by Sara Barnard
‘Hi,’ I say, smiling back. ‘How’s everyone today?’
‘Oh fine, fine.’ Ivan’s dog, Sia, who has free rein across the kennels and loves everyone like they’re perpetually about to feed him raw steak, trots over to me and pushes his giant Labrador head against my hip. ‘One of the cats got out – not sure how – but we caught him in the end.’
I spend a happy four hours with the dogs, running across the acre with the boarders, handing over day-dogs to their owners, whose tired eyes always light up at the point of reunion. When I get home, the smell of strange dogs on me makes Rita eye me suspiciously until I lie down on the floor with her, reminding her that she is my doggish one and only.
And then, when it’s almost nine o’clock, I let myself go on Facebook.
Rhys has accepted my friend request, which was to be expected but still makes me smile with relief. I go immediately to his profile page, ignoring the two notifications I have waiting for me.
It’s not stalking – it’s exhibiting interest in a new friend. That’s what Facebook is for. It’s completely normal to –
Oh. Oh. Hmmm.
My heart, previously on board with my brain in the just-interested-as-a-friend department, deflates, sinks, twinges at the sight of Rhys’s profile picture: him and a dark-haired girl wearing sunglasses. A friend? Or a girlfriend? There is no corresponding relationship status on his profile page, which is maddening. Why can’t people just be clear?
I click on to his photos and have a quick sweep through them, trying to decide. There are lots of photos of him and this girl, some with other people too and others just the two of them. I’m none the wiser. On one hand, there are no photos of them being particularly close physically – no kissing, no gazing into each other’s eyes, no matching Christmas jumpers – but, on the other, maybe they just don’t like PDAs.
The maybe-girlfriend’s name, I learn, is Meg Callifryn, and my heart sinks further. Rhys and Meg. Goddamit. Their names are perfect together. And Callifryn? What kind of an unfairly pretty surname is that? Not like Brons, which would be OK if it was spelled Bronze, but it’s not. It’s German and it’s Brons.
I mean, it’s not like I care. Obviously I wasn’t thinking of actually trying anything with Rhys, but . . . well. Still.
I sit back against my chair and let out a ridiculous but nonetheless satisfying huff. That’s that, then. I’ll just have a tiny look at Meg’s profile. She has minimal privacy settings, so I learn that she is seventeen, was recently a bridesmaid at her sister’s wedding and that she can play the flute. Her own profile picture, for what it’s worth, is of her and a girl. Her relationship status says she’s in a relationship, but that’s as far as the information goes. I wonder if she can talk.
I close the window, pause, then reopen it. I go to my own profile page, wanting to see what Rhys will see if he looks. Which is a big if, let’s face it.
My profile picture is of Rita and me – she’s poking her nose into my face and I’m laughing. I close my eyes and then open them suddenly, hoping to trick my brain into thinking I’m seeing the picture for the first time. It makes me look relaxed and fun, right? And everyone likes a girl who loves animals. So far so good.
I scroll down a little. Most of the updates on my wall are photos I’ve been tagged in over the summer. Tem put up her annual summer album last week and I’m in about half of them. Keir also finally got round to putting up pictures from Bell’s fifth birthday party in July. The mix makes me look fun-loving and happy and that’s the nice thing about Facebook; it’s mouldable. This is me! Sort of.
Interspersed among the photos are the usual random comments and links. Most of them are from Tem, who is a prolific and loyal Facebooker. The most recent is a link to some kind of half marathon, which is her unsubtle way of trying to cajole me into running it with her, even though that is clearly never going to happen. Our conversation underneath (begun with me simply saying, ‘No, September.’) had descended into a pun-off. Is this not a-track-tive for you, Steffi? No, too many hurdles, etc.
I think of Rhys reading the conversation. I hope he likes puns. Of course he likes puns – who doesn’t like puns?
I click on my notifications. One is an invitation for Farmville from my cousin, which makes me want to ask her if she knows what century it is, and the other is a surprise. Rhys Gold liked your profile picture.
My heart flips. Oh. Well. That’s . . .
