Guyliner

A routine sets. I wake up. I get dressed. I forget to eat. I do my hair. I pack my bag. I walk to school with Wil. I walk Abby to form. I go to lessons. I ignore the abuse. I receive dirty looks from Stuart and Jessica. I don’t eat. I go to more lessons. I walk home with Abby. I get ‘attacked’ by Abby. I walk home. I do homework. I don’t eat. I paint. I write. I play piano. I go to bed. It’s getting kinda…boring. Don’t get me wrong, my life has always been mundane. In the summer, I would sit at the bay window and watch the life drag by outside without me, unaware and indifferent to my aching loneliness. I would spend my days reading about amazing musicians, artists, singers, actors and I would yearn to be famous. Then I would be called down to eat and, sitting at the table, I’d feel a slightly depressed pang in my chest-this was all my life was ever going to be, the same day after day, so embarrassingly ordinary compared to what I wanted, so inferior compared to my dreams.
Now I feel like a zombie, well, more so than usual. I am drifting through the days without any motivation or longing. I have no friends. The closest people I had to friends have abandoned me; or rather I’ve abandoned them for a new love, which is rather unfair. I’m starting to have epiphanies and I’m starting to realise I’m wrong. I see now that dating Abby is a big mistake. I don’t love her. There is no emotion when we touch, only embarrassment, awkwardness. We don’t talk. I know hardly anything about her. She seems equally uninterested in my life. All we do is walk home together and then she pounces, often leaving me with ‘battle scars’ as Dad likes to call them. He caught me with a love bite the other day and, instead of scorning me, he roared with laughter until he cried. He seemed to find it funny, particularly my obvious dismay. I am clearly just friends with Abby, if that. She is more of an acquaintance, somebody I shall talk to if there is nobody else, somebody I will greet in passing and nothing more.
I had a terrible thought the other night. I was in bed, lying there, staring at my ceiling, reflecting on the day’s events like I often do. Again, I had gone round to Abby’s house and it was the same routine. We would perch on her bed, linger in an awkward silence before she made some kind of gesture and attacked me. It didn’t feel right, not at all and then suddenly I thought what if it’s not just Abby? What if it’s the whole female gender that I am not comfortable with? I am not like the other boys I know, I generally feel awkward around girls but what if it’s deeper than that? What if I’m cold towards them for all of my life but seek love with someone else, someone much more masculine? It was such a startling thought that I turned up my iPod extra loud, as if trying to drown my peculiar thinking out. I can’t think like that for my own safety. If anybody finds out, I will be dead. It’s not true. It can’t be. I’m just awkward, that’s all. I always have been extremly shy and uncomfortable and it’s grown worse with adolescence, that’s it. I’m just a naturally timid person and now it’s just increasing with the pressure of youth. My thoughts don’t matter; they are simply a side-affect of my awkward feelings regarding Abby. I rushed into this, I know. I threw myself into this relationship simply because of the validation it would bring. I stupidly thought that if I was dating, people would take me seriously. Now I see that it will never work like that for me. They shall always ridicule me and they shall ridicule me even more because of Abby. She is not cool, she is not popular, she is not sporty, and she is not particularly smart or extremely pretty. She blends in, like a patch of wallpaper. She is not one of those cringingly-sad, swotty girls but she isn’t far off. She doesn’t mean much to anyone, even me.
Slowly, I start to dread the time we have alone together. I feel as though I’m selling out my beliefs, as though I’m running after a game that has long been won. It is a joke for everyone else, a test of my patience for me and I start wondering more frequently whether I find any pleasure at all in seeking love from a girl. I sit in my classes and look round the class, trying to muster up any emotion that proves that I still find girls pleasing. Most of them are chav’s-short skirts and high heels and fake hair and nails and orange skin which will never be beauty for me. The popular girls are just the same. The few normal girls do not seem pretty at all. Even Imogene Cole, who I once believed was the Goddess of Beauty, does not seem that beautiful any more. This only increases my fear that my doubts were right. I can’t be, I just can’t. I refuse. My father would kill me, though he is far too concerned with his own dating at the moment. He has been out every night this month, and is often on the phone too. Wil doesn’t seem to care but is more interested with what’s going on with me.
Li has barely come back into school and, when he has, he is permantly at Imogene’s Cole’s side. He’s forgotten about me but he seems to think that if I have Abby, I don’t need friends. Well. I haven’t got any friends anymore. Stuart and Jessica are still acting as childishly as they did before. They walk around together, whispering pathetically, laughing idiotically. I hate it but I hate much more to admit that I miss them.
Its Friday again, the day that brings most discomfort. Every Friday, Abby expects me to stay much longer at her house after school and I am forced to kiss her for hours on end, until my lips are sore and my mouth aches. As if that’s not bad enough, it’s also Gym today. I am more incompetent at Gym than I am at Maths. Jamie and all of the sporty boys excel, showing off in the Gym and on the field, flaunting themselves. It’s agony-not just their crippling comments but the exercise, the sheer Hell of lumbering round a track twenty times and then moving on to a one-hour workout in the Gym.
