We kiss again. And again. And then the kissing continues in a southbound direction. And then I take Rainbow’s top off and unbutton my jeans.
Adulthood, you can wait, I think, a warm feeling spreading up my chest. I’m good right here.
THE NEAREST I’LL GET TO WIMBLEDON
I think about Fez’s request/outright threat a little more that night and decide I better bite the bullet and make an attempt to get it over and done with before exams. So I make the call he instructed me to make and I meet Kyle Craig, one of his contacts, outside school the next day. He’s a couple of years older than me but because he has the personality of an excitable child, I always feel like he’s my age. We know each other from scouts, when we were kids, and from Ritzies pretty much every Friday, so he grins sheepishly and slaps me on the back.
“Hiya, dickhead!” Kyle’s a character. A lively little shit, full of enthusiasm for his two interests: contemporary social commentary film and hard-core drug use. He’s irritating as fuck, but he’s the only dealer Fez suggested that I knew I could trust to get me the dirt and keep it clean (i.e., not use half of it, then replace it with talcum powder) and, as always, to deliver a detailed account of the latest releases on Collector’s Edition.
“Y’seen La haine, mate?”
“No, Kyle, what’s that?”
“French film, mate, means ‘The Hate’ in English. Ha. Means ‘The Hate,’ mate. Poet and I don’t know it, right?”
I grimace as Kyle beams and lets us into his home, just next to the college gates.
“ALL RIGHT?” He slams the back door shut.
“ALL RIGHT, DARLING.” Kyle’s mum sits in front of the TV in trackies and Sandford football shirt, glass of wine in hand.
“Hello, my gorgeous mam!” Kyle kisses her cheek and sits on her lap. “How was your day? Fabulous, I hope?”
“Get off, you! Yeah, it was fine, oh hello, Will, how are you?”
“Fine thank you, Mrs. Craig.”
“You still doing well in your exams? Your mam said you were getting all As and Bs.”
“Yeah, still going well,” I lie through my teeth, then pretend to be enthralled by the TV. “Oh, is Downing still playing for Sandford?”
“Yeah, isn’t he lovely?”
“She’d grab his bum any day, wouldn’t y’, Ma?” Kyle walks round the back of the sofa, giving my arm a squeeze. “Stay here, mate.”
I have a good chat with Kyle’s mum while he’s upstairs. We talk about football and her social club.
“Well, Kyle said I should get out and have a life.” She grins. “It’s all right, I suppose. The people are nice.”
Kyle bounds back into the room with vinyls for pupils. “What’s that, Ma, the social?”
“Shut up, you.”
“Did you tell him about Colin?”
“Mr. Earnshaw,” his ma cautions. “No, I didn’t.”
“She’s met a bloke called Colin who fancies her.”
“Shut up! Go and get your mother some wine.”
“It’s down by your feet, ma. He asked her to dinner at the Italiano.” Kyle snorts and mimics Alan Partridge: “Get your glad rags on, love, I’m taking you out on the town!”
“Oh stop it, you annoying child!”
I grin. “I think you should go for it, Mrs. Craig.”
Kyle’s mum put up with his dad hitting her for years. It’s no secret. He left eventually, when Kyle stood up to him.
I saw them all together at the train station, shortly before he moved out. His dad looked like he’d driven Kyle and his mum there, because he wasn’t getting on the train with them, and he kept jingling his car keys, swinging them about in his hand nervously. Clearly Kyle was in a bad mood, not happy about him hanging about, so I didn’t announce my presence. His dad kept trying to make conversation. Kyle was stony eyed, standing puffed up, his chest broader and prouder than his father’s, who seemed small and much older by comparison. His dad was serving him these delicate, almost shy questions, and Kyle slamming back short aggressive responses, little grunts of exertion.
Eventually his dad gave up talking. After a long silence, I heard him clear his throat self-consciously: “Your train’s here.”
