I glance at him, and his eyes say it all. His job. His best mate. Of course he knows how it feels, and I know he’s had it worse than I have, even though, right now, I feel like I’m going through absolute hell. “I know, Dad. It’s just … how do you carry on? When you feel this empty, and stupid, and … how do you do it?”
He shrugs. “One minute at a time. You take it minute by minute. And then hour by hour. And you try to spend time with people who love you.” He clears his throat. “If you feel like it, get a change of scene. A holiday, perhaps…”
I was buying it, but now it feels like this is heading somewhere. “Right.” I sniff and wipe my eyes with my hands. “Well, I’m not going on holiday, so.”
“Or, you are.”
I look at him. “No.”
“OK, so you remember my mate Clint?”
“The hippy?”
“He just doesn’t have the internet, Nate. That doesn’t make him a hippy.”
I shake my head. “He doesn’t have the internet.”
“Anyway, he’s got this old VW camper van, and he said I can borrow it over the summer.”
“Great. What are you planning on doing with it?” Because, no, I’m absolutely not doing this. Being in a camper van with my family for the summer was not in the plan. The plan was, I don’t know, skipping through meadows with Tariq, laughing, rolling in the hay and kissing. I won’t be doing that now, so maybe I’ll just paint my bedroom black and devote my summer to worshipping Satan instead.
“I’m just thinking, let’s keep it free and easy. Go some places, see some things, we’ll take tents to camp, maybe do a bit of Airbnb some nights, the odd hotel if we can afford it.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “I mean, your mum is adamant there should be some structure to this – you know, she’s a teacher, she likes plans – so a trip to London’s on the list, plus some outward bound centre—”
“Well, that sounds horrible.”
“I know, mate, but it’s exercise, isn’t it? You do PE.”
“I really don’t, Dad. But sure.” I sniff again. “I’ll think about it.” The soft rejection. I can’t deal with this right now.
He squeezes my knee. “You do that. Might be just what you need to take your mind off things. Now, that big, gaping void you feel like you have inside of you?”
I let out a long sigh. “Yeah, I know. Say something about there being more fish in the sea. Dismiss my pain as teenage drama. Go ahead.”
“Yeah, I’m not gonna do that, but it’s also caused by not eating anything all day.”
“Ohhhh, funny, you are funny, Dad.”
“Deliveroo are bringing Japanese food in approximately T-minus twenty minutes.”
“Kat—”
“Katsu curry, yes, for you.” He smirks at me. “You smiled. Good.” He stands and walks to the door, then stops and turns back. “When did you last have a shower?”
“Oh, sorry, do I stink?”
Dad cocks his head and grins at me.
“I’ll sort it out.”
He nods and closes my bedroom door.
And then I spot the red rose that I was going to give Tariq after my announcement last night, and I start crying all over again.
When I finally feel ready to appear downstairs, I’m greeted by the sight of Mum hurriedly doing her make-up in the hall mirror.
I’m assuming this isn’t for the benefit of the Deliveroo guy. “What’s going on?” I ask her.
“How dare this Tariq boy treat you like this!” she says, aggressively applying lipstick.
So Dad has told her everything. I shrug. “Yeah, well.”
“Yeah, well, unacceptable!” Mum replies. “I’m going round to see his parents – see what they have to say for themselves and their badly behaved child!”
My eyes widen. “You don’t know where they live!”
“Fifteen, Willow Crescent. Linda at number fifty-five told me.”
I fling myself across the front door. “Mum! No!”
She throws the lipstick in her bag and turns to me. “I’m going to give that boy a piece of my mind!”
“No, no, no, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am,” Mum insists. “Who does he think he is? Cheating on you!”
“Mum, we’re sixteen, this is isn’t the sort of—”
“No one’s got any class nowadays. Know who I blame? The Kardashians.” She advances towards the front door and my flimsy teen boy barricade. “Shift.”
I brace myself against the edges of the door frame. “Mum, I beg you, just leave it, please.”
