Jack nodded. “Don’t keep me waiting, Noah.”
Noah nodded back, manically. “Bye, Jack, I love you… I mean, bye lovely Jack, it’s been lovely, and I love this chat … you’re lovely.”
Jack sauntered off down the corridor and Harry turned to him. “What the hell is going on?”
“How do you know anything is going on?” Noah said, smiling weakly.
“I’ll tell you how,” Harry said. “Because whenever you get nervous and are clearly bricking it, you start to shuffle about on your feet, like you need a wee or something.”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“I don’t need a wee though.”
“But you are bricking it. So that’s how I know it’s time to come to your rescue.”
Noah blushed. Harry was his hero. But he wasn’t about to admit what was going on to him. Embroiled in a pyramid scheme with a Year Seven? Harry would definitely think it ridiculous. “Everything is cool, Harry.” Noah blinked. “Everything is cool and under complete control.” He blew out a breath. “Haz, I’m just going to pop to the boys’ toilets, but not because I need a wee, I’m going for other reasons, um… No, not to… I’m just going to hang out there… No, not that either, huh. Um, I’m going there to … literally, I just need some tissue to blow my nose. So. That’s why. I’ll join you in the canteen – save me a spot.”
“OK,” Harry said, looking at him with narrowed eyes.
“What? Nothing’s weird, everything’s normal,” Noah told him.
Noah hurried into the toilets, straight into a cubicle, slammed and locked the door, flipped down the toilet seat and flopped down with his head in his hands. Fuckety fuck fuck. How was he going to sort this mess out? And then, just as quickly, he shook his head. What the hell was he doing? Hiding in the toilets, in turmoil, because of some stupid kid in Year Seven? No. Oh no. Noah could sort this out. He’d just tell Jack Hooper straight. Something cool. Something like, “Sorry, bro: no dice,” whatever the hell that meant. He wouldn’t be a victim. Not with Jack, not with Pierre…
He heard the bathroom door open, and the sound of footsteps making their way into the cubicle next to him.
“Yes, yes, I can talk,” said a hushed voice. “I am alone, yes.”
Noah froze. That voice had an unmistakable sophisticated French twang to it.
That voice … belonged to Pierre, clearly already back from Fun Kingdom.
Noah knew that a hushed tone and a declaration of being “alone” almost always meant bad stuff was afoot. He stood motionless, breathing shallow, waiting for more … waiting for—
Noah put the thought out of his mind. Pierre wouldn’t be on the phone to Harry. He couldn’t be. It just wouldn’t happen…
“Uh-huh, oui, oui,” Pierre was saying.
Noah narrowed his eyes. Come on, say something useful!
“Ah, yes!” Pierre laughed. “And it is better if people do not see!”
Noah held his breath. Something secret. Something people must not see.
“Is fine, I come to the shed at nine tonight. Yes, by the side of the kitchens, I know the one.”
Oh my God. There it was. A rendezvous. It was there for the taking – and at nine tonight, the truth would be revealed.
Noah heard the toilet flush (had Pierre been speaking to someone whilst sitting on the lavatory? Disgusting! Unhygienic!) and the adjacent cubicle door open. Pierre started humming a jolly tune as Noah heard him step towards where the sinks were.
Noah waited for the sound of the tap to finish running and the piss-poor hand dryer to finish emitting its wheezing while the worst scenarios were playing out in his mind…
Noah squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. No, no, no! Get a bloody grip! He was being paranoid and silly.
But there was also a sick heaviness in his stomach.
He wished he could talk to Harry about his fears, but wouldn’t that make him sound weird? High maintenance? Insecure?
But then, in a relationship, talking was important. Vital, in fact. He’d seen a programme when he was off sick at the end of last term, about couples sorting out their relationship crisis by going on an outward-bound weekend, building a raft together and talking.
Screw the raft building, but talking he could probably manage.
He was going to talk to Harry.
Yes! They would talk!
Noah took a deep breath and bounced out of the cubicle, scrubbing his hands at the sink because he would be COVERED IN FOUL GERMS from the vile cubicle and he didn’t want a nasty bout of CHOLERA.
