by Tom Ellen
I laughed. “Had you already paid for your flights?”
“Yeah, so my dad hates me. They wouldn’t buy me any new clothes for school.” She lifted up her leg. “That is why I am wearing these thick leggings. They can, like, stop a snake biting you in the jungle.”
I stared at them. She nodded. “Honestly, these are like Bear Grylls–endorsed leggings. Try to bite these bitches, because you won’t get through. I have no college clothes. Only jungle-survival gear. But if there is a zombie attack, I also have a mosquito net, a headlamp and a £300 nonreturnable monogrammed travel journal.”
Negin still looked a bit shell-shocked by Frankie. “What’s your major?” she ventured politely.
“Archaeology. They are massive babes for letting me in last minute. But because I’m not with the sloths, I got put in a suite with all these old people. And they are not interesting at all. I slept for a week straight before I came to prepare for all the partying of Frosh Week, and so far all they’ve done is eat some cheese together.”
“Like mice,” I said.
She laughed so loudly the whole clump stopped speaking to each other and just stared at her.
“They are actually mice,” she sighed. And then she started doing jumping jacks on the spot. “Quick warm-up. So why are you guys here, then? Not at college, obviously, I mean here at Quidditch Club.” She puffed. “I think I’m a natural chaser, TBH.”
“I’m just here as a supportive friend,” Negin said. “Phoebe is waiting to meet…someone.”
Frankie jumping jacked forward, almost straight into Negin. “What, like a date?”
Negin nodded at the same time I shook my head. Frankie lit up.
“It’s definitely not a date,” I stuttered. “It’s just this…boy.”
“Please tell me,” Frankie hissed. “Please. I live for stuff like this. Even more than animals or Harry Potter. This is my actual life. Don’t freeze me out of the gossip.” She put her face in between me and Negin’s. “Tell me,” she whispered again.
I scanned the whole campus as far as I could see, and there was no sign of anything Luke Taylor–shaped. “OK,” I said. “There’s this boy here that I kind of liked in high school….”
“What’s his name?” Frankie snapped.
“Luke Taylor.”
“OK, go on.”
“Well, I saw him at the fair and we both decided to join Quidditch Club.”
“We decided, or he asked you?” Frankie’s eyes narrowed.
“Well, he definitely wanted to join something…together.”
“Done deal.” Frankie clapped her hands. “Book the church, because you are in the luuuuurve business.” She started jumping up and down again. “I would actually pay money to see how this plays out. Not loads but, like, maybe five pounds.” She clenched her fists together and made an excited yelping sound. She looked at Negin. “Front row seats for us.”
The door swung open and a redheaded girl dressed head to toe in pink, including her shoes, flung her arms above her head and squealed, “We’re ready.”
“When Luke Taylor comes in, do this signal.” Frankie looked at the sky and let out a loud howl. The clump all turned around. “Just a subtle pack-howl, no big deal. Keep it caj.”
The long, low-ceilinged room was totally empty. One entire wall was filled with pictures of extremely happy-looking people. Happy at The Cursed Child, happy on the Warner Brothers tour, and very, very happy playing quidditch. Above the photos were various ribbons and cups and house scarves. Along another there were some brooms lined up and, at the very end, one mop.
A boy was almost dancing around the room, offering people chocolate frogs from a plastic bowl.
“I don’t think anyone here is Slytherin,” Negin whispered.
“Oh my god. Chocolate frogs,” Frankie yelled, and took three, handing me and Negin one.
I looked at my phone and then at the door. It was already ten past, and no sign of Luke. The longer he didn’t come, the more nervous I got. I kept pulling my hair out of its elastic and retying it up. Like that would help.
A girl in army fatigues strode into the middle of the room and clapped her hands so forcefully it sounded like a shot. She had the stance of a bouncer and an expression to match. She looked like she could take down The Rock. Next to her was a small, incredibly thin boy wearing a Gryffindor sweater and pants that were so tight they were almost leggings.
“This is legit my fave club already,” Frankie said in her stage whisper. “I mean, come on.” She unwrapped another chocolate frog and shoved it in her mouth, whole.
Negin saw me looking at the door again. “It’s not even a quarter past,” she said.
“It’s not a big deal.” I smiled, and she smiled back reassuringly.
“Welcome to Quidditch Club,” said the incredibly thin boy. “I’m Brandon, I’m the cocaptain, and this is Misty, the other cocaptain. We decided not to have a vice because we are both equally important.”
“Misty and Brandon,” Negin mouthed.
I nodded. “Brandon sounds like someone who rides dirt bikes in California. And Misty, Misty sounds like…”
“A stripper.” We all whispered it at exactly the same time, and in unison it became audible. Frankie coughed loudly to try to cover it up.
The door creaked and I heard a girl speak. So, not Luke. “Sorry, we didn’t know whether to come in.” Next to her was a stunningly attractive boy with glasses and masses of black curly hair. He was really tanned and was wearing a black polo.
Frankie made a quiet howling sound. “Luke Taylor is insanely hot. Well done, you.”
“That’s not him.” I tried to sound casual but my voice came out flat.
