I feel like laughing. ‘You sound like my shrink.’
‘You’ve a shrink? God, you get better and better.’
‘I try.’ I can’t believe I’ve told a practical stranger stuff I can’t tell my friends.
‘So why’re you seeing him?’
‘Her.’
‘OK, why’re you seeing her?’ he asks, like I’m fascinating.
‘I’m nuts. Clearly.’
‘How nuts? Out of ten.’
I smile. ‘Dangerously nuts. You never know what I’m going to do.’
He interlaces his fingers and places his hands in an arch, like a professional shrink. ‘I think we should start with your childhood.’
I smile. ‘Shut up.’
‘All right then, let’s keep it simple. What’s your surname?’
‘Healy. Yours?’
‘Owens. Age?’
‘Seventeen. You?’
‘Nineteen.’
‘Seriously?’ I ask. I stare at him. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘It’s the beard.’
‘That’s not a beard. That’s a bush.’
He laughs. ‘Maybe I should get rid of it.’
‘Maybe,’ I say, sarcastically. ‘Nineteen, Jesus.’
He’s smiling. ‘Where d’you live?’
‘Glenageary. You?’
‘Killiney. But I’m asking the questions here. School?’
‘Yes,’ I say, just to annoy him.
He smiles. ‘Which one?’
‘How are any of these questions going to help my mental health?’
‘Bear with me,’ he says and sounds so like Mary Gleeson that I laugh. ‘So, school?’
‘Strandbrook.’
‘Ooh, poshy.’
‘I’m not posh.’
‘OK, liberal.’
I’ve no clue what he means but it doesn’t sound good.
‘Shut up.’
‘So how d’you get into the whole stealing thing?’ Like it’s a career option or something.
‘Shocker, but I’m not actually proud of it.’
‘So you’re a good girl, then?’ he asks, sounding disappointed.
‘Not totally rotten, I guess.’ It’s so weird. He’s the first person who has made me see that.
‘Shame.’
‘Want me to go?’ I pretend to be offended.
‘Nah, stay. No one else to talk to.’
‘Gee, thanks.’
We’re quiet for a while. He glances out the window. Takes a deep breath. ‘So what’s happening out there?’
‘Depends what you want to know. I’m pretty crap on current affairs. But if you’re interested in celebrity news …’
‘Celebrity news sounds good to me.’ He smiles.
I tell him the latest stuff. He looks at me like he’s amused.
‘Where d’you get all this stuff?’
‘Perez.’
‘Where?’
‘Who. Jesus. Perez Hilton?’
He looks blank.
‘Oh my God, where have you been? You’ve never been on perezhilton.com?’
‘Eh, no.’
I shake my head in disbelief.
‘Testing one-two, one-two.’
We both look up. Then look at each other and try not to laugh. Bingo starts with, ‘Two little ducks, quack, quack. Twenty-two.’
I check the board, then glance up. To find him looking at me.
‘Hi,’ he says, cheekily.
I ignore him. Look back at the board.
‘Legs eleven,’ Mary calls.
A number we have. I look at Shane.
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Eleven.’
‘Ooh.’ He shakes his fists like he’s excited. But he does cover the number on the board. ‘So. Hobbies?’ he whispers.
‘Bingo,’ I whisper back.
‘Favourite band?’
‘Frank Sinatra.’
He squints at me. ‘Do you take anything seriously?’
‘Do you?’
He smiles. And despite his total lack of concentration, we actually win.
‘Wahoo,’ he says, punching the air. I think he’s being sarcastic. But I’m not actually sure? People stare at him. He is presented with a soap collection. He hands it to me.
‘Here. You did all the work.’
His smile is beautiful. Even behind the fuzz.
OK, so I actually like him. Officially.
Weird.
I’ve just left when Christina, standing at the entrance, calls me back.
‘Sorry, Sarah, I just wanted to ask you something.’
I go back. ‘Sure.’
‘I was wondering, and no worries if it doesn’t suit, but do you think there’s any chance at all you could come on Mondays and Fridays? Just for a few weeks? You’re having such a good effect on Shane.’
I think it’s kind of cheeky, actually. But then, I guess, it’s just because she cares about him. Which is cool, you know, for someone who just works there.
‘I don’t know. I’d have to ask my mum.’
‘Would you? I’d really appreciate it. Just for a week or two. Just to keep the momentum up. He’s doing so well.’
I think about how Shane would hate this if he knew.
‘I’ll check,’ I say.
Louis is on the DART, on his way back from the Jitter Mug.
‘Why are you so late?’ he asks.
‘Community service.’
‘Oh right, yeah. How’s that going?’
‘OK.’ I look at him. ‘There’s this guy who’s only your age.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘I don’t know. He’s in a wheelchair.’
‘Car accident probably. Or rugby.’
‘It’s so sad. He’s such a cool guy.’
‘I don’t know how you do it. Go in there.’
‘You know what? I love it. The people are amazing.’
He looks at me like he doesn’t get me.
I change the subject. ‘So what’s with Miriam?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘She was in the kitchen again this morning.’
‘I wouldn’t read anything into that.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘She’s nice and everything but married.’
