Non Pratt - Trouble

It’s not.

“Hey, kitten,” says the boy on my doorstep. He’s not been here since he told me we needed to cool things off but, still, I’m not completely surprised to see him.

“Hi,” I say, trying not to give anything away.

“Can I come in?”

I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, but I step back and let him come as far as the doormat. I have to lean round him to shut the door, which isn’t a good idea either. He smells so good. A warm, clean sort of smell.

But he’s not warm. And he’s not clean.

“What you up to?” His eyes flash over to the other room, where Lola’s leaping around in front of the TV.

“I’m babysitting my little sister.”

“She’s cute.”

I say nothing.

“What’s her name?”

“Lola.”

He nods his approval. I guess it’s habit to think everyone wants his permission for stuff. His eyes turn to me and I feel my clothes stripping from my skin, my body opening up until he can see everything he wants. He knows I want him. He knows I’m no different from everyone else.

“You got a moment to chat?” he asks, his body turning towards the stairs. I get the impression our conversation might take a different path from last time — this time it will be one we follow all the way.

I want to. Oh my God, do I want to.

“Sorry, I can’t. Not with Lola here.”

He steps forward and his hand goes up to my face, fingers resting lightly on my skin as he traces the shape of my ear lobe with his thumb. We’re kissing. Slow, tender and very, very sexy. I close my eyes and let myself enjoy it, let myself sink into him, feeling my hands betray me as my fingers creep along his waistband and trace the dip in his back that leads down…

I pull away.

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I can’t, not tonight. Tuesday?” Mum works late at the clinic Tuesdays and Robert takes Lola round to his parents’ for tea.

He smiles and nods once, then kisses me quickly before letting himself out. I put the chain back on the door and head back to my homework. Lola gives me a sly look.

“I saw you,” she says, screwing up her face and puckering her lips to make a disgusting squelchy kissing noise.

“You shouldn’t have been spying,” I say, but she shows no shame.

“Is he your boyfriend, then?” she asks, disgusted at the thought.

I smile and shake my head. “No, Lolly, he’s not my boyfriend.”

Whichever way you look at it, whatever goes on between me and Tyrone, he is not my boyfriend. He’s Marcy’s.

Although she’s in my form, English is the only class apart from PE that I share with Hannah and I watch as she slides into the chair across the aisle from me to sit with Katie. I can’t get what Fletch said out of my head — It’s Hannah Sheppard — it’s what she’s for — and I find myself thinking that she shouldn’t sell herself so cheap.

We’re divided into groups to perform the same passage of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in different styles and my group’s given sitcom. I only have a small part that wouldn’t be funny if Eddie Izzard turned up for a cameo, so I let the others sort themselves out and watch what everyone else is up to. Hannah and Katie’s group has to do theirs in the style of a soap opera. The two girls are sitting on the desk with their books open, but they’re not reading their lines.

“…about Friday.”

“Don’t worry about it. I know Mark Grey’s happiness means more to you than mine.”

“Don’t be like that. I’ve said sorry.”

“I can forgive you for abandoning me. I just can’t forgive your bad taste. Mark Grey?” I see Hannah wrinkle her nose as she says this and I smile into my book.

“Hello? Fletch.” Katie sounds annoyed.

“Yeah, well, we all make mistakes.” Hannah sighs just as someone from my group drops his pencil tin in a failed attempt at slapstick humour. I help pick the contents up and resume my eavesdropping.

“…he doesn’t seem to be taking it well,” Katie’s saying.

I’ve missed something here.

“I know. I feel bad. Fletch is a good mate,” Hannah says and I can’t help myself from snorting at this. The two girls look up with eyes narrowed and I pretend to be studying my book. No one says anything and when I glance back they’re busy with their dramatization.

I wait until he’s turned the corner before I hurry after him. I don’t tell Katie what I’m up to because she’d only make trouble. She hates people listening in to any of her conversations — which I get — but I want to find out why Aaron Tyler reacted the way he did when I mentioned Fletch and there’s no chance of doing that with Katie there mouthing off.

