Non Pratt: Trouble

Usually I see him with Anjela Ojo, who sits in front of me in Spanish, but I’ve never talked to either of them.

“I’m Aaron,” I say, the tray curtailing my handshake reflex.

“I know who you are.” He grins quickly as I hear someone call my name from a table behind us. It’s a lad called Rex. I was allocated to his bench in ICT and last lesson I sent him a link that made him laugh so hard he cried. It’s great that he thinks I’m so funny, only I’m really not. I turn back to say something to Gideon, but he’s already gone.

That makes sense. Rex is one of the basketball boys and they’re not known for being friendly. I’m surprised he’s even acknowledging me, let alone waving me over to sit with him and all his friends. Rex is opposite Tyrone Reed, captain on — and off — the court. Seeing them together, I notice how Rex is practically a negative image of his best friend, right down to the black stud that contrasts against his left earlobe, versus the glittering diamond Tyrone wears in his right. The only thing to ruin the illusion is the fact that Rex is about six inches shorter.

“All right,” Tyrone says to me.

“Here.” Rex uses his foot to push out the only empty seat and Tyrone gives the barest hint of a nod. I sit down and think better of taking my book out of my pocket. No one here would appreciate the irony of me reading The Outsiders in this situation.

There are no introductions. I’m expected to know who everyone is, but beyond Rex and Tyrone, I don’t. It’s not exactly like I’m interested.

“What’s it like having lessons with your dad?” Rex asks as I poke my lunch half-heartedly. The pasta’s so tough my fork doesn’t even leave a dent.

“I’m not taking History,” I say.

“Was he pissed off about that?” Rex again.

“Not really. I’m pretty crap at it.”

Tyrone laughs and so do the rest of them. Only someone listening for it would hear the nanosecond time lag.

“You’re not so bad, Aaron Tyler.” Tyrone slaps me on the back so hard he nearly dislodges the mouthful I was midway through swallowing.

Not so bad? Interesting.

Lola isn’t eating her beans. They’re green, so you can’t blame her. Baked wouldn’t be a problem. Mum works late on Fridays so teatime’s always a little bit… tense. Despite having raised a teenage son already, Robert has a hard time keeping a grip on his youngest. And me. He manages to get Lola to eat one bean and considers that a win, ignoring the fact that she then eats her pudding and half of mine on top. Afterwards, Lola insists on doing my hair before she starts on her Fluffy Kitty collection. By the time she finishes I’m not sure who looks worse — me or Princess Purry.

Thankfully my grooming session is cut short by a text from Katie: cu in 10 . Which is code for: get the drinks in . I don’t have to go far.

Before he left, my stepbrother had a massive party and because Robert is Robert and Jay is Jay, Robert gave him loads of money for it, WAY more than any normal dad would. But Robert likes to flash the cash — especially on his only son. Anyway, Jay overbought on the booze and because I was “helping” him order, he overbought on the sort of booze that I liked. I reckon that was the best night of my life…

Worst. Ever. Morning. After.

I might miss Jay, but at least the stash he left me under his bed means I don’t have to miss having someone around to buy me alcohol.

For the last four weeks the highlight of my social calendar has been the two hours after school on Fridays, when Dad drops me off at Cedarfields, a local old folks’ home, where I spend time with some of the lonelier residents. Despite spending most of my time there being teased, patronized or ignored by people who consider the television better company than me, I somehow find it more enticing than the prospect of actually going out.

But I have a deal with my parents, which is that if someone makes an effort to be friendly, I’ll make an effort too.

When I told Mum that my lunch on the top-dog table resulted in an invitation to hang out at the park tonight, she threw her arms around me and squeezed until I expired. Dad prised her off, but even then she was so overwhelmed that she started rubbing my back.

“If you’re going to act like this every time I go out then it’s going to put me off,” I said and she instantly withdrew her hand. The last thing she wants to do is jeopardize my reluctant steps towards integration.

“Which park?” (Mum)

“The one by the river.”

“Who with?” (Dad)

“Tyrone and Rex and… their friends?” It was more likely Dad would know their names than me. He’s good at his job. Good enough to move into a reasonable position at a reasonable school at a very reasonable speed and get his son into the same school, no questions asked. At least, no questions that I know about.

“The basketball lot?” Dad said, his voice incredulous. I’m not known for my sporting prowess.

“It’s not like they asked me to take a shot before they invited me along.”

“Just as well,” Mum replied and I let her give me another hug. I’m doing this for her, after all.

So, now, with my father’s blessing and a scarf foisted on me by my mother, I’m standing outside an off-licence which is far enough from our house that my parents won’t know about it, wondering if I can pass for eighteen. I don’t want to go in and I don’t want to drink whatever it is that I buy, but this is what’s expected and I have promised my parents that I will try.

Katie is late and all I’ve being doing since she texted is trying to repair the damage done to my hair during Lola’s grooming session. I’m not sure it looks any better than when I started, but my arms ache. She arrives wearing her clothes for the park — that boob tube isn’t the wisest choice for someone with a rack like hers, but there’s no telling Katie. Once my bedroom door’s shut, I hand her a bottle and open one for myself.

“What happened to your hair?” she asks.

“Lola. Is it really that bad?”

“No…” She doesn’t look too sure. “Wear your blue skirt and no one’ll look at your hair anyway.”

Sounds like a plan to me. As I dig about in my wardrobe looking for a top I haven’t worn a thousand times already, Katie tips her bag out onto my bed, finds her make-up under tomorrow’s clean undies and starts dusting on more powder and grumbling about her skin. To be fair, her skin’s pretty bad at the moment, but I’m starting to get bored of hearing her moan on about it. It’s not like it stops her from pulling.

“So will Fletch be out tonight?” she asks in the least innocent voice possible.

“Don’t know, don’t care.”

Katie sees right through me. “You’re going off him, aren’t you?”

“A bit.” A lot. He talks too much. And he exaggerates. And, well, I was never “on” him.

“What about Tyrone?”

“What about him?” But I can’t stop the smile edging up my face.

“Marcy’ll be out,” Katie says, and I know it’s a warning. You don’t flirt with Tyrone when his girlfriend’s around — a rule I’ve been known to break. I’m pretty sure there’s a rule about not pulling her boyfriend when she’s not there, either. No one knows I’ve broken that one, though — not even Katie. “Watch yourself, yeah? You know what she’s like.”

I do. But Tyrone’s worth the risk.

The carrier bag feels like it’s cutting into my bones by the time I get to the park. Even so, when I see how many people there are, I think about turning round and walking all the way back home again — although I’d have to ditch the alcohol. Might as well persevere. How bad can it be?