Non Pratt - Trouble

My first sip of tepid beer tastes like self-hatred. I surreptitiously pour some out, listening to the conversation next to me between Katie and Rex, who seem to have forgotten about his never-present girlfriend.

“…not a regulation-length skirt, Katie Coleman.” Rex is buzzing. “Skirt” was almost “shirt”. Although her shirt is hardly respectable. It’s only done up with one button and that button should have been higher.

“Are you telling me off?”

“I’m just stating facts. Didn’t say I didn’t like those facts.”

Factsh.

“Show me where a regulation skirt should be.”

“There.” I see him bend down and brush her knee. “Not here.” I can guess where he’s touching her leg now.

“I’m thinking your hand shouldn’t be here either.”

“Where should it be?”

This conversation is torture. I do not want to sit here whilst Rex flirts with the girl who by all accounts — including hers — gave his friend an “epic” hand job behind the toilets last week. It’s hard not to speculate as to whether “epic” refers to duration or quality — something I’m certain Rex has thought about a lot.

The bin’s only a short walk away and I dispose of my beer. It’s only after I’ve done this that I realize it made a good shield from the world. Now I feel naked and aimless.

There is no one I want to talk to. Tyrone is arguing with Marcy, Rex has his hands full with Katie and the only other guys I know are daring each other to drink a cocktail of cider, Guinness, schnapps and cooking sherry from a plastic cup. There’s always the girls from Spanish, but I’ve only ever asked them about homework before now and that’s not going to cut it.

I never knew talking to people took practice, but it seems I’ve gone so long without any that I’ve forgotten how.

I’m feeling reckless.

“Hey, Ty.”

I turn sharply at the name of the person I used to be, but it’s only Hannah. There’s an almost-empty bottle in her hand and she’s smiling a slow smile. At me.

She must be drunk.

“Everyone calls me Aaron,” I say.

“Does everyone?” She raises an eyebrow. It’s a well-practised look. Mark Grey notices us and turns to the guy next to him and nods in our direction.

“So.” I struggle for a moment. “What are you up to this weekend?”

Hannah blinks and I notice her lashes are clogged by too much mascara. “I don’t know. You?”

“I have plans to write the great American novel.” This throws her, but only for a second.

“Good luck with that, being a Brit. I’m thinking those Yanks might not go for your greatness.”

She’s sharper than Tyrone. Although that’s not saying much. The guy’s a blunt tool in every sense — he might be the hamster’s cheeks around here, but a week of being in favour has left me practically comatose. Tyrone talks about himself all the time, even boasting about Marcy only serves to make him look better. Everyone else’s stories and opinions boomerang back to him; he’s done everything, or knows someone better than us who has. Only, when I listen, it seems he’s got absolutely nothing to say.

“Bored?” Hannah says, reading my mind.

“That’s an understatement,” I mutter, then worry that I’ve offended her since she comes here every week. “Maybe it’s just me. I’m not in the mood.”

“It’s not just you. This place is better in the daytime, when the swings are for kids and the roundabout isn’t weighed down with drunken basketball morons.”

I look at her and wonder what she’d be doing here during daylight hours. She reads my mind once more.

“I come here with my sister a lot.” Her face lightens underneath all the make-up. “She’s five.”

“What’s her name?” I ask, surprised to find I’m curious about someone else’s life. It’s been a while since that happened.

“Lola — although we all call her Lolly,” Hannah says, then glances down at her bottle and chucks it in the bin. “Let’s get out of here.”

This isn’t really how I thought it would go. I’d imagined less talking and more flirting. The two are usually the same when it comes to boys, but this one’s different.

I don’t want different, though. I want sex.

It doesn’t have to be him, but he’s new and I want to be the one that gets there first. I don’t like the idea of Katie setting her sights on him once she’s chewed Rex up and spat him out. Katie and me are different. I like boys. A lot. They’re fun to hang out with, they can open jars without looking constipated, they have short hair and they smell good (mostly). Katie does not like boys. She dislikes them. When she’s after a boy it’s about power. Katie is about the hunt and the kill. She’s a predator. Me? I’m a tourist. Pick the destination, plan the holiday, check out the best bits, then leave. Thanks for the memories and all that. I’ve not always travelled so far, but once you’ve been there and enjoyed it, it’s a lot easier to make the journey again. And again. My tourism might look like Katie’s shoot to kill, but if I were a boy, I’d rather shag someone who liked me rather than someone who didn’t.

