Lou swings his leg over and dismounts, flicks the bike stand and opens up the little box at the back, where he produces the spare helmet.
‘Here.’ He hands it to me. ‘See if it fits.’
I force it down over my head.
‘It’s fine,’ I say, my face scrunched up and distorted inside it. Kid’s helmet? Lou kicks the stand down and sits on the scooter.
‘Hop on.’ I hop on.
As he turns to face me our helmets click.
‘Where to, dude?’
I tell him what direction to take.
Off we scoot.
I don’t know the protocol of being a backseat passenger. Should I loop my arms around him or hold on to the metal frame behind my lower back or just try to balance without touching anything? I pluck for the uncomfortable option, metal frame, as it seems totally inappropriate to man-hug Lou on our maiden voyage.
I briefly put my hands on my thighs, but for my first time on a scooter it’s a bit unnerving. Scary really. The neon lights in the streets flash past far too quickly for my liking. I try to stay composed, not allowing my terror to be transmitted. How uncool would that be? I can’t tell if Lou’s peacocking his scooter skills to impress me or this is relatively normal scooter behaviour. Either way, all I visualise is the pair of us spreadeagled under a bus, blood streaming down my face with my leg pointing in the opposite direction from where it should be.
While Lou’s trying to make idle conversation I’m focusing on staying alive. I belt out monosyllabic answers. To be honest, I can’t quite hear him. During one particularly sharp turn I coil my arms around his torso. Totally instinctive, no joke. I feel his stomach, taut and stiff, under the coarse denim of his jacket. I’m unsure if it’s my sudden grasp that’s caused him to tense up.
‘Relax, man,’ he yells from under his visor.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to,’ I say, which he doesn’t hear.
We hit another spiky turn before Lou puts the brakes on. We’ve stopped somewhere I don’t recognise. Well, I recognise it all right because it’s in our area, but it’s a place I’ve no reason to be at. And it isn’t my house.
‘This isn’t where I live, Lou,’ I say.
‘Yeah, sorry about that, Bobby, I just need to make a quick pit stop.’
‘What?’
‘I have to see my man in here, dude,’ he says, getting off the bike and removing his helmet. ‘A quick in-and-out job.’
‘Want me to come … ?’
‘No, best if you wait here, guard the bike.’ He runs his fingers through his hair until it’s fully slicked back on his head. ‘It’s a vintage Vespa.’
‘Oh, OK,’ I say, not knowing the difference between a vintage Vespa and a vintage hairdryer. ‘So you want me to stay here and guard the bike then?’
‘I’ll be two minutes, max,’ he says.
I don’t get a chance to reply. Lou’s already heading up the path towards his man’s front door, helmet bouncing on his hip. I peel off my own helmet and stand awkwardly in front of the bike, praying no yobs turn up intent on getting their feral mitts on a vintage Vespa.
Thankfully it is less than two minutes before Lou re-emerges. His word is good.
‘Job done,’ he says, skimming the road left and right. ‘OK, ready?’
‘Ready,’ I say.
Lou looks at his watch.
‘Shit, it’s late. I’d better get you home.’ I’m thinking that maybe it would’ve been quicker to have caught the bus after all, but I do understand the frantic twist in Lou: I have the same thing happen if I think Mum isn’t coping without me. I guess I’m very aware of my responsibilities.
When we remount the scooter Lou reaches back and grabs my arm. ‘You’d best hold on, Bobby, I’m now officially in a goddam hurry.’ He yanks my hands on to his waist. I finger the pockets of his denim jacket. If I wanted to I could put my hands right inside them. I don’t. Of course I don’t. But that’s not to say the temptation isn’t strong. And I am as tempted as hell.
#2 … incomplete
let me watch you from afar
at my safe distance
do you see me seeing you
in my reflections?
it’s all impulse and ruminations
but
if called
i’ll come charging
if invited
i’ll shatter safety and shorten distance
don’t be far away
come here
Junk Food Friday
‘If you tap that pen off your teeth again I promise you’re getting punched,’ Bel says.
