Only We Know (8 page)

Only an expert in parental paranoia, like I am, could detect the note of panic in her voice. She reminds me of a shopping channel presenter – well dressed and friendly on the heavily mascaraed face of it, but you sense the desperation inside. ‘Hello. You must be Lauren.’

‘Yes. Hi.’

‘Hurry up, Harry, your friend’s here.’

There are probably a hundred and one questions she’s dying to ask me. I’d put money on the top three involving sex, drugs and what my parents do for a living, but the rules of the game mean she has to play nice.

‘Harry’s just putting a clean shirt on. He won’t be a minute.’

I didn’t dress up, otherwise Mum would have been suspicious – although I did stop in the leisure centre toilets to slap on some concealer. Tilda gets to spend the whole day in Brighton with her new friends no questions asked; I get the third degree every time I leave the house.

‘You found us all right then?’

They live on the top floor of some three-storey apartments near the park. There’s a nasty prison-cell lift, but I took the stairs instead. ‘Yes, fine, thanks. I’ve got Google Maps on my phone.’ Why can’t I stop talking? ‘That’s a lovely view of the garden.’

‘We share it with the other flats, but sometimes in the summer the residents’ committee organises a barbecue and we all …
Hurry up, Harry.’

I’m not very good at this – meeting the parent/s. Then again, I haven’t had much practice recently. ‘That sounds really …’

‘So anyway
… I hear you and Harry are in the same English group.’

‘That’s right. And we’re both helping out with the fashion show.’

‘I expect you’re one of the models, aren’t you? I love those jeggings. They are jeggings, aren’t they?’

‘That’s right.’

It’s not fair really, because I still remember quite a bit about her. We haven’t actually met before, but I know Harry’s dad moved to Manchester with a kitchen designer, and unless his mum’s changed jobs in the last four years she’s a primary school teacher who really wanted to be a chef.

‘And how are you finding it up at St Thomas’s?’

‘It’s not too —’

‘She’s doing fine, aren’t you?’ says Harry, still buttoning
his shirt as he comes to my rescue. ‘What’s with all the questions, Mum?’

‘We were just talking, weren’t we, Lauren?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Harry said you’re new to the area. Where did you live before?’

‘Give her a break, Mum, she’s only just arrived.’

‘And what about your parents, Lauren – how do
they
like it here? Bit quiet I expect.’

‘Tell you what, why don’t you make a list of questions and I’ll email them to her?’ says Harry.

‘Sorry, Lauren, I was only … Would you like a drink?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Right, we’re off to my room,’ says Harry. ‘To listen to music or something.’

‘Okay then,’ says his mum. ‘But are you sure you don’t want to watch telly in here? I’ll be catching up with some marking so I won’t disturb you.’

‘We’ll probably need the Xbox,’ says Harry.

‘Lauren doesn’t want to mess about on your Xbox, do you, Lauren?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Fair enough,’ she says, stealing another glance at Harry. I’ve seen that look before. My mum does it all the time. It doesn’t matter how long ago it happened, or how well they’re doing now, if your kid’s life turns to shit for a while, you spend the next hundred years reassuring yourself that it’s not about to kick off again. ‘Good, good …
Right, well, have a … great time and, er, nice to meet you, Lauren.’

‘Yes, you too.’

Harry leads me down the corridor. ‘That’s the bathroom, that’s Mum’s room and there’s a little office space next door. And this is me.’ Is the estate-agent patter supposed to be funny or is he as nervous as I am?

His bedroom is pleasingly lacking in the teenage boy smells I always do my best to avoid. And ridiculously tidy – a picture of all four Beatles on a clutter-free chest of drawers, an IKEA bookcase (books, CDs and Xbox games in alphabetical order), a lonely laptop on a pine desk and Blu-Tacked above it a revision timetable for the mocks.

‘I can’t believe you, Harry.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘It’s like an IKEA showroom in here.’

‘Tidy bedroom, tidy mind.’ He smiles, screwing his index finger into the side of his head and drooling like a cartoon lunatic.

‘If you say so.’

‘Which reminds me, this is for you.’ He takes a plastic bag from the wardrobe and hands it to me.

‘What is it?

‘I was going to give it to you at school, but you might as well have it now.’

It’s the trainer I dropped at Izzy’s party. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I’m kind of disappointed. ‘Oh right, thanks.’

He flips open his laptop and brings up his Spotify playlist. ‘You can sit on the bed if you like. I’ll take the chair.’

‘Sure I won’t crease your lovely duvet?’

Harry grins. ‘No, you’re fine.’

At least his taste in music has improved. ‘Sorry about the other night, running off like that. My dad was waiting in the car.’

‘No worries,’ says Harry. ‘What made you change your mind?’

‘About what?’

‘About, you know, getting together now?’

‘Well, there’s no reason we can’t be friends, is there?’

‘You tell me, Lauren.’

‘Like you said, we can take things slowly and see what happens.’