This would all be fine. He too hummed a happy tune to himself (“MMMBop” by Hanson) as he turned the tap off with his elbow and held his hands under the tepid air blower.
“Gonna be much longer?” asked Eric Smith, suddenly materializing by Noah’s side with dripping hands.
Noah jumped, then glanced over his shoulder to check they were alone. “Eric, I’ve got a question for you. What’s your assessment of Pierre?”
“My assessment is he’s up to something at nine p.m. tonight,” Eric grinned. “I was in the other cubicle.”
“What do you suppose it is?”
Eric shrugged. “Frying bigger fish right now, Noah. That’s one you’re gonna have to work out yourself.”
“You mean you don’t know? Not losing your touch, are you, Eric?”
“How much longer you gonna be?”
“It’s not my fault, Eric! This drying contraption is futile. My hands are still quite damp, I’m afraid. I won’t be rushed.”
“Screw this,” Eric said, wiping his hands down his trousers instead. “I’ll tell you this, though – that quiz night you’re arranging for the exchange students?”
“My Great British Quiz Off, you mean?” Noah said. “You didn’t hear it from me, but there’s a whole section on the musicals of Andrew Lloyd Webber!”
“Uh, great. Well, I overheard Pierre and Harry talking, and they’re planning on doing something else.”
Noah dropped his hands and stared at Eric.
“Yeah,” Eric said. “I just heard it, is all. Don’t know why, don’t know what else they got planned. I’m just telling you. And I ain’t got no agenda ’cause we’re— Noah? You OK?”
Noah stared hard at the brick wall in front of him, breathing, his blood coming up past a simmer to a violent boil. “Bastard!” Noah hissed, suddenly pushing past Eric and charging out of the toilets.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Noah homed in on Harry and Pierre sitting in the corner of the dining hall, apparently enjoying some sort of cosmopolitan French stew that the canteen had made in honour of their visitors from France. Oh, sure, for them the kitchen can source saffron and langoustines, but the minute they bid us adieu it’ll be back to square pizza with baked beans and bananas with pink custard!
Noah slid into a chair opposite the pair of them. “Hello, Harry. Pierre.”
“All right, Noah?” Harry said, mopping up his stew with some of the French baguette the canteen had also somehow magically been able to bake. “This isn’t bad, actually.”
“Really.” Noah nodded. “How interesting. So, a little bird tells me you are planning on not coming to my Great British Quiz Off, even though it has taken me weeks to prepare the questions. But you’re not coming, so that’s fine, don’t worry about it.”
Harry looked up from his bowl. “Ah, well, I was going to talk to you about this, see—”
Noah held his hand up. “No matter, Harry. No matter. You’ll miss the British nuclear power-station visuals I put together on PowerPoint, that’s all. But that’s fine.”
“Pierre was just really wanting to go clubbing, and the only day is Saturday, that’s the thing,” Harry said.
Noah stared at him, unblinking. “What?!”
“Clubbing?” Harry repeated.
Noah’s eyes nearly popped out. “Oh, sure, clubbing at our age. I mean, what next? Crack cocaine and MBMA?!”
“MDMA.�
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“You even know the lingo!” Noah gasped.
“Look, relax, it’s a nappy night.”
“Nappy night?! Nappy night?!” Noah spluttered. “What the hell even are these words you’re saying?! Is that a depraved fetish thing?”
“No,” Harry said, patiently. “It’s a night for under eighteens that they run once a month at Sindy’s in Lincoln. It’s just, this month, it happens to clash with the quiz night on Saturday. I mean, what I was going to say is that quite a few people are saying they’re going to the club, so maybe it would be best to rearrange the quiz?”
Noah took an unsteady breath. “So, what you’re now telling me, at the eleventh hour, is that everyone is sodding off to some training pants night at some shitty club in Lincoln? And nobody thought to let me know so I could rearrange the quiz in reasonable time? Great. That’s just great. You know what? Maybe I’ll just burn the quiz. If no one’s interested and no one wants to bother coming. It’s taken me days, nay, weeks, but I’ll burn it. Burn the quiz down.”