I realize I’m smiling at my laptop. Not just smiling, full-on beaming. Six little words, so much potential. He liked my profile picture. That’s something, right?
jackbytes
Sign Up
We don’t ask for much!
Email: [email protected]
First name*: Steffi
Surname*: Brons
Desired username**: stefstef
Password***: ********
* Don’t worry – this info will be kept private!
** Just letters and numbers, please!
*** Mix it up! Use numbers, letters and different cases!
That’s it! You’re set up!
Welcome to jackbytes!
Now add your friends!
Import from Facebook
Import from email
Import from Twitter
Add by username: [rhysespieces] [currently online]
rhysespieces: hey!
stefstef: hiya
stefstef: so how does this work then?
rhysespieces: its like whatsapp or facebook messenger, but it doesnt store messages
rhysespieces: like a chat room, but with people you know ☺
stefstef: oh . . . why not just use whatsapp?
rhysespieces: some people dont like the whole read receipts thing. plus it’s different, right?
stefstef: yeah, interesting
rhysespieces: haha, give it a go.
rhysespieces: this is cool, we’re having a conversation at normal speed!
stefstef: wow, it’s true! we’re like normal people!
rhysespieces: i could ask you any question i wanted, straight away
stefstef: go easy.
rhysespieces: the power. the sheer power.
stefstef: you can ask, doesn’t mean i’ll answer
rhysespieces: that wouldn’t be any fun.
stefstef: i dont think my deep dark secrets are much fun!
rhysespieces: oh, i dont mean like deep dark secrets. just like normal stuff. hey i have an idea. let’s make a pact. TOTAL HONESTY. and EVERY QUESTION has to be answered.
rhysespieces: cool, huh?
rhysespieces: stef?
rhysespieces: remember i know you’re still there! that’s the thing about jackbytes
stefstef: i know i know. i was asking my dog if she thinks it’s a good idea.
rhysespieces: . . . . . . really?
stefstef: my first question will be, why do you want to start such a potentially embarrassing/dangerous pact with a complete stranger?
rhysespieces: and my answer will be, precisely because we’re strangers. i’ve never got to know anyone like that before. worth a go, right?
stefstef: how do you know i won’t lie anyway?
rhysespieces: dunno. just do.
stefstef: ok. i accept your pact. with caution.
rhysespieces: total honesty?
stefstef: total honesty.
rhysespieces: ☺
rhysespieces: do you really talk to your dog?
stefstef: wait, are we starting already?
rhysespieces: yes!
stefstef: ok. then yes.
rhysespieces: what’s her name? breed?
stefstef: rita. german shepherd.
rhysespieces: as in . . . skeeter? or . . . erm . . . ora?
stefstef: no!
stefstef: as in LOVELY rita.
rhysespieces: i dont know wtf that means
stefstef: can you send links through this thing
rhysespieces: yeah, tap the icon that looks like an arrow in a box and put th
e link in
stefstef: one sec
stefstef: [YOUTUBE – LOVELY RITA – THE BEATLES 1967]
rhysespieces: erm. stef . . .
stefstef: doesnt the link work?
rhysespieces: sure it does. my ears don’t.
stefstef: FUCK. OH MY GOD.
rhysespieces: its ok, dont worry
stefstef: i’m so sorry. i cant believe i did that.
rhysespieces: seriously its fine. happens all the time with new people. the ones who can hear anyway
stefstef: i want to die.
rhysespieces: i get the reference now. lovely rita. that’s cool.
stefstef: i’m dead. this is my ghost, repenting past sins.
rhysespieces: hahahaha
stefstef: this is going to be the kind of thing i remember in the middle of a normal day in like five years time
stefstef: hey, steffi, remember when you made a complete twat of yourself?
rhysespieces: tell me about the song
stefstef: what do you mean?
rhysespieces: i can see the lyrics, but they don’t tell me much. what’s it like? slow? cheerful? why do you like it?
stefstef: oh! well
stefstef: it’s like, upbeat. the kind of song that makes you smile. my grandad used to sing it around the house
rhysespieces: where would you listen to it? at a wedding? a funeral where you like really loved the person so it was like happysad smiling?
stefstef: it’s the kind of song you listen to in the car, on the way to somewhere you want to go, but you don’t have to hurry there
rhysespieces: that’s a good description.
rhysespieces: i like this song too. good choice.
stefstef: i’m really sorry
rhysespieces: petition to add new clause to the pact.
stefstef: ?
rhysespieces: we can only apologise once at a time. no repeated apologies.
stefstef: i accept that clause
rhysespieces: i have to go now. see you tomorrow?
stefstef: sure. bye!
