Chapter 22

Chapter 22

The fire exit door opened at eight on the dot. I slipped through the crack, and Rob gave it a firm push to shut it behind me. The noise rattled and echoed around the stairwell at a million decibels.

"Oops!" Rob shrugged.

"Has everyone gone?"

"Hope so."

I didn't like that one bit. Way too vague for me, and I didn't need any more uncertainties right then. I felt completely unmoored, totally at sea, too much new information (Rob was Mystery Boy!), too many new ideas (they vilify us because they need an enemy!), and too out of my comfort zone – what the hell was I doing, breaking into school? That's not the sort of thing a head boy candidate does!

"Come on," he said.

The corridor was in darkness, and we walked along in silence. So weird, the school being totally deserted. Exhilarating, but maybe that was more the fear of what would happen if anyone found us. A pair of breaking-and-entering suspected homosexuals – it wouldn't look good and would only strengthen Mrs Prenton's belief that we'd both descended into immorality.

The whole of this was dangerous, but the first part seemed like it would be the worst: getting the book out of Prenton's office. We walked along the corridor edges, keeping in the shadows, pushing silently through the doors into the staff area. We stood in silence and stillness for a moment. All was quiet. Rob headed straight for Prenton's door, which had a doorknob with an integrated lock. He tried to twist it but, of course, it wouldn't open.

I released an unsteady breath.

"Relax," Rob told me, without looking over his shoulder.

He reached into the pocket of his jeans, took out his wallet, and removed a bank card, identifiable by the Switch logo in the corner. He slid the card into the vertical crack between the door and the frame, drawing it down until it hit the latch. Then he tilted the card, pressing it towards the doorknob, so it was almost touching it and threatening to snap in half. Jiggling it about, he was able to insert it further into the gap. He leaned against the door, wiggling the card about until…

Click!

The mechanism released and the door popped open.*

Rob turned to me and waggled his eyebrows, dead pleased with himself.

Close-up: me, Jamie Hampton, absolutely in love with this utter hero.

"The name's West, Rob West," he said.

"Where did you learn to do that?"

"Boarding school. Come on."

We padded into the office, and Rob slid the desk drawer open and pulled out the book. "Part one complete."

Making sure not to let the office door close behind us, we headed out and retraced our steps, until we took a right, our shoes echoing on harder floor that marked the start of the new block where the library was housed. Rob led the way, pushing open some double doors and then up the stairs. He paused at the top, checking the coast was clear in the next corridor, before we stalked across and straight into the library.

Breathing a sigh of relief wasn't really appropriate, since the danger was far from over, yet we both did. He smiled at me. "You OK?"

"I've been better!" I hissed.

He smirked. Then he gave my shoulders a quick massage. "I'm quite enjoying myself."

I shook my head. "We need a book roughly the same size," I whispered. "Ideally about wildflowers, but any sort of flowers or botany-type subject will do."

The task was far from easy. We couldn't put the lights on, and even though an orange glow from the floodlights outside came through the windows, it wasn't enough to really help. If anything, it made the shadows worse, making it hard to see the titles of books and work out what they were without holding them up at various angles and squinting. Additionally, most of the books actually about botany were larger than the paperback edition of Dance on My Grave.

"We need a plan B," Rob sighed. "Did you bring any food?"

"Um … no. I have some fruit Polos in my bag?"

Rob nodded. I fished them out, handed him the roll, and he crunched into one hungrily. Should I have brought food? I hadn't seen this as a social occasion, but now I thought about it, he'd stayed in school for hours while I'd gone home, had dinner and come back. Oh god, I was a terrible person.

"I'm sorry I didn't bring food," I said.

"It's fine. Can I have another?"

"Have whatever you like. Have them all." I watched him, sitting cross-legged on the carpet, chomping away. "Although I'll have an orange one if one comes up."

Rob smiled and offered me the packet. "Your lucky day."

I took it. "That's a green one."

"Couldn't see in the light, sorry."

I put it in my mouth anyway. "So, none of the books on botany are the right size. Maybe any book will do, what do you think?"

"Not any book." He picked a chunk of fruit Polo out of his teeth. Those things superglued themselves to your molars. "We should make sure it's a subtle dig at this whole messed-up situation." He thought for a moment, before a grin spread across his face. "1984 by George Orwell."

"Why?"