Something is bothering me. My mind is ambling. Unable to focus.
‘Shhh,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to work here.’
‘Don’t lie, you hate maths.’
‘Not true.’
‘And you’re pure crap at it.’
I look at her. She’s not wrong. On both counts.
‘You’re one to talk, Bel.’
‘Erm, hello, I’m crap at everything,’ she says, as if proud.
‘Education isn’t for everyone. Maybe you could be a teenage mother. Bet you’re not crap at pushing a buggy in the rain.’
‘I’m serious, Bobby. I will attack.’
‘Have you finished the exercise?’ I ask.
‘It’s me you’re talking to. No.’
I tap my pen again.
‘Seriously, Seed,’ Bel spits.
‘Can we talk about Drowning Our Sorrows Fridays?’
‘No sweat. Go.’
I explain what she already knows, that I’m not much of a drinker. So with my responsible mature-teenage hat on I tell her it would be wholly negligent of me to continue with our Friday boozing sessions. I also want to avoid any pissed kissing temptations. It’s not that I don’t find Bel attractive. I do. She’s totally gorgeous in the sense that she doesn’t know how gorgeous she is, which adds to her overall gorgeousness. Such an alluring quality. If I pushed it, there’s no doubt that we’d be love’s young dream and I’d be the envy of just about every hormonal guy in school. But, here’s the rub: I’m simply not drawn to her in that way. My loins don’t spin when she’s around. No slight on Bel. No slight at all. It’s just … I don’t fancy girls.
Bel doesn’t throw a mad hissy fit when I suggest our Drowning Our Sorrows Fridays should be a thing of the past. No hissy fit, but her response knocks me sideways.
‘Well, I didn’t want to say, Bobby. I thought it was completely irresponsible of you in the first place. With your mum up there and that, know what I mean?’ She shrugs her shoulders and flicks her eyes skywards.
Gobsmacked isn’t the word; you could have put a full fist into my gaping mouth. It was HER IDEA in the first place.
‘And with Danny in the house as well. I mean, if the council or police had got wind of us drinking, you’d have been fucked, mate.’
I’m pretty sure I could’ve squeezed two fists in after that.
‘But –’
‘I don’t even like cider,’ she says.
‘But, Bel –’
‘I was only doing it for you, help perk you up.’
‘But –’
‘To help you take your mind off everything.’
‘Bel …’
Oh, what’s the point?
‘We shouldn’t lose our Fridays though,’ she says.
‘I agree.’
‘So what you got in mind?’
Nothing like being put on the spot
‘Why don’t we just get a takeaway instead?’ I suggest.
‘A takeaway?’
‘Yeah, Indian or pizza or something.’
‘On Fridays?’
‘Every Friday.’
‘Sounds totally mediocre.’
‘I think it’s a good idea.’
Bel’s eyes become smaller and tighter: she’s morphing into deep creative mode. ‘We can call it …’ You can tell her brain’s in overdrive, clocking up umpteen title permutations. Her lips move at the same speed a
s her thoughts. ‘We can call it … We could call it … We should call it …’
‘Junk Food Friday?’ I blurt.
‘Yes, Junk Food Friday.’ She points at me. ‘That’s good. I like that.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘You finished the exercise, Bel?’ the teacher shouts from his desk.
‘Nearly, sir.’
‘Well, head down and get on with it,’ he says. ‘You OK, Bobby, need help?’
‘No, I’m fine, sir,’ I say.
‘Good to hear. Good to hear.’
We stick our heads closer to the desks.
‘So, it’s decided? That’s what we’ll call it?’ I whisper.
‘Junk Food Friday it is then, agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ I say, but I can’t help thinking that she’s just nicked my idea and will be passing it off as her own.
December
My birthday isn’t until December. My eighteenth. The biggie. The one where I go to sleep a boy and wake a man. Mum wants us to celebrate it NOW. September! This isn’t the effect of the pills toying with her senses.
