“Is that a German flag on your guitar case?” Noah said.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I am from Germany.”
Noah stared at her while he computed this information, and then stalked back to Mr Baxter, taking him aside again. “She’s German.”
“Yes.”
“But this is a French exchange programme.”
“She lives in France.”
“But she’s German!”
“Yes, well, her parents moved to France from Germany to work. You can ask her all about it yourself.”
“But this is a French exchange trip. They’re meant to be French.”
“They’re all from France.”
Noah glared at Mr Baxter. This was a disaster. He had been promised a French boy who was supposed to have been all poetic and soulful, and ideally just as goddam sexy as Pierre. Pierre Victoire.
“Oh, Noah, stop being ridiculous. Eva knows French too. She’s trilingual. These kids put our own language skills to shame.”
Noah nodded, tight-lipped and furious. If Mr Baxter wasn’t so adult and so teacher, he would have told him exactly what he thought.
Mr Baxter said, “Crack on, kiddo,” and walked off, discussion over.
Noah rolled his eyes and rejoined the group, where Pierre and Harry were talking animatedly. “All right, Harry? Pierre? What’s happening?”
“Pierre was just saying how much he likes pizza and that maybe we could go for some Italian food sometime,” Harry said.
Noah shrugged. “Sure. Pizza’s cool. I like pizza. Love it.”
Harry furrowed his brow. “Last time I suggested it, you said pizza was lazy food, which the Italians had ripped off from the British cheese on toast.”
Noah laughed maniacally. “Don’t be silly, I wouldn’t say that.”
“What’s your favourite topping, Noah?” Pierre said.
“I tend to go tropical,” Noah said. “Ham and pineapple. The classic Hawaiian.”
Pierre chuckled. “You British are so funny with your flavours.”
“What about you, Eva?” Harry asked. “You like pizza?”
Eva sniffed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from her high-waisted jeans pocket. “No. You have a lighter?”
“Oh, no, Eva, no! You can’t do that! Smoking –” Noah frantically did a smoking mime in case Eva didn’t understand “– is not allowed, NOT ALLOWED, on school premises.”
“Cool. You don’t need to shout,” Eva said, shifting her weight on to one incredibly long leg and folding her arms.
“So, there’s lots to look forward to,” Noah said, “including a quiz night on Saturday that I’m in charge of – which is called –” Noah paused to heighten the sense of anticipation “– the Great British Quiz Off !” He looked between the parties. “Ha ha! Right?!”
Pierre and Eva looked blank. Harry nodded and smiled.
“Maybe we can get a coffee?” Pierre suggested, as the bell for class rang.
“Get a coffee? Get a coffee?” Noah said, screwing up his face. “This is a British secondary school; if you want refreshments, we’ll all have to go and have a suck on the water fountain. Hopefully they’ve disinfected it after that Year Eight kid weed in it. This way, people!”
Noah strode off with the others in tow … all except Eva, who grabbed her guitar case and walked in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER
SIX
Noah dallied about at the far end of the pitch, the mirror opposite of where the ball was, and, he was pretty sure, at the greatest possible distance from the action, as the crow flies. He had to appear willing and participate in this ridiculous football match, but why they couldn’t have had a pleasant afternoon doing something like a nature trail instead, he didn’t know. It would have been interesting for the French students to spot British wild flowers and native birds and moss and stuff.
“Grimes!” Ms O’Malley shouted, blowing her whistle at him. “The ball’s over there! Do you need new glasses?!”
“No, I’m in defence!” Noah explained. “I’m a defender!”
“You’re a slacker, that’s what you are! Get stuck in!”
Noah made a half-hearted two-step jog, then looked down. “Oh – my lace is undone!” he said, bending over, untying the lace on his football boot and starting to retie it again, slowly. “I’ll just be a second!”
He needn’t have worried. Ms O’Malley’s attention was drawn by a sudden cheer from the crowd as a majestic Pierre suddenly surged forward with the ball, deftly kicking it around five of Noah’s teammates and gliding across the pitch as if it were ice. Pierre was fast. In no time he’d broken through and left the entire team in his wake, unable to catch up.
