Solitaire, Part 2 of 3 (3 page)

I blog some more and lie awake listening to the rain and forget what the time is and forget to change into my pyjamas. I add
Metamorphosis
to the pile of unread books. I put
The Breakfast Club
on, but I’m not really watching so I skip to the best part, the part where they’re all sitting in a circle and they reveal those deep and personal things and they cry and all that. I watch that scene three times and then turn it off. I listen for the giant/demon, but it’s more of a rumbling tonight, a deep growling rumble like a drum. In the swirly wallpaper of my room, stooped yellow figures creep back and forth and back and forth until I’m hypnotised. In my bed, someone has placed an enormous glass cage on top of me and the air is slowly stewing sour. In my dreams, I’m running around in circles atop a cliff, but there’s a boy in a red hat catching me every time I try to jump off.

“I’M NOT JOKING
, Tori. This is an extremely serious decision.”

I look Becky squarely in the eye. “Oh, I know. This could determine the whole future of human existence.”

We are in her bedroom. It’s 4.12pm, Friday. I’m sitting cross-legged on her double bed. Everything in here is pink and black and, if this room were a person, it would be a Kardashian on a moderate income. There’s a poster of Edward Cullen and Bella Swan on the wall. Every time I see it I want to put it through a shredder.

“No, seriously though, I’m not even joking.” She holds up each of the costumes again, one in each hand. “Tinker Bell or Hermione?”

I stare at each. They’re not very different except one is green and one is grey.

“Tinker Bell,” I say. Seeing as Becky maintains her coolness and hilarity by acting like an idiot, it would be an insult to the name of Hermione Granger and J.K. Rowling and all Potterheads to allow Becky to be the brightest witch of her age.

She nods and chucks the Hermione outfit on to a steadily growing mountain of clothes. “That’s what I thought.” She starts changing. “Who are you going as again?”

I shrug, still thinking about Harry Potter. “I wasn’t going to dress up. I thought I could wear my invisibility cloak.”

Becky, in just her bra and knickers, puts her hands on her hips. I know I shouldn’t feel awkward because I’ve been her best friend for over five years. I still do though. Since when did nudity become so normal?

“Tori. You are dressing up. It’s my fancy-dress party and I say so.”

“Fine.” I think hard, weighing up my options. “I could go as … Snow White?”

Becky pauses as if waiting for the punchline.

I frown. “What?”

“Nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

“You don’t think I could go as Snow White.”

“No, no, you could be Snow White. If you want.”

I look at my hands. “All right. I’ll … er … think about it.” I twirl my thumbs. “I could … make my hair … all wavy …”

She seems satisfied and puts on the tiny green dress with fairy wings.

“Are you going to try and talk to people tonight?” she asks.

“Is that an actual question or an order?”

“An order.”

“I make no promises.”

Becky laughs and pats me on my cheek. I hate that. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after you. I always do, don’t I?”

At home, I put on a white shirt and a black skater skirt I bought once for some job interview I never showed up to. Then I locate my favourite black jumper and black tights. My hair is just about long enough to style into tiny plaits and I draw on more eyeliner than usual.

Wednesday Addams. I was sort of kidding with Snow White and I despise Disney anyway.

I leave the house around seven. Nick, Charlie and Oliver are just sitting down to dinner. Mum and Dad are going to see a play and then staying at a hotel tonight. To be honest, it was Charlie and I who insisted that they stay overnight rather than make the two-hour drive home. I guess they were kind of worried about not being there for Charlie. I almost decided to stay home and not go to Becky’s party, but Charlie assured everyone that he would be fine, which I’m sure he will, because Nick’s staying round this evening. And I’m not even going to be out for very long.

It’s a dark party. The lights are dimmed and teenagers are spilling out of the house. I pass the smokers and the social smokers who gather in rings outside. Smoking is so pointless. The only reason I can think of for smoking is if you want to die. I don’t know. Maybe they all want to die. I recognise most people from school and from Truham, and there are Year 11s through to Year 13s here and I know for a fact that Becky doesn’t know them all personally.

A selection of Our Lot is squeezed into the conservatory, along with a few other people that I don’t know. Evelyn, scrunched into the corner of a sofa, spots me first.