“Hey,” I call out and he looks round, confused. He still wears his shirt tucked in, but his tie isn’t so neatly knotted and I wonder if he’s started trying to fit in.

“Hi,” he says, shouldering his bag a bit better.

“Why were you listening back there?”

“I wasn’t.” But he swallows in the wrong place.

“I’m Hannah.”

He nods. “Aaron Tyler.” A neat hand twitches towards me as if he’s thinking about shaking hands, but it just transfers to his pocket.

“So, why were you listening?” I lean on the wall next to him and cross my ankles.

“I have preternaturally good hearing,” he says.

“You what?” I have no idea what he means.

“I have exceptionally good hearing.”

I will only decide how much of a wanker he is once he answers my next question. “Why’d you snort when I mentioned Fletch?”

“Erm…”

“Peter Naturally good at snorting are you?” I try out his fancy phrase, teasing him, and I see him hide a smile. Not that much of a wanker, then.

I want to correct her, but I daren’t. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her, because I’m not — at least not unkindly.

“I don’t think Fletch can be that good a mate.” I shouldn’t be getting involved.

“Know him well, do you?”

“No. And I don’t want to.” I look down at my too-new shoes and think how uncomfortable it is standing here talking to Hannah. I can feel people noticing me, wondering why we’re talking; wondering whether she’s hitting on me, whether I’m hitting on her.

It’s possible I’m over-thinking this.

“So?” she’s asking.

I sigh — I’ve no choice but to tell her. “He said some things at the park that I don’t think he should have.”

“You were out on Friday?” It’s not the first question I’d have asked in her position.

“Tyrone asked me along.” Although I’m not sure why I need justification. “I didn’t get a chance to say hi. You looked a bit busy with Fletch.”

She doesn’t react, just says, “We weren’t busy for long. I called things off with him.”

“Really?” Even I can hear the surprise in my voice. “That’s not the way he tells it.”

Hannah’s looking at me more intently. She’s wondering what he said and all of a sudden, I realize I don’t know how to tell her. He told everyone he had pussy juice in his mouth then acted out someone giving him a blow job? Maybe not.

“He made some jokes about blow jobs and stuff.” And because I don’t want her to ask for clarification, I say, “Fletch made it clear he’d been with you.”

I don’t say anything for a moment because if I do it will be an angry thing and it will be aimed at the wrong person.

“Hannah?” His voice cuts through my rage.

“Yeah, look, thanks for telling me.” I’m about to leave it at that, but for some reason the truth matters. “I didn’t do anything with Fletch, not really.”

“I saw you guys kiss—”

I glance up sharply and Aaron stops, as if he regrets saying it.

“So we kissed. That’s it.” On Friday, anyway.

Aaron Tyler just shrugs as if it’s none of his business. Which it isn’t. We stand and look at each other and it’s awkward, but the moment’s broken when a teacher comes out of the classroom and sees us by the fire exit. It’s one of the fossils who think any boy/girl contact is about to break in to a lap dance and I know we’re about to get moved on.

“See you, Ty,” I say, leaving before I get into trouble.

Teachers gossip way more than the kids.

“What were you doing with Hannah Sheppard at lunchtime?” Dad asks as we start making dinner.

“Talking.”

“Why?”

“Er… because that’s what us crazy kids do these days?” I hand him the onion I’ve chopped and watch him add it to the pan. He looks tense.

“What were you talking about?”

“That’s our business,” I say as politely as I can. I don’t like the way the conversation is going and I chop the rest of the veg more violently than necessary.

“There are things I know that you don’t.”

A bit of carrot hits the floor. The cat’s on it in an instant and, in order to avoid the trap my dad is laying, I crouch down to dissuade The Kaiser from eating it before tipping the rest of the veg into the pan. I head to the sink to wash the chopping board.

“I’m trying to help you by making sure you fall in with the right crowd,” my father shouts over the tap.