[rhysespieces is offline]
I meet Tem at the running track after school the next day. She is already there, bent over, her fingers stretched towards her toes.
‘Hey,’ I say when I get close enough.
She unfolds, a grin already on her face when our eyes meet. ‘Hey!’ she says. She takes in my outfit – leggings, oversized hoodie, ankle boots – and mock-pouts. ‘Aw, I said come dressed for running.’
‘And I said, no way,’ I say patiently. ‘You can’t turn me into a runner. Give it up.’
‘Fine, fine.’ Tem tosses her hair, battled into a ponytail, and leans over to pick up her bag. ‘Timer duty?’
‘Naturally.’ I reach out a hand and she passes me one of her stopwatches. ‘Can we talk first? I want to hear about college.’
‘In a bit,’ Tem says. She seems distracted, stretching up and then down again on her toes. ‘I need to work it off first. You ready to go?’ She gestures at the stopwatch.
I nod, and she leans over to kiss my cheek. ‘Hi, Steffi!’ She drops her bag on the floor and bounces away from me – ‘Bye, Steffi!’ – and takes off.
I make myself comfortable on the grass beside the track and watch her run, her movements smooth and agile. Tem was made for running, I think. Like aeroplanes never look as comfortable on the ground as they do in the air, she comes to life when she runs. She’ll run for Team GB in the Olympics one day. I know it.
I let her run several laps before I get bored and flag her down. ‘Can we talk now?’
Tem holds up two fingers and carries on. Two minutes? Two laps? Peace? I sigh-groan and pull out my phone. I open jackbytes but Rhys is offline, so I turn it off again and play vegetable Tetris until Tem finally comes panting over.
‘Something wrong?’ I ask, watching her unscrew the cap from her bottle of water and take a long, slow swallow.
She shakes her head. ‘No, why?’
I don’t push, even though I know her well enough to be able to determine her emotional state by how many laps she runs on an otherwise ordinary afternoon. ‘Tell me about college, then.’
‘It’s good,’ she says vaguely. She begins to run through her cool-down stretches, electricity fizzing from her joints and fingertips.
‘Just good?’ I prompt.
Tem twists her lip, then shrugs. ‘It’s very different from Windham. Louder. You’d hate it.’ She takes another sip from her water bottle. ‘There are so many people, which is kind of weird. Like, I used to think Windham was a pretty big school, but it turns out it’s not. And because everyone’s new it’s like this big battle to make friends.’
‘You won’t have any trouble making friends,’ I say. Everyone loves Tem.
‘Maybe not, but it feels kind of fake. Maybe it’s just because it’s new . . . I don’t know. I miss you a lot more than I thought I would.’ Her eyes widen. ‘That came out completely wrong. I just meant, I’m always –’
‘I know what you meant,’ I say, half smiling. Tem is always the one who takes the lead, who makes the friends. The needed one. I am the one who needs, the one who misses. ‘How are the classes?’ Tem is studying sports therapy, which she’s been excited about ever since she found out it existed.
‘Well, that’s the other thing.’ Tem’s brow has crinkled. ‘The work seems really hard. I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘Too hard?’
Tem pauses, the water bottle to her lips, her eyes looking away from me. ‘I hope not.’ She takes a breath and then smiles at me. ‘But!’ she says brightly. ‘I did meet a boy of my own.’
‘Ooh,’ I say. ‘Tell.’
Tem pulls out her phone and opens Facebook. ‘Look,’ she begins, and I laugh.
‘You got him on Facebook already?’