"Come on, Jamie. One of the major themes of that book is how the government controls access to information. They tell people what and how to think. Deviation from the accepted norm isn't allowed. Certain ideas, or even facts, are forbidden. Sound familiar?" He frowned. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Two reasons, actually. The first – that was a completely stunning idea and I loved it. It was clever, it was safe (1984 was a GCSE text) and it made a point, albeit subtly. The second – he was being all intelligent again and, again, it was incredibly sexy. And that was why I was just staring at him because that was serious brain overload, right there.

"I'm not some thick-as-pig-shit dropout," he said, reading my mind.

"Everyone's wrong about you," I replied, repeating what he'd written in his note to me.

Rob met my eyes and sighed.

"I'll find a copy."

As it happened, there were five on the shelves – a few different editions, and one that looked about the right size. I brought it back and compared it to the Wildflowers cover. "This'll do," I said.

Rob nodded and I got the craft knife, glue, ruler and spray mount that I'd brought from home out of my bag to make a start. First, I needed to gently tease the fake cover off Dance on My Grave – tricky, because it had been glued on and made to look as realistic as possible. I slid the craft knife under one of the folded flaps – it required precision and patience – and I was finding it hard to focus. I felt bad about Rob or, more specifically, how I'd assumed things about him that just weren't true.

"I really … love this idea," I said, working the blade. "You're … good." I mean, it was a slightly pathetic effort on my part, nowhere near enough, but it was something. I glanced up and he was staring at me. "I'm sorry," I added. "I shouldn't have been surprised."

"Don't worry about it." He gave me a small smile, and I smiled back.

"So, that Wuthering Heights essay," I said, as I continued to slowly pry up the first flap. "The one Ms Wilkins said you copied?"

I heard him sigh again. "Everyone just wants to wrap you up in lies, don't they?" he said. "They think they know you, know who you are, know what you're capable of."

"The death theme is an unusual one to focus on, though."

"Yeah? Is it? That's the thing with that book, though. Everyone thinks it's about love, really over-the-top love, and it's all very dramatic, and most people – well, our class, based on what I've heard people saying – think it's pretty ridiculous, am I right?"

"Uh-huh," I said, peeling away the back flap.

"Except ‘love' is just the beginning. That book is really about loss. And it's about the depths, the raw depths you can plumb when you experience the loss of someone you love so much, it's like your entire world, your whole foundation, just … implodes."

I looked back up at him again, but he was staring into the middle-distance over my shoulder.

"How many people our age truly understand that?" he continued. "Some. Not many. That's why most of us think the book is melodramatic, when really it's very real. And I suppose it's why Ms Wilkins assumed there was no way I could have come up with that idea on my own – I must have copied it from a study guide, written by someone older who'd probably experienced it, or something like it."

I frowned. "Do you mean … are you talking about the boy from your old school?"

"Seb?" He laughed and shook his head. "No, I'm not. God, Jamie, that wasn't anything really – that was … just what happens when you stick a bunch of horny fifteen-year-old boys together in a boarding school." His smile turned to sadness, and he looked down at the floor. "My mum died."

I put the craft knife down. "I'm—"

"Please don't," he interrupted. "I've had everyone say that. Everyone's sorry. Nobody can imagine what I'm going through. Last year. I should have got over it by now."

"You miss her."

His eyes met mine again, his lips parted slightly. He cleared his throat. "Let's get this done."

"OK, but—"

"Please, Jay."

"OK."

I set back to work. The second flap came away more easily, and I made fairly quick work of the rest of it. Once the fake cover was removed, I covered it with spray mount and Rob assisted as we lined it up over the actual cover of 1984, him holding each folded flap in place as I did the next one. We were so close to one another – our fingers and hands kept brushing, our knees touching, and our heads leaning in so we could see what we were doing. Along with the cologne, he was definitely a Lynx Atlantis wearer too – I'd have known that aquatic freshness anywhere and he'd clearly sprayed some on fairly recently. But he also smelled of fruit Polos.

We both sat back a bit and admired our work, as I turned the finished book over in my hands. With the protective plastic film back on it as well, it looked pretty convincing.

"Just the barcode and date stamp ticket now," I said.

"I'll let you do that – you're less clumsy than me."

"You're not clumsy," I chuckled.

"I have fat fingers."

"You've got nice fingers."

And then I shut up and pretended I hadn't just said that.

"Done," I muttered finally. "So, this goes back in Prenton's drawer, and this…" I picked up Dance on My Grave.

"You keep it," Rob said. "Memories, or whatever."