Li isn’t in today, again. He hates Gym as much as I do. He runs with his arms bent, head down and then complains when he’s forced to have a shower, as his hair turns curly. He only ever attends Gym when we’re doing Athletics. He likes Shot-put and Javelin and Discus, though he hates Sprints and Relay and the 100 Metre Dash and the Twelve Minute Sprint as much as I do.
We have to line up outside the changing rooms as Coach Oslen runs through the register and tells us about the out-of-school sports clubs and their successes of that week. He’s adamant that everyone will join at least one Sports club and he’s almost forced everyone to comply with this rule, apart from me, Li and Stuart. Stuart’s sporty but he doesn’t really try. He’s standing behind me, flicking his silver fringe, sighing loudly. He’s obviously missing Jessica-she’ll be dancing round a hockey pitch in her Converse and stripy slashed vest top, swinging her stick at any passing princess’s.
“It’s twelve-minute run today boys,” Coach Oslen booms at the front of the line. He looks slightly fake and plastic, like a Ken doll, with his bleached hair, tanned skin and seamless features. His trainers squeak on the floor as he paces up and down, clutching his clipboard. There’s a chorus of cheers from the sporty boys and I groan, equally as loud. “Now, now, calm down. Then it’s into the gym for flat-out circuit training. I want you on the bikes for at least fifteen minutes each, alright? Basketball is on tonight-we’ve got a match next week lads, so it’s hard training until half-five tonight. There’s a new Badminton club starting next Wednesday and I expect to see a lot of you there. Aaron Vermeer, wait behind, the rest of you go in.”
Jamie and his gang make stupid remarks as they pass and disappear into the changing rooms. I stay rooted to the spot. What does he want? I can’t get into more trouble than I’m already in-Mrs Auden’s been checking my hair and make up every day.
“Come on Aaron!” Coach Oslen beckons impatiently with his hand and I slope up to him, swallowing and trying to think of a thousand excuses of why I am so bad at Sports. “No need to look so worried, you’re not in trouble.”
I let out a sigh.
“Now, Aaron,” Coach Oslen says, lowering his clip board. He gives a false smile and I am dazzled by the whiteness of his teeth. “I mentioned that Badminton club earlier. I’d like you to give it a go.”
My chest tightens and I ball my hands into fists. Noticing my far from happy reaction, Coach Oslen hurries on.
“I just think you’d benefit from it. I know you don’t enjoy Sports much and I know you particularly struggle with Badminton. Perhaps it would help you practise. You have real potential to be good at it Aaron, you’ve got the right build. You just need some self confidence. You’re so awfully bashful, Aaron. Be proud of yourself.”
I stare at the floor and hate every word he’s saying.
“Look, I’m not insisting that you join but it would help you, in your Badminton skills and health. It would be good to see you join a sports club too. I’ve never seen you participate after school in all your four years here. You’d be with the boys in your form-Jamie Perryman and Aled Jones have signed up for everything apart from Gymnastics. There you go, how about that? Gymnastics! Or maybe something else, like football or basketball or softball or rugby or rounders. Of course, we have Gym club and Athletic team and swim team too. How about that?”
“I don’t know, Coach. I’ve got a pretty tight schedule. I mean, I have piano and singing after school most days.”
Well. It’s not a total lie.
Coach Oslen sighs again. “You would really benefit from it, Aaron. It’d help your fitness.”
Is he saying I’m fat? Instantly my self-loathing thoughts come back, those horrible thoughts about my body.
“I don’t think so, Coach.”
“Alright, alright. Now go on, get changed. It’s your Fitness test today and we need to get outside to get started.”
The changing room door opens and a stream of boys file out. I push past them and into the changing rooms. I’m the only one left. I quickly change out of my uniform and into my kit. That’s equally as awful-navy shorts and a white polo shirt with the school badge on it, white sports socks and white trainers. Correction-I look awful in it. Maybe Coach Oslen is right, maybe I am fat. Awfully grotesquely fat. I’m not having lunch again today then. I already ate this morning-I should be alright until tomorrow.
“Oi, Vermeer, Coach told me to tell you to hurry up. We’re supposed to be starting the twelve minute now,” Aled calls as he bursts in. He stops and sniggers. “What fun, eh, watching you do the twelve minute. Or rather, walk the one minute and have to be carted off in an ambulance.”
I ignore him, stuffing my blazer into my sports bag. If I leave my clothes lying around on the bench, the other boys often steal them and throw them in the showers and I have to walk round with a soaking blazer all day.
“It’s fitness test today, Vermeer, or unfitness test for you. Looking forward to it? You’ll finally get to see how pathetic you really are.”
