I'll Be Home for Christmas

by Tom Becker

  I pointed to Ben’s milkshake. “Strawberry?”

  He sighed. “And what’s wrong with strawberry?”

  “It’s just pink, that’s all.”

  He grinned his grin, bit the straw. “And you were just about to go off on a gender rant… Hypocrite.”

  I smiled back, despite myself. “But would you order strawberry if your football mates were here?”

  “As a matter of fact, I would.”

  “Well, that’s told me, hasn’t it?”

  He took another slurp, reached for a cluster of fries and folded them between his white teeth. “Tell me, Mercedes, is there any part of the universe you don’t want to start a fight with?”

  I used my milkshake cup to toast him. “Is there any part of the universe you don’t want to charm?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being friendly.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with calling an arse an arse.”

  “Isn’t it supposed to be a spade?”

  “I prefer arse.”

  He raised his eyebrows at that, and smirked. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, you’re such a LAD!” And I chucked a chip at him. It landed right on his forehead and ricocheted on to the floor.

  “I deserved that,” he agreed. Still holding eye contact, still smirking.

  And I thought, Are you thinking of me like that? In a nice way? Do I ever cross your mind when I’m not there? Do you ever wonder what I’m doing when we ignore each other at school? Like I do with you.

  Ben looked away, a tiny bit of red rising up from underneath his polo shirt. He pointed out the steamy window to our nondescript high street. “It’s snowing.”

  My eyes followed his finger. “Bollocks.”

  “I know.”

  It was only a flurry, the odd flake tumbling out of the sky and melting on the chewing-gum-laden pavement. I shivered in anticipation, even though we were right under the heating unit. It wasn’t time for us to go to the park yet. We didn’t go until at least eight.

  Ben stood up, stretched. “I’ll get more chips.”

  I watched people’s eyes following him as he walked to the counter. A diamond in the rough-side-of-town. A nugget of gold in the silt.

  I was the silt.

  Their eyes went from him to me. I looked into the cup, taking off the top so I could stir the shake with my straw. I knew what they were thinking. Why is a guy like that with a girl like her? I put my finger over the top of my straw, lifted it out of the shake, then released my finger so the liquid dropped back down. I looked out of the window at the people bracing themselves against the cold, leaning into the wind.

  We were going to freeze later.

  A bag of fries skidded to a halt in front of me. “Your chips, madam.” Ben bowed.

  I smiled and saluted. “Why, thank you, kind sir.”

  “You’re supposed to curtsey to a bow, not salute,” he complained, sliding back into the booth and reaching for a handful of fries.

  “Um, Ben? Look at me.” I pointed at myself. “My name is Mercedes, for fuck’s sake – let’s not pretend I’ll ever be someone who curtseys.”

  It came out harsher than I meant it to, inflating the air with awkward. It was like that a lot with us. Loaded silences more frequent than trains at rush hour. Always weighing up the other’s comments. Can I trust you to keep our secret? About what we do together?

  It was him who diffused the tension. It always was.

  “You’ve got such a chip on your shoulder.” He reached over and put an actual French fry on my shoulder.

  I smiled, getting a whiff of his smell. “Naffest. Joke. Ever.”

  “Says the person who just used the word ‘naff’?”

  “Naff is a naff word?”

  “Naff is the naffest of all the words. Only naff people use the word naff.”

  I plucked the chip off and ate it, the salt burning my tongue.

  “I can’t believe you just ate the chip on your shoulder. Does that mean you’ll stop teasing me about my trainers?”

  I looked pointedly down at his trainers peeking out beneath the table. The latest Nikes, still mostly fresh and white from the box. The sort of trainers that would feed Mum, me and Natalia for a month. Not that you can eat trainers…

  “I’ll stop teasing you about your trainers, the day you stop wearing trainers that define everything that is wrong with this world.”

  He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Maybe that’s what you need to be golden, to glow like Ben glowed – effortless good humour.

  “Everything that’s wrong with this world?”

  I nodded.

  “What about famine? Or disease? Or global warming? Or antibiotic resistance?”

  I pulled a face. “How do you know about antibiotic resistance?”