‘I’m not talking about limos and rap music, Bobby. I’m suggesting the three of us spending some time out of this house.’
‘A holiday?’ I ask.
‘Tried. Unfortunately the world is fully booked.’
‘That limits your options.’
‘I’m talking about going out for food or something.’
‘Like dinner?’
‘Wow! You sure you’re turning eighteen?’
‘Yes, Mum, but not until December.’
‘You say December but that day they left you on our doorstep I do recall frost. I just put two and two together and plucked out December.’
‘You should really be writing these down, you know.’
‘Actually, you could be a February baby, but, really, who knows?’
‘Look, is it not a bit weird to celebrate someone’s birthday almost four months before it actually occurs?’
‘It is your eighteenth.’ Mum taps her head. ‘Or is that my son from a previous relationship?’
‘Seriously, your talent is totally wasted, you know that?’
‘Recognition at last.’
‘And, anyway, your birthday is before mine. It’s in a few weeks.’
‘OK, let’s celebrate your non-birthday then, how’s that sound?’
‘Eh?’
‘Let’s just go out.’
‘Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?’
‘Where’s the fun in that?’
‘Can we wear nice clothes?’ I say.
‘You can even shower if you want.’
‘Really?’
‘I insist on it.’
‘Where will we go?’
‘Danny will be with us so that narrows it down to …’
‘Say no more.’
Conversations like this lead me into a false sense of hopefulness. You forget for a few minutes. You’re not worrying if there’s a prescription you were meant to pick up today or if Dan has clean clothes for tomorrow, you’re just kind of chewing the fat and plodding on as if everything’s normal. Your mind isn’t on your troubles at all. Until, that is, it smacks you full force on the jaw and jolts you right back into its clutches. A bit like getting admitted to a nightclub then getting lobbed out before the coats come off. It could be anything, a subtle grimace of pain on Mum’s face, the frailty of a movement, lack of clarity in her words, and BANG! Suddenly we’ve all returned. Illness. Disease. Sickness. Ailment. Disability. Mum wanting to go out celebrating is a positive thing; Mum wanting to celebrate birthdays prematurely worries the life out of me.
‘Help me up, Bobby,’ she says, rising from the chair. ‘Bit tired. I’m going to lie down and listen to music.’
‘I’ll help you upstairs.’
‘I can manage.’
‘OK, I’ll escort you then,’ I say. ‘I’m heading up anyway. Homework.’
‘Such a gentleman. Your mother will be so proud when I tell her.’
I could’ve carried her. I don’t suggest it. She doesn’t ask. We do the usual: I hold the bottom of her back and she grabs my arm. One step at a time, slower than five decades of the rosary. No rush, now.
‘How’s school going, son? I didn’t ask.’
‘It’s fine. School’s school.’
‘Are you still in the thick group?’
‘They don’t do that any more, don’t think they’re allowed.’
‘Well, they should bring it back,’ she says.
‘What?’
‘At least you know what you’re working with then.’ Her face blooms; she nips my arm. If either of her sons had been disposed of into some thick group, I can imagine the old powerhouse Mum marching right down to the school demanding revolution.
‘Just keep walking and try not to speak.’
‘Won’t be long,’ she says.
Won’t be long for what? Getting into bed or the not speaking part?
‘We haven’t been out for ages,’ she says, after I get her settled. ‘It’ll be nice to spend some time together.’
‘I know, it’s been yonks.’
‘I’ll try not to embarrass you both.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I’m serious,’ she adds.
‘Yeah, so am I, shut up.’
‘I don’t want to embarrass you or Danny, son. I don’t.’
‘Mum, stop saying that. How would you embarrass us?’
‘You’re a teenager, Bobby.’
‘And? So?’
‘So teenagers don’t go out with their mothers. Teenagers hate their mothers. Teenagers just want money and the internet. In fact, they want to live in the internet.’