And he was heading right towards Noah.
Ms O’Malley blew her whistle again. “Grimes! This is your time to shine!”
Noah had precious moments to develop a strategy. Everyone was watching as Pierre hurtled towards him like a Japanese bullet train … but one that had a really charming grin and surprisingly muscular legs.
“Noah! Noah!” people were shouting.
Shit.
“Get him, Noah!”
Oh God!
“C’mon, Noah!”
Noah swallowed. There was no avoiding this. He set off towards Pierre, charting a course of imminent collision. He looked directly into Pierre’s smouldering eyes as they ran towards each other. Oh God, he was going to be flattened! His delicate bones would be shattered into a million pieces!
Noah crumpled into a heap on the ground, about three metres from Pierre, who simply skipped around him. “Ahhhh!” Noah said, weakly.
The crowd groaned.
Pierre smashed the ball into the net. The French side all cheered.
“For God’s sake, Noah!” someone shouted.
“Frickin’ useless!” a girl screamed.
“You tosser!” said a Year Nine boy, making a wanking gesture with his hand. “He never even touched you!”
“Cramp!” Noah explained to the braying mob, clutching his leg in a vague, non-specific way.
“Bull-shit!” several people chorused, before starting up a chant. “Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit…”
Noah strode up to Ms O’Malley, remembering to limp at the last moment. “They’re chanting at me,” he complained.
Ms O’Malley shrugged. “Don’t like it? Don’t let them down.”
Noah sighed and turned around to see Harry running up to Pierre, laughing and hugging him, congratulating Pierre on his bloody amazing goal.
Hugging him! A hug! They didn’t even know each other three hours ago, and now they were intimately hugging. God only knew what they would be doing by tonight. . . Pierre, sneaking into Harry’s bedroom … and probably:
HARRY: Oh, Pierre, that goal was so good, I can’t stop thinking about it.
PIERRE: I did it for you, Harry.
HARRY: For me?
PIERRE: Yes. And I want to score again.
HARRY: (giggles) Oh … Pierre!
PIERRE: I will bypass all your defences and shoot it into your goal, Harry.
HARRY: Take me in your French arms and French kiss me!
That’s exactly what would happen. Good-looking, gay and great at sport. How could Noah compete? And Harry was clearly loving it … was clearly impressed…
Noah clenched his fists. He would show Harry. He would show everyone. If he put his mind to it, he too could score a goal. He could be just as majestic and … smouldering as Pierre.
Ms O’Malley blew the whistle.
His time was now.
Everything became a blur, except his pin-sharp tunnel vision on the ball. He charged towards it, his legs taking on a life of their own, surging forward with an energy he hitherto didn’t know he had possessed… Just him … and the roar of the crowd as he took possession of the ball, swinging around and breaking through the French team’s centre forwards, his path ahead towards the goal remarkably clear … the crowd cheering … calli
ng his name… Glory would be his… Harry would see he was just as good – nay, better – than Pierre!
He had a clear run at the goal … just a solitary girl standing in his way… Damn her… Why did she have to be there, ruining his chance? No … keep running … gather speed … hurtle towards her … hurtle … and…
He started swirling his arms around like a crazed helicopter … it would be a fearsome sight … she would move out of sheer fear!
Swirling! Hurtling!
Noah sat on the edge of the pitch with his head in his hands as the ambulance crew stretchered the stricken French girl away.
“It’s possibly broken,” a paramedic was saying to Ms O’Malley. “We’ll get her over to the hospital and see what’s what.”
Noah looked up as they loaded the girl into the ambulance, immediately feeling everyone’s eyes flick from the stretcher to him, and burying his face back in his knees.
“Right, everyone!” Ms O’Malley shouted. “Obviously because of certain irresponsible actions –” she caught Noah’s eye just as he snuck a surreptitious glance at her “– the match is over.”
Groans, boos and jeers from the crowd.
