Guyliner

“Aaron? Aaron, stop staring and say something!”

I have been raised to know that staring is rude. If you stare at somebody a little different, it’s ill manners and you’ll be punished, whether in this life or the next. My mother always told me never to stare-how would the person at the receiving end feel? I’ve always obeyed this rule, ever since I was small but today is indeed an exception.

I am not staring at Sarah because she is odd; because she has green hair or buck teeth or a glass eye or prosthetics. I’m not staring at her in anger, betrayal, upset. I am speechless.

She’s not odd in any way. She’s completely normal, and that’s what scares me. She is not the usual type of woman my father goes for. She is respectable, neat, tidy, and conservative. She is not showing her underwear or hair extension glue. She is wearing no gold and only, as far as I can see, has her ears pierced. She’s dressed straight from an office in a brown pressed trouser suit with brown patent heels. She is two inches taller than my father too. Her hair is long and a light, caramel brown, twisted behind her neck and the only jewellery she is wearing is a pair of tear-drop diamond earrings and crushed shell bracelet. She’s smiling; a friendly, relaxed grin as though she’s happy to see me. She is wearing no make up, only a flick of lipgloss, and there is not hint of fishnet tights/cherry lipstick in sight.

It’s shocking. After all this time, it’s almost a let down to see I cannot hate her because she is normal. She looks nice enough and hasn’t forced me to eat poisoned apples. I now have no reason to loathe her so my hostility towards her will be treated as rudeness and I will not get away with it. As far as they can see, I have no reason to be angry towards her.

This day just gets worse and worse.

“Hello,” she says pleasantly in a light, perfectly happy voice that makes me cringe silently for hating her so much. “You must be Aaron. I’m Sarah.”

I am still busy gawping in shock at her to give an answer. Dad gives a false, nervous laugh.
“Aaron?” he says hopefully, shooting glances at me that read ‘Answer normally or die’. I somehow find my voice.

“How old are you?”

“Aaron!” he repeats but in a different tone. Sarah only laughs.

“I’m thirty-three. You?”

“I…um, fifteen.”

“Ah, another teenager,” she grins, raising one eyebrow. “Anymore questions?”

“Do you work for my dad?”

“No, I’m a nurse.”

“He told us that you belonged to another firm,” I snipe, turning round to look at him. Dad craftily turns his head away from my glare.

“Christian! You shouldn’t lie to them!” Sarah reprimands but there’s a grin playing across her face. I suddenly can’t stand it, the way she’s scolding him like he’s a stubborn child but the way she’s laughing, amused by his low actions. She clearly can’t think much of Wil and I if she finds the fact that our father lied to us somehow hilarious.

“Well, if that’s all you wanted to tell me…” I try to walk off to the basement but Dad stands up.

“No wait Aaron. We’re eating in a minute and I’d like you to join us for once.”

“No thanks,” I shrug but Dad puts a firm hand on my shoulder and pushes me back into the room.

“No, Aaron, you’re joining us this time. I’ve had enough of you skulking off into your room every night and ignoring us. Mrs Luft made us this meal specially and you’re joining us.”

I fold my arms in protest but Dad simply raises an eyebrow.

“Please, enough of this childish behaviour. You’re fifteen, not five. You want us to treat you like a young adult so act like one.”

My cheeks flame. He’s mocking me. He’s putting on a heavy father role to put me in my place but he’s softened, saying it with a grin because Sarah’s here. He’s trying to act like he’s on my side and it’s sickening.

“It’s your favourite,” he teases. “Spaghetti bolognaise.”

I stare at him, astonished and outraged. He squirms awkwardly.

“What, Aaron? Why are you staring at me like that?”

“I hate spaghetti bolognaise,” I remind him slowly. He just pulls a surprised face.

“Really? Since when?”

“Since forever,” I snap. “Don’t you remember? I despise it, the way the spaghetti wriggles round everywhere like dying worms and the sauce is all thick and gloopy like animal salvia mixed with blood and the garlic sticks in the back of your throat and makes you choke and the meat looks like intestines and-“

“Alright,” Dad barks. “Enough with the disgusting visuals. You don’t like it, I understand, though you used to.”

“No, Dad, I didn’t. Wil does, but not me.”

I still have memories of Wil sitting in a high chair, flinging the stuff around with the sauce all over his face. Somehow, watching him grimly spooning it into his gaping mouth put me off for life.

Dad just rolls his eyes, like I’m an exasperating child. “I’m very sure you used to like it.”
“I’m not gonna argue with you, Dad, but I’m not eating it.”

“Fine, fine,” he says through gritted teeth. I know he’s longing to scream at me, saying I’m a tiresome ungrateful miserable baby but he won’t, not in front of Sarah. Instead, his face is forced into a sickly false smile that scares me more than his harsh words. “Okay Aaron, no spaghetti. Chicken?”

“I’m a vegetarian,” I say coldly and his smile falters. Well, he doesn’t know that I’m not.

“Okay…there’s some tuna pasta salad left over-“

“No meat, no fish.”

I end up with a small sad bowl of rice. I sit at the corner of the table, looking down at the bowl and not eating, listening to them chatter. They’re acting like a family already. Wil talks about his day at school, and Dad and Sarah laugh.

“Oh, poor Aaron,” Sarah says suddenly and I snap my glare up to her. She seems unfazed. “That’s nearly not enough for a teenage boy, Christian.”