The two-carriage pulled into the station and instead of going for a hug or a kiss or even touching hands good-bye, Kyle’s dad stepped away and watched his family board the train, knowing that those niceties, those little expressions of love and affection, were not his to expect. You could see it in his face—he knew he’d lost his son. As I watched him fumble for details of Kyle’s life, the friends he had, a girl he’d talked to, I felt how hopeless and pathetic it all was, and sad too, like his dad was broken and couldn’t, no matter what he did, communicate with Kyle or his mam properly. And I could see in that moment how frustration at this could lead to hitting out at someone. You only hurt the ones you love, right? But then I thought, It’s still his fault. And I stopped feeling sorry for him and said hi to Mike, who I was meeting off the train. Kyle’s dad moved out that week, and when they came back from Scotland he was living in rented accommodation in Langrick.
So maybe Kyle’s mam deserved someone. At the same time though she had put up with it and waited until her kids started to deal with it for her before she spoke out against him. Whenever Kyle was on the receiving end of a smack his mam would say, “It’s nothing to do with me,” and turn up the telly, according to Kyle, who likes to share stories when he’s had a puff. I guess it’s all swings and roundabouts, isn’t it? Your mam or your dad, passive neglect or active abuse, six of one, half a dozen of the other.
Kyle hands me a packet of the white stuff and leans in to me, murmuring. “He didn’t have no methcathinone, but that’s a fuckload of eight balls right there. I’ll need nine hundred quid for that, darling.”
“Cool, have you cut it for me?”
“Yeah, nah probs, sunshine.”
“Great. Don’t mention to Fez that you did though. He wanted me to but I just . . . didn’t know how,” I finish lamely. I peel off most of Fez’s bundle and pocket the hundred left. I’ll tell him it was a grand.
Kyle’s dilated black holes stare blankly at me as he smiles dreamily. He kisses my cheek a little too hornily. “Happy now, gorgeous?”
“Mint, thanks, Kyle.” I press my lips together and nod at the brown paper bag, surprisingly heavy, with a block of the white stuff inside.
“D’you want a drink, Will?”
I stand up. “No thanks, Mrs. Craig, I’ve got to be off really.”
“You’re not gonna stay and help Kyle do his revision? He could get better from studying with a good boy like you.”
“I’m doing an NVQ, Mam, it’s a totally different qualification. He doesn’t know anything about it. Flick’s an academic smarty-pants, not a strong, hands-on lad like me,” Kyle protests as I slip the coke inside my rucksack and grin at his mam.
“Well, yes, but he’s very clever, aren’t you, Will?”
“He’s not bloody trained in construction.”
I grin and wave bye. “Thanks for the stuff, Kyle.”
Kyle turns to me, lapsing from irritation straight back into his stoned young queer voice. “Oh yeah, sure, babe, I’ll see you round right?” He sounds like Stewie off Family Guy.
“Right,” I laugh. “Bye, Mrs. Craig.”
“Bye, Will love, take care, say hi to your mam.”
“Bye.”
THE MERITS OF COKE AND PEPSI
This week we, and by “we” I mean my year but not including me, Ash and Daisy, go on study leave to revise for the impending exams. Usually everyone in my year is let off school in order to prepare to take GCSEs, but the stuck-up school board isn’t letting me, as I missed too many lessons what with skiving to see Rainbow, who, being a year older than me, doesn’t have as many crucial exams or class time this year so can afford to be out of school at hours I can’t. Also, she seems to study when I’m not there, whereas when she’s not there I get stoned and talk about how funny I am to
anyone who’ll listen, so having a boyfriend doesn’t seem to have affected her grades.
It sort of sucks that I don’t get time off like everyone else, but on the plus side it’ll be the holidays soon anyway, even though we’re in school we don’t have anything to do besides memorize the answers to test questions and, as I’ve explained (lied) to many a teacher, I like to do it in my head so it’s pointless writing anything down. Another plus is that it tends to be the lazy, slacker-type teachers who get assigned the lovely task of special-needs surveillance, so we often get away with quite a lot while they sleep, eat or read the paper. It’s surprising how much a broadsheet can shield you from prying eyes. Ironically we are hawk-eyed most by the cross-eyed Ms. White, who seems to see everything while her eyes are turned the opposite way from her head. You’d think that would be a hindrance, but clearly not.
In any case, it’s not all bad, because we get quite a lot of time to turn our attention to pressing philosophical matters, the kind of thing you can only think about when you’re young or unemployed and aren’t worn down by life.
