Non Pratt - Trouble

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.

I leave Aaron under the bridge as he fails to find the words to explain why he embarrassed me like that. Screw him. Well, not screw him… you know what I mean.

Heading back to the park isn’t an option, so I find the nearest bus stop that’ll take me where I need to go. It’s cold now there’s no one else here to keep me warm and I wish I’d brought my hoodie.

I scrunch my eyes tight shut. There will be no tears over this. None over Aaron stupid Tyler.

When I get home I go up to Jay’s room and flop into the bean bag like I used to whenever I wanted to vent. The place is almost empty — most of the stuff Jay took to uni came from here rather than his mum’s. Even though the walls have been stripped bare and the bed’s made up with the wrong duvet cover, it still feels like he’s here.

I wish he was.

I get out my phone, leaving a new text from Katie unopened as I scroll down to the last message I had from Jay. Two weeks ago. There’s no room in his life for the things he left behind — I’ve seen the Facebook photos of all the fun he’s having at Warwick, surrounded by unfamiliar faces. It hurts, but I’ve got to get over it. Besides, it’s not like he’d want to hear all my problems even if he was here.

“Thought you had better taste than that, mate,” says Mark Grey, who is sweating all over me as we sit on the subs bench during PE. Despite being nothing short of MASSIVE, Mark is not a particular asset on the basketball court and Mr Prendergast has grown tired of calling fouls on him.

“Huh?” I’m not really listening since I’m too busy wondering when I’m going to be called up. Basketball isn’t my kind of sport — not that any of them are — and I can imagine my ineptitude mattering more than it should.

“…Hannah.”

That’s when I pay attention.

“What about Hannah?” As if I didn’t know.

“On Friday. Doesn’t take a genius to work out what you were up to.”

“Obviously not,” I murmur but Prendergast calls me up before Mark has time to process the insult.

I’m on the team that’s playing against Tyrone’s. Prendergast hasn’t given much thought to balancing the teams since mine consists of Gideon, who considers Converse All Stars suitable sportswear, a couple of shorter-than-average girls and a boy who spends a lot of time chatting to the token girl on the other side. Excluding her, the other team are made up of the best basketball players the school’s got.

“You left in a bit of a hurry the other night,” says the guy marking me, whose name I never quite caught. Might be called Rad. Or Rod. Or neither. He was the one Mark Grey had been talking to in the park and he’s wearing an expression somewhere between a smirk and a leer. It’s unpleasant. I ignore him, jump to intercept a pass and bounce it on to Gideon, who runs with it to score two much-needed points.

“So, what did you get up to?” Rad/Rod/Neither asks, as Gideon takes a victory lap.

I shrug. I did a lot of shrugging on Friday when Mum questioned me about my night out as a normal teenage boy, punctuating my shrugs with grunts like a normal teenage boy, which seemed to please her. I know how to hide things.

“Saw you left with Hannah, my man,” Tyrone chips in as he walks to the centre, head tilted back so he can look down his nose at me. I’m guessing the effect he’s going for is gangster, but it’s spoiled by a bogey in his left nostril that flutters with each breath. All this attention is unnerving. No one made this much of a fuss over the Mark Grey/Katie interaction and that was so public a live show may as well have been projected into the sky like a Bat-Signal.

The ball bounds in and I track back to try and stop Rex from belting down the wing. I underestimated how good Rex is at basketball; he might be short, but he’s fast and springy. He’s better than Tyrone, but no one admits this. It is not OK to be better at anything than Tyrone.

“You wanna steer clear of that skank,” Tyrone says behind me. I turn around, not understanding the venom in his voice and Rex dodges right past me.

Tyrone isn’t paying any attention to the game; he’s looking at me, eyes narrowed, then he nods, once, like I’m to obey him and turns away.