Chapter 20

Chapter 20

I was out of there in a flash. On autopilot, I don't know, I didn't wait, I just charged along, barrelled through the door of the sixth form boys' toilets and slammed open the first cubicle door I got to. "Oh! Sorry! Oh – it's you."

Electra was sitting on the toilet. "It's OK, I'm not peeing; you can come in."

I grimaced and shut the door behind me.

"So. Plenty to dissect there," she said.

I groaned.

"Mrs Prenton wants you to grass up Mrs C, she obviously has her card marked, and if you don't, your mum will be summoned, she'll probably bring Keith because she'll need the moral support, he'll hear everything, you'll be outed as a massive homosexual, your mum will tell your gran who will be appalled – literally, she worshipped the ground Maggie Thatcher walked on – everyone at school will find out, my god, the bullying, it'll be horrific, and there's absolutely no way they'll make you head boy next year now. Leaving all that aside, how do you feel about Rob West being Mystery Boy?!"

I blew out a breath. I wasn't going to think about that at a time like this.

"No, but he's fit, Jamie. He's a fine-looking young man."

Exactly. Too fine. A guy that looks as good as Rob would not be interested in a guy like me. That's really not how things work.

"Well, I think you've landed on your feet! And to think how much worse it could have been – it could have been Jason in some sort of internalized homophobia scenario." She winced. "Ghastly. Plus, Jason has such bad hair. Lank. Absolutely gruesome."

I heard the main door push open and determined footsteps come in, pace around and stop outside the cubicle door. "Jamie? I know you're in there."

"It's Rob!" Electra gasped. "Answer him!"

I didn't want to.

"Talk to him!" she hissed.

And say what?

"We need to talk," Rob said. He tapped on the door, and I heard him sigh. "Please," he muttered.

I glanced at Electra. She cocked her head. "He said ‘please'." She did a little pout like that was the sweetest thing in the world. "Adorable."

I chewed my lip, then slid the bolt. I glanced back at Electra, but she'd gone. I sighed, opened the door, walked out and came face to face with Rob.

For a while, we just looked at each other.

It really was him. This felt like a dream, and bearing in mind my mental state, and Electra, and so on, it really felt like it could have been.

Rob West.

How did I miss the clues?

Did I miss the clues? Or was this all a big mistake?

Eventually, he muttered, "We meet at last."

"Hi."

"It's not how I would have planned it."

"In the sense that you didn't want it to happen at all?"

He met my eyes. Connection. Electricity. Something jumped, deep inside me.

I took an unsteady breath. "Is this even real?" I asked. "Because I don't know what is and isn't any more. Was it you, writing the messages?"

He nodded.

"You've read the book?"

"Of course I've read the fucking book."

"Prove it," I said. "Prove you're for real."

He sighed. "Fine, ask me about it."

"OK." I thought for a moment. "What is Hal wearing when his boat capsizes?"

"Red jockey briefs with ‘a fetching white trim'. I love that that's the thing you asked me."

"I love that you answered without hesitation."

He smiled. Just quickly, but he smiled, and for a second, the world seemed a tiny bit lighter. But, just as quickly, the darkness was back. "Jamie, my father…" He sighed, searching for words, giving me a chance to reflect on how formal the word "father" sounded, and how respectful – especially coming from him, a boy so quick to anger, who didn't seem to care about anyone or anything. "He's a horrible bastard. I mean, not in public, then he's caring and kind and bizarrely quite humorous, opening new libraries with a funny anecdote, kissing babies and whatnot, but at home…" He whistled and shook his head. "And, I think, this time, he might actually kill me."

I frowned. "This time?"

"It's why he took me out of Abbott's – my last school."

"Because you were fighting … and the prostitute."

He stopped and stared at me like I'd just slapped him. "Prostitute? Wha—"

The main door opened and we sprang apart, Rob doing a swift one-eighty and heading straight to the urinals, as I flipped around and bolted back into the cubicle, sliding the lock. I rested with my back against the door, listening as someone walked in. I took a breath, then glanced across at Electra, who was back opposite me, perched on the toilet.

"Half-time assessment," she said. "It's definitely him; he's read the book, so it's nice you have Hal's underpants in common, slightly worried you might have offended him with that bit about the sex worker; did you need to bring that up now?"

I winced. Probably shouldn't have done.

"No one's talking about the elephant in the room!" Electra grinned to herself.

I crossed my arms and stared at her.

"I mean," she continued, "he literally wrote you a letter and said you were cute. That boy is standing there, talking to you, and he wants to jump your bones."

It didn't necessarily mean that. It's one thing writing something like that in a letter that he thought he'd never act upon, it's another actually going through with it. Maybe he was just being kind, letting me down gently?

"Jamie, you are cute," Electra told me. "I'm sure he meant it."

"Stop!" I hissed. "We're in shit."

