Chapter 16

Chapter 16

It was the weekend. Don't worry, I won't torment you with two days' worth of filler before we get to the good bit (or what we hope is the good bit, right?). I had to endure thinking of nothing else and winding myself up imagining terrible outcomes, but there's no reason you should too.

Things were not helped by writing an English essay on Saturday about the main themes of Wuthering Heights. Side note to add: the essay was late, it had been due in on Friday. I'd completely forgotten about it, which wasn't like me at all, but the reason was obvious, and, ironically, also the main theme of the book: it was love, wasn't it? Burning, pining love. And the torment of being denied it. I'm not saying that what I had in the margins of Dance on My Grave was love, but how was it possible to feel so much for someone I didn't even know the identity of? I suppose it was just the power of shared experience. Of finally finding what I didn't know I'd even been looking for – a boy like me. (Note to editor: possible title? Would hit harder at the end of a chapter. Oh well.)

The other thing to mention (I'll keep this brief, I promise), was on Sunday. Mum and Keith had gone out to a conference about home-based business opportunities, since we were quite the entrepreneurial family now, and, like they were YUPPIES (Young Urban Professionals – although middle-aged would be more appropriate in their case), the house now had a fax machine and Mum had a pager (two mobile phones would be too expensive), which was constantly hooked to the waist of her jeans. Worried how I would cope left on my own, I called Beth's house, and luckily she was in so she came round. I had promised her we'd watch one of the Police Academy films, but my foggy brain hadn't registered that it was Sunday, so all the shops were shut including Blockbuster.* So that left us with the one film I'd recorded on to VHS when it was on last Christmas. A film I adored (and I think Beth liked too), and that we knew pretty much all the words to.

Labyrinth.

As I watched Bowie's spandex-wrapped perfection gyrating on our 14-inch TV, with his gender-bending glamrock vibe, it occurred to me that the writing may have been on the wall for some time – I just didn't spot it. Had Beth spotted it? Did Beth already know about my sexuality, but was just letting me say something in my own time? Should I tell Beth? Admitting it to myself had been hard enough. Admitting it anonymously in the pages of a book was also hard. But face to face? That felt impossible. But then … it was Beth, my best friend for years, and surely it would be OK? Surely it wouldn't change anything? But could it?

I'd assumed Debbie was a progressive sort. Didn't have her down for being against gay people, but it seemed she was.

The fear came rushing back in. I had a big can of petrol, I'd taken off the cap, and I was about to light a match. There was every chance I was going to blow my world apart.

I didn't have to, I knew that, but hiding is so lonely. And it's hard work.

So, I opted for something tentative. And that's how, during the glittery fever dream of the ball in "As the World Falls Down", I ended up muttering: "Bowie has such magnetism, doesn't he?" and Beth didn't take her eyes off the sumptuous ball on the screen, with all the costumes and masks, she just replied: "Is it his magnetism that you like, or his jaw-droppingly tight pants?*" She glanced at me, held my eyes, smiled, then turned back to the screen, as her hand found mine and she squeezed.

And that was it.

She knew.

And she was OK with it.

Nothing more needed to be said.

She held my hand through to the end credits, me, fizzing and breathless, unable to focus on the rest of the film, even if everything was OK. Just as I'd bent down to press rewind on the VCR she hit me with it:

"Actually, Jay, there was something I wanted to tell you. What's that look for?!" she exclaimed, seeing my stricken face. "It's nothing bad! I'm not … dying or anything!"

When people wanted to "tell" you things, when they had "news", it normally heralded change, and change was something I was having a bit too much of. Anyway…

"There's someone I really like," she said.

"Yeah? Who?"

She smiled coyly, as if remembering just how much she liked him. "Dan."

Close-up: me. Conflict and turmoil. But you wouldn't know it, 'cause I have the biggest fake smile plastered all over my stupid face.

That'll be the end of an episode in the TV adaptation, but let's drive this on to the messy conclusion we're all now expecting.

By the time I was looking at myself in the mirror on Monday morning, I was a mess. Not a physical mess – my god, I was washed and preened and hair waxed to within an inch of my life – but mentally I was wrecked. I didn't know if he was going to show; I didn't know if he'd read the message; I didn't know what I was going to say to him or even what I really wanted out of this. More to the point, I was worried he would be disappointed. That it was me. And maybe, in his head, he'd built his Mystery Boy up to be someone popular and buff and much more handsome than I was.

What then?

"Let's just be friends."

Oh god. How humiliating.

And then, what if it was Dan? What would that mean for me and Beth? Thanks for stabbing me in the back and shattering my heart into a billion pieces, Jamie! How very loyal of you.

Oh god.

Every class that morning was a painful exercise in clock-watching and time going unnaturally slowly, punctuated with a conflicting wish that time would just stop so I could think everything through a bit more.

But those dominoes were falling, inexorably, towards whatever lay at the end.

Economics passed in a blur.

History was just words in no meaningful order.

In English, Ms Wilkins told me she was "disappointed" when she'd discovered I hadn't handed in my essay on Friday (I hope you know how much those words were a blow to someone like me), before moving on to confronting Rob about having blatantly copied his essay straight out of York Notes. Apparently he'd come up with a very specific angle on how Wuthering Heights was actually about loss, not love – too coincidentally the same as the argument made in the study guide. But not even them having a row and Rob telling her to "fuck off" (which landed him straight in detention with Mrs Prenton) was enough to stop me thinking about what lay ahead in just under twenty minutes.

Debbie stopped me as I bolted for the door when the bell rang. "Jamie, they're saying they can't do candy floss and the doughnuts, can you help me and try speaking to them on the phone?"

"OK."

"Great, thanks." She started leading me off.

"Whoa. Not now. I can't."

Debbie scowled at me. "This is important. It has to be confirmed today."

"I could do it … later? I have something."

She sighed in frustration. "Forget it. Adam?"

"I have something too!" he pleaded.

That's when I think my heart stopped.

He met my eyes, looked back at her, saw she was serious, then sighed. "Yeah, OK then, I'll talk to them," he said.

As she marched him down the corridor, he glanced back at me, face mournful. I gave him a small smile.

It couldn't be.

Could it?

It was cold that lunchtime. I remember because I felt it to my bones, sitting on that bench, waiting.

And waiting.

I knew he would come. I knew he'd show up. I felt it.

OK, perhaps he wasn't great at being on time.

Or perhaps he was building himself up to it.

But I knew he would show.

I waited.

And I waited.

I waited all lunchtime.

No one came.

*It wasn't until 26th August 1994 that the Sunday Trading Act finally allowed all shops to legally open on a Sunday. Imagine that!

*This is objectively true whatever your sexuality.