Solitaire, Part 2 of 3 (6 page)

The Dying Sun is a clifftop overlooking the river. It’s the only cliff in the county. I don’t know why there’s a cliff over a river because there are never normally cliffs over rivers except in films and abstract documentaries about places you will never go to. But the Dying Sun is so dramatically named because, if you stand facing out on the furthest point of the cliff, you are exactly opposite the sun as it sets. A couple of years back, I decided to take a walk around our town and I remember the long brown house that sat mere metres away from the cliff edge, like it was ready to take a leap.

Maybe it’s the fact that I can actually remember all this that causes me to wander up the long country lane and halt outside the brown house on the Dying Sun at nine o’clock in the morning.

Michael’s house has a wooden gate and a wooden door and a sign on its front wall reading ‘Jane’s Cottage’. It’s somewhere you’d expect either a farmer or a lonely old person to live. I stand there, just outside the gate. Coming here was a mistake. An utter mistake. It’s like nine in the morning. No one is up at nine in the morning on a Sunday. I can’t just knock at someone’s house. That’s what you did in primary school, for God’s sake.

I head back down the lane.

I’ve taken twenty steps when I hear the sound of his front door opening.

“
Tori?
”

I stop in the road. I shouldn’t have come here. I should not have come here.

“Tori? That is you, isn’t it?”

Very slowly, I turn round. Michael has shut the gate and is jogging down the road towards me. He stops before me and grins his dazzling grin.

For a moment, I don’t actually believe it’s him. He is positively dishevelled. His hair, usually gelled into a side parting, flies around in wavy tufts, and he’s wearing a truly admirable amount of clothes, including a woolly jumper and woolly socks. His glasses are slipping off his nose. He doesn’t look awake and his voice, normally so wispy, is a little hoarse.

“Tori!” he says and clears his throat. “It’s Tori Spring!”

Why did I come here? What was I thinking? Why am I an idiot?

“You came to my house,” he says, shaking his head back and forth in what can only be described as pure amazement. “I mean, I thought you might, but I didn’t at the same time … you know?”

I glance to one side. “Sorry.”

“No, no, I’m really glad that you did. Really.”

“I can go home. I didn’t mean to—”

“
No
.”

He laughs and it’s a nice laugh. He runs a hand through his hair. I’ve never seen him do that before.

I find myself smiling back. I’m not quite sure how that happens either.

A car rolls up behind us and we quickly move to the side of the road to let it pass. The sky is still a little orange and, in every other direction except the town, all you can see are fields, many abandoned and wild, their long grass flowing like sea waves. I start to feel like I’m actually in the
Pride and Prejudice
film, you know, that bit at the end where they go out to that field in the mist and the sun is rising.

“Would you like to … go out?” I say. Then quickly add: “Today?”

He is literally awestruck. Why. Am I. An idiot.

“Y-yes. Definitely. Wow, yes.
Yes
.”

Why.

I look back to the house.

“You have a nice house,” I say. I wonder what it’s like inside. I wonder who his parents are. I wonder how he’s decorated his bedroom. Posters? Lights? Maybe he painted something. Maybe he has old board games stacked up on shelves. Maybe he has a beanbag. Maybe he has figurines. Maybe he has Aztec-patterned bed sheets and black walls, and teddies in a box, and a diary under his pillow.

He looks at the house, his expression suddenly downcast.

“Yeah,” he says, “I guess.” Then he turns back to me. “But we should go out somewhere.”

He quickly runs back to the gate and locks it. His hair is just hilarious. But kind of nice. I can’t stop looking at it. He walks back and passes me, and then turns and holds out his hand. His jumper, much too big for him, flutters around his body.

“Coming?”

I step towards him. And then I do something, like, really pathetic.

“Your hair,” I say, lifting my hand and taking hold of a dark strand that covers his blue eye. “It’s …
free
.” I move the strand to one side.

I then realise what I’m doing, jump backwards and cringe. I sort of wish I could disapparate, Harry Potter style.