‘You’re so down with teen life, it’s impressive.’
She holds out her hand. I take it. She brings mine up to her lips. Her eyes soften.
‘You’ve such a beautiful soul, Bobby Seed, know that?’
‘Mum!’
‘You don’t know it, but one day you will and so will everyone else.’
She kisses my knuckles.
‘Right, go and get your homework done before I take my slipper to your arse.’
A final hand kiss.
‘Night, Mum.’
‘Night, son.’
Dumb and Dumber
‘You know I really appreciate this, Bel,’ I tell her.
‘Sure, what else would I be doing?’
‘Well, not looking after our Danny for a start.’
‘I’d just be at home watching some Neanderthal pisshead shouting at snooker on the telly. Believe me, Bobby, this is like being given a free pass.’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’d better go or I’ll miss the bus.’
She grabs my cheeks and squeezes them between her hands.
‘I want you back at a reasonable time, young man, and I’ll be smelling your fingers when you do, so no smoking.’
‘Promise, Mum.’
Bel takes a step back, folds her arms in comedy fashion.
‘Look at you, you’re so handsome.’
‘Shut it.’
‘My baby’s all grown up.’
‘The carer will be here in ten minutes. Mum’s good, she’s listening to the radio. Danny’s up–’
‘Stairs playing on his Xbox,’ Bel interrupts. ‘I know, Bobby. I know.’
‘Right.’
‘Well,’ Bel says, ‘he tells you he’s playing on his Xbox, but, come on, he’s fourteen. We both know what he’s doing up there all the time.’
‘Do you have to?’
‘Someone’s got to slap you into reality.’
‘I’d better shoot.’
As soon as I open the door to leave I see him. There at the end of the path. Modish, hip, trendy. Whatever the word is, he has it in droves. My helmet’s resting on the seat behind him. My helmet?
Lou waves.
‘Fuck’s that?’ Bel asks.
‘Oh, that’s Lou. He goes to the meetings
too.’
‘Why is he just waiting there like some weirdo Knight Rider?’
‘Knight Rider was about a car, Bel.’
‘And I care because?’
‘He’s just here to give me a lift, I think.’
I haven’t a clue why he’s turned up. I presume it is just to give me a lift.
‘What, he was just passing by?’ Bel says. ‘In a cul-de-sac?’
‘How am I meant to know?’
Lou vrooms his vintage Vespa.
‘Well, you better go before your chariot rides into the sunset without you.’
‘Laters,’ I say.
I look at Bel. She isn’t impressed, her face jammed between scowling and sneering. I return Lou’s wave and begin walking. With each step, everything inside tightens. But I’d be lying to say there isn’t a flutter of excitement there too. My stomach’s among the butterflies. Yet for some reason I feel a pang of guilt. I glance back at Bel, but she’s already closed the door.
Play it cool, Bobby.
Steady as you go, son.
Don’t do anything too dickish.
Lou removes his helmet, claws his hair into shape and flashes me a white grin. I echo his smile.
‘Thought you might like a ride,’ he says.
‘How did you know I’d be here?’
‘I dropped you off, remember?’
‘No, how did you know I’d be home?’
Lou grabs the spare helmet, chucks it.
Did he wink?
‘Hunch, Bobby. Just a hunch.’
‘I’m glad you’re here. I’ll take the lift.’
‘Cool.’
I force the helmet down over my head and straddle the vintage Vespa. I don’t need to look: I know Bel’s twitching behind the blinds.
‘Ready?’ Lou says.
‘Yeah.’
Rev that engine, Lou, let’s open these wings and fly to where the breeze catches us.
Lou slaps his hips. ‘Hold here and don’t squeeze so much this time.’
‘OK.’
I rest my hands on him, his hips. Exactly where he instructs me to. All bones. I feel the leather of his belt. I could coil a finger in the loop of his jeans if I wanted. We move off.
‘I really appreciate this, Lou,’ I shout.
The Weight of a Thousand Feathers Page 5