“Well, would he do?” Frankie whispered. “Because oh my actual god.”
We all looked at the curly-haired boy, and he smiled. “I’m gonna slouch to look smaller.” Frankie bent her knees slightly. She shuffled closer to me with her knees still bent. “Are you OK?” she asked. Her face softened, and it was like for the first time she wasn’t joking around. “Whoever this Luke Taylor is, he obviously doesn’t appreciate the importance of quidditch.”
“Or punctuality,” Negin said darkly.
He wasn’t coming. Whichever way you looked at it, it was a dick thing to do. I felt like such an idiot.
“It’s fine,” I said. “It’s just weird because this whole thing was his idea. He seemed really into it.”
Frankie put her extremely long arms around me. “I find boys in general very perplexing,” she said matter-of-factly. “From now on, sisters before misters. But obviously, if Luke Taylor turns up late you can ditch us.”
I laughed, and the skinny boy at the front started talking again.
“You are all now part of our quidditch family,” he said. “We are the York Boggarts.”
Negin couldn’t suppress a smirk, but Frankie whooped loudly.
“Right,” said Misty, and everyone went quiet. “Firstly, I can’t emphasize enough that the real-life sport of quidditch differs vastly from the sport of quidditch you have encountered in the Harry Potter novels. We do not actually fly in this version of the sport. The York Boggarts are part of the Varsity league. Last year we finished at the bottom of the first division, which, I won’t lie to you, was a blow. It is really encouraging to see so many new faces here this afternoon. The Leeds Obliviators are our main threat this season. But I am confident that with regular attendance at training we can turn into their worst fear, and obliviate them.”
There was a beat where Misty almost smiled. It was like she was riling us all up to go over the top.
“This is extremely surreal,” Negin murmured in her perfunctory way.
“Right,” Brandon said, smiling. “Shall we do a quick warm-up game?”
We al
l got in a circle and introduced ourselves and told everyone what Hogwarts house we were in. I stopped looking at the door when we started playing catch with beanbags, accompanied by Harry and the Potters.
Quidditch was basically lots of running around with a broom between your legs and trying to dodge flat volleyballs. At one point, I was laughing so hysterically that I had to stand at the edge and compose myself. As we left, I realized I actually wanted to come back.
As soon as we were a few feet away from the hut, Frankie started shaking her head. “I’m sorry, but how funny was that whole thing? And also, LOLs that we actually tracked down the hottest boy at this whole university on the second day. I mean, maybe one of the hottest people in the whole world. And also, he is foreign, so he probably doesn’t know anyone here. Vulnerable and in need of a tall woman to show him a good time.”
“He really was unexpectedly good-looking,” I agreed.
Negin nodded. “Even you must be able to see that he was hotter than Luke Taylor.”
“I actually can’t believe he didn’t come,” I said.
“Luke Taylor is dead to me,” Frankie announced. “I mean, I know I’ve never met him but, still, he’s dead to me.” She stopped suddenly in her tracks. “Maybe he is dead. And that’s why he didn’t come. I mean, you know loads of people die during orientation week, right? Like, millions.”
“We just think it’s best if she doesn’t go.”
That’s what she’d kept saying. And then she’d added, “Obviously, no one’s blaming you.”
But the thing is, if no one really is blaming you, they don’t need to say it, do they? Not ten times in one phone call.
Obviously, everyone blamed me. Because obviously, it was my fault. I had stopped loving her. It was as simple, and ridiculously complicated, as that.
I don’t know when it happened. It wasn’t like a wake-up-one-morning epiphany. It had taken me all summer to realize it. After we got our acceptance and rejection letters back, the whole of August and September had merged into one long, tearful conversation about how it didn’t matter that she didn’t get into York Met, and we could still make it work long distance. And then, at some point, it had dawned on me that maybe I didn’t want it to work anymore. Does that make me a massive prick? I don’t know. Probably.
Actually, no. It definitely made me a massive prick. Because now she was missing out on college. Her whole life was broken in half. And it was all my fault.
“We just can’t let her go to Cardiff like this, Luke,” her mum had said. “She’s had one bad knock already with her college-prep exam scores, and now, after what happened last night…” She sighed heavily. “I just don’t want her getting any more knocks, you know? She was in such a state this morning, saying she didn’t want to go next week. And I think for once that she’s right. You’ve got to be in a certain…frame of mind to start university. And with everything that’s gone on, she’s just not ready right now. So we’ll wait a year and…see what happens.”
I hadn’t really said much. I’d just let her talk. She’d said they were going away for a week or so, as a family, and that maybe it would be best if me and Abbey didn’t speak for a bit.
I’d walked back to my dorm in a sort of numb daze. I thought about calling one of my friends. Reece or Harry or someone. But what would they say? It’s not like I could talk to them about the endless missed calls or the constant nagging guilt or the crying in the fucking computer room. I wouldn’t even know how to start that conversation.
I just wish I could understand what happened. What changed inside me. I mean, surely, if you don’t feel the way you used to feel, isn’t it better to be honest? To actually own up to it? Or should you spend the rest of your life pretending, just to keep everyone else happy?
I bought two Twix bars, went back to my room and fell into a lumpy, half-hungover sleep.