For what feels like an ice age, he doesn’t stop looking at me with this frozen expression, and after that I swear he goes a little red. He’s still holding out his hand so I take it, but that almost makes
him
jump.

“Your hand is so cold,” he says. “Do you
have
any blood?”

“No,” I say. “I’m a ghost. Remember?”

SOMETHING IS DIFFERENT
in the air as we stroll down the road. We are hand in hand, but definitely not in a romantic way. Michael’s face spins round and round in my mind and I come to the conclusion that I do not know the boy walking next to me. I do not know him at all.

Michael takes me to a café in the town named Café Rivière. It’s next to the river, hence the unoriginal name, and I have been here many times before. We are the only people there apart from the elderly French owner sweeping the floor and we sit at a table with a gingham tablecloth and a vase of flowers by a window. Michael drinks tea. I eat a croissant.

Dying, though I don’t know why, to make conversation, I start with, “So why’d you change schools?”

The immediate look on his face tells me that this was not the casual question that I had intended it to be.

I cringe. “Oh, sorry. Sorry. That was nosy. You don’t have to answer.”

For several long moments, he continues to drink his tea. Then he puts down the cup and stares into the flowers between us.

“No, it’s fine. It’s not too important.” He chuckles to himself, as if remembering something. “I, er, didn’t get on too well with the people there. Not teachers, not students … I thought a change of scene might do me some good. I thought maybe I’d get along better with girls or something stupid like that.” He shrugs and laughs, but it’s not a funny laugh, it’s a different sort of laugh. “Nope. Obviously, my personality is far too fantastic for both girls and boys to handle.”

I don’t know why, but I start to feel quite sad. It’s not my normal type of sad, you know, the unnecessary and self-inflicted pity party sort of sad, but it’s a sad that’s kind of projected outwards.

“You should be on
Waterloo Road
or
Skins
or something,” I say.

He laughs again. “Why’s that?”

“Because you’re …” I finish my sentence with a shrug. He replies with a smile.

We are silent for several moments more. I eat. He drinks.

“What are you doing next year?” I ask. It’s a bit like I’m giving him an interview, but for once I’ve got this odd feeling. Like I’m
interested
. “University?”

He absently fondles his cup. “No. Yeah. No, I don’t know. It’s too late now anyway – the UCAS deadline was yesterday. How am I supposed to decide on a university course? Most of the time at school I can’t even decide which
pen
to use.”

“I thought our school, like,
makes
you apply to uni in Year 13. Or at least apprenticeships and stuff. Even if you don’t accept the place in the end.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You know, school can’t really
make
you do anything
.
”

The truth of this statement is like a punch in the face.

“But … why didn’t you apply to a few unis anyway? Just in case you decide you want to go?”

“Because I
hate
school!” This is quite loud. He starts to shake his head. “The idea of having to sit in a chair for three years and learn about stuff that isn’t going to help me in life
literally
disgusts me. I’ve always been crap at exams and I always will be, and I
hate
that everyone thinks that you
have
to go to university to have a decent life!”

I sit there, dumbstruck.

We say nothing for a minute or so before he finally meets my eyes.

“I’ll probably just stick with sports,” he says, calm again, with a sheepish grin.

“Oh, right. What do you play?”

“Huh?”

“What sport do you play?”

“I’m a speed skater.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m a speed skater.”

“Like racing? On ice?”

“Yup.”

I shake my head. “It’s like you just picked the most random sport.”

He nods in agreement. “I guess it is.”

“Are you any good?”

There’s a pause.

“I’m okay,” he says.

It has started to rain. The drops fall on the river, water meeting water, and trickle down the window like the glass is crying.

“Being a skater would be pretty cool,” he says. “But, you know, it’s hard. Things like that are hard.”

I eat a bit more croissant.

“It’s raining.” He leans on his hand. “If the sun came back out, there’d be a rainbow. It’d be beautiful.”

I look out of the window. The sky is grey. “There doesn’t need to be a rainbow for it to be beautiful.”

The café owner mumbles something. An old woman with a walking stick hobbles inside and sits near us by a window. It seems to take her a great deal of effort. I notice that the flowers on our table are fake.