  “Biology homework… Actually, that reminds me. I’ve got to do some.”

  “Swot.”

  “Stoner.” He rummaged in his bag and got out his books, opening a textbook to a page about panda breeding cycles.

  Stoner? I’ll show him. I got out my music coursework and spread all my stuff out, deliberately taking up more than my half of the table. He rolled his eyes again. Smiling again.

  We worked and ate chips, dipping them into both our milkshakes. Sometimes I looked up and watched him work. He did this thing with his tongue when he concentrated that I found kind of mesmerizing, rolling it into his cheek.

  Once, when I glanced at him, I caught him doing the same. We both turned red and looked back down at our papers. His expression hadn’t been admiring though … more puzzled, like I was an equation he was trying to solve.

  I finished my music essay and moved on to my maths homework. Ben was good for my GCSEs, that was for sure. I never used to do work – never used to see the point. But since we’d been coming to McDonald’s, I did it because he was doing it and it would be weird if I just … I dunno … stared at him.

  But soon the chips ran out. The place had got busy. People stood with laden trays, eyeing our empty ones with furrowed brows. It was time to go.

  “Ready, camper?” Ben asked, packing his stuff away.

  I pointed out of the window to the snowflakes swirling under the orange glow of the streetlights. “It’s still snowing,” I said, stating the obvious.

  “Shit.” He so rarely swore and I jumped. “It’s going to be freezing. You brought … you know?”

  “Yep. I’ve been saving this bottle, to celebrate the almost-end of term.”

  “Well, that will help, I suppose.”

  *

  It was knock-the-breath-out-of-you cold as we emerged, pulling our coats around us, Ben shoving on his famous bobble hat. We didn’t mention the cold, we didn’t complain. We were dedicated to what this was. We walked, wordlessly, to the park. I glanced at my phone, it was half eight. We’d managed to eke out our McDonald’s section of the evening for half an hour longer than usual. I had a few messages from the band.

  Today was sic —Mandy

  I’ve got a boner just thinking about how good we sounded —Pete

  I smiled and tried to type back, but my hands were too cold and I gave up after misspelling the first word four times.

  At least Ben had a proper coat, I thought bitterly. It was a Barbour. Ben was the only boy I knew who could pull off a Barbour. It was one of those quilted ones and it looked so warm. When he’d come in with it after half-term, he’d been mocked for ten whole minutes and called a farmer. The next week, half the school were wearing cheap rip-offs. As if he could sense my anger, Ben turned to me just as we got to the park entrance.

  “You want to switch coats? You look freezing.”

  I shook my head, even though it killed me to do it. “I’m good. You can’t pull off leather anyway, Posh Boy.” My body screamed as I said it, yelling, Noooooooo, take the coat, take the coat.

  “At least take my hat.” He pulled off his bobble hat and yanked it down over my head without asking. It pushed my fri
nge down into my eyes.

  “And now I look stupid,” I said. When all I really wanted to say was thank you.

  “I don’t care. Your lips are blue. You’re wearing it.”

  The park was pitch black, even the post-commute dog walkers in for the night. We walked using the light from our phones to guide the way, though we knew it by heart.

  I dawdled after him, blinking hard, feeling … wrong, like I always do whenever anyone shows me just a hint of caring, even if it’s just Golden Ben saying I look cold.

  I don’t know how to handle people caring about me.

  So I reached into my pocket and I got out the poached vodka.

  I unscrewed the cap, noticing only a third of it had gone already and hoping my stepdad hadn’t been too sober when he hid it in the tiny cupboard under the stairs. I wouldn’t want him to notice it missing… I’d stolen it a few days ago though and he hadn’t mentioned anything. And I would KNOW if he had. I threw back my head, tipped some down my neck, swallowed, winced. “Want any?” I held out the bottle in the darkness between us.

  “I’ll wait until after I’ve vaulted the railing, thanks.”

  “You have to vault the railings on the way out anyway.”

  “Yes, well, I only want a fifty per cent chance of spearing myself through the heart rather than a hundred per cent.”

