Peter Hamilton - Misspent Youth

Simon barked: “Oh fuck off, Tim. I’m taking a crap.” There was a lot of giggling and shuffling around accompanying the sharp sound of zips being done up. The toilet was flushed, which triggered another round of giggling.

Simon pulled the bolt back and stepped out, grinning inanely. Annabelle was pressed up behind him, her face all flushed, trying hard not to laugh. Tim had never seen her looking so exultant before.

As if that wasn’t disconcerting enough, Derek Langley and his blonde girlfriend, Louise, followed them out. They trooped past Tim sharing exactly the same superior smile, as if he was some mediocre zoo animal standing there for their amusement.

Simon’s hand patted him on the shoulder. “Finished. You take care in there, Tim.”

Derek and Louise were laughing again as Tim’s face screwed up into more confusion. Annabelle flashed him a brief roguish grin before Simon’s arm found its way possessively around her hips, guiding her away. The four of them made their way down the landing without even looking back at him. It was as if he no longer existed to them.

He went into the bathroom and locked the door. The air inside was thick with the scent of synth8. Tim sniffed it despondently as the alcohol elevated his own thoughts to a state of perfect clarity. His problem was that he would never be like Simon or Derek, never be able to grab so much out of life as the moment came. He was always too scared of consequences. Yet that ability was exactly what he wanted. Right then he would have given anything to have been a part of that devilsome group, to have joined in with hearty abandon, to be their equal. His life completely lacked the kind of Bad Fun that everyone else he knew of was having in abundance.

Tim spat into the toilet bowl, suddenly furious. He hated everything about himself. Most of all he hated the fact he was so pathetic that he was helpless to change what he was.

THAT MONDAY MORNING, the Rutland Circuit bus dropped Tim off outside Oakham market. A few cars slid along High Street, smooth and quiet, their power cells venting thin ribbons of snow-white vapor from their rear grilles like some old-style rocket letting off cryogenic gas. Most of the traffic was bicycles and e-trikes, ridden by residents from the sprawling estates encircling the town who were heading into the center for work. A steady line of buses brought commuters in from the outlying villages.

Oakham’s center was a mixture of architectural styles from the mid-nineteenth century up to the late twentieth, by which time the conservationists had finally stymied the developers and planners. It left High Street dominated by shop fronts, interspersed by the occasional monolithic bank. None of them were particularly relevant to the modern age. The majority of shops had closed, as the larger retail groups went online and consumers sourced direct from the manufacturer. Now, only small specialist shops and cafés remained, while the rest of the buildings had been converted into offices and service centers wired into the datasphere economy. Even those were beginning to thin out; with the National Cable Initiative drawing toward completion, companies were adopting decentralized domestic networks for their employees. Several estate-agent TO LET signs were sticking out discreetly from various façades.

Tim crossed over the road and headed up to the Buttercross. The grandiose old buildings of Oakham School made up two sides of the quaint cobbled square. A horde of boisterous schoolkids was crossing the square, funneling into the school under its wide iron-arch gateway. Younger ones were in their smart uniforms, while the seniors, like Tim, wore their own clothes. For all his troubled relationship with his mother, Tim was grateful for her fashion sense. She always managed to dress him stylishly. Their money helped, of course, but then everyone at the private school had money; she made sure everything he wore fitted and looked good. It helped a lot keeping him in with his friends.

As he walked through the neat little enclosed garden beside the school’s stone chapel, he caught sight of a familiar figure sitting on one of the wooden benches at the far end. Annabelle was turned away from the rush of noisy kids, her head bowed and shoulders slumped.

Tim went over. “What’s up?” he asked.

Annabelle stirred, brushing her mane of long gold-chestnut hair away from her face. Her eyes were red-rimmed, glistening with moisture. Tim’s immediate impulse was to throw his arms around her, anything to help comfort her. A girl as beautiful as Annabelle shouldn’t be crying.

“Nothing,” she sniffed, and smiled. “Well…I suppose it’s me and Simon. There was an argument….”

“I’m sorry.”

“The two of you are good friends, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” he said quickly. “We live in the same village, and we’re the same age. That means we hang out. Nothing else.”

“I don’t think I’ll be hanging out with him again. We’re pretty much through.”

“Really?” Tim tried hard not to show how elated he was. Annabelle was available again.

“It’s just… I guess I made a mistake. My fault.” Her expression was anxious, needing him to agree.

Tim thought back to when he’d seen Annabelle with Simon at the party, how much she’d belonged with him at the time. But if she’d dumped him, Tim wasn’t going to try to talk her out of it. “Completely. You know he and Derek caught hell from their parents afterward. We pretty much wrecked the place that night.”

“Yeah.” Annabelle gave a small, vaguely malevolent grin.

“Look, there’s a bunch of us catching the bus back to my house this afternoon after school, probably go for a swim or something. Simon won’t be one of them. Why don’t you come along? Be a good break for you. Enjoy yourself without him being around.” The indoor pool at his house was one of Tim’s biggest social attributes. It didn’t quite make him leader of the pack, but along with his father’s name it certainly contributed to making him one of the right people to know.

Annabelle pondered the invitation for a moment. “Sure. Yeah, okay, I’d like that.”

“Great.” That just left him with inviting everyone else back home. Oh, and telling Zai.

THE FIRST LESSON that morning was French. Tim hated languages, he was hopeless at them, but it was a compulsory subject at UE level. When the interactive tutorial began he slipped on his PC-glasses, pushing the earplugs in and flipping down the tiny wire mic. They were ebony and gold 909 Hi-shots, pilot-grade, the coolest of the cool, just like Sir Mitch wore when he was piloting Newton’s Arrow . There were ads for them everywhere, big posters with Sir Mitch dressed in a flight pressure suit and the glasses, standing at the end of the runway. All right, so they didn’t make Tim look quite as glamorous as Sir Mitch, but they were still pretty damn funky.

Tim murmured quietly to the secretarial program, calling up a fix to deal with the French tutorial that would convince the teacher he was hard at work. It left him free to compose avtxts. His finger skated across the interactive keyboard mat, selecting colorful little graphics from the menu file, which he began to mix into an invite. He had to keep the audio segments muted: Everyone he was sending them to was also in school. The holographic display on his PCglasses flashed replies at him for the remainder of the lesson. Most of the boys who answered had included symbols that gyrated with semi-obscene content, which nearly made him laugh out loud. When the tutorial ended, he’d collected eight acceptances.