Falling Fast (11 page)

I closed my book and turned round, gazing at his face.

He looked up straight away. ‘Sorry, I won’t be much longer.’ He stared down at the essay. ‘I’ve got to finish this today. I said I’d go and help Mum with her
work tomorrow and then I’m doing some extra shifts at Goldbar’s on Wednesday and Thursday.’

I took a deep breath. I knew that talking about Flynn’s jobs was dangerous territory. It was too close to talking about him not having any money.

‘What work does your mum do?’ I said tentatively.

Flynn met my gaze. His eyes darkened, as if daring me to take the mickey. ‘Cleaning jobs,’ he said shortly. ‘And she does shifts at this call centre in Archway too.’

I nodded slowly, sensing that if I said the wrong thing now, he might get up and stalk off.

‘Please don’t get cross,’ I said. ‘But why did you say the other day that you feel guilty about your mum and sister working?’ I took his hand.

His eyes glittered dangerously. But he didn’t pull his hand away.

‘Because they’re bringing in more money than me,’ he muttered.

I frowned. ‘But you’re at school, and you work all the time when you’re not.’

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘I’m still at school. I could have left last year. I could be working full time, really helping. Instead, they’re having to pay for me. Well,
Mum’s money plus benefits pays the rent and bills. And Siobhan pays for food. My money just means we can buy new clothes occasionally. I hate it.’

His eyes burned so fiercely that I felt scared and turned on all at once.

‘So why did you stay on?’

‘I need A levels to get to law school,’ he said. ‘Once I’m a lawyer I’ll earn ten times more money than you get from doing rubbish cleaning jobs and car washing and
stupid organic vegetable deliveries.’

‘You want to be a lawyer?’ I screwed up my face. It was hard to imagine Flynn sitting in some office, wearing a suit, poring over boring law books.

‘No.’ Flynn sighed. He let go of my hand and picked at a blade of grass on the ground between us. ‘Not really. But I want a profession . . . something that people have heard
of. Something that’ll make people respect me. And I want to earn a lot of money. So I can look after my mum.’ His voice was very low. He sounded cross, but I was pretty sure he was just
embarrassed again.

‘What about your dad?’ I asked timidly. ‘Doesn’t he help with money?’

Flynn snorted with derision. I waited a second, hoping he’d say more, but he didn’t. I wanted to push him, but his face looked so thunderous I didn’t dare. I decided to get
back to the earlier part of the conversation.

‘Why d’you want to be a lawyer?’ I said. ‘Why not a doctor? Or . . . or an accountant?’

I wanted him to say something noble – about wanting to fight for people’s rights or keep criminals off the streets or something.

Instead, he just sighed. ‘Well, I can do maths, but I don’t really like it. And science is boring – at least the GCSE courses were,’ he said. ‘A lawyer’s just
easier. And there’s lots of money in the commercial stuff.’

I sat there, trying to get my head around this – I had never thought about work like that. I had thoughts sometimes of being a journalist or a therapist, maybe. And I suppose I had an idea
that they would both be quite well paid. But I couldn’t imagine picking a career solely on how much money I could make from it.

‘How many people know?’ I said.

He glanced up at me. ‘That I want to be a lawyer?’

I shook my head. ‘
Why
you want to be a lawyer?’

‘Just Mum and Siob.’ His eyes bored into me. ‘And you.’ He looked down at the blade of grass he’d picked up, then split it with his thumbnail. ‘I don’t
know why, but I seem to keep telling you things.’

I took a moment to savour this – to let it flow through me, warming me – then I asked him about his previous girlfriends.

Flynn shrugged a bit, then admitted to a few meaningless (he said) one-nighters, and two girls he’d gone out with for a couple of months each. He said he couldn’t even remember their
names.

I guess it wasn’t really that much, but compared to my track record it felt like a lot of experience. I’d done plenty of disappointing kissing over the past two years, but I’d
only really had one proper boyfriend before. Oliver Brown. I’d met him at a party last year and talked to him because he had nice eyes. We’d gone out for three months, but all
we’d done was kiss and fumble about a bit. I dumped him in the end because I knew I didn’t love him and liking and fancying him a little just wasn’t enough.