“Tori!” She waves so I wander over. Eyeing me thoughtfully, she says, “Who are you?”

“Wednesday Addams,” I say.

“Who?”

“Have you seen
The Addams Family
?”

“No.”

I shuffle my feet. “Oh.” Her own outfit is rather spectacular: straightened hair put up in a classy bun, insect sunglasses and a fifties dress. “You’re Audrey Hepburn.”

Evelyn throws her arms into the air. “THANK YOU!
Someone
at this party has some bloody
culture
!”

Lucas is here too, sitting next to a girl and a boy who have basically merged into one being. He’s wearing a beret and a rolled-sleeve stripy T-shirt with these skin-tight, ankle-length black jeans and he has an actual string of garlic bulbs hung around his neck. Somehow, he looks both very fashionable and very ridiculous. He waves shyly at me with his beer can. “Tori!
Bonjour!
”

I wave back and then practically run away.

First, I go to the kitchen. There are a lot of Year 11s in here, mostly girls dressed as a variety of promiscuous Disney princesses, and three boys dressed as Superman. They’re chatting excitedly about Solitaire’s pranks, apparently finding them hilarious. One girl even claims she took part in them.

Everyone seems to be talking about the Solitaire meet-up blog post – the one that Michael and I found after he broke me out of that IT classroom. Apparently, the entire town is planning to attend.

I find myself standing next to a lonely-looking girl, possibly a Year 11, but I’m not too sure, who is dressed as a very accurate David Tennant’s Doctor Who. I immediately feel a kind of connection with her because she looks so alone.

She looks at me and as it’s too late to pretend I haven’t been staring I say, “Your costume is, er, really good.”

“Thank you,” she says, and I nod and walk off.

Ignoring the beers and WKDs and Bacardi Breezers, I raid Becky’s fridge for some diet lemonade. With my plastic cup in hand, I amble into the garden.

It’s a truly magnificent garden: slightly sloped with a pond at the bottom, enclosed by clusters of bare willow trees. Groups are huddled all over the wooden decking and the grass, even though it’s about 0 degrees Celsius. Somehow, Becky has got her hands on an actual floodlight. It’s as bright as the sun and the groups of teenagers spill swaying shadows over the grass. I spot Becky/Tinker Bell with a different group of Year 12s. I go up to her.

“Hey,” I say, sliding into the circle.

“Toriiiiiiiii!” She’s got a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream in her hand with one of those curly plastic straws in it. “Dude! Guess what! I’ve got something so amazing to tell you! It’s just so amazing! You’re going to die, it’s so so so amazing! You are going to die!”

I smile at her even though she’s shaking me by the shoulders and spilling Baileys on me.

“You. Are going. To DIE.”

“Yes, yes, I’m going to die—”

“You know Ben Hope?”

Yes, I know Ben Hope, and I also know exactly what she’s about to say.

“
Ben Hope asked me out
,” she splutters.

“Oh,” I say, “my God!”

“I know! I, like, did not expect a
thing
! We were chatting earlier and he admitted he liked me; oh my God, he was so cute and
awkward
!” And then she talks for quite a while about Ben Hope while sipping on her Baileys, and I’m smiling and nodding and definitely feeling really pleased for her.

After a while, Becky starts repeating the whole story to some girl dressed as Minnie Mouse and I feel myself getting a bit bored so I check my blog on my phone. There’s a little (1) symbol, signifying I have a message:

Anonymous:
Thought for the day: Why do cars always part for ambulances?

I read the message several times. It could be from anyone, I guess, though no one I know in real life knows about my blog. Stupid anons. Why do cars always part for ambulances? Because the world is not filled with assholes. That’s why.

Because the world is not filled with assholes.

As soon as I make that deduction, Lucas finds me. He’s a little bit pissed.

“I can’t work out who you are,” he says, always so
embarrassed
.

“I’m Wednesday Addams.”

“Aah, so cute, so cute.” He nods knowingly, but I can tell that he has no idea who Wednesday Addams is.

I look past him, out into the floodlit garden. All the people are just blurred darkness. I feel a bit sick and this diet lemonade is giving me a nasty taste in my mouth. I want to go and pour it down the sink, but I think I’ll feel even more lost if I don’t have something to hold on to.