Harry gave Noah a hopeful smile. “Come! It’ll be fun!”
“No, I don’t think so,” Noah sniffed. “Besides, I’ve nothing to wear and I don’t like gyrating on sticky dance floors, you know that.”
“Well, that’s fine,” Harry said. “I mean, normally I wouldn’t either, but—” He cocked his head towards Pierre. “And maybe Eva would like to come? We do kind of have to entertain them.”
“Entertainment had been arranged,” Noah said, his eyes darkening. He glanced across to Pierre, who was happily lapping up his stew like Noah’s obvious hurt and distress meant nothing to him. Like nothing in the world was going to change Pierre’s mind about going to the potty night. He would just spoon up his stew, happy as you please, shutting Noah’s humiliation out and acting like he knew he’d get what he wanted because boys like him, all handsome and muscles, always did.
“I can pay for you,” Pierre muttered, not even looking up from his bowl.
Oh my God.
Oh my actual God.
Harry had told Pierre that Noah didn’t have any money.
Harry had shared PRIVATE and BOYFRIEND-ONLY information with a third party!
That was it.
That was a red rag to a bull.
And Noah was more than ready to gore both Pierre and Harry on his word horns.
“You weasels!” Noah snarled, in both their directions. “Bloody little WANK WEASELS!”
Shocked silence in the dining hall.
Noah slammed his chair back so it fell over and stormed out of the canteen.
Harry and Pierre could get married and buy a fitted kitchen for all he cared.
He really didn’t care.
He really, really didn’t.
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
“Noah?! What on earth’s the matter?” his mother said as he stumbled through the front door, engulfed in the tears he’d been holding in since lunchtime.
“Yup hu over hi ween he n Harry!” he sobbed, slumping down on the sofa.
His mother screwed her face up. “What?”
“Babes?” Bambi said.
Noah looked up through tear-blurred eyes at Bambi, who was dressed in very short denim shorts, a gingham blouse that was tied at the waist, and a cowboy hat and boots. Noah heaved back tears. “Yup ha … Harry!” he babbled.
His mother shook her head. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
Bambi popped herself next to Noah on the sofa. “Hun?”
Noah edged away from Bambi. “Go … Ha … away.”
“Oh, babes. Bambi’s seen it all. She’s been hurt so many times by men, she’s lost count. She’s had it all: betrayal, lies, infidelity…”
“Herpes?” Noah snarled.
“Hush your mouth, filthy child!” Bambi scolded. “Bambi’s a good girl, and if she can’t be good she always takes protection. Now, you tell her what’s happened.”
Noah wiped the tears from his cheeks. “I think me and Ha … Harry are over. Another boy called Pierre came along and he’s better than me … and … and … and then Jess said she saw them embracing at the cinema and now they’re not coming to my quiz because they want to dance together all night long and … and Pierre’s got a big willy.”
Bambi put an arm across Noah’s shoulders. “And did Harry tell you it was over?”
Noah shrugged. “They’re going to buy an integrated dishwasher and wine cooler, I bet!” And he started crying all over again.
His mother came in and perched on the sofa on the other side of Noah. “We’ll get through this,” she said, placing a hand on Noah’s arm.
Noah snatched his arm away.
“We’ll have a girls’ night in,” his mum suggested. “I’ll run you a bath, and we’ll watch a movie – I’ve got a pirate copy of The Notebook, and we can all have a big old cry!”
“I don’t want a cry!” Noah cried. “I want…” He wiped all the tears from his face with his palms. “I want Harry.”
“Well, OK, of course you do,” his mum murmured. “But here’s the thing, Noah: there are more fish in the sea! We’ll sign you up on a dating app—”
“Mum, I’m sixteen!”
“And don’t forget there’s always Angie Parker’s son, he’s gay and—”
“MUM, HE’S FORTY-EIGHT, OH MY GOD!”
“Jesus Christ, here we go. I was only trying to lighten the mood, Noah! God, it’s just like the Scouts all over again – when you were convinced you weren’t going to be patrol leader – and look what happened!”