Flynn and I met up for a few snatched hours most days that half-term. We talked more – about school and the subjects Flynn had chosen for his AS and A levels. He was
doing history, English, French and geography. As I was planning to do the first two of those next year, I asked him lots of questions about what books he had to read and what he thought of them. I
soon realised Flynn viewed books completely differently from me. I loved getting lost in the stories, the world of the characters. For him, they were simply a means to an end – a means to a
qualification that he hoped would bring him status and money. I don’t mean he didn’t ever enjoy reading. But he never seemed to care about stories like I did.

I learned to avoid mentioning the things that made him angry. It was quite a list. In addition to drunks and money, he had already snapped at me when I’d asked about him being
Catholic:

‘I’m not Catholic. Not any more. It’s hypocritical and hard-faced and totally up its own arse. I got out of it as soon as I could. Okay?’

He got angriest of all when I asked him questions about his home and his family, especially why he was so protective of Siobhan. Once or twice he shouted at me. I learned to stop speaking as
soon as his face got that thundery, closed-down look that meant he was on the verge of losing his temper.

I told myself it didn’t really matter.

We still had plenty to talk about. I told him loads about my mum and dad and how it had been when they split up. I talked about Stone – how he called me Swampy and how annoying he was. I
talked about the books I’d read and the films I’d seen and the things I’d done with my friends.

Flynn told me about his jobs. Goldbar’s where he worked on Sundays was a gym. Well, a boxing club, really. He got free classes and some money in exchange for cleaning the place.

‘I like boxing,’ he said, when I asked him why he did it. ‘It’s important. So I can look after myself.’

‘You mean fight?’ I said. ‘Why d’you need to be able to do that?’

He muttered something vague about rough neighbourhoods.

But I knew there was something else too.

Something he wouldn’t say.

What we talked about most, of course, was
Romeo and Juliet
how good or bad various people were in their parts. How much Mr Nichols irritated him. How boring we both found bits of the play
– and how brilliant some of it was.

One day I questioned him carefully about Emmi and what it was like acting with her.

‘It’s okay.’ He shrugged. ‘I mean, she’s all right as Juliet, but she’s a bit . . .’ He paused, flicking an imaginary strand of hair off his shoulder
and pouting at me in a wickedly accurate imitation of Emmi. ‘I dunno, sometimes I think she’s more concerned about looking good than anything else.’

I grinned, then felt disloyal.

‘Emmi’s okay,’ I protested. ‘I know she comes across as a bit superficial, but she’s a good friend.’

Flynn nodded.

‘And she
does
look good,’ I said. ‘She’s really pretty.’

‘Well, that’s true,’ Flynn acknowledged.

There was a short pause. A thin thread of jealousy twisted into a knot in my heart. Flynn thought Emmi was really pretty.

Well, of course he did. Who wouldn’t?

It didn’t mean he liked her more than me.

Flynn put his arms round me. ‘Never mind Emmi. Doing
Romeo and Juliet
’s not real. It’s not like with you.’

And he drew me into this long kiss. Our kisses were – unbelievably – getting better and better. He didn’t try to touch me that much, not inside my jeans, anyway, not the whole
time we were meeting in the park. But he still ran his hands all over me as we kissed. I shivered wherever he touched me.

He laughed at that, told me how sexy I was.

But it wasn’t me who was sexy.

It was him.

It was us. Together.

Half-term slid slowly by. By the last weekend the weather had changed completely. After the mild, still days of earlier in the week, the temperature dropped and it started
raining – not hard, but off and on, all the time.

It was too cold and wet to sit outdoors in the park. Especially for Flynn – who either didn’t have a coat or only possessed one he was ashamed to be seen in. I hadn’t plucked
up the courage to ask which yet.

On Friday I forced him to let me buy him a coffee at the café we’d gone to that very first time. He agreed – after all it was only fair, even he could see that, as he’d
bought the last one. But just talking about money seemed to put him in a bad mood. I knew he was embarrassed that I had more than him. I suppose I still didn’t really understand why it was
such a big deal – after all, it wasn’t like I was rich or anything.

I kept waiting for him to ask me round to his house. But he didn’t. So in the end we agreed to meet on Sunday afternoon at mine. I would rather we’d gone to a cheap café, but
I was too scared of us having an argument over who was going to pay.

