Solitaire. Alice Oseman
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He pauses and for a moment I think he sees through me, but he’s too embarrassed to push it.
“You have a lot of books,” I say. As if he wasn’t aware of this.
He nods, smiling awkwardly. “I like to read. And I’ve just been in the library.”
I recognise all the titles, but of course I haven’t read any of them. T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, D.H. Lawrence’s Sons and Lovers, John Fowles’ The Collector and Jane Austen’s Emma.
“So what are you reading now?” I ask. The books at least provide a topic of conversation.
“The Great Gatsby,” he says. “F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“What’s that about?”
“It’s about …” He pauses to think. “It’s about someone who’s in love with a dream.”
I nod as if I understand. I don’t. I don’t know a single thing about literature, despite studying it for A level.
I pick up Emma. “Does this mean you actually like Jane Austen?” We’re still studying Pride and Prejudice in class. It’s soul-destroying and not in a good way. Do not read it.
He tilts his head as if it’s a deeply serious question. “You sound surprised.”
“I am. Pride and Prejudice is dreadful. I can barely get past the first chapter.”
“Why’s that?”
“It’s the literary equivalent of a poorly cast romcom.”
Someone gets up and tries to walk past us, so we both have to tuck in our chairs a little.
Lucas is looking at me very carefully. I don’t like it.
“You’re so different,” he says, shaking his head and squinting at me.
“I may have grown a few centimetres since I was eleven.”
“No, it’s—” He stops himself.
I put down my phone. “What? It’s what?”
“You’re more serious.”
I don’t ever remember not being serious. As far as I’m concerned, I came out of the womb spouting cynicism and wishing for rain.
I’m not really sure how to reply. “I’m, well, I am possibly the least funny person since Margaret Thatcher.”
“No, but you were always dreaming up all these imaginary games. Like our Pokémon battles. Or the secret base you made out of the cornered-off section of the playground.”
“Would you like to have a Pokémon battle?” I fold my arms. “Or am I too unimaginative for that?”
“No.” He’s digging himself into a hole and it’s actually quite funny to watch. “I … oh, I don’t know.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Quit while you’re ahead. I’m boring now. I’m a lost cause.”
I instantly wish I’d just shut up. I always do this thing where I accidentally say self-deprecating stuff that makes other people feel really awkward, especially when it’s true. I start to wish I’d never offered to let him sit with me. He quickly returns to the work he’d got out of his bag.
‘Material Girl’ is still playing over and over. Apparently, the caretakers are trying to fix it, but at the moment the only solution appears to be cutting the electrics of the entire school, which, according to Kent, would classify as “giving in”. He’s got that World War II Churchill attitude, old Mr Kent. I take a quick glance out of the windows behind the computers. I know I should be doing some homework too, but I’d much rather play chess and admire the windy greyness outside. That’s my major problem with school. I really don’t do anything unless I actually want to. And most of the time I don’t want to do anything at all.
“You’ve had quite a good first week,” I say, my eyes still focused on the sky.
“Best week of my entire life,” he says. Seems like an exaggeration to me, but each to their own.
Lucas is such an innocent guy. Awkward and innocent. In fact, he’s so awkward that it’s almost as if he’s putting it on. I know he’s probably not, but that’s still the way it comes across. I mean, awkward is very in fashion at the moment. It’s frustrating. I have experienced my fair share of awkward, and awkward is not cute, awkward does not make you more attractive and awkward certainly should not be fashionable. It just makes you look like an idiot.
“Why did we stop being friends?” he asks, not looking at me.
I pause. “People grow up and move on. That’s life.”
I regret saying this, however true it might be. I see a kind of sadness fizzle into his eyes, but it quickly disappears.
“Well,” he says and turns to me, “we’re not grown up yet.”
He takes out his phone and starts to read something on it. I watch as his face melts into something confusing. The pips that signal the end of break somehow manage to sound over the music and he puts the phone away and starts to gather his stuff.
“Got a lesson?” I ask and then realise that this is one of those pointless questions which I hate.
“History. I’ll see you later.”
He walks several paces before turning as if he has something else to say. But he just stands there. I give him a strange sort of smile, which he returns and then walks away. I watch as he meets a boy with a large quiff at the door and they start up a conversation as they exit the common room.
Finally at peace, I return to my music. My iPod has shuffled on to Aimee Mann – just one of my many depressing nineties artists that nobody has heard of. I get to wondering where Michael Holden might be. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday. I don’t have his phone number or anything. Even if I did, it’s not like I would text him. I don’t text anyone.
I don’t really do much for the next hour. To tell you the truth, I’m not even sure if I’m supposed to be in a lesson, but I really can’t find the will to move. I briefly wonder again who Solitaire might be, but I conclude for the billionth time that I just don’t care. I set an alarm on my phone to remind me to take Charlie to counselling tonight because Nick is busy, and then I sit very still with my head on one arm and doze off.
I wake up just before the pips go again. I swear to God I’m a freak. I mean it. One day I’m going to forget how to wake up.
I’M SPRAWLED ON the computer desks in the common room at 8.21am СКАЧАТЬ