“There’s no point in booing. If you’ve got any complaints, speak to Noah Grimes in Year Eleven.” Ms O’Malley hopped in the back of the ambulance, and they slammed the door shut behind her as the vehicle drove off the sports field.
Noah longed for a rock he could crawl under and die.
“Way to go, Noah,” Jess Jackson smirked as she walked by, raising a perfectly manicured middle finger at him. “Pushing an innocent girl to the ground and stamping on her legs. You hero.”
Maybe he could just die next to a rock. Maybe a full-on rock wasn’t necessary. It could be a small piece of gravel. Like the one he was focusing on right now.
“Hello, little white piece of gravel,” Noah muttered. “Is life better as a stone?”
Noah nodded at the stone’s response. “Oh, how I yearn for your simple life, stone. Just doing your thing, year in, year out…”
“You OK, Noah?” said a voice that was ninety-nine per cent definitely Harry.
Noah nodded, still keeping his head buried between his knees.
“OK, well, we’re going to get changed, then, I guess,” Harry said.
“Mm,” Noah muttered, not looking up.
“You coming?”
Noah vaguely shook his head.
“You all right?” Harry said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Sure?”
“Uh-huh.” Noah could feel Harry looking at him.
“Go ahead, I’ll catch you up,” Harry said to someone else.
“OK,” answered a sexy, French-accented voice, as Noah watched a pair of football boots jog off towards the changing rooms.
Harry sat down on the ground, next to Noah. “I’m not sure what the hell you were doing out there,” Harry said.
“Nor am I,” Noah said, finally lifting his head.
“It’s like you were suddenly possessed by some sort of demon. A PE demon. You were crazed.”
Noah sniffed and rubbed his freezing-cold nose. “Yeah.”
Harry put his arm around Noah’s shoulders, pulling him close. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. It’s probably just a sprain – happens in football all the time. Come on. Let’s go and get changed, you’ll freeze out here.”
“Maybe that’s the best thing now.”
“Fine,” Harry said, “then we’ll die together.” He fell backwards, spreading himself out on the ground. “Come, cruel winter! Show me no mercy!”
Noah managed a half smile. Harry looked adorable – rosy cheeked from exercising in the cold and cute in his football kit. It fitted him perfectly, like the person who designed it used Harry for all the measurements. Nothing ever fitted Noah like that. He always felt like his clothes actively hated him. “Anyway,” Noah sighed, “I’ve … got to take all the equipment back to the PE office.”
“You mean the football?”
“That, yes,” Noah said.
Harry sat back up. “Cool, well, I suppose…”
“It’s fine. You go ahead. Go and … get changed with Pierre,” Noah said, trying to keep it light.
Harry looked at him and bit his lip. “What’s the matter? Why are you being weird?”
“Weird? No. I’m not being weird.”
“Do you think I fancy Pierre?”
“WHAT?!” Noah made a good show of spluttering, to highlight how totally ridiculous he thought that statement was.
Harry wiped the spit from his cheek. “Uh-huh. Fine, then.”
“Wait. Do you fancy Pierre?”
“No. I don’t fancy Pierre.”
“It’s just odd that you would say that, just out of the blue like that. That’s all.”
“I don’t fancy Pierre.”
“You don’t fancy Pierre?”
“I don’t fancy Pierre.” Harry rolled his eyes, gave Noah a quick peck, then jumped up and brushed the wet grass off his bottom. “See you in a bit, then,” he said, heading off towards the changing rooms.
Noah watched him go.
Oh my God. Harry fancied Pierre.
Noah pushed the door of Ms O’Malley’s disgusting PE office open and was immediately hit by the sour stench of musty socks, sweat and humiliation. He looked around: how was it possible that so much misery-inducing stuff could be in one room?
There in the corner was the javelin some bigger boys had once forcibly inserted down through a leg of his PE shorts, spearing him into the ground, so he couldn’t move. Those Year Sevens who found him during the next band had pissed themselves laughing.