So. Not to incite slander, but I don’t rate Coca-Cola. I discovered this about six months ago. I’d never liked the taste as much as Pepsi and also I’d heard Coke had aspartame in it, which is so carcinogenic (check that polysyllabic monster out) that it’s banned in Japan, so that gave me a weird feeling every time I drank it. I’ve since discovered that’s only the diet variety but I still think fuck it, you can’t be too careful. Don’t want to support a company that would sell potentially harmful shit in a can, particularly if their potentially harmful shit in a can is the stuff I’m drinking. There are three other reasons Coke leaves a bad taste in my mouth (excuse the pun):
1. When we were in primary they put a tooth in a cup of Coke overnight to show us how much sugar there was in it and by the morning, I kid you not, the tooth had gone.
2. Rainbow had a book of companies that had a history of arguably unethical conduct, and it said Coca-Cola, through a circuitous route, invested in the arms trade.
3. It tastes funny. I mean seriously, taste Coca-Cola—I’m not advocating buying it but wait ’til one of your mates buys it and pretend you’re choking or parched—it tastes funky. The aftertaste is like the manufacturer accidentally dropped some Dr Pepper mix in. Just a little bit.
“It tastes,” says Ash after I’ve told her about the aspartame thing and we’re semi-wasted in the geography room, “like cancer.”
“Oh my god it does.” Daisy has started speaking like Paris Hilton. Yesterday lunchtime at the chippie, she was talking about getting a tit lift ’cause she saw a program on a sixteen-year-old who had it done. I tried explaining the program was supposed to show how sad it was, blah blah, all that shit about body image etc., but she just pointed out the girl looked better with bigger tits. Ash agreed. I’d prefer real, small ones to massive plastic porn ones, but maybe that’s just me.
From the school gang it’s just Ash, Daisy and me left. Daisy, bless, is here because she’s thick, and as I said before, she doesn’t do the work. Instead she paints her nails in sparkly blue during class, then lets people finger her at break near the lockers. I, very honestly, skived my way into it plain and simple, and Ash, who surprisingly does all right with grades though she is less intelligent than myself according to all our test scores, tried to get a teacher to touch her up to raise her maths coursework mark, then threw a book at him when he wouldn’t go for it. She got her own back though, inadvertently—he threw a book back at her and was suspended.
“You know what?” says Daisy. “Mine tastes like coconut. That’s weird isn’t it? D’you think they just make it out of anything lying around? Fucking hell!”
“You’ve got the one with the Malibu in.”
“Oh.”
“Dopey dyke.”
“Don’t call me that!” Daisy pouts at me.
“Sorry.” I grin maliciously. I color in the heart I’ve drawn on the wooden table and lounge back in my chair, straightening out my tie and pressing it against my not-unattractive chest, pretending to lick my own nipple and giving Ash a flirtatious wink. I don’t mind school uniform that much. I think I look all right in it. The trouser fabric’s light enough to create a good bulge and the shirt looks quite hot, as if I was besuited. Besuited? I think I’ve just invented a new word. Yeah . . .
So, Coke. Coke not good. And then came Pepsi. I went through a love affair with Pepsi shortly after I denounced Coca-Cola. It’s fizzier, it has a cleaner taste, and it doesn’t give me a headache. Pepsi is awesome. You can stay up all night on it and you will be thinner in the morning, I swear, I think it’s all the caffeine or something. The only thing you get with Pepsi is the burned-out effect, the thin effect, as Bilbo Baggins said, like butter spread over too much bread. Sometimes it fires you up, and sometimes you have two cans and then feel so tired you want to pass out. It’s weird, but I’ll take it over the Coca-Cola headache any day. Interestingly, the French say “coca” instead of “coke,” which I think we should start adopting because a) the word “coke” is often used to refer to the Coca-Cola brand, so then you don’t know if people are referring to the brand or not because loads of places sell their own-brand Coke, and b) because you can mix it up with the powder variety, which is handy for cover when officials are around since you can talk freely about “coke,” but not so handy when you ask for a Coke and someone produces a Baggie and you have to fork up fifty quid because they start whining that they only got it for you, you should keep your promises, dishonesty forces the whole system down the pan, etc. Pushers ain’t called pushers for nothing. So Ash votes Pepsi, and Daisy votes Pepsi to vote the same as me, but then I hit them with: “No, I’ve gone off Pepsi.”