I push past him and go outside to join the others. They’re all standing round the track, stretching. They take it so seriously. As I watch, Jamie spots me and leans over to whisper in Conner’s ear, his blonde hair blowing in the wind. They start laughing and then Jamie calls over.
“Hey Vermeer, did you get bitten by a vampire or summit?”
I frown, confused and then I remember the purple mark on my neck and keep my head down, desperately trying to hide it with my hair.
“Nah, just Abby Henner!” someone else jeers and they start laughing.
“Hey, lads, focus!” Coach Oslen calls. “Now, you’re going to go round the track for twelve minutes and every time you pass me, you’re going to tell me how many times you’ve been round, Okay? Pace yourselves. No showing off and stay away from the girls…they’ve got an intense hockey match today and they’re preparing for their Interform finales. Okay, off you go!”
I start running round the track. The others streak off ahead, parading round the track and calling out vulgar things to the girls playing hockey. I’m last, naturally, but Stuart’s running alongside me, in a relaxed silence. We don’t speak to each other but I don’t think I could anyway-I’ve made it once round the track and already I am gasping, trying to dredge air into my quickly-closing lungs.
“Come on, boys, leave the girls alone!” Coach calls. “Vermeer, Swann, I know you can run faster than that. Get moving, lads!”
Stuart scowls and mutters something about Coach Oslen and I agree silently, because I can’t speak. There’s a stitch ripping at my side and my skin is prickling awkwardly and my fringe is sticking to my face. I glance at my Misfits watch-I refuse to take off my sweatbands and watch, even for Gym-and see we’ve only been running for three minutes. Great.
“Aaron and Stuart, get moving!”
“Oh shut up,” Stuart mutters. He’s slightly breathless too. “I hate this. What’s the point of doing a fitness test if it’s obvious you’re unfit?”
“You’re talking to me again?”
He blushes. “No.”
We carry on running in silence which is frequently broken by my gasps and pants. I’m sure my legs are on fire-there’s a searing pain shooting through both of them and up my sides and across my chest.
“Aaron, Stuart, I’m not going to tell you again! Get running!”
“We are!” yells Stuart but Coach doesn’t hear him. Thankfully, he doesn’t see the gesture either.
Eventually, Coach blows his whistle and gathers us all in to a huddle. Jamie and his gang are blowing their hair from their eyes, relaxed and comfortable. They’re barely broken a sweat yet I’m bent over, gasping, clutching my side and seeing stars.
“Well done boys, well done,” Coach says, ticking something off on his clipboard. “Now, at the end of the lesson I’ll give you your fitness scores but I can tell you now from my results here that Jamie Perryman is the fittest in your class.”
Jamie grins and slaps palms with Aled and Liam.
“That was very good lads, well done, though there could have been a bit more effort from some of you.”
As Coach says this, he glances over at me and Stuart. Stuart sighs and fiddles with his hair innocently and I don’t look up from the concrete I swear I’m going to throw up over.
“Now we’re going into the Gym for circuit training. I want you to get with a partner and swop with them once their three minutes is up, Okay? You can go on the bikes, the treads, the cross-trainers, the weights and the rowing machines. Alright, off to the gym.”
The other boys bound off and Coach Oslen follows. Stuart and I amble over. I’m still gasping, clutching at my side. I cannot breathe properly. I am dying. I tried to get Dad to write me a note once, to excuse me from the twelve minute run but he just laughed.
“Please, Aaron! It’s only the twelve minute run, it’s not as though it’s some excruciating torture! I wished we did that in school. You don’t know how lucky you are.”
Ha. No, I guess I don’t.
At last we arrive at the Gym. Jamie and his groupies are at the weights so I opt to go on the treadmill, at the other end of the room. Stuart follows; an action that, instead of annoying me, makes me smile. He’s slowly forgiving me, bit by bit, even if he won’t admit to it.
We jog along in a comfortable silence and then swop to the bikes. Every muscle in my body flares angrily, each bone moaning in protest, my skin prickling with perspiration and embarrassment. Jamie is still lifting weights, his shirt sleeves pushed back so everybody catches glimpses of his toned orange arms. He’s sniggering at my obvious struggle. To make matters worse, Coach Oslen comes up behind me and ‘encourages’ me, though it only causes me to turn a more vibrant shade of red. Stuart carries on riding along beside me, his fair skin slightly pink, his silver fringe sticking to his forehead. He’s leaning forward, panting, his head hanging like a broken puppet. At least I’m not the only unfit one.
At last the bell rings and Coach Oslen lets us go back to the changing rooms. I drag my feet, still struggling to breathe. Stuart walks along side me, his head hanging. I don’t know why he’s following me. It’s starting to annoy me now. If he’s not talking to me, why is he acting as though we’re still close?