  When we got to the railings, Ben squatted, with both hands cradled on his thigh.

  “Cheers.” I put my hands on his shoulder and stepped my boot into his cupped hands. I swung myself up, grabbing the railings.

  This part of the night always made my heart thud. The closeness of us touching. Our skin brushing as I shimmied up and over the railings.

  Ben didn’t need a leg-up – the sports god that he was. He used the railings to do a chin-up, his arms bulging as he raised himself up and threw his body over.

  We landed together on the bouncy red tarmac with a light thud.

  “We’re in.” He held out his hand for the vodka bottle.

  “We’re in.” I handed it over.

  And we made our way to the playhouse.

  *

  The playhouse was under a concrete tunnel thing, adding extra layers against the cold. It was where we’d first met. Well, ‘met’ as in actually acknowledging the other’s existence for the first time, without school and all the bullshit barriers school creates between two people who may have otherwise got along. He’d found me crying and drunk two months ago. I remember, even through my intoxication, being surprised that he knew who I was. I’d never been here in daylight. Natalia had been taken away before she was old enough to come. I’d never seen it with children inside, playing cooking or mums and dads or whatever kids play, not realizing just how lucky they are not to be grown-up yet. Not that I was even grown-up yet.

  My teeth chattered as we sat inside, our knees hunched up, passing the vodka bottle back and forth. They clacked in my mouth, my jaw juddering uncontrollably.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Mercedes.”

  “Huh?”

  I turned and Ben was up, shrugging off his coat, holding it out to me.

  “I’m fine,” I insisted, though it came out. “I’m f-ii-ii-ii-nn-ee.”

  He tilted his head and let out a breath of exasperation. “Can you not be too proud for, like, one evening?”

  My face jerked back. Too proud? I wasn’t too proud … was I? Then why wasn’t I taking his coat? He pushed it at me again.

  “Honestly, I’ve got my football hoodie in my bag. I’ll be OK. You, on the other hand, look almost purple.”

  I relented and took his coat. Nobody had ever given me their coat before. The cold rushed all over my body as I shrugged out of my battered leather jacket. But as I wrapped Ben’s around me, I warmed instantly. It still had his body heat inside it, like he was hugging me. Like I was being wrapped in a radiator. Ben pulled on a big jumper. His T-shirt rode up as he pushed his head through the neck and I made myself look away.

  I held out my dishevelled jacket. “You want?”

  “I’ll look ridiculous.”

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  He smiled, took it, and tried to squeeze his big sporty arms into it. He did look ridiculous. It hardly fitted him, stretching across his back and making him look like Quasimodo – his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. I started laughing and then, because the vodka was starting to hit, I laughed harder. I took a photo of him on my phone while he posed. When I showed it to him he said, “Dear God,” but kept the jacket on. Then he stayed looking at my phone, his face so close our breath mingled, and I knew what he wanted. So I deleted the photo and felt him relax.

  No evidence.

  We leaned back against the wood panelling, getting drunk and watching the snow.

  *

  “It’s settling,” I said.

  I was no longer cold. I was vodka.

  I dug in my bag for cigarettes, shoved one into my mouth and lit it. I offered the pack to Ben, he declined.

  “I love that word, ‘settling’, and how they use it for snow,” he mused. “Like the snow aspired to much better things than just landing here.”

  I took a drag, smiling, and put on a silly squeaky voice. “I used to dream about falling in Iceland, you know? But then I hit thirty and all my other snowflake friends settled here and I just … I dunno what happened… Life happened. So I settled here.”

  We both giggled in the darkness.

  “You think we’ll get a snow day tomorrow?” he asked, staring out at the primary-coloured tarmac speckled with white.

  Just the thought of it made my stomach tighten. A day … a whole day to fill. And the holidays were almost here, too. So many days to fill… I shook my head, like the force of my will could change the weather. My laughter died inside of me and was replaced by dread.

  “God, let’s hope not.”

  I took another drag, exhaled, and watched my smoke drift out into the night. I could feel Ben watching me.

  “Why do you smoke?” he asked, all of a sudden.

  I shrugged. “I dunno. I just do.”