“Tori?”

I look at him. The garlic was a bad move. It doesn’t smell great. “Mm?”

“I asked if you were all right. You look like you’re having a mid-life crisis.”

“It’s not a mid-life crisis. It’s just a life crisis.”

“Pardon? I can’t hear you.”

“I’m fine. Just bored.”

He smiles at me like I’m joking, but I’m not joking. All parties are boring.

“You can go and talk to other people, you know,” I say. “I really don’t have anything interesting to say.”

“You always have interesting things to say,” he says. “You just don’t say them.”

I lie and say I need another drink even though my cup is more than half full and I feel really sick. I get out of the garden. I’m out of breath and so angry for no reason. I barge through the crowds of stupid, drunk teenagers and lock myself in the downstairs bathroom. Someone’s been sick in here – I can smell it. I look at myself in the mirror. My eyeliner has smudged so I sort it out. Then I tear up and ruin it again and try not to start crying. I wash my hands three times and take the plaits out of my hair because they look idiotic.

Someone’s banging on the door of the bathroom. I’ve been in here for ages just staring at myself in the mirror, watching my eyes tear up and dry and tear up and dry. I open the door ready to punch them in the face and find myself directly opposite Michael goddamn Holden.

“Oh, thank Christ.” He races inside and, without bothering to let me leave or shut the door, he lifts the toilet seat and starts to pee. “Thank. Christ. I thought I was going to have to piss in the flower bed, for Christ’s sake.”

“All right, just pee with a lady present,” I say.

He waves his hand casually.

I get out of there.

As I exit through the front door, Michael catches me up. He’s dressed as Sherlock Holmes. Even the hat.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

I shrug. “It’s too hot in there.”

“It’s too cold out here.”

“Since when did you acquire a body temperature?”

“Will you ever be able to talk to me without making a sarcastic comment?”

I turn and start walking further away, but he’s still in pursuit.

“Why are you following me?”

“Because I don’t know anyone else here.”

“Don’t you have any Year 13 friends?”

“I – er …”

I stop on the pavement outside Becky’s drive.

“I think I’m going home,” I say.

“Why?” he asks. “Becky’s your friend. It’s her birthday.”

“She won’t mind,” I say. She won’t notice.

“What are you going to do at home?” he asks.

Blog. Sleep. Blog. “Nothing.”

“Why don’t we crash in a room upstairs and watch a film?”

Coming from any other person’s mouth, it would sound like he’s asking me to go into a room and have sex with him, but because it’s Michael who says this I know that he’s being completely serious.

I notice that the diet lemonade in my cup has gone. I can’t remember when I drank it. I want to go home, but I don’t because I know I won’t sleep. I’ll just lie there in my room. Michael’s hat looks really stupid. He probably borrowed that tweed jacket from a dead body.

“Fine.” I say.

THERE IS A
line that you cross when forming relationships with people. Crossing this line occurs when you transfer from knowing someone to knowing
about
someone, and Michael and I cross that line at Becky’s seventeenth birthday party.

We go upstairs into Becky’s room. He, of course, begins to investigate, while I drop and roll on to the bed. He passes the poster of Edward Cullen and Bella No-Expression Swan, raising a sceptical eyebrow at it. He trails along the shelf of dancing show photographs and medals and the shelf of pre-teen books that have lain untouched for years, and he steps over the piles and piles of crumpled dresses and shorts and T-shirts and knickers and bras and schoolbooks and bags and miscellaneous pieces of paper until, finally, he opens a wardrobe, bypasses the shelves of folded-up clothes and locates a small row of DVDs.

He pulls out
Moulin Rouge
,
but, seeing the look on my face, quickly replaces it. A similar thing happens when he retrieves
It’s a Boy Girl Thing.
After a moment more, he gasps and grabs a third DVD, leaps across the room to the flat-screen and switches it on.

“We’re watching
Beauty and the Beast
,” he says.

“No, we are not,” I say.

“I think you’ll find that we are,” he says.

“Please,” I say. “No. What about
The Matrix
?
Lost in Translation
?
Lord of the Rings
?” I don’t know why I’m saying this. Becky owns none of these films.