“I’m fine,” I mutter sulkily but Dad comes round my side of the table.

“Are you sure you don’t want just a bit of spaghetti? I could scrape some of the sauce off-“

“No, Dad-it’s got meat in it.”

“How about just the spaghetti and the sauce then?”

“I don’t like the sauce.”

“Too much garlic,” Wil says thickly from the other end of the table. He turns to Sarah. “Aaron reckons he’s a vampire.”

“Shut up, you little dweeb, I do not!”

“He used to,” Dad grins, clearly enjoying it. “When he was in Kindergarten, he went round saying he was a vampire.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Sarah gushes. I bite my lip, enraged.

“And he believed in unicorns,” Wil laughs, triumphant. “He used to ‘ride’ them. How sad!”

I scrape my chair back from the table and get to my feet. I’ve had enough of him sneering at me.

“Sit down, Aaron”, Dad sighs. “Don’t sulk.”

“I’m not sulking! I’m leaving!”

“Aaron! Sit down now!”

“No way! You can’t force me!”

I escape from the dining room and go down to the basement, flinging myself down on my bed dramatically. I bury my face in my pillow and scream into it, as loud as I can, my hands shaking. When I take the pillow away from my face, I see faint tear marks on the pillow case.
You’re pathetic, the tiny voice in my head says. I grit my teeth and try to ignore it, but it simply comments louder.
You’re pathetic, Aaron Vermeer. You don’t deserve to live. You’re fat and ugly and stupid and lonely and despairingly sorry for yourself. No wonder you haven’t got any friends. No wonder nobody loves you. Nobody ever will. You’re weak. Useless. You’re nothing.

I clamp the pillow over my head but it doesn’t work. The voice keeps screaming inside my head. It’s the other half of me. For years now, this little voice has kept me company, belittling me at every chance. Whenever I look in the mirror, it roars inside my mind: ugly, fat, completely hopeless. It automatically answers whenever Jamie shoves into me or Aled calls me a freak-stupid pansy. You coward. You deserve this. You’re a freak.It even blamed me for my mother’s suicide.

I roll over on to my stomach and reach over, snatching up the receiver of my Hello Batty phone. I go to dial a number but my finger hovers over the buttons dejectedly. I can’t call anybody because I have nobody to call. Jessica won’t even answer me now. At first, she would phone me constantly and I’d ignore her. Now, I’m sure her mother would hang up when she heard my voice or, if she put me through to Jessica, she would laugh cruelly and slam the phone down.

Why should I bother them anyway? They are not concerned about my petty issues. Nobody is. Maybe there is some wrong in me, something I can’t identify or blind myself too; something that screams itself to other people and makes them back away warily from my corroding personality.

Maybe this is all of my fault. Perhaps, if I tried hard not to be the loner and not to be so heartless, people would like me. I am willing to give up myself for people to find my being engaging. How pathetic. I have completely sold out. Maybe I am nothing. Maybe I should listen to the voice in my head though I can’t bring myself to comply with it’s demands. My hands tremble violently at the thought and I clasp them together, petrified, as though if I leave them free they shall commit some plight.

Go on. Do it. You deserve it, pansy boy. You’ve not done it for such a long time. Why stop? Do it! You feel bad-you know what to do…

“No,” I mutter to myself. “No, I won’t.”

Go on Aaron…why not? You’re weak, worthless and you know, even now, that nobody will miss you. Just one quick slip and it’s over…

“No!”

It’s startling that I am talking to my mind, but the images that fill it are even more so. I shake my head, trying to get rid of them. They refuse to lessen, flashing vividly behind my closed eyelids until panic rises in my throat, cutting off my circulation. I collapse against my pillows, breathing deeply through my nose, petrified if I open my mouth I’ll throw up. My whole body is shaking violently, trembling the mattress under me. Slowly, the images fade and breathing gets easier. I scramble from my bed; scared it will happen again and flick on my CD player, turning it up to full volume. Iron Maiden pulse out of the speakers in wailing thumps, until the whole room shudders. I perch on the end of my bed, concentrating on the lyrics, pulling apart the complicated riffs and drum patterns, trying to figure them out-anything to distract me.

I sit like that for a very long time.

I have listened to the album almost five times when the door to the basement flies open, hitting the wall and rebounding, slamming to a holt back in it’s frame with a snap. There are fast, furious footsteps on the stairs and a pair of angry hands gripping my shoulders, hauling me upright.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Dad yells over the music. I barely blink. “Turn it down!”
I don’t move.

“TURN IT DOWN, AARON!”

I pick up the remote and stop the CD, flinging the remote back on my bed with a soft flump as it hits the duvet.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” He continues to scream, even though the room is silent now. There’s a ringing in my ears; I can barely hear the clock tick.

“ONE THING! I ASKED YOU TO DO ONE THING FOR ME AND YOU STORM OUT LIKE A PATHETIC STUPID CHILD! WHY CAN’T YOU BEHAVE?!”

His fingers are digging into my shoulder tightly. I’ll have bruises there tomorrow. He gives me a riled shake until my teeth rattle. The ringing in my ears becomes a roar.

“YOU ALWAYS HAVE TO GO AGAINST EVERYTHING I SAY! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BEHAVE YOURSELF AND BE MORE LIKE WIL?”

I stare past him, my eyes glazing over. My eyelids feel suddenly heavy, as though I’m tired, but it’s only emotional exhaustion.

