course, missing their Bar 6 entry, they got savaged by Wilf for not paying attention. It was just the clarinets who had this long, ciggie-break-length rest. Whilst Maxton stuffed everything back into the binder, I stretched further for the orange-coloured Five Romantic Pieces so far I fell off my chair, clattering my clarinet on the polished floor, bruising my backside and propelling Lees, viola-bow flailing, into his music-stand. Trent erupted into a volcano of laughter (or lava-ter?). Shelton sputtered into his bassoon. Lees, seriously pissed off, called me a spaz. Rubenstein exchanged grins with Paulus.
''What the hell are you doing, Peters?'' Wilfo yelled, chucking his baton on the floor.
Maxton set the Haydn on the music-stand. I hadn't fastened the butterfly-grip properly so the stand crashed down, sending all the papers cascading to the floor once again. Trent and Shelton were almost dying by now. Paulus was yelping like an incontinent Chihuahua.
''Just get out, Peters!'' Wilfo yelled furiously.
Mr D. Bimp of Kent said I was a twat as I packed up my clarinet and left for the Upper Fifth footie match. Most of me didn't give a shit. I could pretty much sight-read the concert and I was planning this awesome Thai prawn curry for my folks tonight. For my class-mates, I crashed into their football game, attaching myself to Collins' team with a yell of ''what's the score?'' and a crunching tackle on Cooke, who tearfully called me a 'spazmoid twat.' Whatever.
''No idea. 8-6 or something,'' said Collins.
''Thought you weren't playing,'' grumbled Gray.
''Heads up!'' called Walton, our goalkeeper, as Hill floated a dangerous cross in from the right towards Crooks. I roughly shouldered him aside, charged down the cross and whacked the ball back upfield towards Bainbridge. Not very subtle, but effective.
''Wilf chucked me out,'' I said.
''You got chucked out of an orchestra rehearsal?'' Collins stared at me. ''How?''
''I kept dropping my stuff on the floor. It's not my fault I can't work the music-stands.''
Collins, sighing heavily, said I was a total spaz and put me in goal.
As I took the class's sweaty communal goalkeeping gloves off Walton, Lardy Gardiner thumped the ball a gazillion miles into the air but I had time to position myself to catch it as it re-entered Earth's gravitational field and nestle it into my chest. Dropping the ball onto my Reebok, I booted it clear. Unfortunately it bounced over Bainbridge's shoulder and Burridge picked it up, sliding it through Cooke's feet to Crooks. Now I yelled for the defe
nce to protect me. No-one appeared. The Ginger Ninja, shimmying past Collins, flicked the ball to his right and unleashed a ferocious shot which I could only palm feebly into my own goal. As Crooks whooped, Collins told me I should've dived, not wafted it past with my skirt.
''I'm not so good at going down,'' I protested, then clapped my hand to my mouth as Graham Harrison drawled in the campest voice ever ''That's not what I've heard, darling'' and everyone else fell about in hysterics. ''Ali Rose calls you Henry the Hoover, dear.''
I told him to shut his face. He didn't. The others laughed. Boxheaded twat. Suddenly furious, I booted the football as hard as I could onto the rugby field and, ignoring the angry protests of the others, stalked back to the school. And then Mark Sonning intercepted me, steering me down to the woods where the gimps were playing hide-and-seek.
''So, Jonathan,'' he started, ''What's the story?''
Blushing, I squinted up into his face and said defensively ''What d'you mean?''
Ali's school mag meeting had gone to shit when Chris Crooks accused him of fucking me. In front of Mr Webster, Mrs May and Chris Morreson. Apparently he'd been explaining how me and Paulus, Brudenall and Shelton were going to form the core of the next committee when Williams snorted the gayboys were taking over the school.
''Fuck me! '' I blurted. ''He can talk, Fred's little bumchum.''
Sonning just looked at me contemptuously then resumed his account. Morreson demanded to know why I was going to be Deputy Editor, not him. Ali said something about merit and winning the Writing Prize but the committee apparently laughed scornfully, and that's when Crooks Major said 'is it because he's sucking your cock?'
While Ali was reeling, Jamie Arnold's brother said ''You're infatuated with the bloody kid, Rosie, but you can't see it. He's completely turned your head.''
''He was always a manipulative bastard,'' said Crooks Major. ''Are you fucking him? Mikey says Peters is bent as a thirteen-bob note and will suck anyone's cock for a vodka shot.''
I stared unseeing across the playing field to the yellow brick of the Sports Centre.
''Then there's Leo,'' Sonning said gently. ''Jason Middleton saw you kissing him.'' Now, cold as ice, I found a bench to sit on. ''Listen, what you are is what you are, and you and Leo…'' He shrugged. ''I don't understand it, Jonny, but I like you and Leo, and I love Ali like my brother. He seems so confident and in control but it's all an act. Inside he's really scared.''
Shit, Mark. So am I, now!
''Promise me you won't do anything stupid,'' Sonning was saying, ''Promise.''
I promised then, dazed, confused and fairly angry, I wandered off to Period 6.
Out: A Schoolboy's Tale Page 19