When I woke up again, it was dark. I stared at the empty walls, with the two unopened suitcases still sitting grumpily on the carpet. Outside, I could hear people bustling between the dorms, plastic bags clinking with pregame bottles.
To take my mind off the call, I unpacked and started putting some pictures up. I’d brought my tatty little red folder with me, where I keep everything of any emotional value—pictures, cards, letters, that sort of thing. But that hadn’t really helped, because most of the stuff in it was Abbey-related. She was in pretty much every photo. All the letters and cards were from her. Who else would send me a letter? Her name was written right through my life. Who the hell was I without her?
There was a knock on the door and Arthur didn’t even wait for a reply before kicking it open. He stood in the doorway, yawning stickily and blinking at me, the sickly sweet smell of weed wafting in with him.
“I will have a cup of tea, then,” he said. “If you’re making one.”
I laughed despite myself. “I’m not making one. And we’re out of milk anyway.”
“There are two cartons in the fridge!”
“They’re Barney’s. They’ve got Post-its on them.”
Arthur made a face. “Fuck’s sake, milk is communal. Everyone knows that. Certain things are beyond Post-its.” He started holding up fingers. “Milk, butter, beer, chicken Kievs…”
“Did you eat his chicken Kievs? He was bitching about that earlier.”
Arthur shrugged. “Like I say, they’re communal. Clue’s in the name: Kiev. Russia was the birthplace of communism.”
He walked into my room and started picking through the stuff in my folder, snorting at random photos of me and Reece in ridiculous costumes. Then he held up a card that said LIFE BEGINS AT 40!
“Why the hell have you got this?” he laughed.
“Oh, it’s just a stupid thing,” I said. “Private joke.”
Rita poked her head around the door. “Aw. Are you two decorating? I had to get a book from the library, so I thought I’d come and say hello. So weird being back at the old dorm.”
“Reets, you’re doing law,” said Arthur. “Tell Luke that chicken Kievs are communal.”
“We haven’t covered chicken Kievs yet,” Rita said. “That’s not till junior year.”
Arthur dropped the card on my bed and walked out. “Well, Rita will have a cup of tea with me. Rita’s a real friend.”
They left and I stared down at the card. It wasn’t a stupid thing, really.
I pulled the others out of the folder. As well as LIFE BEGINS AT 40! there was GOOD LUCK IN YOUR NEW JOB!, HAPPY CHINESE NEW YEAR!, and TO THE WORLD’S BEST GRANDDAD!
It had started on Abbey’s sixteenth birthday. We’d only been going out a couple of months, and I was coming back from vacation when I realized I hadn’t gotten her a card. The card shop at the airport had a pretty shitty selection, and the only vaguely birthday-related one said “You are 8 today!” and had a big colorful button on the front. I gave it to her later that night, and she’d cracked up laughing.
After that, it snowballed: every Christmas, birthday and anniversary, we competed to see which of us could give the most random, obscure, inappropriate card. I remember us both snorting tea out of our noses as she opened my personal masterpiece: “Congratulations on Becoming an Uncle!” last Valentine’s.
That had only been, what…seven months ago? Back then, there was literally no part of me that could imagine life without Abbey. I was totally, completely convinced we would be together forever. How the fuck can you just…lose that feeling? Why had I lost it and she hadn’t?
I lay down on the bed again and tried to trace it back properly. It had definitely started around exam season. Our parents had both agreed we should spend less time together so we could concentrate on studying, and I remember noticing after a while that it was almost a relief to not have to see her every day. To have more time to myself. It was like this murky, guilty secret I carri
ed around with me, and every time we were together, it got heavier.
And it was like the more I backed off, the more tightly she clung on. I started calling less and less; she started calling more and more. And slowly it was like all the fun was being strangled out of the relationship, and we were just spending time together because…that was what we did.
And then our test scores came back, and she opened that envelope, and as she crumpled down onto the bench in tears, it was like our whole future crumpled with her. We wouldn’t be spending the next three years together at York Met. And that seemed big and scary, but deep down it also seemed exciting. Because for so long it was like me and Abbey were almost the same person. Or, maybe, just that we were completely defined by each other. To half the school I was just “Abbey’s boyfriend,” but now, for the next three years, I would be…me.
I should have told her, right there on that bench, how I felt. But I didn’t. I just held her and kissed her and promised we would make it work.
I felt the tears start to prickle under my eyelids. It was ridiculous; this was supposed to be the most exciting week of my life, and I was wasting it, crying in my room. I could hear Arthur and Rita’s muffled laughter through the wall. I sat up, took a deep breath and tried unsuccessfully to calm the frantic whirring guilty panic in my stomach. I washed my face, stuck a few photos up on the wall—all Abbey-less—then stuffed the cards back into the folder and pushed it under my bed.
I went and knocked on Arthur’s door and he shouted, “It’s open!” The room was thick with weed smoke. Arthur was slumped at the foot of his bed, playing Xbox, while Rita sat cross-legged on top of the comforter, drinking tea and reading a book the width of a house brick.
I took the spliff off Arthur, had a drag and offered it to Rita.