“I HAVE TRIED MY BEST TO MOULD YOU INTO A POLITE, DECENT, RESPECTABLE YOUNG MAN AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED! YOU’VE TURNED INTO A MOODY, ANTISOCIAL, FEMININE, DOWNRIGHT DEPRESSING GOTH BOY! NO WONDER YOU HAVEN’T GOT ANY FRIENDS!!!”

The words should be cutting me to shreds like knives but they’re simply tiny pin pricks. They’re an echo of everything I’ve heard before. I’ve grown immune to it; developed a mask that has taught me to ignore it or, at least, look indifferent and crumble later, in the dark. They should hurt much more than this but I can’t feel any injustice when I agree with what he’s saying.

“YOU ARE A HOPELESS LOST CAUSE, AARON VERMEER! I GIVE UP! YOU WILL NEVER BE THE PERSON EVERYBODY WANTS YOU TO BE!”

Well, the words do hurt but this only fuels his anger.

“DON’T CRY, YOU PATHETIC BOY! THIS IS YOUR OWN FAULT! YOU HAVE CHOSEN TO BE THIS PERSON THAT EVERYBODY HATES!!!”

I cry anyway. I stare past him, focusing my gaze intently on the wall but it blurs as the tears seep, thick and fast, into the corners of my eyes and spill across my face. They splash pointlessly down my cheeks and I don’t bother to brush them away. Dad removes his hands from me with such revulsion playing across his face, dropping his voice to a formidable hiss.

“I honestly do not know what to do with you,” he snarls, repeating Abby’s words that seem like a distant memory. “You…I just don’t know what to do with you.”

He exits my room, slamming the door so hard, the walls tremble. I don’t move for a few minutes but then I slowly sink down until I reach my bed, groping my way across the duvet blindly until I have pulled it over my head, tucking it round myself like a safety blanket.

I have never wished more than now that my mother was still alive.

She wouldn’t have let him fly down here and scream at me like he did. She’d try her best to hold him back; she’d scream back at him, maybe even slapping him. She’d sacrifice her marriage for my happiness, something she frequently did when I was younger. If he did fight past her and bawl at me, she’d find me later on, after the blazing argument and she’d take back all of his words for him and make me feel better. Afterwards, she’d slot my favourite Iron Maiden CD into the hi-fi and skip to ‘Flash of the Blade’ and find me a big tub of my favourite ice cream and wouldn’t leave my room until I was laughing again. She always stood up for me, no matter how much he threatened her afterwards. I hope against hope that he never hurt her but it’s doubtful-he’s such a monster.

I find it very hard to believe that we are tied by blood and nothing can change that. It’s a fact I am forced to believe in. We are related and no matter how much either of us loathes that reality, it is reality and we have to deal with it.

Pathetic, the tiny voice in my head whispers, just a faint call in the back of my mind, weak compared to my father’s roar. I push it aside wearily and settle my head against my pillows, drying my eyes with the corner of the duvet. The remote for my hi-fi clatters to the floor as I turn over; reaching down under my bed for the red jewellery box I have hidden there. It’s full of make up, of course. It used to belong to my mother, a long time ago, and was one of the only things I could salvage before her belongings were boxed up, taped over hurriedly and shoved in the loft, out of sight and mind. All of the photos went up there too, except one-another find I managed to hide away from the prying eyes of my father.

Dad always hated this picture. Mum had it framed; placed on one of the side tables in the lounge so everybody who came to visit-important business men and rich golfers could see it. Dad would often proclaim his dismay for it and frequently tried to move it to the other, smaller sitting room or the dining room or the back room, which were out of bounds for callers. He wasn’t proud of it-he often sneered that I looked much too like a girl. I do look like a girl in the photo, despite wearing jeans. It’s the lopsided grin showing the crooked teeth, the dimples, the long black waves of hair and the thick dark eyelashes. I am glad to say I inherited my mother’s looks( though I’ll never look as beautiful as she did) but that does mean my features are so feminine.

Dad would often say that Mum looked far too inappropriate in this picture-what type of explain was she setting for her children, dressing like that?

“All that black, Elodie,” he would sniff, disappointedly. “And the style. You’re not following a funeral procession. You look more like Morticia Addams than a mother. What type of example are you setting for the children?” At this point, he would glare at me. “Aaron’s already taken your fashion sense on board, clearly.”

He was right about the Morticia Addams bit, but neither she or I cared. I liked her like that. She was certainly individual. It was hard not to notice my mother: she was tall (a lot taller than Dad, much to his annoyance) and pale-skinned, whiter than me, with a veil of thick black hair and dark green eyes, framed with black eyelashes and black eyeliner. She looked more like a vampire than anything else. In fact, now I think about, I think I may have told all of my classmates in Nursery school that she was a vampire, and so was I. I can dimly remember going round, practically biting all of them anyway, and getting severely punished by my father. It’s just part of my fractured insecurity when it comes to socialising.

Later on, once I’ve recovered, I sit, cross-legged, on my bed with my sketchbook in front of me. I draw a sprawling, bleak picture that screams melancholy and then flick through the pages, doodling randomly. I stop myself when I notice I’ve drawn a face with high cheekbones, big eyes and a pale shock of hair. I put my pencil down and clench my fist dramatically, tearing out the page and hiding it between the pages of my journal.