‘Oh my God, Louis.’
‘She came on to me. What could I do?’
‘Say no.’ Jesus.
He smiles. ‘I’m only messing. She’s not married. At least I don’t think she is.’
I hit him. ‘You are turning into a slut, my man.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Can’t help it if I’m a popular guy.’
‘There is this concept called a relationship, Louis.’
‘Yeah and from what I’ve heard, it’s overrated.’
Wish that hadn’t made me think of Simon.
When Mum gets home, I tell her about Christina asking me to do Mondays at the home.
She looks surprised. ‘And you’d be OK with that?’
‘I don’t know.’ I explain the situation.
‘So you’re helping this boy, Shane?’
‘I don’t know. Christina thinks I cheer him up. But it’s just that we get on, really.’
She looks at me. ‘Trust me, Sarah. Cheering someone up can be a very valuable thing.’
I think of Ellen. But this is different. ‘I don’t, like, set out to cheer him up? And he’d hate me to, anyway.’
‘But you do cheer him up?’
I shrug. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. We make each other laugh. A bit.’
‘Well, I’d love you to do it. But only if you want to. Your community service is once a week. So it’s up to you.’ But she’s looking at me the same way she looked at me when she said she was proud. And it’s so good to get a break from being the person who keeps messing up.
‘I’ll go,’ I say.
FIFTEEN | CHRISTMAS CRACKER
On Monday, when I walk into the home, everything’s different. The ch
airs are grouped around tables and everyone’s busy. Making things. Like tapestry. And embroidery. Is that a Christmas cracker? There’s a new guy. He’s waving. At me? Oh. My. God. It’s Shane. His beard is gone. His hair is tidy. He looks nineteen. And seriously caliente. I know I’m staring. I walk towards him.
‘Oh my God. Look at you,’ I say, smiling. His skin looks so smooth, I feel like touching it.
He’s not smiling back. ‘What are you doing here?’
I freeze, thinking, Oh God, he knows. And he thinks it’s charity.
‘Christina asked me to come,’ I say and wait for the anger.
But his face relaxes. ‘So you weren’t caught shoplifting?’
‘No! God, no. Is that what you thought?’
He shrugs.
I don’t get it. ‘But you think shoplifting’s cool. Or something.’
He raises his eyebrows. ‘Maybe I did. Until I thought you were in trouble again.’
‘Aw you care,’ I say, messing, slapping his arm.
At last, he smiles. Then he lifts a Christmas cracker. ‘I feel like an elf.’
I laugh. ‘Want a hand?’
‘Listen to this.’ He picks up a joke. ‘What do you get if you cross Santa with a duck?’
I think for a sec then shake my head.
‘A Christmas quacker.’
‘Oh God.’
‘That’s one of the good ones.’
We start to read them out. They’re so lame that we laugh. He puts on a Christmas hat.
‘You know, without the beard you are seriously caliente.’
He bursts out laughing. ‘I do know Spanish. I do understand.’
I shrug. ‘Well, you are.’
‘No I’m not. Not any more.’
‘Trust me. I’m a bit of an expert on this. You are caliente.’
He smiles like I’ve given him something. ‘So,’ he says, arching his hands in shrink mode. ‘How’ve you been?’
‘Don’t start.’
He smiles. ‘All right then, any news?’
‘Actually. I’m starting my own business.’
‘Really? What?’
‘Pet minding.’ I try not to sound too excited.
‘Cool.’ He’s quiet for a moment. Then he asks, ‘You take snakes?’
‘Snakes? I hadn’t thought of snakes.’
‘I’m sure my folks could do with a break from feeding Quagmire, if you’re in the market for a snake.’
‘Quagmire? Like from Family Guy?’
He nods.
‘I love Family Guy. Who’s your favourite character?’
He smiles. ‘Stewie.’
‘Oh my God, Stewie’s evil.’
‘All part of his charm.’ He picks up bits of a cracker and works on them. ‘Who do you like?’
‘Brian. You know, the way he’s a dog but he’s the most sensible one, then he goes and does something doggy.’
‘Brian’s great.’
‘I can’t believe you’re making Christmas crackers.’
‘It’s for a good cause.’
‘What?’
‘This place.’
I pick up a cracker and start to fill it.
‘So, Quagmire? Want to mind him?’
I think of Mum. ‘What do you feed it?’
‘Frozen mice.’
‘Jesus.’ When I recover, I ask, ‘Where do you store them?’
‘In the freezer.’
‘There’s no way my mum would go for that.’
‘What about your dad?’ he asks, and I know he’s just being nosey.
‘He doesn’t live with us.’ And that’s all I want to say about that. ‘Want a gossip update?’
He looks at me like he gets it. ‘From Perez?’
‘Who else?’
‘Too late. Thanks to you, I’m addicted. Which makes me practically gay, by the way.’
I laugh. ‘He’s good, though, isn’t he?’ I say enthusiastically.
He smiles like he finds me cutely amusing. I don’t mind cutely amusing. I’ll take any kind of amusing. ‘Any other good sites?’ he asks.
‘I’ll send you some links. You’re on Facebook, right?’