“What shall we do next?” asks Michael.

I take a moment to think.

“They’re playing
The Empire Strikes Back
at the cinema this afternoon,” I say.

“You’re a
Star Wars
fan?”

I fold my arms. “Is that surprising?”

He looks at me. “You’re very surprising. In general.”

Then his expression changes.

“You’re a
Star Wars
fan,” he says.

I frown. “Er, yeah.”

“And you can play the violin.”

“Erm … yeah.”

“Do you like cats?”

I start to laugh. “What in the name of fuck are you talking about?”

“Humour me for a minute.”

“Fine. Fine, yeah, cats are pretty fabulous.”

“And what’s your opinion about Madonna? And Justin Timberlake?”

Michael is a very strange person, but this conversation is advancing more and more towards the insanity line.

“Er, yeah. Some of their songs are good. But please tell me what you’re talking about. I’m starting to worry for your mental health.”

“
Solitaire
.”

We both freeze, staring at each other. The
Star Wars
prank. The violin video. The cats, ‘Material Girl’
,
Justin Timberlake’s ‘SexyBack’—

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”

“What do you think I’m suggesting?” Michael asks innocently.

“I think you’re suggesting that Solitaire has something to do with
me.
”

“And what do you say to that?”

“I say that’s the most hilarious thing I’ve heard all year.” I stand up and start to put on my coat. “I’m literally the dullest person on the face of the earth.”

“That’s what
you
think.”

Instead of arguing further, I ask, “Why are you so interested in them?”

He pauses and leans back again. “I don’t know. I just get curious about this stuff, you know? I want to know who’s doing it. And why.” He chuckles. “I have a pretty sad life as it is.”

It takes a few seconds for the full impact of his final line to reach me.

It’s the first time I’ve heard Michael Holden say something like that.

Like something I would say.

“Hey,” I say. I nod at him earnestly. “So do I.”

Before we leave the café, Michael buys the old woman a pot of tea. Then he takes me to the ice rink to show me how fast he can skate. It turns out he’s BFF with every single staff member. He high-fives them all on the way in, and they insist on high-fiving me as well, which is kind of weird, but also makes me feel sort of cool.

Michael is an insane skater. He doesn’t skate past me, he
flies
, and everything slows and I watch his face turn towards me and this smile, his smile, stretches outwards and then he just vanishes, leaving only dragon breath. I, in comparison, fall over seven times.

After I’ve been wobbling around on the ice for quite some time, he decides to take pity and skate with me. I clutch his hands, trying not to fall flat on my face, as he skates backwards, pulling me along and laughing so hard at my concentration-face that tiny tears emerge out of the corner of his eyes. Once I get the hang of things, we figure-skate round the rink to ‘Radio People’
by Zapp, an underrated eighties gem and coincidentally my favourite song from
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off
. On the way out, after an hour or so, he shows me the picture of him on the Skating Club board, aged ten, holding a trophy high above his head.

There’s no one in town apart from a few oldies. Sleepy Sunday. We visit all the antique shops. I play on a second-hand violin and I manage to remember a surprisingly large number of pieces. Michael joins in on a piano, and we jam until the shop owners decide we’re too annoying and chuck us out. In another shop, we find this amazing kaleidoscope. It’s wooden and slides outwards like a telescope and we take it in turns gazing at the patterns until Michael decides to buy it. It’s expensive too. I ask him why he bought it. He says because he didn’t like the thought of no one ever looking into it.

We walk along the river and throw stones in and play Pooh Sticks on the bridge. We go back to Café Rivière for a late lunch and more tea for Michael. We go to the cinema to see
Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back
, which, of course, is excellent, and then we hang around to watch
Dirty Dancing
because apparently it’s ‘Back to the Eighties’ day.
Dirty Dancing
is a very stupid film. The main girl is probably the most irritating individual I have ever had the misfortune to encounter. Mostly due to her outfits. And her voice.

Midway through the film, I get another message on my blog.

Anonymous:
Thought for the day: Why do people leave newspapers on trains?