The weekend passes slowly with heavy, disgusted silences, glares and arguments. For once in my life, I actually look forward to going back to school-anything to escape the constant presence of my father. I spend Sunday completing homework and writing out essays, desperate to pass the time and stay in my room. I paint my nails, read some more of The Catcher In The Rye and forget to eat again. Dad calls me frequently up for meals but I steadily ignore him until he grows weary and abandons the effort. Later on, I sneak up into the kitchen and eat whatever I can find before creeping back into the basement again, disgusted with myself. My jeans cut into my skin, the denim clinging repulsively to my skin, the waistband straining. In desperation, I wear my baggiest, bunchiest clothes, to try and kid myself I have got a slim body underneath all of the fabric. Maybe I should join that Badminton Club. It wouldn’t be so bad, not if I got fit and looked thin.

I am woken up on Monday morning to the bounce and clatter of heavy rain against the small window set into my wall, overlooking the driveway. Grey misty dawn light files sluggishly into the room, casting it in a dull glow. Hailstones pound at the glass and I get dressed into my uniform, listening to the splatter of raindrops against gravel; the light pitter-patter of the sky’s tears. It’s only October and there have been downpours almost every day. Bad weather dampens my already depressed mood.

Once I’m dressed and I’ve packed my bag and tucked hopelessly at my hair (if I backcomb it today, it will collapse in the gales and just look like a dead animal on top of my head), I venture up into the ‘Other World’ and wait for Wil. He dawdles, talking to our father and packing his bag slowly before sloping out into the hall where I’m waiting, arms folded. He raises his eyebrows-in surprise or disgust, I don’t know-and we leave the house. For the first time in my memory, we do not walk in silence. Instead, Wil shoots me a quick glance, scrutinizing my reaction and starts to talk in a fast, awed voice.

“That was some diva fit you threw the other day. What gives? Why did you go crazy?”

I shrug moodily, staring into the mist gathering at the gates.

“Dad told me that you dumped Abby and she beat you up,” he continues, still staring at me. “Why?”

Again, I shrug. I do not want to answer him-I fear if I say anything, he will immediately jump to conclusions.

“Look, Aaron, I know you’re messed up and everything but you’re so stupid sometimes.” He sighs, as though I’m an infuriating child. “Abby was pretty gorgeous, much better than that Jessica Arrowsmith. I mean, yeah, she wears all the little clothes and make up but she hasn’t really got a figure, has she? She’s not really pretty, once you look past all that.”

I ball my hands into fists and stare straight ahead, ignoring him. I don’t think Jessica is pretty now, of course, but back in Year 9 she was. At least, that’s what I thought.

“Everyone will think you’re gay even more,” Wil sniggers. “You idiot. Dad already thinks you are. You watch, this Sarah will start thinking that too. That’s another thing. You had a nervous breakdown when you met her. What’s up? She’s pretty Okay, y’know. Of course, she thinks you’re a vampire-“

“Shut up, Wil! I’m not in the mood!”

“Alright! Sheesh! Cool it, Dracula!”

I give him a withering glare before stalking off in the vague direction of school. As I walk past, Jamie and Aled and Liam slam on the brakes of their bikes, making me jump out of my skin. This only fuels more laughter for them.

“Off to see your little girlfriend, Vermeer?” Jamie jeers, leaning over the handlebars of his bike, pedalling along aimlessly. “Or has she got sick of you too?”

Aled butts in. “I saw Abby and Ceris and Niki before and they looked pretty miffed. What’s happened? Little tiff in Paradise?”

“Just shove off and leave me alone.”

“Well, that’s not very polite is it, Vermeer? Where are your manners? Surely Mummy brought you up to be a good little boy!”

I turn my head away, letting the wind violently pull it around, hiding my face. I walk sharply away from them, practically sprinting towards the school gates. I make it to safety in the busy corridor, fix my hair in the reflection of the windows looking out on to the Music corridor and walk to my form room, forgetting about Wil. He’ll probably go crying to our father later on and I’ll be in even more trouble when I get home. He hasn’t grounded me yet but it’s only a matter of time.

I climb a flight of stairs and stop, dead, on the second step. Abby, Ceris and Niki are standing at the top of the stairs, huddling in a corner, whispering. With a heavy sinking in my chest, I hear quiet sobs and hushing noises of reassurance.

“It’s Okay, Abby. You knew he’d do something like that. It was only a matter of time,” Niki murmers, patting Abby’s back.

“You didn’t really fancy him anyway, did you? You said he was a bad kisser,” Ceris hisses.

“It’s not that!” It’s a different voice now-wavering and thick with watery sobs, but defiantly Abby’s. “It’s just the fact…well, he used me, didn’t he?! He used me so others would respect him!”

“He’s a pathetic coward, Abs, you know that. Jessica told you that he was a heartbreaker. You should have listened to her.”

“I know, I wish I had now. I should have believed what everybody was saying. I knew he was gay, straight away, when he first kissed me. I could tell that he hated it. He kept denying it though; he kept insisting that he wasn’t…”

“He’s only saying that because he’s scared! He’s so wet, Abby! Don’t think about him. He’s not worth it. Move on, go out with a nice boy and make him look really stupid.”

“He said we didn’t talk, but that wasn’t my fault. It was so hard to strike conversation with him. He’s so…odd. So awkward. It’s so difficult to talk to him. I got nervous, so I kissed him and he criticised me for it. I didn’t know what else to do. I panicked.”