Perryman and his gang have gathered in a huddle in the changing rooms. I push past them and find my bag. I start getting changed. I’ve climbed out of my Gym kit when the loud, raucous laughter catches my attention.
“Oh dear Vermeer, did Mummy dress you today?” Jamie calls, looking over. “Batman! How sad!”
Oh no. I forgot it was Gym today and put on my Batman boxers instead of my plain black ones.
“Batman? Oh jeez, Vermeer, do you still read comic books?” jeers Aled, smirking. He and Robbie wave their arms in mock flight.
“Shut up,” I mutter, turning back to my clothes. I pull my clothes out of my bag-my crumpled white shirt, my socks and blazer and tie. Where are my jeans? I look under the bench and go searching desperately through my bag again, tipping it upside down.
“Looking for these, Vermeer?”
I turn around and see Perryman standing in the middle of the changing rooms, one hand on his hip, holding up my jeans between a forefinger and thumb. His face is crumpled into a disgusting smirk.
“I reckon we should send these off, get them examined for some kind of disease,” he laughs, tossing back his golden hair. “Maybe they should scan Henner too.”
“Just give them to me,” I sigh, reaching out for them. Jamie holds them away from me.
“Ah, ah, ah, say please! Where are your manners?”
“Just give me them, Perryman.”
“Tut, tut Aaron. Say please!”
“Give them to me, Perryman, now!”
“Say please!”
“Please!” I yell and he starts laughing again.
“Beg for them, Vermeer. Bark like a dog. On your knees.”
I mutter something dark under my breath and Jamie scowls. He says something equally as horrid.
“Just give them to him Jamie,” Stuart says quietly, stepping forward. His eyebrows are raised. Jamie frowns horridly, sneers and throws them at me.
“Thank God you’ve got your little boyfriend to look after you, Vermeer,” he derides. “Now cover yourself up, we’re all sick of looking at you.”
They all turn away, laughing and shaking their heads in pity. Soon, they’re all dressed and leave, calling out crude comments as they go. It’s only me and Stuart left.
“Thanks,” I mumble, shrugging on my shirt.
“Don’t mention it,” Stuart replies. He’s pulling up his tie, keeping his eyes fixed to the floor. He breaks the silence again. “So…um, how’re things with Abby?”
I groan and he giggles. It’s surprising how heart-warming it is, to hear his familiar happy laugh that somehow holds so much comfort.
“That good, eh?”
“She’s evil. She tortures me.”
“What’s she like at kissing?”
I frown. “It’s not really kissing. Some days it’s vampirism and some days it’s vacuum cleaner.”
“Vacuum cleaner?” Stuart giggles again. “What’s that?”
“Well, she kinda attaches herself to me and hovers.”
Stuart’s laughing, his face split into a beautiful smile. He looks so angelic.
“And she doesn’t mind Batman boxers?”
“The situation’s never arisen.”
“Well, I like them,” he tells me. “They’re very cute. D’you like mine?”
They’re Pac man-bright yellow, pink and blue. I actually laugh.
“They’re adorable.” I pull a face. “Oh God, did I just say that?”
“Yep,” he nods. It’s so sweet. “Are you sitting with Abby at Lunch?”
“I’m afraid so. She makes me. It’s like being married.”
“What’s so wrong with marriage?” Stuart pouts gorgeously and I bite the back of my lip.
“My vision of marriage has been jaded by the shining example my parents set.”
His face instantly softens. “Has your mum visited yet?”
I hang my head. He probably thinks it’s because of sadness but it’s of shame, guilt. I hate lying to him.
“Not yet. Are you sitting by Jessica?”
“Uh huh. She’s a good friend. She’s really crazy.”
“She’s crazy alright. Why do you like her?” I protest.
“No, she’s fun Aaron. You should give her a chance. She still really likes you, y’know-“
“I don’t need to hear this, Stuart! No way! I’m not giving her another chance!”
“Okay, Okay! I was just suggesting! I think we’d make a cool little trio-unless you wanted Li to join in as well.”
“Pft, not really. He’s abandoned me, hasn’t he, for Imogene Jones.”
“What, like you abandoned me for Abby?” Stuart fires back, pouting. I hang my head again, ashamed.
“Look, I’m dumping her today so stop moaning.”
Stuart starts smiling again. It’s such a hopeful grin, I feel myself smiling back.
“Really? When?”
“After school. She makes me go round to her house for two hours every Friday so I’ll break the good news then.”
I grimace. I hope she takes it well. Jessica didn’t, when I called it off with her. She took it awfully. I still have the scar.
Stuart suddenly frowns, steps forward and places his hand on the side of my neck.
“What are you doing?” I whisper in a strangled gasp. He’s still frowning, moving his fingers across my neck. Fear flashes through me and turns me rigid. I’m hyper aware of his skin against mine-too aware. The soft velvety brush of his fingers is heavenly, especially on the tender skin of my neck. It feels so perfect but I can’t breathe. I can’t seem to move.
