Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"So, it's you?"

He'd rounded the corner without me realizing and caught me red-handed, pencil poised in the copy ofWildflowers.

"I hoped it'd be you." Dan smiled at me.

"And … it's you?" I replied.

He nodded. "Never in a million years did I dare to hope the boy I loved having lunch with, but who I was too scared to ask out, would be the same boy I was getting on so well with in the pages of that book." He held his hand out.

And I took it.

"Hello, Jamie."

"Hello, Dan."

Look, I was a writer. I was just playing around with ideas, situations and possibilities. It was artistic expression. It didn't mean anything. Authors don't have to be like the characters in their books. They don't have to agree with them.

I slammed my notebook shut in frustration and hid it back away. What felt easy and beautiful in fiction was scary and ugly in real life. I could have written it down, dismissed it as a creative work, but carrying on in the pages of the book, with a boy who might potentially fancy me, felt like really admitting something.

Who was I to tell anyone else to be real?

I wasn't real. I didn't know what I was, but I had this nagging feeling I might be a phoney.

Holden would hate me.

Days went by without me looking at the book, and I was grateful for more ball-related dramas to keep my mind off it.

INT. THE LOUNGE. AFTERNOON

Jamie Hampton is on the phone, waiting anxiously for his father to pick up. So far it has rung fifty times. Maybe he's in the shower? On ring fifty-three, and just as Jamie is about to hang up, there's a click…

DAD:Yeah?

JAMIE:Dad? It's me. Jamie!

DAD:(Groaning) Jay. I was asleep.

JAMIE:It's four p.m.!

DAD:I'm working nights.

JAMIE:Oh. Sorry. Um… just quickly, have you heard anything from Speak No Monkey?

DAD:What?

JAMIE:For the ball? You spoke to their manager.

DAD:…

JAMIE:About them playing?

DAD:…

JAMIE:At the ball? The ball I'm organizing at school?

DAD:Oh. Yeah. Haven't they been in touch yet?

JAMIE:No, and I really need—

DAD:You wrote the letter?

JAMIE:Yeah, I wrote the letter, but—

DAD:All right. I'll try to give him another ring. OK? You OK?

JAMIE:Yeah, but—

DAD:We'll catch up later, OK?

JAMIE:OK.

Shit.

And then…

INT. SIXTH FORM COMMON ROOM. DAY

Adam looks mournful and preoccupied, sitting by himself in his rugby kit.

"What's the matter with you?" I asked.

He glanced up to check the coast was clear and indicated for me to sit down next to him. "Debbie says I shouldn't have asked the rugby club about providing security. She says everyone's now complaining they won't be able to smuggle alcohol in, and that's more of a problem than some threat of being gate-crashed."

"I don't want to know. I promised Mrs Prenton there wouldn't be any alcohol."

Adam shrugged. "There won't be. Officially. You can't be held responsible for what other people do."

I put my head in my hands. "Oh god."

He nudged my shoulder with his. "Cheer up. We're in this together. Debbie says there's a fine line between safety and over-policing, which would be intimidating, so she's sorting it all out now." He sighed. "Adam messes up again."

"You didn't mess up. It was a good idea."

He smiled sadly, like he didn't believe me, and then Debbie came in, and a few of the other rugby lads, and he perked up and was his usual jolly self again.

Maybe I wasn't the only one not being real. Or not being able to. Other people's expectations crush us all a little bit, don't they?

Zara made a beeline for Debbie, Adam and me as soon as she walked in. "I'd like to buy a ball ticket!" she chirped.

The fact she "chirped" was significant. Zara didn't chirp. She was never normally this happy, so I knew something was afoot.

"A couple's ticket," she added loudly.

So, OK, we went through the transaction, I got my book of tickets out, I tore one off, she handed me a cheque for the correct amount and just as I reached to take it, she snatched it back a bit.

"Oh, just one thing," she said. "It's fine if the person I bring is another girl, isn't it? Same-sex couples are allowed?"

I froze.

And the whole common room froze with me.

Some eyes on me. (How would I react?)

Some eyes on her. ("So, she really is a lesbian?!")

She was eyeballing me, challenging me. My expectation was that people would bring a date of the opposite sex on a couple's ticket, because … that's what always happened. Nobody had ever turned up anywhere with a same-sex boyfriend or girlfriend. It just wasn't a thing. And even though, in the wilds of my imagination, I'd been picturing something similar, that was where that idea was going to stay. Of course it was. How could it be any different?

Debbie took control. "The ball isn't really the time to get political."

"Political?!" Zara replied. "I'm asking about taking someone to the ball, how's that political?"

"It's making a statement," Debbie said.

"What? That I like someone? Isn't everyone making that statement if they take a date?"

"Most people disagree with same-sex couples, Zara. It'll make everyone uncomfortable."

Zara laughed scornfully. "You must be joking?"

"What do you think, Jamie?" Debbie said.

Then it was all eyes on me. The ball president.

The

final

word.

But what was I to say? What could I say? I was scared of Zara; she was bold and brave and she told it like it was, no shame, no fear, she was real. I agreed with what she was saying.

But I also knew how people would feel about it, but then … how would it even affect them, anyway? Like if I went with a boy … except, I wouldn't … and if I supported Zara, then people would make assumptions. They would say I agreed to it because…

So, coward that I was, I took the easy way out. "I think we need to discuss this with Mrs Prenton."

Cut to: Mrs Prenton's office. Debbie, Adam and me sitting in front of her desk. I feel tiny with Mrs Prenton looming over us, like one of those cinema shots taken from a low angle to make her seem larger and more intimidating.

I haltingly explained the situation.

Mrs Prenton's face gave nothing away. She waited for me to finish. She gave it a moment to make sure I had. Then, without hesitation:

"No."

"That's what we thought," I babbled. "We just wanted to check."

"I'm surprised you even had to ask me, Jamie," Mrs Prenton said. "I thought I'd made it clear to you that the ball could only go ahead if you gave me your assurance there wouldn't be any scandal?"

"You did. I'm sorry."

"What next? Pupils asking to bring their pet horse to the ball?"

I took a sharp intake of breath at that. I couldn't help it. It was like a gut punch. "I know. Sorry, miss."

She indicated for us to go.

"Why did you say we wanted to check?" Debbie said, as we walked along the corridor. "I thought I'd made my position clear?"

"I just thought we needed to be sure."

"What's there to be sure about?!" she howled.

"Aw, come on, Debs," Adam said. "It's not that bad, is it? Zara bringing some other girl?"

Debbie stopped in her tracks. "Are you serious? My dad is sponsoring this. He's not going to want his money associated with some sort of lesbian festival. He's got his reputation to think about. You're so naive."

She stormed off, Adam in pursuit, offering apologies and clarifications.

Me? I just stood there. People swirling around me in the corridor while I stared into the middle distance.

Disgust.

That's what I felt. I had done the wrong thing, when, in my heart, I had known what was right, even if "right" was something everyone else thought was wrong.

Zara was only being real.

In the pages of the book, Mystery Boy was only being real.

I'd let them both down because I was afraid of real.

But right then, that was all I wanted.

I wanted real.

I turned and headed to the library, pushing through the doors and heading straight over to the book, not even caring who might be looking or watching. I grabbed it off the shelf, flicked it open, and saw his extra note after I hadn't replied for days:

Sorry. I scared you off, didn't I?

Sometimes I feel so lonely, I imagine what it'd be like, just being with someone, another boy, like me. Even if I know, in my heart, it would never happen.

Please don't disappear.

Fuck it. Time to be real. I grabbed my pencil and scribbled back:

Meet me.