Ceris snorts. “I’ve told you, he’s pathetic. He’s just making excuses, so it doesn’t get out that he’s a pansy. Just get over him!”

Ceris tosses her badly-dyed red hair over one shoulder and spots me, idling mournfully at the bottom of the stairs, petrified of my fate. She twists her face into an ugly sneer and plants one hand on her hip.

“You’ve got a nerve, showing your face around here,” she snaps, every word oozing with malice and clear disgust. I don’t point out that I have been attending this school longer than her(she joined us in Year 8) so I have the right to show my face. I look down at the stairs under my feet and try to walk swiftly away, but they crowd round me, apart from Abby.

“What do you think you’re doing, walking away from us?” she demands. “We want to have a word with you.”

“About?” I clear my face of any emotion.

“About what you did to Abby, Pansy Boy!” Niki’s glaring at me so intently, her green eyes blazing into mine; I can feel my skull smoulder. “Why would you do it?”

“We all know why, Niki! It’s because he is a pansy boy!” Ceris is shouting now, her mouth wide open into a pink cavern, baring her teeth at me. I back against the wall and feel the smooth plaster against my fingers.

“Why did you have to use her like that? Couldn’t you just tell her?”

“He shouldn’t be like this anyway! It makes me sick! They come in here, parading round in their little pants with all their makeup and their big hair. It’s disgusting! It’s wrong.”

“You’d better watch what you start doing and saying Vermeer, otherwise they’ll be trouble. You just don’t treat girls like that.”

Niki and Ceris give me one last, long, repulsed look, link arms and turn away from me.
“Coming to form, Abs?”

“Just a minute,” she answers weakly. I’d forgotten she was even there. Niki and Ceris leave and it’s just me and her, standing opposite each other, both against the wall. Abby’s face is set in a dead mask. Her eyes are swollen, red and puffy and she has mascara trails down her cheeks. Suddenly, even though she slapped me twice, even though her friends called me Pansy Boy, I feel a surge of guilt.

“I’m sorry, Abby,” I whisper. The words hang in the air like heavy, cold rain, bringing immediate tension with them. Abby stiffens, looking at the floor.

“Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.”

Her voice is full of such hatred; I stare at her, wounded. It’s the least I should expect, but it still hurts me to realize that she hates me, she actually does hate me.

“Please, Abby.”

“No. You listen to me, right now. You, Aaron Vermeer, are sick, disgusting, vile, dirty and wrong. You don’t deserve to show your face around here. What you’re doing is wrong. “

“What am I doing?” I frown, trying to think. I haven’t done anything wrong recently. The last time I forgot to hand in homework was a Spanish essay about my holiday two weeks ago. Surely she can’t be cornering me for that?

“Guys dating guys is wrong!” Abby hisses with frustration. Her long blonde hair has crimped wildly in the wind, teasing it into a big, puffy mess. Her face seems too pink, too angry to be framed by such beautiful hair. “You’re…you’re a freak! You used me!”

“I didn’t use you at all!”

“Yes, you did! You admitted it! You told me that you only dated me to get validation from the others! It’s pathetic! You toyed with my emotions just so people wouldn’t find out that you’re a Mummy’s boy! Do you know how bad that makes me feel?”

I stay silent, anxiously pushing my hair back away from my face, smoothing out the tangles with my fingers. Abby snorts.

“You’re so feminine, Aaron. I knew something was wrong with you. But you know the worst part? You don’t even admit it. You act ashamed of who you are. How pathetically desperate is that?”

Abby gives me one cold, hard, long; dismissive scowl and I swallow, hardly daring to blink. I don’t know what to say. Should I apologise, or scream right back at her? She doesn’t know me-how can she make these assumptions about me, my orientation, my traits?

Loud, boyish laughter interrupts us as Jamie, Aled, Liam, Conner and Robbie come up the stairs. Aled is swinging his Badminton racket round riotously, wearing a face mixed with stupidity and fear-he is impressing his friends with his impression of me playing Badminton. He stops when he sees me and starts laughing even more loudly.

“Hey, Vermeer, what’s up with you and Abby, eh?” Jamie says, stopping at the top of the stairs and leaning casually against the railings. “Has she found out about all of these secret boyfriends?”

The others snigger childishly while Abby sets her mouth in one thin line. Her eyes have now scorched holes into my skull. She slings her bag over her shoulder and goes to push past, ready to escape.

“Abby, wait…”

She actually turns around, arms folded.

“Can we talk later?” I ask, knowing the answer already. She grimaces, sighs and shakes her head.

“Aaron, I honestly don’t think there’s anything to talk about, do you?”

She walks away, tripping lightly down the stairs and out of sight. Jamie and his friends wolf-whistle loudly and the sound bounces and echoes.

“That was some parting scene, Vermeer! You’re a good actor, y’know, pretending to be sorry.”

“Pretending to be straight, more like!”

“Think you’d better get to form, Vermeer. I expect your little boyfriend’s worried about you!”

I sigh moodily and shuffle along slowly to form. I can hear them laughing behind me as I traipse into class and take my place at the back. Jamie and Aled wander past, shoving me, messing my hair. I push them away stroppily which only fuels further giggling.

“Aw, little Vermeer’s in a tizz!”

“Bless!”

I hunch forward, folding my arms and burying my head in them, staring at the dark table top, thinking about anything-anything but this. I listen to the rain bouncing off the big industrial windows, and the sloshing of the over-flowing gutters, the squeals of girls as they run past outside, blazers held over their heads, their feet splashing through the puddles and spraying water up to their ankles.