“Does it hurt?” he asks, very suddenly, startling me. He moves his fingers across my neck very slowly and gently.
“Does what hurt?”
“The mark,” he says and then I remember it, with a sinking in my stomach. The large, ugly purple mark on my neck.
“Not really,” I mumble, embarrassed. Can he feel the blood boiling under my skin, the pulse like a drumbeat?
“Oh Aaron,” he says and I pull away and continue getting dressed. Stuart takes a lot longer, pulling on his blazer in a tantalizingly slow rate. Coach Oslen comes out of his office and tells us to get out.
“I never thought it possible but you’re slower getting ready than you are round the track!” he scorns before disappearing. I scowl. I hate teacher sarcasm.
Eventually, Stuart is ready and we trail down to the canteen. He shoots me a sad little smile as Abby notices me. Jessica’s saving him a table and he goes to sit next to her, shrugging and throwing apologetic glances at me as I am forced to sit with Abby and her friends.
“Hey Aaron,” Abby purrs, leaning over to talk to me. “Are you coming over tonight?”
Even though today is the official Ditching Day, I run through a thousand and one excuses in my mind to somehow get out of this. One suddenly springs to mind-Dad said this morning that he wanted me and Wil to come home straight away; he had something ‘important’ to tell us.
“My dad really wants me to go home tonight,” I sigh. Perhaps I can put off dumping her for another day?
“Oh please. Whatever your dad wants, it can’t be that important. I am your girlfriend Aaron; he’ll understand that you have to make time for me as well.”
I cringe silently. How pathetically protective she is. Has she no idea? Hasn’t she noticed that I squirm when I’m around her; that I pull briskly away when she kisses me; that I have never said I love her or, in fact, I like her in any way?
This is all Stuart’s fault, I think furiously. He told me to be more out going, so I said Abby was pretty and now I am in the middle of an utter debacle. He knows it too.
“It is really important,” I feebly say. It’s not really a lie, but Abby pouts.
“What is it?”
“Um…some….some dinner thing,” I try weakly. Abby pouts more viciously, outraged.
“Are you making excuses, Aaron, so you don’t have to come round to my house tonight?”
“Uh…yes.”
That is completely the wrong answer.
Abby turns pink, gapes at my dismay and gets to her feet, slinging her bag over her shoulder so quickly, she almost knocks Ceris out. She pushes past people and dashes from the canteen. Her friends stare at me, their eyes smouldering relentlessly, so I go after her. As I pass their table, Stuart and Jessica look up, wide-eyed. Jessica’s smirking but I couldn’t expect anything more.
I find Abby halfway over to the Art block, sniffling, clearly wounded by my cool behaviour. I reach out and grab her arm and she turns round furiously.
“Abby, please-“
“Get off of me, Aaron!”
“Abby, please, just listen to me-“
“Let go of me, Aaron, let go!”
“Abby, just listen-“
“No, you listen!” she retorts, hurt and incensed. “How can you say you’re making excuses to get out of seeing me? That’s so selfish and horrid! I’m your girlfriend, Aaron! You’re supposed to want to see me! What’s wrong with you?”
She’s screeching, clearly upset, but I feel more embarrassed than anything else. People are starting to look over. The wind blows my hair over my face, so she doesn’t spot my flaming cheeks.
“Don’t you want to see me anymore? Is that it? Are you ditching me?” she shrieks, her eyes burning lividly. This could be my golden chance.
“Well?” she demands. “Are you? Are you ditching me because my hair isn’t black, because I don’t have a stud through my tongue? Are you dumping me for Jessica Arrowsmith? Aren’t I as exciting as her?”
“What? Abby, I hate Jessica, you know that.”
Her face falls. “Oh God. It’s Stuart Swann, isn’t it? You’re ditching me for a boy!”
“Abby, no,” I protest, but she won’t listen to me. She shakes her head, big-eyed, pulling away from me.
“I knew it. I knew all of those rumours were true.”
“They’re not true!” I shout, frustrated. “Just listen to me for a little while, Abby!”
She falls into a huffy silence.
“Look, I’m sorry, really, I am. What I said was tactless. I didn’t mean it at all; I’m just not in a very good mood today. My father does want me home early tonight, I’m not making that part up-go and ask Wil if you don’t believe me. If you want though, I’ll come round to your house tonight. I’m sorry.”
Abby considers it for a minute; arms folded, sighing horribly.
“Alright then,” she finally decides. “You can walk me home and stay for a while. But that doesn’t mean you’re forgiven. I’m still angry at you.”
The bell rings and she unfolds her arms, hoisting her bag over her shoulder.
“I’ll see you outside my French class,” she warns and, still glowering, holds her face out for a kiss. I kiss the air above her cheek and she flounces off to her form.
I wish I hadn’t gone after her in the first place.