“What? What do you like then?” They lean forward intently. What will I say? What will I do? I’ve spun my argument well and they are captivated.
“I now like, and will only drink, the weak water-plus-mix version you get in cinemas.”
“What? That’s crap!” Ash scoffs.
“That stuff’s rank!” Daisy squeaks.
“And also I prefer the stuff from the cinema in Pepsi, rather than Coke.”
We all speak over one another and a voice lethargically booms from behind the broadsheet at the front of the room. “Alllll quiiiiet in heeeere.”
We each turn back to our open books. Mine says something about Field Marshal Haig, who I realize with a mild unease I’ve never heard of. Whoops.
I wonder if my brother and the lads are going out on Friday. I haven’t seen Tommo in a while, not since him, Rainbow and me went for a browse at Langrick market, which was even before Gav got jumped.
Jamie and Mike I see in town at lunch practically every day, because all they’re doing with their study leave is pissing about on the slotties at the beach and hanging out in the greasy spoon, but I do miss hanging out with Dildo, who is also on study leave but actually studying, and so doesn’t meet us for lunch. I also miss my brother, who is a good mate of Dildo’s himself, and I decide I’ll maybe see them soon and have a few pints. Wet Tee’s baby’s head. She’s having it by the way, word got back to me through Mam, who still keeps in touch with her. Dad doesn’t really like to talk to Teagan. He goes to see her occasionally but it’s obvious he prefers to ignore her and hope she’ll go away. That’s just my dad’s really manly, grown-up, responsible way of dealing with things.
Tommo’s Dad’s favorite I think. Though he likes to tell people down the pub how smart I am (so I’ve heard) and then come home and call me a stupid shite (as I’ve experienced). Takes all sorts I suppose. He’ll not be coming for a pint with me and Tommo. We try and avoid having too much family at our family gatherings, if at all possible. So it’ll be me and Tommo and Dildo and Tee and maybe Nikki. Maybe we’ll go out for a roast on Sunday. The Ship in Osford is great. They do really good roasts for three pound fifty. Really succulent, tender lamb with mashed rutabaga and parsnips done in herbs and olive oil. And gravy. I love roast.
“Flick!” Ash kicks me with her high heel.
“Ow. There’s a fucking reason why high heels aren’t regulation school uniform, know what I mean?”
“Pussy.” She sticks her tongue out to try to tease me with her sexuality. I can see her chewed-up gum so it doesn’t work. “I’ve been whispering at you for the last, like, minute.” She emphasizes “minute” as if it’s a long time. She darts in and bites my ear hard, just to irritate me, and I have to refrain from yelling out and slam my fist on her hand on the desk to get her to fuck off. She sits back, and I give her a dirty look and rub my own hand, which I’ve now hurt.
“Hey, Flick . . .”
I wipe the spit off my lobe with the end of my sleeve.
“Flick . . . Flick—”
“What? For the love of fuck.”
She smirks. “What did you do about the Fez thing?”
I give her a dirtier look. “I had to do it, didn’t I?” Ash leans in. She’s wearing a pink lace bra and I can see the crease of her admittedly very nice caramel-skinned tits as she points them towards me meaningfully. I look away. “Don’t try it, Ash, I’m into Rainbow, okay? She’s my girlfriend.” There is a pause. Ash looks me up and down.
“Where have you got it?”
“Where have I got what?”
“IT.”
“What?”
“It. The stuff.” She gestures to my bag.
“Oh, ah-way, Ash, it’s not in my bleeding rucksack is it? I hid it in my desk at home.”
“Whoa. Shit, what if your parents find the coke?”
“Shhh!”
“Sorry, I mean, the stuff.” She giggles, holding an imaginary gun up in the air and glancing from side to side for the imaginary fuzz. I nudge her sharply.
“They won’t.”
“Can’t believe you still live with your parents,” she mutters mockingly.
“Can’t believe you live in such a fucking hellhole,” I say back darkly, and she blushes a little and turns away, pretending to write something in her notebook.
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