“Hey, you.”

Stuart’s perched tentatively on the edge of the desk, chewing on the inside of his lip, swinging his legs juvenilely. He’s blinking his large hazel eyes a lot and fiddling with strands of his snowy crop.

“Hey.”

I see his face soften instantly as he takes in my expression.

“Are you Okay?”

It’s only a simple question, but it’s the way he says it. His voice holds so much care, so much honest curiosity and concern-I suddenly can’t stand it. He shouldn’t be so nice to me. What have I done to deserve his unconditional support?

“Not particularly.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

Again, a simple question, but so…tender, full of so much sincere sensitivity. He bites hard on his bottom lip, an action that transfixes me. I watch as his perfect, pearly teeth come to rest on his full, rosebud lip and bite anxiously, creasing and breaking the skin in a way I never thought possible.

“On the way to Music,” I promise and his lips break into a small but reassuring smile. As Mrs O’Sullivan drifts in, trailing folders and papers, he hops delicately off the corner of my desk, landing daintily on his feet and crosses the room to his seat. The way he walks is so captivating. It can’t really be described as walking-more of a skipping swagger. There’s a light hearted bounce in his step that reminds me so much of childhood, but there’s an unmistakable hint of a strut there too. It’s not arrogant or boastful but proud; of the way he looks, and the person he is. It just seems to immediately scream “Look at me…I’m beautiful in every way.”

I watch as he pulls back his chair and sweeps into his seat, tucking his legs round the chair legs and leaning forward earnestly on his elbows, propping his slim, fair face up on his fists. He pouts, blinking, and chews his lip. When he notices I’m looking at him and waves, I turn away and blush, privately amused.

I hang back once we’ve been dismissed, waiting until everybody has left the classroom. Stuart hovers at my table, tapping his fingers lightly on the black top. By the time we leave the classroom, the corridors are almost empty, with only a few students floundering along aimlessly. The dull thud of Stuart’s army boots bounces and echoes off the high walls as we trail along to Music.

“So, what’s up?” he starts and I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling-he sounds too eager.

“Well…it’s all really stupid, to be honest. It’s no big deal. I’m Okay.”

Stuart sighs. “You’re not Okay, Aaron, I know you’re not. Please, just tell me.”

“Okay…where do you want me to start?”

“What happened with Abby yesterday?”

The smile drops from my face and I look at the floor. When I move my jaw, it still clicks scarily.

“She…she got pretty upset. She was pretty mad but I walked home with her anyway and….oh, God, it was so awful.”

I quickly explain and Stuart stays silent all the way through it. Once I’ve finished, he stays quiet for a few moments before calling Abby every horrid name he can think of.

“She…she slapped you! Jeez, that’s just….she’s evil. I told you that you were way too good for her, Aaron!”

Surprisingly, a smile comes to my lips as he scowls, outraged. He catches me grinning and smoothes his face.

“Okay, so maybe I’m overreacting, but I really don’t like her.”

“I don’t think she likes me, now.”

“Aaron Vermeer and Stuart Swann! Why aren’t you in class?!”

I jump, startled, as Mrs Auden puts her head round her office door to scold us. Her eyes flash irritably behind her glasses and she taps her long fingernails on her door frame.

“We’re just going to Music,” Stuart answers, raising one eyebrow and sighing.

“Not good enough, Mr Swann. You should be there now. Registration ended ten minutes ago. What have you been doing?”

“Going to Music.” Stuart raises the other eyebrow now.

“Enough of this defiance, Mr Swann! Both of you, get to your lesson immediately!”

She slams the door shut and Stuart rolls his hazel eyes expressively.

“Sheesh. C’mon, we’d better get to Music now.”

Everybody’s sitting at their keyboards when we arrive, headphones clamped over their ears, making them look extraterrestrial. Miss Webber is sitting at her desk, shifting through some Year 11 demos but she snaps her head up, mustering an ugly glare when we come in.

“Aaron and Stuart! Where have you been? The rest of your class arrived ten minutes ago!”

Miss Webber stands up and puts her hands on her hips. Today, she’s wearing a pink fluffy sweater. How demeaning.

“I will not tolerate your constant lateness, excuses and rude comments! This has got to stop! I am not having you two falling into the habit of believing you can arrive to my lessons, late, with poor excuses and lies! It simply isn’t good enough! Mountsborough Comprehensive has a high standard to maintain, and you two do nothing but mock it! Now, get straight to work! I expect you haven’t done your homework, either!”

Beaming, Stuart and I pull our Music books from our bags and hand them to her. She blushes, gapes and musters a scowl, snatching the books from our hands.

“Very well. Get to work, both of you. We’re practising the work of a composer of your choice. Aaron, you can play the piano in the practise room. Paul, Joe, Chelsea and Hannah aren’t using it today.”

I pick up a Music book from her desk and wander through into the practise room. Miss Webber’s classroom is the biggest in the school-she has a large cupboard, another smaller room with keyboards and a drum kit set up, another large cupboard where she keeps trombones and mikes and a double bass, and the practise room. It’s rather dingy I suppose, with its peeling white paint, metal shutters over the only window, buzzing strip lights and a dying piano with a faded, and stained red velvet stool with half the stuffing missing. Half the keys on the piano are dead, but I’ve been hammering away at it since Year 7, when I used to escape here to practise in the long, lonely Lunch breaks.