“I’m really angry, Nate!”
“I know, I know you are, so am I. We’re all angry, but this will only make things a thousand times worse for me. I can’t have my mum turning up at boys’ houses every time one upsets me. Besides, if you did, that would literally be your full-time job.”
She looks me in the eye and sighs. “You’re so much better than that little toad.”
“Thanks.”
She takes a deep breath, glances over her shoulder, then lowers her voice. “Nate? It’s totally fine, there’s no shame, and we can even go to one in another town, but do you think it might be an idea to visit the STI clinic? Just in case?”
I stare at her, eyes wide.
“We can’t be sure how many other boys he’s—”
I shake my head vigorously, trying to make some words come out. “We haven’t! I told you that last night! No. It’s fine. Really. There’s literally no chance.”
Mum nods. “So, there’s nothing—”
I say it quickly because it’s the best way to get it over with. “We never did anything that would risk me catching an STI. We literally only kissed and held hands, OK, god, I just want to die.”
“OK,” Mum says to her wholesome, pure, virgin son.
“So can we just leave it? Just stay here. I don’t want you talking to Tariq or his parents.”
Mum nods, smoothing a bit of my hair down. “Your phone’s been bleeping a lot.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s on the kitchen table.”
“I know.”
“And Rose wants to see you in the garden.”
“Why? What’s she doing?”
“Burying Tariq in a shallow grave.”
“Huh,” I say, shaking my head as I walk through to the kitchen. I pick my phone up and scroll through the barrage of messages. There are various ones of increasing concern and hysteria from Alfie, Connie and Luke, so I fire back a few quick texts saying I’m OK (which is a lie) and that I’ll “message them properly later” (which is also, probably, a lie). There’s a message from Jack too.
Hey. I’m sorry about everything. Hope you’re OK. Here if you want to talk. J x
I nearly laugh at the very idea he thinks he’s someone I want to talk to right now. No surprises that Jack is at the epicentre of this massive scandal. I’ve also got ten missed calls from him. I bet he’s lapping up all the drama.
And then there’s Tariq:
I’m so sorry, Nate.
I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t mean to hurt you. Really want to talk.
Nate?
I really messed up. I’m sorry. Understand if you don’t want to see or talk to me again. But hope you might give me a chance to explain.
I feel myself start to well up again, because however angry I am, however much I hate Tariq, the gentleness in his messages is why I loved him so much to start with. And what’s all this about wanting to “explain”? That sounds like it’s not straightforward, but why? Was Tariq somehow seduced by Dylan? Did something happen which he immediately regretted? Maybe Tariq made a mistake, and was trying to find a way to break it off with Dylan and then come clean to me, but the whole thing… Uh. Not now. I can’t do this now. I put my phone back on the table, face down, and head out of the back door to see what Rose wants.
Rose has dug a small hole in one of the flowerbeds that doesn’t have any flowers in it because this is the back garden, and most o
f the neighbours only ever see the front, which, literally, rivals Kew. There’s an Action Man figure on the lawn, which I assume is meant to be Tariq. Not accurate, he’s not that toned, but anyway. It’s kind of sweet of Rose, if you discount the weird voodoo doll element to this, and the fact her first thought was to kill Tariq – you know, she’s looking out for me, she’s loyal … but then she raises the huge spade she’s been using (which she’s only a little bit taller than) and brings it crashing down on Tariq’s – I mean, Action Man’s – torso, slicing him clean in half.
And now all I can see is me on one of those tacky documentaries in a few years’ time, called When Cute Kids Go Bad.
And as she kicks the two halves into the hole, haphazardly shovels on some soil and sings, “Goodbye, Tariq!” I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or scream.
And then I remember what day it is tomorrow and I’m very nearly sick right there and then.
CHAPTER SEVEN
JACK
“Jack?” my mother shouts up the stairs. “You’d better be up and dressed!”
I do not reply.
I’m boiling over with rage.
