Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Actually, Electra, thanks and everything, but I think I'm pretty trauma-free.

Yeah. Back then I was really good at burying stuff I didn't want to think about.

But right then I was thinking, why do I need to complicate all this with psychoanalysis? I was just helping a fellow student who perhaps felt lonely. No big deal. Nothing to get all angsty about.

To prove it wasn't an issue, albeit only to myself, I resolved not to check the book the next day. Because I could take it or leave it.

Close-up on me. Not a care in the world. Totally stress-free. Mind clear. Back to normal.

Thursday, I convened a ball meeting at lunchtime to discuss what Rob had told me yesterday. Debbie had a minor drama on the student newspaper to attend to, so I was left with Adam, who listened to my story thoughtfully while eating his chicken paste sandwiches. It was like having lunch with a gentle giant – Adam was so much taller and broader than I was, but, the more I was getting to know him, I was realizing he was essentially harmless, even if he was (unintentionally) annoying and the type of person who just blundered into things and wrecked them.

"We need bouncers," he said. "Security guys. Patrolling the perimeter with torches. And batons." He balled his fist and made a hitting motion.

"I agree. But we don't have the budget."

Adam nodded, thinking. "I could ask some of the guys at the rugby club. They're all pretty big and scary. We'd have to pay them something, but not as much as a professional security firm."

This was the first useful thing Adam had offered up in several months of ball committee meetings, and thank god. "Really? That would be great."

Adam looked pretty pleased too. "OK! I'll ask them! What do you think? Thirty quid each?"

I nodded.

"And we could give them each one of those fluorescent tabards, so people know they're official. And we'll need walkie-talkies. I'm pretty sure the Scouts have a set they use for expeditions. I know the guy who runs it, I can ask him too?" He met my eyes. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just … this is all really helpful."

He frowned. "And I'm not usually?"

"It's not that, it's just—"

"No," he said, putting his hand up to stop me. "I know I'm pretty useless. Debbie tells me that too."

"I didn't say useless."

"But I am. I know I am." He shrugged. "It's just anything I do say, Debbie makes a mental note of, and has a go at me later."

Wow. "Really?"

"Yeah, but I never seem to get anything right. So, she's got a point – it's better for me not to speak, because then no one can tell how thick I am."

I wasn't sure how to respond to that. The idea that someone like Adam would feel bad about themselves was strange enough, but the idea that the school's golden couple might not be as perfect as they seem together was even stranger.

And then, sitting opposite me, lunch box on his knees, sipping a carton of Ribena through a straw, wasn't the popular, strong, handsome, toned lad I'd always known, but someone weaker, a bit more vulnerable, and dear god if I didn't have that familiar urge to protect him too. To stand in the rye and bloody catch him. I really had to stop Holden Caulfield-ing it up. Who did I think I was, trying to save everyone? Frigging Jesus?*

Adam scratched the back of his head and looked sheepish. "On that note, can I ask your advice? Debbie wants us to go to the ball as Overon—"

"Oberon."

"… and Titania. And she keeps going on about whether I've sorted out my costume yet, but I've no idea. What should I wear? What does Orbison—"

"Oberon."

"… wear?" He looked at me expectantly, as if of course I'd know the answer.

I blew out a breath. "Well, he's king of the fairies, so—"

"You see, that already sounds a bit—"

"It's a play. It's fiction."

"Can't he be more of a sprite or something?"

"If you want. But the point is, he's … ethereal."

Adam's face was blank. He just stared at me.

"Other-wordly," I explained. "So your costume needs to speak to that. How about a long coat, but adorned with foliage?"

"Fo-li-age?"

"Leaves and twigs and bracken. Maybe some flowers? And make-up," I said, my mind straying to David Bowie in Labyrinth. "You'll need make-up."

"No. No make-up. I don't want to poof it up."

His words stabbed me for a second. The way he said that, so casually, not even a hint of malice in his tone, just factual. I swallowed. "Think of it more like war paint, then. Oberon and Titania are basically at war anyway, through a lot of the play."

His eyes lit up. "Like that stuff the army uses for camouflage on their faces?"

"Exactly."

"I like that!"

I smiled.

"Thanks, Jamie."

"That's OK. Thanks for offering to sort out the security problem."

He gave me a salute and stood. "Roger that, boss. I have to go. Football practice."

"OK. Oh, hey, Adam?"

He turned back to me, eyebrows raised.

"For the record … I don't think you're thick."