It’s hard to tell if he’s a bit pissed off or just relieved. ‘Yes, yes, good idea.’ He taps three times on each arm of the chair. ‘So what do you want to do then? I suppose we
could
play an Xbox game if you like.’

‘If you want. But nothing violent, okay?’

‘How about
Pro Skater Four?
It’s a skating game.’

‘You amaze me.’

‘It’s really old, but it’s a good game to start off with.’

‘I could give it a try, I suppose,’ I say, acting like I’ve never seen an Xbox before.

He takes two controllers from the top drawer of his desk and joins me on the bed. ‘A is for jump and these other buttons are when you want to do tricks.’

‘Okay.’

‘First we have to choose the characters. I’ll be Bucky Lasek and you can be Jamie Thomas.’

I prefer Bam Margera, but best to let it pass. ‘Okay then.’

‘Well, just free-skate for a bit while you get the hang of it. That’s you on the left, the guy with the red bandana.’

‘Nice.’

It’s not fair really, because I know a lot more about him than he thinks he knows about me. So while I know not to wind him up by asking too much about his dad,
he
doesn’t realise that my cousin Stewart spent practically the whole of a rain-soaked holiday in Cornwall forcing me to play this game. So after we’ve skated around the college campus for a while, I kind of forget I’m supposed to be crap at it and start pulling off some triple-kick tricks and jumping off the car park roof.

‘That’s really good, Lauren. You’re a natural.’

When we started playing, there was an ocean of freshly laundered duvet cover between us. But the more we explore the tennis courts together, the more the scent of Calvin Klein overpowers the fabric conditioner.

‘Do you believe in second chances, Harry?’

‘What kind of question is that?’

‘A pretty simple one really.’

Bucky Lasek takes another tumble; Harry turns and looks me in the eye. ‘Well, yes, I do actually.’

‘What?’

‘Believe in second chances. Most of us deserve to get it right in the end.’

The next thing I know our legs are touching. Jeans meet jeggings and neither of us pulls away. And just when I get the feeling he’s about to put his arm round me, he coughs like the audience member from hell at your favourite movie and jumps off the bed.

‘Sorry, can we pause for a minute? I, er … I could really do with a drink. Can I get you anything?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘I won’t be a sec then. I’ll just go and fix myself a coffee.’

‘Oh, yes, right. You do that. I’ll see you in a —’

And while he’s gone, I check the room for elephants. At first it looks clean: a couple of dodgy CDs perhaps, but nothing that would give the game away. But then I see it, partially concealed behind the dangling legs of the wooden frog on the middle shelf – a shoebox covered in Super Mario Bros wrapping paper. I know exactly what it is. Mine’s better hidden than Harry’s, but I’ve got one in my bedroom too.

No, don’t, Lauren, you mustn’t.

And for at least five seconds I resist the urge to ease it off the bookshelf and carry it across to the bed. And once I’ve got it there, it takes at least another five seconds before I decide to open it. The three words in blue magic marker on the lid –
HARRY’S HAPPY BOX
– are just far too enticing.

What’s weird is that I could probably have predicted the entire contents: a can of Red Bull (strictly forbidden, ‘typical H’), the sixth season of
The Simpsons
(the one with Lisa’s Wedding), a deck of Pokémon cards, a photo of his mum with his older brother (Jon, is it? He’s probably at uni by now), a limited edition of ‘The Black Parade’, a battered copy of
Noughts and Crosses
(his twelve-year-old dystopia of choice), a squeaky red nose and a resealable sandwich bag of gummy worms.

I take out a multicoloured gelatine invertebrate and hold it up to the light. But as soon as I hear his footsteps, I grab Harry’s Happy Box and slip it back on the shelf. All that remains now is to destroy the gummy worm.

Who’d have thought that a mouthful of barely flavoured gelatine could be such a blast from the past? But not in a good way. All I can remember is how unhappy we were. Back then I found it almost impossible to cry, but these days it’s as easy as breathing. Not angry tears exactly, more like big blobs of cryogenically frozen sadness.

And I’m crying so hard that I don’t hear him come back. It’s only when I feel his arm on my shoulder that I realise he’s sitting beside me.

‘What’s the matter?’ he whispers. ‘Why don’t you tell me, Lauren? Maybe I can help.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t.’

‘Okay, if that’s what you want. Like I said, we can take it as slowly as you like.’

‘… Thanks.’

‘But please don’t cry, Lauren. There’s actually nothing to cry about.’

And I want to believe him, really I do.

This would be even better if I’d talked Tilda into changing her mind. It’s Friday after school in the sports hall, and our first rehearsal with the music is going really well until the three teachers step onto the runway and Mr Catchpole freezes.

‘Not there, sir,’ says Magda, struggling as usual to hide her frustration. ‘Don’t you remember, you have to get right to the front before you start posing?’

Mr Catchpole waves his arms at Katherine and Grunt (her friend/boyfriend?). ‘Stop the music please. I
said
stop the music.’

The sports hall falls silent.

Izzy jumps in before Magda can go off on one. ‘Don’t worry, sir, you’re doing fine. We can try it again if you like.’

