Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Of course, I couldn't stop thinking about the identity of the mystery note writer.

Detective work: there were three date stamps in the front of the book. The first was 23rd September 1988, when I would have been in first year. That was a lifetime ago, and it was highly likely that student would have left by now. But the second stamp was dated just three months ago. Of course, I couldn't be sure if the person who wrote in the book was the same person who was second to take the book out, but it was the best I had to go on.

And, of course, by the following morning I'd devised numerous scenarios about how this would play out, and so…

Dream sequence.

Me and mystery note writer communicate over the course of a few weeks. We get to know one another. It's clear we share the same sense of humour. He turns out to be a misunderstood lad in my year, secretly lonely, adrift in the confusing sea of finding yourself and working things out – it can be a lot, don't you think? – and he just needed someone to be there for him. Difficult, when boys are expected to be so macho and hard all the time. He needed someone to be vulnerable with, someone he could just talk about his feelings with, with no judgement and no one taking the piss. That person is me. I put my arm around his shoulders and hold him close. He likes that. It's just as friends, nothing more, but we both know if anyone saw they'd probably get the wrong idea. So we only meet in secret. It's nice. He feels better being with me. I help him. Maybe he is Dan.

Tuesday. Exterior shot of me walking towards school that matches yesterday's shot, only maybe a bit less of a bounce in my step. That's due to the book and the notes. I'm deep, deep in thought. I have a rugby top on again, but it was three for two in Burton so this one is different colours: green and burgundy, if you're interested.

My plan was to put the book in the returns box first thing, before registration, but even just carrying it into school felt like I had a bomb with me. The actual text was one part of it: if anyone found me with a book about two boys having a relationship, I knew I'd pay for it. Nobody reads that sort of thing except for perverts. But then there were the notes. And they felt much more dangerous.

Cut to: me walking into school. Eyes on me. Or so it feels. Whispering behind my back? Or am I imagining it? How could they know? They couldn't.

Cut to: posting the book into the returns box, acting like an MI5 spy, glancing over my shoulder, checking the coast is clear. Nobody sees. At least, I don't think they do.

Cut to: me walking along the corridor, passing different students. Is it him? Could it be him?

Cut to: "Jesus, Jamie, you need to see this."

Debbie King dragged me into the common room and over to the noticeboard. There, in the centre, was the ball poster. And scrawled across it, in black marker, the words: RIP OFF!

My stomach tightened. It had taken less than twenty-four hours for the cynics to show themselves. My biggest fear with the ball was that people would dismiss it as over the top. I hadn't accounted for them thinking it was too expensive.

"People are asking where all the money's going," Debbie told me. "Saying we must be pocketing some of it."

"Do they know your dad's sponsoring it? And that if he wasn't, even with the ticket revenue, it wouldn't be happening?"

"That's just making it worse. They're saying if we're already getting it sponsored, why is the ticket price still so high?"

"It's a ball!" I howled.

Debbie shrugged. I blew out a breath. People had no idea. Damn it, you try to do something different for people, something nice, an event where everyone can have a pretty special time, that it's optional to come to anyway, and some people still have to piss on it.

"Who's ‘they' anyway?"

"The usual troublemakers." She met my eyes. "Jason."

"Of course."

"I'm thinking we nip it in the bud. Me, you and Adam, in assembly this morning – and we set the record straight."

Well, that sounded horrible, but what choice did we have?

Half an hour later I was standing at the front of the hall, looking into the cold, soulless eyes of two hundred sixth formers. Plus Electra.

What?!I did a double take. It wasn't Electra. My mind was still playing tricks on me. Bloody hell.

"Hello, everyone," I began. "Um … it's come to our attention that some of you are questioning the cost of the ball tickets, so we just wanted to say that it's a big event, there's lots going on and it's costing a lot of money."

"We're very happy to publish the accounts!" Adam piped up, grinning at everyone. I glanced at him, tight-lipped, because we hadn't agreed we'd do that when we chatted beforehand, and while we didn't have anything to hide, that felt like a lot of work and extra scrutiny that we didn't really need.