Noah looked up sharply. “Yeah! They made me quartermaster!”
“See, a master!” his mum said. “Just as good! That’s my point!”
“It’s not ‘just as good’! Quartermaster is just a glorified dogsbody who has to keep the patrol kit box clean. I spent six months on my knees with a Handi-Vac!”
“Well…” his mother said.
“Well what?” Noah replied.
“Well, don’t you think you should have talked to Harry about all this? Maybe he doesn’t know how you’re feeling?” she said. “You’re a teenager, you’re all emotion and no perspective.”
“What? I’m all perspective! I have so little emotion I’m practically a sociopath!” Noah hissed. “I don’t need to talk to him. It’s perfectly obvious how he feels. He knows how important the Great British Quiz Off was to me, and yet he was prepared to sacrifice all that because of Pierre!”
Bambi nodded. “I suppose actions do speak louder than words.”
Noah burst into tears again.
“Oh dear, there, there,” his mum said. “Do you want Bambi to do the tarot? We could see if fate has a solution for all this?”
“I’m at one with the cards, babe,” Bambi said. “It’s like I have a direct portal to the other side.”
Noah heaved himself up. “I’m getting some air,” he said, stopping at the raised voices emanating from outside the back door. “Who’s that?”
“Oh, your father has surprised Eric with a fishing trip, you know, to bond? Seems Eric isn’t too keen, but he’s just pushing back because he’s scared, Noah. Scared of being hurt again.”
Noah stared at his mum. “Where’s my fishing trip?”
“One, Noah, your dad’s been around more for you than Eric, so they’ve got more catching up to do. And two, is fishing really your thing? I thought you could stay here with me, and we’d do something nice.”
“Oh really, Mother? Like what? Bury you under the patio in several hundred litres of cement?”
His mum smiled. “I know you don’t mean that, Noah, you’re just upset.”
“GAAAHHH!” Noah screamed. Why was she carrying on with this intolerable charade of being a reasonable, understanding mother? Noah didn’t buy it for one second.
There was a knock at the door. Bambi looked around, wild-eyed, and flung herself down on the carpet.
“Get that, would you, Noah?” his mum whispered.
“You get it!”
“If it’s someone calling herself Mi-Chelle Sea Shells, tell her I’m not here, you’ve never heard of me!” Bambi hissed. “And get rid of her pronto – I’m doing a gig at the Red Lion tonight to try out some new material for London. I need to get on!”
Noah shook his head. What the hell was Bambi involved in to warrant this sort of reaction? How bad could a business disagreement between a few drag queens get? He walked through to the little hall and opened the front door.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
“I come to say sorry,” Pierre said, leaning against the door frame.
Noah crossed his arms and shrugged. “Fine.”
“You have been crying.”
“No,” Noah lied. “That’s not true, it’s just my early-onset hay fever.”
“I say a thing that upset you, I am sorry for that.”
“Fine.” Noah shrugged.
“We got off together …”
“What?!”
“… on a bad start. So, let us go out to the park.”
“Why, but it’s nearly four o’ clock! It’s getting dark, and I have to do homework.”
“No. We go to the park and I apologize.”
“Did Harry put you up to this?”
Pierre shook his head. “I told him, and he thinks it is a good idea.”
“I see.”
“I have treats!” Pierre said, indicating a large wicker picnic basket on the ground next to him. “We should be friends. Come.”
Noah hesitated, painfully aware that even if the picnic basket contained dog shit and barbed wire, it would still be more palatable than whatever his mother was planning on cooking tonight.
Noah grabbed his coat. “Yeah, come on, let’s go.”
The park was deserted. Why wouldn’t it be? It was a chilly, and increasingly dark, January weekday afternoon. Noah was beginning to wish he’d worn his thermal vest. He could only hope that Pierre had the foresight to bring a thermos of tea – or anything, really, just to stave off hypothermia.
“Here looks good,” Pierre said, setting the picnic hamper down on a patch of grass near one of the larger oak trees.
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