  “And weed. You smoke a lot of weed, too, don’t you?”

  Another shrug. “I guess.”

  “Why?”

  My lip curled. “I told you. I don’t know. I just do…” It’s what all my friends did, I never thought to question it. I bumped my shoulder with his. “Come on, Mr Judgemental, it’s not like you’re so perfect. I hear what you and your lot get up to at your rich-people parties.”

  There were stories of skinny-dipping in swimming pools, stories of trashed golfing buggies, stories of orgy-like states, nobody sure who was in whose mouth. Shots and blazers and ruddy-ruddy-rah-rahs and bending each other over and slapping each other’s arses and drinking until they vomited and then frying their vomit into an omelette and being dared to eat it.

  “I told you eight million times,” he sighed. “I’m not rich … not any more.” Which is why he started at our school, he’d once told me. Because his parents could no longer afford the fees. He could still afford new trainers and McDonald’s and to escape this town eventually though. “Anyway,” he continued, “what we do isn’t illegal, but drugs are.” His voice was groaning under the weight of his judgement.

  My stomach twisted in on itself. “Nothing people from your world do is ever illegal,” I replied. “That’s the difference between rich and poor. Your trouble is oops-sorry-slap-on-the-wrist, we-won’t-do-it-again-sir, and our trouble is shove-you-in-an-overcrowded-prison.” I was sucking too hard on my cigarette to curb my anger, waving it in the air as I ranted.

  “Whoa, OK. Calm down…” He eyed me warily and I levelled him with my best glare. I looked at his smooth skin and his perfectly cut hair, I looked at his expensive bag, his clean trainers, his easier life. People think I’m thick – I know that. They see me slumping through lessons, high in the afternoons. They see my long hair and my bad friends and our silly band and the cheap uniform you have to get in a special charity sal
e and they make assumptions. But I’m not stupid. I read. I know what’s going on in the world. I know that it’s the actions of people like Ben and his lot that led to Mum’s benefit getting cut and my stepdad losing his job at the pub. Cause and effect. The butterfly effect. And, yeah, oh, poor fucking Ben, he can’t go to Arlington Grammar any more, but I got my SISTER taken away. And yet, they judge us. Ben judges me.

  I stood up.

  “Where you going?”

  “Away.” My voice slurred, with drink and almost-tears.

  “It’s freezing out there.”

  I stormed off anyway, into the playground. I felt so … so… The snow scrunched under my boots as I stomped over to the swings, sweeping the snow off one. I sat down, leaned my head against the chain and let myself cry. It wasn’t fair, none of it.

  I heard the crunch of his footsteps, the clank of the chain on the swing next to me as he sat down. He said, “I’m sorry.”

  I sniffed. “You think you’re better than me.”

  “Whoa, I don’t! Where the hell is this coming from?”

  The snow melted on my hair, freezing my brain, but I hardly noticed. I looked over at him. He was still wearing my leather jacket. “You don’t even want people to know about me,” I said, watching his reaction, looking for tells that he was lying.

  “No, I don’t. I don’t want people to know that I come here,” he admitted. He didn’t look back, just straight out into the darkness, where the slide was.

  “See!” I acted triumphant, but my heart plunged to the tips of my frozen toes.

  “Hang on, but that doesn’t mean I think I’m better than you!” He did look at me then, eyes wide with protest. “It’s not about you, Mercedes. Being here with you. I’m not ashamed of you…”

  “But…” I waited for the backpedal, the silly excuse. My face was burning red, even in this cold. Whatever this was, I was breaking it. Which is stupid, because I needed it. We both needed it. It’s why we kept coming. We had no other choice.

  He sighed and threw his arms up, pushed himself back with his legs and let himself swing. “It’s really not about you,” he said. “I just don’t want people knowing about any of it. About why I need to come here. Asking questions. Wanting answers. I don’t like to think about what’s going on and how messed up it is, let alone talk about it. Try and explain it away, like my mother does.” He skidded himself to a halt, his feet scuffing in the small pile of snow. He looked at me; smiled. “To be fair, you’re probably the only good thing about all this.”