Study that afternoon passes quickly. I doodle something arbitrarily in my sketchbook as part of my Art homework and finish my Graphics work. Spanish is equally as easy and, for once in my life, I find myself willing for the Spanish lesson to drag on longer. I’m sure the clock must be ticking faster than usual. Soon, Mr Specter claps his hands and tells us to have a good weekend. I hang back desperately, asking him over and over about the homework until he looks over his glasses at me in a sceptical way.
“Now Aaron, you’re a bright boy, I know you understand. Nothing’s going on, is there? Trouble after school? Trouble at home?”
Oh no. He thinks I’m getting mugged after school, beaten at home. I can’t exactly tell him that I’m lingering in his classroom to avoid my psychopath girlfriend who’s waiting for me outside.
“No Sir,” I blush and exit the room quickly. The corridor is empty, apart from Abby, leaning against the wall and clutching her violin case.
“Hey, what took you so long?” she demands. “The bell went ages ago.”
“I was checking the homework with Mr Specter,” I say-it’s not really a lie. Abby raises her eyebrow.
“And since when did you become a swot?”
I force a poor, misleading smile and we walk out of the building together. Abby is silent most of the way to her house, apart from where she takes my hand and tells me that I’m forgiven. It makes me feel worse. I feel absolutely sick by the time we’re upstairs, in her room. I perch nervously on the end of her bed as she fusses round, dropping her bag and violin case without care, dragging off her tie and sliding the band from her hair so it explodes from it’s ponytail into a mass of blonde waves. She comes to sit next to me eventually, and slides a hand round the side of my face.
“Aaron,” she says and leans in closer. I instantly pull away, harder than I expected. She blinks, hurt again.
“I’m sorry Abby, but I really can’t do this anymore.”
“Do what anymore?”
“This.” I wave my hands around, trying to think of what to say. “I can’t fake affection for you anymore.”
“Fake?”
If she mimics my words once more, I think I shall have to scream.
“Look, Abby, I like you, as a friend,” I explain slowly. “But I rushed into this whole thing. Really, I only said I’d date you because I thought…well, I thought I’d get some validation.”
She just blinks.
“You’re my friend and everything but…well, we’re not really suited. We’re total opposites. And…well, all we do is kiss and stuff and I find it a bit…repetitive.”
“So you want to talk then?” Abby cuts in hurriedly. She nods, frenzied, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Okay, I can do that. What do you want to talk about?”
“No, Abby, it’s too late for that,” I say, very gently. “I’ve made up my mind. I think we’d be better off as just friends.”
“No,” Abby whispers. “Please Aaron, don’t say that.”
“Abby, please. I like you and everything but…well; I don’t feel anything more for you than I already did. You’re a friend. That’s it, that’s all you ever will be.”
“No,” she argues. “Please, Aaron.”
“Abby, this has gone on longer than nessacery. I’m not putting it off anymore. We’re just friends, if that. I know nothing about you. You know nothing about me.”
“I do so know stuff about you!” she cries. “You play piano and you like Science and…and you have a younger brother and you’re rich-“
“That doesn’t count. Everybody knows that.”
“Then tell me what to do. Tell me what to say, how to act. Help me be better.”
“Abby, it’s too late for that. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to date you anymore.”
Abby sucks in her breath, her lips shaking. She looks down at her yellow bedspread, her mane of hair falling across her shoulders, shrouding her face from view. I can’t hear her breathing.
“Abby?” I murmur, leaning forward. I touch her hair very lightly and she flinches.
“Look, I’m sorry, really. We can still be friends,” I struggle and she snorts.
“No, we can’t. Of course we can’t. You’ll say it but you’ll ignore me from now on and you’ll only smile at me because you pity me. Of course we can’t still be friends. That’s like saying I can keep my dead dog.”
Oh dear. She’s comparing us to dead dogs. That’s not good.
“Don’t you want us to be friends?” I say and she sniffs.
“Actually, I don’t. I don’t want anything else to do with you, Aaron Vermeer. Jessica was right.”
“Jessica?” I snap. “How did Jessica get into this conversation?”
“Jessica got into this conversation because Jessica told me that you were sly, selfish, lying and cowardly and I wish I’d believed her!”
“What? How dare she say that!”
“She’s right, Aaron!” Abby suddenly yells. She gets up off her bed and stands at the opposite end of the room, arms folded, glowering. “She’s right! You…you abandoned her when she was going through her worst phase because you were scared for yourself! It wasn’t easy for her and you left her because you’re selfish and conceited and pathetic! She told me that you’d leave, as soon as people started laughing at you. She told me exactly what you’re like and I should have believed her!”
“Don’t listen to a word she says!” I fire back, equally as enraged. “It’s lies, Okay?”