As we walk by the slide, I see Anj looking at us and I stick my tongue out and grin. She pretends to disapprove with a roll of her eyes, but when she turns back to her friends she’s grinning too. We pass Tyrone and Marcy and I slide my hand into Aaron Tyler’s pocket and take out his phone.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say, aware that Tyrone has noticed as I tap my number into another boy’s phone. “Just giving you my number.”

Tyrone watches as I return the phone to the pocket I took it from, linking my arm in Aaron’s as I do. I give my audience a sly wink. Tyrone gets it elsewhere, why shouldn’t I?

The footpath leads down to the river and turns into a towpath. Neither of us says anything. My arm is still in Aaron’s, and I get a thrill from the warmth of his body next to mine. I lean in slightly and breathe deeply. He smells of something vaguely familiar. Something that makes me feel safe.

I can see the bridge. It’s a good place, quiet at this time of night and there are some nice dark shadows between the pillars.

Hannah leans into me as a breeze whistles up from the water under the bridge. It feels nice to have someone close again.

Nostalgia for the life I left behind rushes in so fast it hurts: memories of sitting on desks next to my friends, elbows accidentally clashing now and again; the girls not minding if our legs touched as we sat too many on a bench; the lads putting an arm around me and pulling me in for a celebratory hug when I once got between the ball and the goal in a semi-final I shouldn’t have been playing in. Here it’s different. People apologize when they bump into me, girls and boys seem to occupy different hemispheres and the basketball lads celebrate with high fives and backslaps. They greet each other by punching fists. It’s all very passive-aggressive.

The cynic in me suspects that Hannah isn’t just being friendly for the sake of it — but I want to believe she is.

I feel her slow her step as we get under the bridge and she pulls on my arm, turning me towards her.

Cynicism one, innocence nil.

For a second I think about it: the way it would feel to have her press that body against mine, how I’d run my hand under the hair at the back of her neck to pull her in. God. It feels like for ever since a girl looked at me like this. Her mouth is pretty and her eyes smile slightly into mine… and that’s when I know this isn’t going to happen, because there is something about Hannah, something warm beneath the cold, calculating sexiness she spends so much time projecting. Something real.

Real isn’t something I’m ready for. And whatever she might think, Hannah is not ready for me.

I duck my chin as she closes the distance between us. Her kiss lands on the side of my jaw, but she’s fast and tilts her head so she’s in line with my lips once more.

It would be too awful if she tried again, so I step back.

“Hannah, I—”

“What?” There’s a shortness to her question.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want…” What’s the right thing to say? “…to kiss anyone.”

“Me, you mean?”

Yes. I do mean that, but I’m not going to say it.

“No, I mean anyone. I’m not… it’s not…” Why can’t I get the words out?

“I knew it!” She takes a step back and studies me, hands on hips. “You’re gay.”

It takes a second for me to process her conclusion. I won’t kiss her so I’m gay? Wow. That’s pretty arrogant.

“I’m not gay.”

“It’s OK. You can tell me. I won’t tell anyone. You’d be surprised at the secrets I can keep.” She’s grinning at me, inviting me to share, inviting me to tell her something that could form a foundation for friendship.

Why can’t I just say that I’m gay? Why can’t I just be gay? It’s not like I’m looking to get lucky with girls any time soon.

“Look, I’m really sorry, Hannah, I’m not gay. Really.”

We look at each other some more and I see her features change. The open share-with-me expression is closing up and the shutters are coming down ready to protect her from the humiliation of being rejected.

I feel bad for her. It’s not as if I intended to lead her on and let her down. I hadn’t meant for her to lose face — although it’s not like anyone saw this happen. As far as everyone else is concerned, we’ve done the deed. They saw us leave the park. They know what Hannah’s like and they know nothing at all about me. They wouldn’t think I’d say no to a plateful of Sheppard pie.