"What we're also saying," Debbie added, "is that if there is any profit whatsoever, we'll donate it to charity. Just like Bob Geldof and Band Aid."

"Ball Aid!" Adam announced.

That got a round of cheers and laughs, before Adam realized what he'd said, went a bit red, and laughed goofily. "Oh, yeah!" he chuckled. "Maybe not that."

I sighed. "Just to reiterate, this is much more than the usual sixth form party, and we've got some really brilliant stuff planned."

"Like a set from Speak No Monkey!" Adam shouted. "Seriously, you'd pay more for a ticket to see a gig with them, and we've got so much else too!"

I briefly closed my eyes. He shouldn't have mentioned Speak No Monkey again. I really needed to phone Dad and see if he'd heard anything from his mate. The point was, it was a long way from a done deal, and dangling that as the big carrot made me nervous because if for any reason it didn't work out, and that was why people had bought tickets, we were screwed. That was why we'd agreed to keep it secret – and just to tease an "exciting band" because that was open to interpretation and it allowed rumours to spread which we couldn't be held accountable for. Only that plan was wrecked now.

I gave everyone a smile anyway. "Tickets are selling fast," I lied, "so don't leave it too long. And we've got more announcements to come!" Also a bit of a lie, but hopefully we'd sort something out. "It's going to be a really good night."

I had no idea why nobody looked like they believed me. Not one person was looking back at me enthusiastically.

When we were all dismissed, Beth made a big show of bounding up to me. "I'd love a ticket, please!" She presented me with a cheque made out for the full amount. "A couple's ticket!"

I raised my eyebrows. "Have you found a date?"

"Not exactly."

"So, maybe?"

"I remain hopeful."

"So, is there someone?"

"Jamie, I'm just trying to be optimistic!" she hissed. "Bloody hell, take the cheque. If I can't find anyone I'll just come alone and I won't even ask for a refund."

I smiled, plucked the cheque from her hands, and tore a ticket from my pack.

"Are Speak No Monkey really playing?" she asked.

"I mean, that's the plan. Dad's trying to sort it out for us."

"Your dad?"

Close-up: her face says it all. She can't hide her horror. She knows how many times he's let me down in the past, so she understands that this was a high-risk strategy with one inevitable outcome.

Close-up: me, keeping a poker face. Absolutely not ready to admit this because everything is totally fine and Dad won't disappoint me this time.

I was thinking about it all through morning lessons – oh, not the likely humiliation with Speak No Monkey, but Beth buying a couple's ticket. Our friendship had been forged in the fires of a shared sense of humour, atheism (I would never forget her refusing a free Bible when the Gideons came to try to indoctrinate us with the line: "No, thank you, my shelves are already full of fiction!"), and the fact we had both always been single. Everyone else was coupling up, going out on dates, and often doing more, and I would doubtless be feeling left behind were it not for the fact that Beth wasn't doing any of that either. If we were going to be weird (as Keith would have it), we could be weird together, and that didn't feel quite so bad. We had discussed the topic of romantic possibilities many times, but there were no suitable candidates. Why was everyone in the school so awful? We would lampoon weddings we'd variously been invited to over the years, how laughably patriarchal they were and how pathetic and depressing the notion that somehow you aren't complete until you have a partner. "My other half", as though you couldn't possibly be whole without someone else. And did people really want to partner up, or did they just feel like they had to, like it was expected, the respectable thing to do – you had to have someone, settle down, do the right thing – because didn't that explain why Mum was with Keith? And probably why she married Dad originally, even though they weren't right for each other either? So, the idea that Beth was now "optimistic" about finding a date for the ball irked me.

It spoke of things changing, moving on, and I did not like that one bit.

Yes, change was exciting. I'd felt that excitement only yesterday.

But change was also scary. I was feeling it right then, realizing that certainties were in fact far from certain.

And, oh boy, I had no idea how many certainties would become uncertain in the coming weeks.

You can almost hear the ominous background music, can't you? (Well, you will in the TV adaptation.)