Stuart follows me into the practise room, drops his bag and kicks it under a chair, flinging his blazer on the back of it and sitting on the stool. I hover at the door, frowning curiously. He catches my eye and frowns back.

“What? Are my roots showing?”

“What are you doing? I thought you couldn’t play piano.”

“I can’t.” He grins impishly. “But you can. You promised that you were gonna teach me one of these days.”

My frown lingers.

“Oh, come on Aaron. It’ll take your mind off things and its good practise for me. Don’t look so thwarted.”

“Wow, that’s a big word. How long did it take you to find that in a dictionary?” I fire back, kicking my bag under the chair and joining him on the stool. He elbows me in the ribs.

“Enough of the sarcasm. You’re my tutor now. Teach me how to play.”

“It’s not that easy. I’ve been playing for nine years.”

Stuart sighs, letting his fingers dance across the keys. “Fine then. Play something.”

I shoot him a confused look and he sits back patiently, letting a small, pleasant smile break out across his face. I clear my throat, concentrate and start to play. It’s a slow song, and I don’t sing, or look up from the keys. Once I’ve finished, I sit there, looking down at my shoes until Stuart breaks the silence.

“Wow. That was beautiful. I didn’t know you liked that song.”

I grimace. “It’s one of my guilty pleasures.” It was Coldplay-The Scientist. They were my mother’s favourites and for a few months, she taught me nothing but their ballads until I memorized each and every note. They’ve always been a secret favourite of mine too.

I feel a heat on my face and look up. Stuart’s still looking at me, his head slightly to one side, with some kind of enchanted fascination, like he’s seeing me for the first time. It makes a blush rise to my skin and I duck my head again, delighted.

Time passes quickly and all too soon, the bell rings and orders us out of the classroom. I’m suddenly afraid. I shall have to venture out and see all of them-Jamie, Aled, Abby, Ceris, Niki and even Jessica…

I drag my feet out of the classroom and slink nervously out into the busy corridor, escaping at the first door and venturing outside. Stuart is at my heels, as always, chattering away about nothing particularly important. I fail to reply but he barely notices. Then he suddenly squeals, and I look up. We have collided with Jessica and her ‘Goth Girl Gang’-a group of scary, skinny, black-haired girls who come to school wearing fishnet tights and body piercings. Stuart and Jessica are greeting each other animatedly, like they’ve been best friends forever. Jessica is vividly describing the Mindless Self Indulgence gig, waving her hands about enthusiastically when she spots me. Her mouth twists and she raises one pierced eyebrow in Stuart’s direction. He leans in and whispers in her ear, and I squirm, embarrassed of the pity.

“I wondered why Blondie was so heartbroken this morning,” Jessica snickers, pulling away. She looks over, raises her index finger and beckons me. I slope forward, still blushing unwillingly. Jessica narrows her eyes and suddenly grins triumphantly.

“Poor Abby looked devastated this morning, Aaron,” she chimes happily. “What did you do? Did she throw anything at you? Did she go crazy?”

“She beat me up,” I mumble and Jessica laughs loudly, links a skinny elbow through mine and steers me towards the main school building. All the way to French, she tells me about the MSI gig she went too-she combs her dark hair and flicks on more eyeliner and swaps mix tapes for lighters with her friends. They mingle behind us like extras from a Tim Burton movie, with their painted eyes and dark, depressing uniforms. It’s hard to believe that I used to look up to these girls; that I used to think that they were exotic and beautiful and wild and impulsive and insanely perfect.

French passes slowly, with a haze of jaded verbs and a lot of name calling. Stuart tells me about a gig he went too a couple of weeks ago-YouMeAtSix, a band I’ve never heard of. He sings snippets of their songs; he taps his pen on the table, imitating a drum pattern and then I realize his plan. He’s trying to distract me from everything else. I’m touched.

At Lunch, in the canteen line, I suddenly find I can’t breathe. My chest tightens in a sick, familiar way and my lungs close up, making it impossible for me to dredge air into my lungs. I clutch the side of the vending machine, desperate to stay up, as my head reels and my hands shake.

“Aaron? Hey Aaron, are you Okay?” Stuart’s voice is anxious and soprano. “Aaron!”

“He doesn’t look very well,” the woman behind the till says cautiously. “Is he fainting?”

The ground lurches under my feet and panicked knots twist in my stomach.

“I think I’m gonna throw up!” I gasp, and then I’m being dragged away. I stumble blindly, confused and sick.

I know what’s happening. The anxious seizure in my chest, the looping in my stomach is all familiar to me. I am having a panic attack. Stuart, of course, does not know this. He tows me along the deserted courtyard-the rain is coming down in heavy sheets, and everybody has stayed inside. We’re alone as Stuart drags me along towards the Science block, and leads me to the secret little alcove in the furthest corner.

I sink down to the floor and try to ignore the fact that I’m sitting in a puddle. The air is cold and wet, and slips down my throat easily. I close my eyes and tip my head back and concentrate on breathing, in and out. My breath has its own little cloud as I exhale.

Slowly, steadily, I start to breathe properly again. The stars clouded across my vision cease, and the knot in the pit of my stomach unravels. I tip my head forward and open my eyes. Stuart’s sitting opposite me, his blazer flung on the floor. He’s hugging his knees to his chest, and he has his face propped up on his thighs.