Dylan the Judas has set up his own Instagram account.
That would be the same Dylan who hates social media. Or, at least, that’s what he’s always told me, but since everything about him is apparently a lie, maybe that was too.
And the abominable twink hasn’t just posted some predictable pic of a cappuccino on a wooden table – oh, no. He’s posted a picture of him and Tariq, holding hands, but looking mournful. The caption is so appalling I want to exterminate him:
We know we didn’t handle things right. We know we’ve hurt people we cared about, and for that we’re sorry. But life is about making mistakes and learning. It’s also about loving, and with each other’s love we both hope to grow.
I can’t even look at the hashtags because the caption is bad enough. Anything else is going to make me smash my phone to bits.
It has already been liked by one hundred people.
He already has five hundred followers.
How has he managed to make this all about him when I’m the one who has been shafted?
I am not going to let him play this game. He is not going to come out of this looking good. I take a selfie. Not one of my usual ones where I look fabulous, well groomed, with flattering lighting. My hair’s a mess, my eyes are red. I look wrecked.
It’s perfect.
No witty caption. No hashtags. Just plain and simple:
Gave everything. Wasn’t enough.
It’s maybe a little OTT, but I need it to really capture the sense of what Dylan has done. I’m not as upset as the post implies. I haven’t got to that stage yet. I’m still blinded by white-hot anger towards both of them – partly at their disgusting duplicity, partly because Dylan hasn’t even bothered to so much as message to express a modicum of regret about what has happened, and partly because they have completely humiliated me in front of the whole year. Should I have seen it coming? I think I’d put Dylan’s coldness down to exam stress, or something – everyone went weird around GCSEs – even me! I’m normally pretty Zen, but even I had a meltdown in a bookshop when they’d sold out of a revision guide I was looking for. My point is, you have to give people some slack around exam time. I assumed Dylan was under pressure, and all would be well afterwards and we’d have a great summer Instagramming our love. It didn’t cross my trusting mind that he was “Netflix and chilling” with Tariq. I tried messaging Nate. Would have been good to talk to someone who understood. He didn’t reply. Which is not a surprise.
Mum slams in through my bedroom door, all dressed up in her office outfit. “You’re supposed to be there for nine.”
“I can’t go. I’m sick.”
“You’re going. It’s compulsory if you want to do A levels there next year.”
“Mum, I am literally sick. If you just call the school they’ll understand and waive the compulsory thing.”
Mum smiles at me. “No time, I’m already late. Up to you, Jack, you’re a big boy now, you can take responsibility for your own actions. Call Mrs Carpenter yourself.”
“No, she scares me, she always makes you feel like you’re not sick, just lying.”
“That’ll probably be because you are.”
“OK, just, you need to remember these words when you get the call from A & E saying they’re sorry but there was nothing they could do to save me.”
“I’ll go one better and get them engraved on your headstone.”
She eyeballs me until I can’t take it and have to look away.
“Why do we even need a Sixth Form Orientation Day when I’ve already been at the school for five years? I couldn’t be more orientated if I tried. There is no part of that school I couldn’t orientate myself to.”
“I don’t think that’s what they mean. Get out of bed.” She turns to go, then comes back. “Are you getting a summer job?”
I stare at her. “Oh my god. Just send me down the mines, why don’t you?”
“I was thinking you could do some work experience at my place.”
“Helping criminals get off scot-free?”
“I don’t do that sort of law. It’s commercial and corporate.”
“Oiling the wheels of the capitalist machine so that rich guys can carry on wrecking the world? Mm, I’d love that, Mum, thanks.”
“OK, you’re a dick.”
“Thanks, Mum, love you, bye!”
She shakes her head and leaves.
I turn back to Instagram and check my post. Three likes. Three. Oh my god. Worse, two comments:
Is this the bit where I’m meant to write “You OK hun?”
They’re both clearly sorry, get over it.