My mind wandered back to the notes in the book. What would it be like if I went to the ball with whoever had written them? Not as a strict couple, like Debbie and Adam, say, just as … two bosom pals. Two boys with a shared can of magic beans who liked each other so much they wanted to go to the ball together and enjoy the night. And it's cheaper with a couple's ticket. What then? And I thought: Why are you doing this to yourself, Jamie?! because I knew that couldn't happen, wouldn't happen, and however innocent and lovely I might think it would be, and how much he would too, other people would get the wrong idea, and say things, and the whole situation would be horrible.

EXT. THE BALL. NIGHT. FANTASY SEQUENCE

Jason stands pointing at Jamie and his Mystery Pen Pal, who are in matching dinner suits and bow ties and just happened to have come to the ball together to save money, no other reason, really.

JASON:GAAAAAY!

SCOTT:BEEEENNNDEEEEERRZZZZ!

Fade to black, their slurs still ringing in the background.

All hypothetical anyway. I'd be too busy at the ball – logistics and all that. I'd probably have a walkie-talkie and a clipboard, and be running about, checking the barbecue was running OK, the band was ready… Oh god, the band. Don't think about the band.

The library was quiet at the start of lunch – everyone was busy getting food, and normally I would have been too, but, ever the optimist, I thought there might be a chance he'd responded and the whole situation, his potential identity, was utterly captivating. This boy (I'd decided it was a boy, although technically it could have been a girl) walked among us. He might have been in my classes. I could have spoken to him in the corridor.

"Jamie!" Mrs C came right over to me as I walked in. She was wearing a leopard-print blouse. Amazing. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "What did you think of the book?"

"It wasn't about wildflowers."

"I know," she said.

I immediately panicked. She knew. Great. What else did she know? Or think she knew?

She glanced over her shoulder, then back at me. "It's actually called Dance on My Grave, and it's by Aiden Chambers."

"Right. Well. It was good." I nodded. "Sweet story."

"I knew you'd enjoy it."

"Yeah." I kept it neutral. Nonchalant. Take the book or leave the book, but, damn it, she knew I'd enjoy it?!

Action replay (in my head):

"Jamie!" Mrs C came right over to me as I walked in. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "What did you think of the book?"

"Mrs C! God, it was fantastic! I didn't know there were books like that! I loved it!"

"I knew you'd enjoy it!"

"Enjoy it?! Seriously, best thing I've ever read – I've never had a book give me a hard-on before! Sorry, too much information, but honestly, just wow!"

But the reality was that I was a bit miffed that Mrs C thought she knew me that well, that she thought she knew something about me that wasn't even true, and if I gave her too much, well, she'd just think she was right. She wasn't right. It was far more complicated than that, and not something I could really explain. All that "Be you!" business yesterday – was that meant to be some subtle way of telling me I should just embrace being a homo?

No thanks.

I casually made my way over to non-fiction, which was helpfully shielded from view of the rest of the library at the far wall, behind several rows of tall bookcases. It didn't take me long to find Wildflowers of Great Britain. Good job Mrs C was an efficient re-shelver. I flicked to the page with the notes on, but there was no reply. I shouldn't have been surprised, the book had barely been back on the shelves for a few hours, but I still felt a twinge of disappointment.

I placed the book back on the shelf. The problem was, if the original notes had been left a while ago, the writer might have lost hope by now. They might not even bother checking the book for replies any more. I couldn't do anything obvious to draw attention to the book*, but I pulled it out a little bit so the spine wasn't flush with the others, in case he might see, realize someone must have touched it, and might be intrigued to look. Honestly, this felt like a longer shot than getting Speak No Monkey to play at this point.

I was hungry, and I should really have gone to get some food, but I didn't want to leave the book. I wanted to wait. I wanted to know who it was.

So I sat down at a nearby desk and got some homework out. Far enough away to not put someone off if they wanted to be unobserved; close enough that I could see anyone walking around to the non-fiction section.

An hour later, I left none the wiser and a whole lot hungrier.

*Not sure what that would have amounted to anyway – fairy lights?