His face softened, his eyes dropping down to the floor for a moment. "Thanks, Jamie." He gave me a small smile, checked his watch, then perched back down on the seat. "Everyone has that idea about me, and I'm not saying I'm Einstein or anything, because I'm most definitely not, but … I read. I bet you didn't know that? I read books."

The hairs on the back of my neck tingled.

He continued conversationally, "I go to the library sometimes, but usually when no one's going to see me, because if the lads knew they'd rip the piss out of me. I like non-fiction really. Aeroplanes fascinate me. Really wish I could be a pilot, but I'm doing all the wrong A levels.*"

I nodded and he smiled while I tried to weigh up this new information … a handsome boy … who liked hanging around non-fiction … who might also be familiar with a book about wildflowers…

"But you can't tell anyone," he said. "I would … never live it down. It's why I told everyone I was doing English because it was easy and because Debs was doing it. I actually really like it. But it's just easier this way."

"Why's it easier?"

He gave a me a look as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "'Cause everyone would say I'm a massive bender otherwise."

I watched him go.

Adam Henson.

Could it be him?

Cut to: fantasy sequence. A wall in my bedroom. Mystery Pen Pal represented by a silhouette in the centre of the wall. A piece of red string linking that to a photo of Adam Henson and a question mark.

Fun, isn't it? Was that a clue, or a massive red herring?

Time will tell.

Either way, all of that, and the talk of books, was like hurling copies of Playboy at a sex addict – and I needed my fix. I hadn't even lasted twenty-four hours, for god's sake.

I headed to the library, begging myself not to every step of the way, beating myself up for my weakness, because what would this solve? It would just be more disappointment. More frustration.

The double doors to the library nearly smacked me in the face they were thrown open with such force.

I froze.

And when he saw me, he froze too.

I knew it was weird him being in there at lunchtime, and, by the startled look on his face, I imagine he knew that too.

"What are you staring at?" Jason snarled.

I didn't reply because in these situations I'd learned it was best not to.

He stared at me for a good five seconds longer, shook his head, muttered, "Gay wanker," and pushed past me.

I let him go, let his words go, then walked inside and headed straight for the book.

It wasn't pulled out to the edge; it was just aligned with the books next to it. Someone had moved it, at least to nudge it back into the row.

The fantasy: I open the book, a choir of angels sing, light streams out of it, bathing the room in a beautiful, warm glow, and the world is suddenly a better place.

The reality: I open the book. It's just the book, the same book it always is.

Only now there are some words written in the margin which weren't there before:

Are you real?

No choir of angels, no light and no warm glow, but it didn't matter: the world was suddenly a better place! I stood staring at the words – written, so lightly, in pencil, like they were tentative, and could just be erased if necessary.

He'd replied.

The words were real.

He was real.

Forgetting all pretence of playing it cool and not caring, a smile spread across my face, and I had to stifle a laugh.

He was real!He was out there! In this school!

I didn't know why, but this meant so much. This was everything.

Breathless, I reached into my rucksack and clumsily retrieved a pencil – that seemed to be the medium we were using now. I tapped it on the book. What to write? I considered the question again.

Are you real?

I didn't know. Was I? What was real? And even if I was, I felt my reply should be more than just "Yes". I'd already given him the stunning effort of "Hello!" – what sort of writer was I if I could only manage monosyllabic responses? Poetry, Jamie! You need something poetic!

Of course, he probably didn't mean literally real, more likely he was asking if I was for real, as in, I meant this, I hadn't replied as part of a joke, or a trap.

But then … I still couldn't be sure his original message wasn't a joke, either. What if I was the one being trapped here?

I remembered Jason and a prickle of something nasty danced up my spine.

A coincidence that he'd just been in the library, and now there was a reply in the book?

I doubted very much he also had a slightly adorable obsession with flying machines like Adam.

I glanced over my shoulder. Was it even safe to write a response?

And was I just falling for a long con?

I had to proceed with caution. My hands wouldn't stop shaking, but I managed to scrawl a reply I felt worked:

As real as you.

I was quite pleased with that. It sounded a bit mysterious, and it worked both ways: I was real if he was real. But if he wasn't being real, then I was saying I wasn't either.

God, I was good.

I wanted to ask more, of course. I wanted to write: what year are you? What's your name? Do I know you?! But I knew I had to take it slowly.

I stared at my reply, then closed the book and placed it back on the shelf.

And the waiting game began again.

*What I didn't notice, at the time, was that everyone I was trying to "save" was a boy, of course.

*About five years later, I was on an EasyJet flight to Corfu and who should be one of the flight attendants? Adam Henson! I'm happy he sort of got his dream job – although I believe he only stuck at it for a few years.