Sylvie.’
‘Hey!’ I say, surprised that Golden Boy Walker has even registered me. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘You sat behind me in statistics last year.’
‘Ohhhh, yeahhhh,’ I say, remembering how badly I messed up that exam. I got drunk with Toby the night before and have to retake it this year. This thing, it sucks: if you’re smart you get put ahead in Maths, so you take GCSE Statistics in Year Ten and GCSE Maths in Year Eleven. Believe me, they do not expect smart people to be drunk during the exam and fail in the way that I did. Super fail.
‘How did you do in the GCSE?’ I ask.
‘Um, good.’ He nods and swallows, tossing his blond hair out of his eyes like Justin-freaking-Bieber.
‘Wait, I remember. You got an A star, didn’t you?’ I say with a grin. ‘That’s so sickening. I flunked it.’
He smiles pleasantly, but kind of blankly, like he doesn’t know what to say but wants to be polite.
‘So, how are you?’ he asks, as if he hasn’t been listening to anything I’ve said before.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Great. What are you doing here?’
He looks over to the surgery. Then it is obvious to both of us what he’s doing. Nobody is so nervous they stand for half an hour outside the surgery for a doctor’s appointment they’ve been blasé enough about to schedule. Emergency appointment. Which means one thing for a guy in our year: STD check-up. He looks really uncomfortable and shifts his legs in an embarrassed way. I clock a look at his crotch to figure out if he’s itching himself or not. Wow, I hope for his sake it’s not crabs.
‘Did you do someone without a condom?’ I say, teasing to communicate this: that I’m cool to talk to, that I’m feeling sorry for him, that I understand, that I’m trying to make him feel less weird.
Instead of feeling better because of what I’ve said, he blushes red, his mouth turns down and he shrugs.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
He looks up and forces a smile that clearly takes a lot of effort. ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just don’t feel well.’ He shrugs. ‘So, why are you bunking off?’
‘I’m bleeding and hormonal and I hate the world today.’
He laughs. ‘I know that feeling.’
‘I bet you don’t, actually,’ I say. ‘You don’t know pain until you’ve wanted to commit suicide because your back hurts so bad. Period pain is the worst.’
He continues to smile but it fades a little and he searches for something to say. ‘Well, I hope you feel better. You should write more while you’re bunking off. I really liked that poem you read in assembly last year about your ex-boyfriend.’
‘That’s so weird you remember that!’ I exclaim, much too happily, and then I can’t think of anything more to say.
‘Yeah.’ He nods.
There is an awkward silence.
‘Pity you got cut off by the headmistress before you could finish.’
‘Well, you know, censorship,’ I say. I brandish my notebook and pen. ‘I’m actually writing now.’
‘Good. Cool.’
There’s a pause and I say, ‘Well, I’d better get going.’
‘Other bunking-off spots to occupy?’ he asks, in a sort of sugary way. I feel like he’s teasing me.
‘No, I’m going to go get something to eat. Do you want to, like . . . come?’
He hesitates. ‘I can’t.’
‘What about after you’re done?’
‘Um . . .’ He looks down again and chews his lip absentmindedly. After a too-long pause, he says, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t.’
‘Suit yourself,’ I say, kind of relieved. I’m not great with company. I wish I was. But I’m not. Hey, somebody’s got to be the loner.
I scoot my legs over the wall and jump down beside him. He’s standing next to my bike, and he steps back as I get on it. He does it to give me some space to get on, but then he does a little second take at what I’m wearing: leather hotpants, long black socks, white Converse, a see-through top with a black bra, and a long black velvet coat. I’m aware I don’t dress like a
‘Hey!’ I say, surprised that Golden Boy Walker has even registered me. ‘How do you know my name?’
‘You sat behind me in statistics last year.’
‘Ohhhh, yeahhhh,’ I say, remembering how badly I messed up that exam. I got drunk with Toby the night before and have to retake it this year. This thing, it sucks: if you’re smart you get put ahead in Maths, so you take GCSE Statistics in Year Ten and GCSE Maths in Year Eleven. Believe me, they do not expect smart people to be drunk during the exam and fail in the way that I did. Super fail.
‘How did you do in the GCSE?’ I ask.
‘Um, good.’ He nods and swallows, tossing his blond hair out of his eyes like Justin-freaking-Bieber.
‘Wait, I remember. You got an A star, didn’t you?’ I say with a grin. ‘That’s so sickening. I flunked it.’
He smiles pleasantly, but kind of blankly, like he doesn’t know what to say but wants to be polite.
‘So, how are you?’ he asks, as if he hasn’t been listening to anything I’ve said before.
I raise my eyebrows. ‘Great. What are you doing here?’
He looks over to the surgery. Then it is obvious to both of us what he’s doing. Nobody is so nervous they stand for half an hour outside the surgery for a doctor’s appointment they’ve been blasé enough about to schedule. Emergency appointment. Which means one thing for a guy in our year: STD check-up. He looks really uncomfortable and shifts his legs in an embarrassed way. I clock a look at his crotch to figure out if he’s itching himself or not. Wow, I hope for his sake it’s not crabs.
‘Did you do someone without a condom?’ I say, teasing to communicate this: that I’m cool to talk to, that I’m feeling sorry for him, that I understand, that I’m trying to make him feel less weird.
Instead of feeling better because of what I’ve said, he blushes red, his mouth turns down and he shrugs.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
He looks up and forces a smile that clearly takes a lot of effort. ‘Yeah, I’ll be fine. Just don’t feel well.’ He shrugs. ‘So, why are you bunking off?’
‘I’m bleeding and hormonal and I hate the world today.’
He laughs. ‘I know that feeling.’
‘I bet you don’t, actually,’ I say. ‘You don’t know pain until you’ve wanted to commit suicide because your back hurts so bad. Period pain is the worst.’
He continues to smile but it fades a little and he searches for something to say. ‘Well, I hope you feel better. You should write more while you’re bunking off. I really liked that poem you read in assembly last year about your ex-boyfriend.’
‘That’s so weird you remember that!’ I exclaim, much too happily, and then I can’t think of anything more to say.
‘Yeah.’ He nods.
There is an awkward silence.
‘Pity you got cut off by the headmistress before you could finish.’
‘Well, you know, censorship,’ I say. I brandish my notebook and pen. ‘I’m actually writing now.’
‘Good. Cool.’
There’s a pause and I say, ‘Well, I’d better get going.’
‘Other bunking-off spots to occupy?’ he asks, in a sort of sugary way. I feel like he’s teasing me.
‘No, I’m going to go get something to eat. Do you want to, like . . . come?’
He hesitates. ‘I can’t.’
‘What about after you’re done?’
‘Um . . .’ He looks down again and chews his lip absentmindedly. After a too-long pause, he says, ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t.’
‘Suit yourself,’ I say, kind of relieved. I’m not great with company. I wish I was. But I’m not. Hey, somebody’s got to be the loner.
I scoot my legs over the wall and jump down beside him. He’s standing next to my bike, and he steps back as I get on it. He does it to give me some space to get on, but then he does a little second take at what I’m wearing: leather hotpants, long black socks, white Converse, a see-through top with a black bra, and a long black velvet coat. I’m aware I don’t dress like a
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