Oh, and there was the rugby ball that once accidentally ended up in his hands during a lesson, prompting some bigger boys to charge at him, tackling him to the ground and piling on top of him, writhing around like the big, hairy, muscular beasts they were, pressing against him, grinding into him… Yes, it was terrible… Just terrible…
He plonked the wretched football down in the middle of Ms O’Malley’s desk.
Why does Ms O’Malley even need a desk? he wondered. What paperwork could she have to do? Lesson plans? What would they possibly contain? He let his eyes sweep over the papers – not being nosy or anything, it was definitely more to check the football wasn’t damaging anything important…
Oh!
What juiciness was this, poking out from under a folder? He gently pulled the paper out: a money transfer confirmation … direct to “Ms B O’Malley’s” bank account … for ten thousand Great British pounds … from someone in Russia!
Noah stared hard at the paper, knowing it was none of his business but massively intrigued. What could this possibly be about? Large sums of money! From Russia! Since when was that ever a good thing?
“Oh, you bad boy.”
Noah froze and looked up. Shit. Busted.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
“I was putting the football away!” Noah bleated.
Eric shook his head. “Shit, man, you are such a bad liar.”
“No. Not a liar. Truth teller,” Noah said, eyes wide in panic.
Eric snorted and ambled into the office, glancing around at everything like a detective walking into a murder scene. “You’re behind her desk when you don’t need to be, and you’ve got a piece of paper in your hand. What is that?”
“Paper?” said Noah, looking at the paper he was holding. “Oh, this? This paper? Oh, no, I was just … moving this paper so I could put the football there. It was in the way, is all.” Noah put the paper back on the desk. “There we go. It’s back now. I’ve no idea what it was about anyway.”
Eric smiled. “She’s got secrets.”
“Oh?” Noah said.
“I think you’ve just found one, haven’t you?”
Noah shrugged. “No, because I didn’t look at the paper.”
“How do you know I was meaning the paper?”
“I … didn’t. It was a guess.”
Eric scratched his mop of greasy black hair as if he had some sort of infestation. Noah wrinkled his nose. The boy had a permanently red and sweaty face – probably because he was constantly thinking about sex and depraved things, Noah considered.
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, actually.” Eric perched on the edge of Ms O’Malley’s desk, his tight trousers riding up his legs to reveal his dirty white socks and pale ankles. Shit, he was brave. They totally shouldn’t be in here, casually sitting about, chatting. If they were found – trouble!
Noah swallowed. “Should we not talk later, like, at home?”
“Nah.”
“Why not?”
“This is about home.”
“OK.” Noah’s heart rate increased. Eric’s half-brother status was still a secret, known only to a small handful of people. Apart from wanting to avoid the gossip, their father had decided it was best not to incur the wrath of the guy who thought he was Eric’s biological dad – Mad Dog Razor Jaws Smith. “Keep it on the down-low, ’cause if Mad Dog finds out the truth, we’re all for the mincer,” Dad had said, giving Noah visions of their lifeless bodies being fed into some huge meat-processing contraption. Considering how terrifying and dangerous Mad Dog Smith was, it was probably the wisest thing Noah’s father had ever said. Eric came around from time to time, but infrequently enough that it didn’t raise any suspicions from Mad Dog, who didn’t keep careful tabs on Eric anyway.
“I’ve been hearing some stuff,” Eric sniffed. “Little things between our dad and your mum. I reckon there’s troubles.”
“Relationship troubles?” said Noah, hopefully.
Eric shook his head. “Money.”
“How … how bad? What sort of thing?”
“A letter came,” Eric said. “Bailiffs.”
“What do they want?”
Eric gave a little chuckle. “Oh, you know, just asking how everyone was, telling us about their trip to Barbados over the summer.” Eric’s face dropped into a frown. “Money, dickhead. And if they don’t get it, they’ll take stuff instead.”
Noah’s mouth dropped open. “Like my computer?!”
“Sure.” Eric shrugged.
“My complete Agatha Christie collection?”
Eric looked more doubtful.
Noah ran his hands through his hair. “How much do they want?”
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