“But Jessica said-“
“Jessica also said once that she would never get addicted and she would never leave me. Look what happened! We went to a party and she was hooked because she was mixing and I was stuck with these kids I didn’t even know and she goes off with some guy to his van and when I go after her, he beats me up. Jessica does not know what she is talking about!”
Abby stares me, dubiously.
“And if you don’t believe me, ask Faline Simmons or Adele Muir, because they were both there and they took me to the emergency room to get the stitches.”
Abby’s wallowing in a furious silence. She suddenly snaps.
“Well, I believe her on this! I hate you, Aaron, I really do!”
“Why?!”
“Because you’re breaking me and you don’t seem to care at all! You are completely crushing me and you just stand there and stare, like you’re….frozen! You have no contrition for other people, like you’re….lifeless.”
I stare at her; puzzled and offended.
“Heartless. That’s the word I’m looking for,” Abby verifies. Sadly, this accusation hits home. Frozen? Possibly. Heartless? Definitely.
Abby must notice the comprehension flicker across my face because she sighs deeply and hides her face in her hands.
“I don’t know what to do with you, Aaron,” she mumbles. She looks up and drops her hands to her sides. “What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t want you to do anything apart from understanding that I’m dumping you. I want you to accept it.”
“Fine, I’ll accept it,” she says in a reluctant undertone. “You’re dumping me. I understand.” Abruptly, she snaps her blazing gaze up to meet mine. “Can I ask you why? I mean, I’ve got to give Ceris another good excuse to hate you.”
I struggle for an answer. The reasons why I am dumping her will be offensive-she’s too boring, too much unlike me, no where near talkative enough, gushing and embarrassing to have as a girlfriend.
“Actually no, I’ll answer that for you.” She holds one finger up, to silence me. “You’re dumping me because you find boys attractive. Correct?”
“Abby, no-“
“No, Aaron, it’s true. I know, alright? I know how uncomfortable you are, around all girls, not just me. You’re like….a marble pillar or something. Cold. Unresponsive. It’s obvious, when I kiss you, you’re thinking of a polite way to escape. You don’t want it, I know that. You’d be much happier with a boy.”
“That’s not true!” I snap, irate. “I’m not gay! Why won’t anybody believe me?”
“Because you’re in denial. You may not realise it yet, but you are. I can tell.”
I start to panic. If Abby is picking up on these signs, surely everyone else is and that’s why they believe the rumours. Surely, dumping Abby is the worst possible thing I can do while I am in this situation.
This is a whole raft of evidence towards the gay theory, and it scares me. I wrestle these thoughts out of my head nervously, agitated by my epiphany.
“Now please Aaron, I’d like you to leave.” Abby’s voice brings me back into the real world. I get off of her bed awkwardly and hover at her door, unwilling yet compelled to stay.
“Abby, I’m sorry. We can still be friends, right?”
“Hmmm.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means hmmm,” she whispers. “Now please, just get out.”
I linger. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Yes, I suppose you will. Now go.”
“Abby? We’re still friends?”
“Aaron, just go.”
“Abby-“
“Goodbye, Aaron,” she says in a heated, dismissive voice but still I stay.
“Abby?”
Her hand collides with the side of my jaw in a sickening jolt. The pain flames up the left side of my face, burning my skin. I hear something click that I’m sure is not meant to move like that. Again, her hand comes into vicious contact with my face, but my nose this time. An ugly, heavy metallic taste fills the back of my throat.
“Get out, Aaron!” she screeches, her voice wavering and dipping as though she’s about to cry. I comply with her command and leave the house, stumbling down the stairs and dashing from the door. The cool evening air hits me with a churning blow. I can taste my own blood, in the back of my throat and I bend over, spitting it all out. My jaw feels stiff, as though it’s dislocated, and my nose is throbbing painfully. I hurry home in the dimming October light, warm, sickly blood trickling down my face.
Dad’s car is in the driveway, for once, and all the lights are on downstairs. Without thinking about what Dad will say, I open the door and step inside, slamming it behind. I’m on the third stair when Dad comes out of the lounge, sober for the first time in a while. He’s smiling-a frightening sight-but it vanishes instantly when he notices my face.
“Aaron! What’s happened to your face?”
He doesn’t sound concerned but irritated, as though I inflicted it on myself. Well. In a way, I suppose I did.
“I dumped Abby,” I say thickly, clamping my nose between my thumb and forefinger. Dad’s brow creases.
“Whatever did you do that for?”
I shrug. He’s staring at me now in a slightly worried way. I realize slowly, that this is more evidence towards the gay theory for him too.
“Go and get cleaned up,” he mutters his voice heavy with disgust. “I don’t want you dripping blood all over the carpet. Then come straight down, I’ve got something important to tell you. Honestly. I told you this morning to be home early!”
“Abby said you wouldn’t mind.”
“This is urgent Aaron; I’d appreciate it if you didn’t jump to your girlfriend’s every whim over my order.”