If I’d been hoping I might get through this with support from anyone in my year, I was obviously wrong. Clearly, the only thing stopping people from openly hating me these last few months was Dylan. Dylan – the acceptable face of gay because he’s not too gay. He plays football. He’s one of the lads. They tolerated me because they loved him. With him gone, it’s open season, and the school is full of people who cannot wait to see me fall. A very familiar dread creeps back into my stomach. I don’t even know if I’ve got the energy to put on the front any more.
I don’t expect people to love me.
I just wish they didn’t hate me quite so much.
Since we’re classed as sixth formers in potentia now, we don’t have to wear our uniforms for this utterly pointless orientation. But that brings myriad complications. I could opt to really dress up, look really good, as a way of showing that Dylan has not got to me, that I’m strong and powerful and I don’t need a man, especially not a CHEATING one who still hasn’t messaged to express even the tiniest bit of remorse. Or I could dress down, so it doesn’t look like I’m trying too hard, and also to be more in keeping with the Instagram post I stupidly made, so, you know, that doesn’t come across as entirely fake.
I eventually opt for a light pink hoodie with some balloon-fit, light blue jeans and trainers, but owing to the seven complete changes of outfit, it’s five to nine by the time I’m slurping some chocolate milk in the kitchen and Mum calls to see if I’m out of the door yet.
“I’m literally moments from the school gates,” I lie, putting my glass in the dishwasher.
“I can literally hear you putting something in the dishwasher. Get your arse to school!”
Since I can’t get away with it any longer, I head out of the door, and I don’t let the knowing smirks from some kids in the year below break the confident bounce in my step. It’s all for show, because I’m crumbling inside, and it’s a relief when I spot Theo by the entrance to the school, dressed like an estate agent in smart chinos and a slim-fit shirt, like he’s actually taken on board the guidance that sixth formers should dress “business casual”.
“I’ve been messaging you,” he says.
“I’ve needed some space.”
Theo nods. “Pret
ty brutal, how it all happened.”
I sigh. “Yeah.”
“I’m sure…” Theo hesitates for a second. “I know Dylan can be a prick sometimes, but I’m sure he never meant for you to find out like that.”
“OK, I get it, everyone loves Dylan. Dylan can do no wrong.”
Theo goes to say something, but clearly thinks better of it and presses his lips tightly together.
“He cheated on me, Theo. There’s no planet on which that is acceptable.”
“He didn’t mean it to happen like it did,” Theo says.
“But it did, and—” I stop and stare at him. “Have you been speaking to him about this? Did you know about this?”
Theo flicks his eyes to the ground.
“Oh my god,” I say. “You knew.”
“Jack, before you go off on one—”
“Go off on one? You knew and you didn’t tell me? We’re friends! Aren’t we?”
“Dylan and Tariq are my friends too! They asked me not to say anything!”
I nod, my blood turning ice cold. “Oh my god. OK, you made a choice, and you chose them.”
“That’s not what—”
“Well, thanks a lot.”
“Jack, it was up to them to tell you, not me.”
“You knew, and you made an active decision not to tell me. I think that sucks, Theo.”
Theo sighs and glances up at me.
But there is no fucking apology.
I shake my head. “Go. Go inside, you’ll be late.”
“Aren’t you coming?”
“Not with you.”
Theo gives me an understanding nod, goes to say something, doesn’t, then turns and walks off instead.
So, great. I wonder who else knew? I wonder if everyone has just been laughing about me for, what? Days? Weeks? How long has this even been going on for? And what hurts more, in this very second, is that no one seemed to have my back. Theo was happy to look out for Dylan and Tariq, but couldn’t do the same for me.
I cannot walk into that school.
I can’t do it.
Maybe I can enrol at the college instead, do my A levels there. A fresh start where nobody knows me.
I turn around, and there’s Nate, head down, shuffling along the pavement, wearing skinny black jeans and an oversized baggy jumper, like some tragic romcom character, and he’s the only person in the world I want to speak to right now.
Heartbreak Boys Page 5