I hadn’t told Mum very much about Flynn – just that we’d met up a couple of times and that he was coming round so we could test each other on our lines. This, of course,
wasn’t even remotely true – Flynn had been word-perfect from the first rehearsal, while I knew half the entire play off by heart.

Stone was staying over at Dad’s all weekend and I knew Mum would be out until about five. Flynn said he’d come round at four. It was all going to work, I told myself nervously.
He’d have an hour to get used to the place before having to meet Mum. She’d teased me no end when I told her Flynn was playing Romeo.

‘So you still want to be Juliet, then?’ she’d said, nudging me like she’d said something hilarious.

I’d looked forward to him coming round all day, but as soon as I opened the door and saw him standing outside, I knew it was going to be a disaster.

His arms were crossed and his face was all clenched up. I could practically feel the anger pulsing off him as I took him through the hall into the kitchen. We had a can of Coke and some
biscuits.

Flynn said nothing. I chattered away about seeing Emmi and Grace the night before. I just wanted to keep the conversation light and easy. But I guess it was hard for Flynn to hear how we’d
all gone out to the pub while he’d been working. How Emmi and Grace had spent the evening with Alex and James. How all these other boys had been there too.

I stressed I’d only had one drink, then I tried to say something about missing him, about nobody last night being half as interesting as he was, but he cut me off.

‘Can I see your room then?’ he said aggressively.

I took him upstairs feeling deeply uneasy.

I’d spent ages tidying my room, then messing it up a bit so it didn’t look too neat and ordered. But Flynn didn’t take much notice – he glanced round at the wooden
wardrobe and the little desk and the blue-and-green check duvet and the table covered with pots and bottles. Then he strode over to the window and stared outside. I walked up behind him. He was
gripping his drink so tightly that his knuckles were white.

‘Flynn?’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’

He turned round, this vicious look in his eye. ‘You’re never going to understand, are you?’

‘Understand what?’ My heart pounded.

‘What you have.’ He waved his arm around, as if to indicate the whole house. ‘All this. All this amazing wealth. You take it all for granted, don’t you?’

‘No.’ I frowned. ‘And we’re not wealthy. My mum works. And my dad gives us what he can. Okay, so there’s enough money for this house, but we’re not rich or
anything. I don’t see—’

‘No,’ Flynn snapped. ‘You don’t see at all. You don’t see what it’s like when you don’t have anything.’ His voice got deeper and louder, like it
was catching in his throat. ‘You don’t see what it’s like when you worry about money all the time. When you work and work and it all goes on rent and crap food and crap clothes
and there’s nothing left over even for a pair of frigging shoes.’ He spat the last few words out at me, his whole face darkened with anger.

A sick, angry knot lodged itself in my chest.

‘It’s not my fault,’ I said, trying to stop my voice from shaking. ‘I didn’t make it like this.’ Tears welled up in my eyes and I turned away, not wanting him
to see how much he’d upset me.

‘I realised something the other day doing that stupid play,’ Flynn snarled. ‘There’s this line of Romeo’s:

“
Need and oppression starveth in thy eyes,

Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back . . .
”

‘You know how I know how to say that? It’s because I’ve lived it.’ His voice rose. ‘I’ve seen the need in my mum’s eyes. How she’s weighed down by
people’s contempt for her because she’s got no money.’ He was shouting now. ‘People like you make me—’

‘Stop it!’ I yelled, turning to face him. ‘Okay so you’ve got no money. That doesn’t give you the right to hate everyone who has a little bit more. D’you hear
me, Flynn? It’s not my family’s fault that you’re not well off. We don’t look down on you or your mum. That’s in your head.’

The kitchen door slammed downstairs. Mum’s ever so subtle way of letting me know she was back.
Great.
I wondered how much of our shouting match she’d heard.

Flynn was gazing down at me, this unreadable expression in his eyes. I put my hands on his arms. Immediately, I could feel the tension leaking out of them, his shoulders releasing down.

‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled awkwardly. ‘I just hate it that I can’t go out with you properly. That you get to go out on a Saturday night with loads of blokes sniffing
around. That you probably spend more money in one hour than I make all day.’