Sure. Nice to keep. The start of something? But also, massively radioactive, so I'd need to keep it hidden. I put it in my bag, along with the rest of my equipment, and we headed back to the staff area, placing the book in the drawer and closing the door shut behind us. We retraced our steps, making our way back towards the drama studio and the fire exit. As we pushed through the set of double doors into the last corridor, Rob stopped.

I stopped too. Had he heard something? I swallowed. To be this close and then—

Rob smiled, chuckled almost.

"What?" I whispered.

He didn't say anything. He just stared straight ahead…

And held his hand out.

My breath caught, looking at his hand, him waiting so patiently, me … in some kind of turmoil, because any normal day, no way could this happen, no way could two boys hold hands in the corridor at school, except … no one was here, just us, but all that aside, this was fast, this was a moment, this meant something.

I took his hand.

He laced his fingers through mine.

And gently squeezed.

And my heart swelled.

How could a gesture so small send me sky-rocket high with more joy and ecstasy than I'd ever felt before? Was I just … hopelessly inexperienced? Was this doing anything for him, or was it just me who was drunk on endorphins?

He led on. We walked slowly, our clasped hands swinging slightly, me with a massive grin on my face that I couldn't get rid of. Past each classroom door, I imagined the queues of students, waiting to go inside, their eyes on us, and thought: wouldn't it be nice if we could do this for real?

His hand was strong and firm, but also soft and gentle. Warm. Comforting. Incredibly reassuring, as if he was there for me and always would be and no harm would ever come my way because of him. And, I think, that might have been the moment where part of me fell in love with him. And there would be many more moments, and many more parts, but that was the start.

We pushed open the doors at the end in unison – a kind of celebratory flourish almost – and god, what it would be like to do that with so much confidence and pizazz during a normal school day. We emerged into the stairwell, and he released my hand as he opened the fire exit door and we walked out into the cool night air. He trotted down the short set of steps, me following, until we stood facing one another on the path.

Silence.

Looking into each other's eyes.

Was he waiting for me to speak first?

You can feel the tension, right? This is the moment. He could kiss me. I could kiss him. Or one of us could give a long, oddly eloquent speech about our feelings, which completely ignores the fact that we're a pair of messed-up teenagers and reads more like we're in our early thirties. Sometimes you have to sacrifice authenticity for something the main readership will like, you see.*

He opened his mouth, like he was trying to speak but couldn't find the words.

Eventually: "Jay, I like you. I meant what I said in that letter I wrote, but, um… it's hard for me. And … I can't … anything happening just won't work." He swallowed and looked down at the ground.

And maybe that was my chance. That brief pause, where I should have stepped up and said something reassuring, just like he'd been reassuring with me so many times that day. I don't know, even an old cliché, love will find a way, or whatever. We have each other, that's all we need. But I didn't; I bottled it. I didn't know what to say, or how to help.

"See you around," Rob said quickly, turning on his heel and hurrying off up the path.

They say your life flashes before your eyes before you die. Well, everything over the last few weeks flashed before mine right then. Just the last few weeks. Maybe because that was the only time I'd been truly alive.

I had to stop him.

"Rob! Wait!" I shouted.

He turned around and hurried back up to me. "Even if you discount the grief we'd get here – and honestly, I think I could deal with that – but even discounting that, if my dad found out, he'd stamp it all out faster than you can even imagine," he said, his voice trembling.

His eyes were wet. Glistening in the glow of the floodlights. I reached out for him, but he batted me away.

"He's an MP, Jamie. He's going for a cabinet position. He can't have a gay son. And he won't have. He's already made that perfectly clear. The electorate here would hardly approve of that, never mind the actual Tory party. He would ship me off somewhere very far away. Like last time. And I really would never see you again."

"But—"

"Stop it! Seriously, this won't work." He shook his head. "I … maybe a different time, different place, this would all have been different. But it's not. We're here and it is what it is."

"But we could keep things quiet! No one has to know!"

Rob laughed. "Because that's gone well so far, hasn't it? The close shave with Prenton wasn't enough for you? Or whoever overheard us talking in the toilets?" He leaned in to me a bit and repeated, "It just won't work."

I tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Twenty-four hours ago, I didn't even know who he was. Now I felt like he was my everything … except he was only allowed to be my nothing.

"I like you," I muttered.

For a few electric moments we locked eyes.

And I honestly thought he might change his mind.

But he turned and hurried off up the path and I watched until he disappeared into the darkness.

*Security was genuinely shit in the 90s, kids!

*"The teenage characters in this YA novel behave like teenagers! I, an adult, would never behave like this! One star." (Inevitable Amazon review)