Chapter 1: Thursday
Josh has lost it.
His duffle coat’s stuffed into his bag, it’s raining and he’s shivering: pale, like a blu-tack snail in stonewashed denim and lime green cravat.
And Mr Morlis might carry it off but he’s thirty and cool, whereas Josh’s fifteen and ... Josh.
“Lisi?” he asks when we’ve passed the sodden field of year 11 boys kicking footballs - none of them sparing us even one glance - and shrugged his parka back on.
“What?”
“ Do you think Kai’s gay?”
I sigh. No, I do not think Kai Swanning’s gay. We’ve been down this road so many times. Normally I say no and we argue, so today I just say, “yes” to my best friend with a death stare. It works: he falls silent, swinging his bag and scuffing his brogues through damp leaves and crisp packets.
We skirt the woods around the dual carriageway in the early December gloom as cars slosh past. I stayed late with Miss Mint catching up on Twelfth Night and Josh waited, of course. I don’t know what he did for twenty minutes after he’d changed out of uniform; probably in the toilets re-tying his cravat. Josh’s funny like that.
It’s Thursday, the streets are all black and if I was on my own, I’d be streaking through the orangey mist with rain dripping down my neck, or more likely taking the bus home because to be honest I’d be a bit freaked out. Not that I’d admit it to Josh, of course.
“What you wearing?”
He’s means to Courtney’s party and it’s like the ninth time he’s asked but it gets us off the subject of Kai.
“Red top with the slash neck, pleated Zara skirt, tights, snakeskin platforms.”
“Slut.”
“You?”
His eyes glitter. “White bomber, skinny Hudsons, gel.”
“Slag.”
He shoves me into a puddle so we spend five minutes wrestling. When we reach the main road the traffic’s crawling, so we rest, soaked. On the traffic island, quick as lightning I grab Josh’s cravat and wipe my face. His eyebrows and middle finger lift ... so easy to wind up.
“To mine?” I ask, like I don’t know.
He grunts, pushes his fringe to the side and then I feel bad. His mum’s at the hospital getting the baby its injections, so he’ll have to do tea. Josh’s mum’s always pregnant. He’s got two sisters and three brothers, all with bad teeth. Mum says their dental bill’s mental.
But that’s fine, ‘cos Josh’s dad’s loaded. He’s a banker, managing crises somewhere in Hong Kong. Sometimes, when Josh’s stressed and his mum’s slamming doors, I wish he’d come back and manage his family but he never does; just pops back, waves money and impregnates his wife. All a bit yuck, to be honest.
We say goodbye at the corner and he flicks a ‘V’ and lopes off: a drizzly blur, shimmering over the railway bridge that leads to the posh bit of town.
“Say hi to Miss Mint,” I yell and he waves his bag and disappears. Josh lives next door to my favourite teacher in the world. I have a little bit of a crush on her. Everyone does.
I bang through the hallway and dump my bag by the mirror. The green dye’s faded since Hallowe’en but my hair still hangs round my face like the reeds at the side of the lake behind school. For a while I thought it was cool, especially with tons of black eyeliner, but now I hate it. And it’s here to stay unless I dye it brown which would not look good.
“Yoohoo,” yells my mother from upstairs.
I bellow a return greeting, hang on the larder and peer inside but a manky old cereal bar’s as exciting as it gets. A melon festers in the fruit bowl: something rotten in the house of Reynolds, I think. Which is really quite witty for me.
“There’s melon if you want it,” Mum calls. Then down she comes.
My mother’s called Debbie which you don’t get much nowadays but it’s ok if you’re in your forties I s’pose. She’s not bad as far as mums go: works long hours on Thursdays but generally lets me do my own thing while she gets on with hers. Which, at the moment, happens to be home improvement.
“Do you want some cushions for your room? I was thinking something in cream? Maybe patchwork.”
“No thanks.”
“Oh.” She looks upset. “I’ve bought twelve.”
“Mum! Why?”
She brightens. “Your bedroom’s your sanctuary. I got caribou feathers and star jasmine room spray too.”
“Marabou.”
“What?”
“Caribou are reindeer. I don’t need cushions, Mum. New jeans’d be nice though.”
She flops onto the sofa, takes off her slippers and rubs her corns. I wish she wouldn’t; I knew all day as a dental nurse must be knackering but there are such things as privacy and bathrooms. She looks at me like one of those David Attenborough seals.