I ignore his last comment and go up into the bathroom, wincing. I remove my fingers and blood trickles down my face, staining my colourless skin a deep scarlet. I wash the blood from my face and move my jaw around until it clicks back into place. It still feels strange, and there’s a red hand mark on my left cheek. There’s blood on my shirt. I struggle out of it and find my Madonna shirt in the laundry basket in the corner. It’s rather pitiable, listening to Madonna, but it irritates my father and reminds me of my mother so it’s a perfect balance. I change my trousers for black jeans and stuff my uniform in the basket, leaving my Converse at the side and padding down the stairs in bare feet.
Laughter floats out from under the lounge door and I pause, anxious all of a sudden to what lays the other side. A female voice makes me ball my hands into fists. So. This is the ‘urgent’ thing he wanted? A new girlfriend.
I wonder what she looks like. She most probably is young, blonde and effortlessly stupid. The others are. She probably has children of her own-twelve of them, all with different fathers-and wants a pink convertible, a pure diamond bracelet, ice sculptures and her own island somewhere in the Caribbean. My father is indeed gullible enough.
The lounge door opens and Dad steps out of the room, frowning. He often does that when he sees me, probably with disappointment as he notices my ever-present existence.
“Don’t lurk, Aaron.”
“I was not,” I protest but he doesn’t answer. He’s looking me up and down, his lip curling in revulsion.
“What are you wearing?” he demands, repulsed. He flicks a hand-free of his wedding ring yet complete with designer silver bracelet instead-at my shirt. “Madonna?”
“Yes Dad. She’s a singer, you know.”
“Don’t try and act intelligent, it doesn’t suit you.” He frowns again. “You know I don’t approve of that shirt, Aaron. It’s very…feminine.”
Alarm flutters in my chest and I fight it away with a sharp retort. “Whatever Dad. You don’t approve of most aspects of my entity, do you?”
“Stop being so cheeky! I didn’t raise you to answer me back like that-“
“Correction. You didn’t raise me at all. Mum did all of it.”
Dad musters another frown, furious at me for being right. He struggles for words before answering me, rather childishly.
“Yes, and look what happened to you. You’re just like her.”
My skin prickles underneath all of the pain. I hate it when he talks about my mother like that; like she was a useless, no-good, terrible person who brought him constant fear and endless doubt.
“Don’t talk about Mum like that.” I raise my voice slightly, so he’ll understand. He doesn’t-he simply snaps.
“Aaron, don’t you dare talk to me like that! I am your father and I’d appreciate it if you showed a little respect for me! I have something important to tell you yet you’re just creating dilemma and being stubborn and difficult, as usual.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I whisper, obviously not quiet enough. He turns a distastefully irate colour, gaping. He points his finger in my face, hissing in threatening tones.
“Now you listen here, Aaron Vermeer. I have tried my best for you. I have gone out, day after day, even after Elodie died, working, for you and your brother. I put a roof over your head, I put clothes on your back and I put food on your table. I looked after your brother in his unstable condition and I put up with living alone for so long. I even tolerated your rude, defiant, ungrateful, selfish behaviour. All I ask for is a little respect yet you treat me like dirt. Why can’t you be more like Wil? You’re a lost cause. I don’t even know why I bother anymore.”
I glower back at him, with more hatred than I’ve ever felt before in my life. It’s sizzling through me, dripping like acid through my veins, burning and writhing. The intensity to make him feel what I do is so great; I flex my fingers menacingly. I am actually two inches taller than him-I could fight him off if nessacery. I’ve got more weight behind me: I’m not a matchstick like Wil.
“I want you to stop glaring like a gargoyle, straighten up and act like a gracious young man, please,” Dad says, as though I’m a child. “This is very important to me.”
I don’t move an inch.
“Aaron! Do as I tell you to!”
I straighten up slowly and clear my face to an indifferent, blank mask. It’s hard-he’s glaring at me with such distain and my face is pulsing with soreness. Betrayal is screaming through me. I feel too fabricated.
“Now you’re going to behave this evening and act normal, like Wil and stop this conceited, pitiful act. I don’t care about what has happened in your life today-you are going to smile.”
Dad smiles, to remind me how to do it. My lips barely flick in response. He drops his grin and shakes his head.
“I despair of you, Aaron, I really do.”
He places a hand on the door handle, turning his back on me and opening the door. He goes into the lounge and impatiently beckons me. I step inside, frowning. I hate this room-the cold wooden floors, the high ceiling, the tall vases of white lilies and the mirrors and glass sculpture in the corner and the Persian rug and the white leather sofas. Wil’s sitting on one of them, scrawny and small under the overhead soft lights, dressed in baggy jeans and a purple striped shirt. There’s a woman sitting next to him but she gets gracefully off of the sofa when Dad and I enter the room.
“Aaron, this is Sarah,” Dad says, smiling again. “My new partner.”