She put her hands up in contrition. "You're right. I'll leave you boys to sort it out. But later, kiddo, we party. Because this is progress." She leaned forward. "I'm proud of you. You've come a long way."

And right now, I wish I could go back.

She vanished.

I heard the tap running, some paper towels being pulled, then footsteps, the door creak open and closed again.

Seconds later, Rob was tapping at the cubicle door.

I opened it, pulled him inside, and slammed the lock again.

"What do you mean prostitute?" he said.

We were almost nose to nose. I'd underestimated the amount of space inside a toilet cubicle. I tried backing up a bit, but hit the rim of the toilet seat.

"That's just what people said," I whispered. "About why you were kicked out."

"What do you think I am?"

"I don't know who you are, Rob! I don't know who I am, let alone anyone else. I'm confused. All this … is messed up."

Rob took a couple of heavy breaths. He was wearing cologne. I could smell it on his neck now he was this close. "I wasn't kicked out. My father took me out because the chaplain found me … with someone."

"With … another boy? Doing … oh, right."

"Right."

My stomach twisted. What the hell was that feeling? Jealousy?

"Couldn't have that, what would the Daily Mail say?" Rob continued. "My father has ambitions for a cabinet position, he's out there talking about family values; he can't have his son be a disgusting homosexual. So, we pretend it's just a phase, keep it hush-hush, he removes me from the school, invents some story about me being kicked out – clearly exaggerated by the rumour mill – and it's all water under the bridge." He leaned back against the door, his face pained. "Fucking hell."

"I'm sorry."

He released a breath, then opened his eyes. "And all that's before Mrs Prenton reads the book and finds a lot of notes between two boys, suspiciously in our handwriting."

My chest tightened. Prenton would assume it was us no matter how the writing looked.

He shook his head. "So that's my situation. What's yours?"

"No idea! Never even discussed it with my dad, I mean, why would I? He finds Julian Clary* funny – maybe that's good? My mum … I don't know, I think she wouldn't be happy about it, but I don't think she'd hit the roof. It would be a kind of low-level disappointment, steeped in worry. Her new boyfriend, though…"

"Would?"

I nodded.

"Heterosexual men are the worst." He met my eyes and we both cracked a smile. It was funny, hearing him say stuff like that. A boy who I'd just assumed was straight, was borderline dangerous, would hate someone like me, and no … he was actually … just like me. I kind of … loved that? I wasn't sure exactly what the feeling was, but it bubbled up inside me, like when you've downed a Coke too fast, a rush, a bit of a hit, and it made me slightly lightheaded.

"All right," he said. "So, we need a plan, and—"

The main door creaked open again and we both held our breath. Being found in a toilet cubicle together was not the finale either of us needed right then. I was standing absurdly close to him. Desperate to mitigate the awkwardness, I looked down at the floor. He was wearing brown boots of some kind – not Doc Martens, something less flashy. Dark blue jeans – but not baggy, like most people wore, and not wrecked with rips or holes or acid-washing, just fairly smart and more of a regular fit. His navy-blue polo shirt (practically a trademark garment – and Ralph Lauren, like always) was rucked up slightly over his brown leather belt. Then … his neck again … maybe it was the cologne that drew me there, but the curve of it into his shoulder … it seemed tender, somehow … his cheek … the merest hint of stubble just below his sideburns, but otherwise baby-faced and fresh, his dark hair – neat, preppy, short back and sides – blended into his neck. Back to his neck again.

I adjusted my gaze to his face, accidentally made eye contact, and quickly looked away again.

In my peripheral vision, I saw his eyes drift down my lips, then back up.

Whatever was going on outside, I couldn't hear it. Just the gentle in and out of his breathing.

Our eyes met again.

And then the heavy thud of footsteps, the door creaking open again, and, finally, shutting.

We both released a breath.

"We need to get rid of the book," Rob said. "Before she has a chance to read it. No book, no evidence." He thought for a moment. "Prenton clearly wants us to implicate Mrs Carpenter."

"She's only implicated if we say she gave it to us – you're saying we grass up Mrs C?"

He smiled. "No, of course not. But the kid in the third year might. Mrs C needs our help. We should at least warn—"

There were footsteps and we heard the main door open again. Wrong way round. That meant… The last person who came in was actually two people, and one of them had just heard everything we said!

Rob screwed his eyes closed. "Fuck!"

We could only hope. Hope they didn't hear. Or hope they didn't care, that they wouldn't make sense of any of it.

But one thing was clear: whatever it was that we'd started, we were already being nowhere near careful enough.

*I hope you know him, but if you don't: Clary is an openly gay comedian who refers to himself as a "renowned homosexual". He hosted a very camp game show on Channel 4 in the early 90s called Sticky Moments. If you want a laugh, google his infamous appearance at the British Comedy Awards on 12th December 1993.