‘It’s not that,’ says Mr Catchpole. ‘It’s the song.’

‘What’s the matter with it?’ says Magda. ‘Don’t you like Pink Floyd?’

‘The sentiment is completely inappropriate. Not only
that, it should be we don’t need
any
education – which is clearly nonsense, otherwise you couldn’t possibly tolerate such a glaring grammatical error.’

‘So what do you want us to do?’ says Izzy.

‘Find something more suitable. What are we supposed to be wearing anyway?’

Harry’s been practising his commentary. He reads directly from his notes: ‘The staff are preparing for their big night out. Miss Hoolyhan is modelling a full-length taffeta ball gown with matching accessories, Mr Peel is looking cool as usual in brushed denim and a vintage
Axe Poll Tax
T-shirt, and Mr Catchpole is wearing grey flannels, a tweed sports jacket and a green paisley tie – perfect for the PSHE teacher about town.’

‘Yes, thank you, Harry, I think we get the idea.’

‘How about “Take a Walk on the Wild Side”?’ says Mr Peel. ‘I know it’s a bit left field, but it’s got the same subversive vibe you guys are looking for.’

‘Or maybe something from
Oliver!
’ says Miss Hoolyhan.

The sports hall falls silent again. Mr Catchpole grinds his teeth.

Conor Corcoran tries to lighten the mood. ‘I like your moustache, miss. Didn’t know
you
were growing one too.’

‘Not now, Conor,’ says Miss Hoolyhan. ‘We’re trying to decide on the music.’

The room erupts with a riot of ‘helpful’ suggestions.

All
I’m
worried about is the trail of eczema climbing my legs. There’s never a good time for a flare-up, but the
thought of parading down the catwalk in a yellow beach dress alongside Conor Corcoran’s Speedos is enough to bring anyone out in a rash.

‘Shut up!’ screams Magda. ‘This isn’t helping, okay?’

‘For heaven’s sake,’ says Mr Catchpole. ‘This is your own time you’re wasting.’

I sneak a secret glance at Harry. He sneaks one back. We’ve been taking things slowly – Ice Age slowly. Neither of us wants to go public yet, so we’ve been careful not to leave school together or sit at the same tables, and Mum thinks I’ve been ‘hanging out’ with my new friend Katherine, which she’s obviously delighted about.

In fact, everything was going fine until the ‘weirdness’ started.

‘All right, let’s leave it there for today, shall we?’ says Magda. ‘But remember, guys, there’s only a week until the big night, so if you’re planning on having your hair done or any other beauty treatments, don’t leave it too late.’

Katherine and Grunt stage a loud discussion about their up-coming Botox injections.

‘I’ll see you tonight then,’ whispers Harry.

‘Yeah.’

‘You all right?’

I fight the urge to scratch. ‘Yeah, course. I’ll see you later.’

All I really want is to run home and slap some emollient on, but Katherine ambushes me on the way to my locker.

‘George wants to know if you’ve done the slideshow yet.’

‘Kind of. I’ve been getting some photos together on my portable hard drive.’

‘There’s not much time you know,’ says Katherine. ‘I suppose I could help if you like.’

‘Yeah, fine, that’d be good.’

‘What’s the matter with you anyway? I thought fashion was your thing.’

‘Sorry, I’ve had … stuff on my mind.’

Katherine smiles, like she thinks she knows something. ‘You mean Harry, I suppose?’

‘What? No. Why would you say that?’

‘I may not be one of the beautiful people, Lauren, but I do know how these things work.’

‘Well, you should do. I’ve seen you flirting with that Grunt guy.’

‘Oh
please
,’ says Katherine, the light in her eyes flicking on for a second.

‘Are you two seeing each other or what?’

‘We’re not interested in your moronic mating rituals. It’s a meeting of minds, not … you know.’

‘You sure about that, Katherine?’

And suddenly she’s all businesslike again. ‘So when are we going to get these photos done?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Let’s fix a time, shall we?’

‘All right, all right. How about after school on Monday in the ICT suite?’

‘I’ll be there,’ says Katherine, reaching back and playing
with her ponytail. ‘And just so you know, Lauren, his name’s not Grunt, it’s George, okay?’

By the time I get to the lockers, the thought of a whole weekend away from St Thomas’s Community College has
almost
put a smile on my face. And I’m looking forward to my date with Harry tonight, if it
is
a date. Holding hands for a few seconds is about as far as it’s gone. Maybe if neither of us hits the garlic, our first kiss could be on the cards.

I unhook the padlock and pull open my locker. The ghost of my smile is spirited away.

Holy shit, not again.

A green scaly monster is baring its teeth at me. With his tail horribly mutilated and jaws smeared with blood (or wait, is that lipstick?), he fixes me with a grey beady eye and my heart stops dead in its tracks …

Three seconds later, it springs back to life again at twice the original speed.

And as soon as I rediscover the power of movement, I chuck the monster in my messenger bag with the others and start running.