“Better?” he says and his voice sounds so concerned, it breaks at the end. He licks his lips nervously, and I have to bite my own in response.

“Yep. Sorry for freaking out.” I try to grin sheepishly and shrug it off but it doesn’t really work. Stuart twists his bottom lip and looks away.

“What was that?” he murmers. “I mean….why?”

The only sound is the beating of our hearts and the steady drip-drip-drip of a broken drain. I can hear distant yells, calls and whistles; I can hear the blood boiling underneath my skin. A blush has risen to my face-tiny red soldiers charge across my cheeks and I look away, fixated on a nearby puddle.

“I just had a panic attack,” I whisper, and my voice breaks and cracks with disgust.

“Why?” Stuart speaks no more loudly than I do, but his quietness does not worry me. I start to notice how perfect we sound together, soprano and bass…

“I don’t know. They just happen from time to time. It’s probably something to do with Abby.”
“But why?”

He is pleading; his face is furrowed with gorgeous incomprehension. He is not searching for a reason to belittle me but a reason for why I’m so unhappy, because he cares about me.
I can’t tell him the real reason, of course. I can’t even admit it to myself. I was raised to know that confusion, denial, jealousy, selfishness and extreme despondency all amounts to the same thing-weakness. I have ticked all of the boxes lately.

I am confused, because I just can’t muster up any pleasure at all in any girls’ company. It’s not just Abby-I am failing to see how these superficial, mass-produced human Barbie dolls were ever attractive to me in the first place. I am scared to raise my voice and tell everyone, because that will make me weak-but if I don’t raise my voice and tell everyone, then that makes me weak as well.

I am in denial, because I am pushing away my own thoughts and feelings with such worried haste. I am denying myself; I am locking my true self away and becoming the Aaron Vermeer they all want me to be. Bowing down and letting over people take control over me and sway my opinions indicates weakness, too.

I am jealous-so jealous it corrodes away at me and burns in my chest. I am jealous of every boy who has ever had soft, trailing kisses smouldering against their faces; I am jealous of every boy who has twisted their fingers through his silver crop and staked a claim on him. It scares me that I am jealous, so I try very hard not to be, again denying my true feelings and becoming weak.

I am selfish. I crave to be adored and when that chance is offered my way, I refuse it, because I’m too scared to even admit to myself that maybe, things aren’t working out the way everybody wanted them too. I know I can have what I want but I can’t take it because I am weak.

All of these emotions make me unhappy. If I brushed them all away and admitted myself, I could be so free and at ease, but I can’t. If I accept these thoughts and feelings as true, I will make myself a target. I am worried for myself, however selfish and weak that may be.

I don’t tell him, of course. I can’t let him in and be pulled down by my destructive personality.

“I worry about how people see me,” I start-this bit is true, at least. “I’m forever concerned that I might fail to meet their standards. I don’t want to be looked down on. However conceited, I actually care what these losers think about me. You’ve heard the rumours-this is just more evidence for them. I’ve hurt Abby too, and Jessica. No matter how much I dislike them, I’ve hurt them and it’s wrong. They don’t deserve that. My mother always used to tell me that I should treat people the way I wanted to be treated myself.”

“Used too?” Stuart says, and suddenly my chest goes tight again. I have lied to him. I have deceived him-what if it’s enough to make him see who other people see?

“Stuart…about my mum…” I hedge pathetically. Stuart puts his head to one side and chews his bottom lip, and I consider lying again, so as not to hurt his feelings.

“Tell the truth, Aaron.” My mother’s voice fills my head, clear as day. I look up, startled, as if she’s here.

“Stuart, my mum isn’t alive. She died when I was eleven.”

Stuart takes in a deep breath in, but he doesn’t sound angry-just shocked. I focus my gaze on the wall over his right shoulder. My hands have automatically curled themselves into fists. My heart is a hummingbird in a cage, fluttering around, trapped.

“How?” Stuart’s voice dips with commiseration. I inhale through a crack between my firmly-set lips.

“She drove her car into a tree. On purpose.”

“She did it on purpose?”

“Yes. Stuart, my mother committed suicide when I was eleven years old.”

There is a heavy pause. Stuart breathes out and I continue to stare past his shoulder, scrunching up my face. There is a dull ache at the pit of my stomach as I refuse to breathe properly.

“How come?” Stuart sounds nervous as he asks. “If you don’t wanna tell me, then that’s Okay-“

“She was depressed. Avril had just died and my dad wasn’t really supporting her.”

“Oh Aaron.”

I do not prickle at the sympathy in his voice; I do not blush and I do not scream at him. I let one tiny tear escape from the corner of my eye, and I let him put his arms around me and press his face into my shoulder.

“There’s another thing,” I snuffle. “If we’re being honest with each other, then I think you should know why I have panic attacks.”

Stuart doesn’t pull away. He stays pressed against me, and I’m surprised at how much I enjoy it. He is warm and safe and slowly, I let my hands circle his waist and crush him closer to me secretly.

“What’s that?”

I pull away from him slightly, keeping my arms securely around his waist. He is blinking a lot and I have a desperate urge to touch his lips with my fingers, to see if they feel as soft as they look.

“I suffer from dysthymia.”

“And what’s that?”

I sigh heavily and put my head on his shoulder. I have never been so vunerable, so open and willing in front of another boy before, but it doesn’t worry me so much now.

“It’s a type of depression.”