He hesitates. ‘Yeah. I just haven’t been on it … in a while.’
I want to die. Of course he hasn’t been on Facebook. He’s been kind of busy. And what do you do anyway when you end up in a wheelchair, post pictures? God.
‘But I can go on it if you want to send me some links,’ he says.
‘Or I could email.’
He takes out his iPhone and starts thumbing. Then he hands it to me. ‘This the right Sarah Healy?’
‘Yep.’
‘Like your profile pic.’
It’s Betty Boop, because sometimes I just feel like being dark.
He takes back his phone. ‘I’ll send a friend request.’
I look over his shoulder. He goes into his profile. Then he goes quiet, reading all the posts asking how he’s doing. I move away to give him space. Finally, he looks up, clears his throat.
‘I haven’t got back to anyone,’ he says. ‘I kind of switched off for a while.’
Not for the first time, I wonder what happened, what kind of accident he had. It could have been anything – rugby, skiing, car accident.
‘I’m sure they understand.’
‘At least that gives me something to do with myself tomorrow. Let’s have a look at your Facebook.’ He passes me the phone.
I log in as me, then hand it back to him.
He goes into my photo albums. Scrolls through them in silence. Finally he looks up.
‘So where’s the boyfriend?’
I laugh. ‘Who says I have one?’
‘You have one.’
I smile, kind of flattered.
‘Now, which one is he?’
‘He’s in that shot. You guess.’
‘That guy?’ He points to David.
‘Nope.’
‘That guy?’ He points to Mark.
‘He’s the guy in the rugby shirt who looks like he doesn’t play rugby.’
For some reason he thinks that’s hilarious.
‘Got any of him on his own? Or one of the two of you? I can’t get a good look at him on this. He’s tiny.’
I take the iPhone from him and scroll through the images. Then I look up, surprised. ‘I don’t have any.’
‘Come on.’
I shrug. ‘I don’t.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘How did we get on to this subject?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘He’s OK.’
‘He’s OK? You’re going out with the guy. He’s got to be more than OK. Tell me about him.’
‘His name’s Simon.’
‘And?’
‘He’s in my class.’
‘Oh my God. The detail – it’s too much.’
I smile. ‘What d’you want to know?’
‘How long are you going out? Is it serious? The usual stuff.’
‘Four months. And no.’
‘Good,’ he says.
‘Why good?’
He looks straight at me. ‘He’s not the guy for you.’
I catch my breath. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘It was meant as one.’ And he looks at me like no one else does. Like he rates me. He knows about the shoplifting. He knows about the shrink. And he still rates me.
When I get home, the house is empty. I turn on the heat, get some juice and go up to my room. I go straight on Facebook. I smile when I see Shane’s friend request and accept it immediately. I check out his photo albums. It’s like a record of everything he’s lost. In all the shots, he looks so alive. Dive-bombing from the Forty Foot. Skiing. Playing rugby. Giving a girl a piggyback. Laughing. There’s that girl again. And again. Here’s one of them dressed up for some night out. They’re smiling at the camera, like they’re from The OC. Total A-listers. His arm is around her shoulder. He looks proud of her … They’re toge
ther.
I remember what he said about Simon. And decide he’s wrong. Simon could be the guy for me – if I worked at it. I reach for my phone.
‘This is the command centre,’ I say.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ A pause. I take a deep breath. ‘I thought we could, maybe, do something after school.’
There’s a long silence. I start to freak. I shouldn’t have asked. We never see each other during the week. He’ll think I want to get serious. And he’ll run a mile.
‘Tomorrow?’ he asks finally.
‘Or any day.’
Another pause, like he’s thinking it through. ‘OK, cool.’
Major relief. Then worry again – if I don’t arrange an actual time, it won’t happen. ‘We could go to a movie tomorrow … if you like.’
‘A movie?’
‘Or something like that,’ I say, casually.
‘OK, cool,’ he says.
And I’m probably a bit too happy.
‘By the way, who’s your new friend?’
‘What?’
‘Shane someone.’
Oh God. I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him snooping around, making smart remarks, making a joke of it, of Shane. ‘Just a friend of Rachel’s. Don’t really know him.’
‘He’s got some pretty hot friends.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you’re gay, Simon?’
‘I wasn’t talking about guys.’
Like I didn’t work that out. Does he even know how insulting he is?
‘So who’s Shane Owens?’ Alex asks on the DART the next morning.
‘Oh, the guy in the home I was telling you about.’
She looks at me blankly.
‘The guy at the window? Remember?’
‘I thought you said he’d a beard.’
‘He did. He shaved it off.’
‘You never said he was caliente.’
‘I didn’t know. Till he shaved it off.’
‘He’s like a white Lenny Kravitz,’ Alex says.
‘Who’s Ellie Kravitz?’ I ask.
She laughs. ‘Lenny Kravitz.’
‘OK, well who’s Lenny Kravitz?’
‘A black singer. He had a part in that movie, Precious.’
‘That movie you told me was feel-good and was so the opposite?’ I say, accusingly.
‘They sold it as feel-good. How was I supposed to know?’
‘Which one was Lenny Kravitz?’ Rachel asks.
The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually) Page 36