‘Of course, that’s what Facebook is for,’ she says, which is true. She hands her phone over to me and I look obediently.
Karam Homsi, the name reads. He looks like a model. Longish wild, dark hair. Brown eyes. A jokey half-smile on his face.
‘He’s amazing,’ Tem says, looking with pure adoration at her phone. ‘He’s taking two extra A levels at the college because his school – St Sebastian’s – will only let him do four. He wants to be a doctor.’
‘Wow,’ I say, because there’s really no other response to that kind of information, particularly when it goes with that kind of face.
‘And he’s so nice, Stef. And not fake nice, or trying-too-hard nice. Just, like, friendly, you know? He came here from Syria when he was nine, and now his life goal is to become a doctor so he can go back and help people.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ I ask.
She startles. ‘Huh?’
‘What’s wrong with him?’ I repeat. I smile to let her know I’m teasing. ‘No one is that perfect.’
‘Oh.’ She lets out a laugh of relief. ‘Nothing’s wrong with him. He’s just perfect. Honestly, Steffi. I’ve never met anyone like him.’
Tem is my best friend, and I won’t hear a word against her, but this is not the first time I’ve heard these kinds of words come out of her mouth. Tem has what my mother calls ‘an open heart’, which means she falls in love quickly and easily with pretty much anyone, and not just in a romantic way. When she loves, she loves completely – that’s what I’m saying.
When we were kids, she went through a phase where she hero-worshipped firemen. For her seventh birthday she got to visit the fire station and have her photo taken at the wheel of a fire engine, a huge helmet resting over her curls, a gigantic beam on her face. There’s a photo of the two of us, actually: her gap-toothed and grinning under her helmet, me next to her with a serious frown, holding the edge of my helmet so it would stay on my head, my hair too flat and lifeless to hold it up.
What I mean by this is that Tem fell in love with every single fireman she met that day, to the point where she still remembers all their names, even years later – ‘Remember when Sanjay let me try on
his coat?’ – and that’s just how she is. Now we’re older, it’s moved on from hero worship to outright please-marry-me love. She got her first boyfriend at fourteen – AJ, fifteen, swaggering tosser – and that lasted for about two months. Her relationships were pretty regular after that: a parade of new boyfriends every few months or so. Each one ‘different’. Each one ‘special’. Each one ‘not like anyone else’.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should say that I have never had a boyfriend. At least, not one that existed outside of the internet. Not one I could touch or kiss or hold hands with. Making the leap from crush to conversation is just too much for me. I blame my brain.
‘How did you meet him?’ I ask. If Karam is taking six A levels in the hope of becoming a doctor, it’s unlikely he and Tem will share any classes.
‘He’s the year above us and he runs a voluntary group at the college raising money for refugees and asylum seekers. I went along because I thought I might meet some, you know, like-minded people, or whatever. Seeing as there didn’t seem to be many in my actual classes.’
‘And you did?’
She grins, showing all her teeth. ‘I did.’
Over the next couple of weeks, Rhys and I move past the sort-of-maybe stage of potential friendship and become actual friends. We spend most of our lunch breaks and free periods together, sharing notes and getting to know each other. I find out that he used to run a YouTube channel on video games with his older brother, Aled, before Aled went to university, and that he designed his first game when he was eight – ‘a total Super Mario rip-off’. He teaches me more advanced BSL by signing song lyrics to my favourite songs. He tells me that his dad was born in Guyana, and when I admit that I don’t even know where that is he shows me on Google Maps. I tell him my grandad is from Germany, and he asks me – completely deadpan – if I can point it out to him on the map.
I don’t ever ask him if he has a girlfriend, because I come to realize that I don’t really want to know, mainly because the increasing likelihood that the answer might not be yes, and where the conversation could then go, is just plain terrifying. He’s turning out to be a good friend to have: smart and friendly, with a dry sense of humour and an unflappable nature I can’t help but envy. To be honest, it’s actually kind of a relief not to have to worry about scary things like how to flirt or what I’m wearing or how to arrange my face when I see him. We’re just friends.