“No clubs, no societies, nothing. You too, Mr Berrington. Although in your case the accusation is softened due to your excellent performances on the football field.”
“Oh God.” Mike’s head hits the desk, scattering his rubbery teammates. “C’mon, Mr Morris, you hate this bullshit as much as we do.”
“Language.”
“But, sir, Mike’s right,” I say. “This is all Gemma Argyle. Branded sweatshirts, school dances, charity bike rides, hero-worshipping the football team—”
“Hey,” Mike interjects, “she has the occasional good idea.”
I ignore him. “She’s been watching too many bad American teen movies. Now she’s like this ruthless social engineer, determined to make Ferrivale High into her own personal Hollywood high school nightmare. C’mon, Mr Morris, don’t I contribute enough by getting good grades? Me and Mike alone are carrying half our class.”
Mr Morris slaps his hands on the desk. “It is bullshit, boys, you’re right. But you will find out pretty soon that ninety-nine per cent of your entire adult existence will be spent wading through other people’s bullshit, and you’ll have no choice but to smile and nod like it’s the most fragrant summer stream. So. The Guy Fawkes Bonfire. Be there.”
“Can you honestly believe this crap?” Mike says as we head down the hall. Posters for tonight’s entertainment are splashed everywhere – they’re basically this drawing of a scarecrow figure wreathed in flame. It looks like a human sacrifice; kind of feels like one too. “I guess I should be grateful. All the profits are going towards new strips for the footie team. But ‘A Guy for the Guys’? Woooohoooo! Who came up with that title?”
Mike makes a limp-wrist gesture and skips around me as we walk.
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “Lame.”
Why can’t I just tell him? Mike would be cool, I know he would. Cooler than my parents anyway, although they pride themselves on beingpainfullyliberal. I think my mum would actually be okay with it, but maybe only because she already has this alpha male firstborn. If Chris didn’t exist and I was her only kid? I don’t know. It makes me nervous to think about it, so I try not to. But Mike? I’m pretty sure my own personal Batman would grin this huge Bat-grin and pull me into a massive Bat-hug and parade me around on his Bat-shoulders telling the world how Bat-proud he is of me. One thing I do know – he’d be mortified about all the gay jokes. To be fair, they are few and far between, yet every time he lets one slip it kind of kills me a little inside.
Death by a thousand Bat-cuts.
The school’s quiet; we’re probably the last students still here. I grab my bag from the sixth-form common room and we head for the exit. We’re pushing through the main doors when Mike takes this sudden deep breath and reaches for the wall to steady himself.
“Hey.” I grab his elbow. “You okay?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” He looks at me. I know his face better than my own. I see it more regularly anyway. He can’t hide stuff from me. “It’s nothing.”
“Mate, I’ve told you before: go – to – the – freaking – doctor. This is, what, the third time this has happened? I’m sure it’s nothing, but if you don’t go I will take you the hell down and haul your gorgeous arse there myself. Understood?”
“You think my arse is gorgeous? What would you give it out of ten?”
I roll my eyes. This is an old routine. “I’d give you a seriously hard ONE and you’d love it.”
He titters, tells me I’m the worst, and skips off towards the bike sheds.
So this is the weird thing: I amnotattracted to Mike. I never have been. But we have this stupid gay banter and it kind of blinds him to the reality of what’s really going on with me. It’s a technique I trialled and developed when we were twelve and it’s worked beautifully for six years.
Right, and how many times have I wished he’d call me on it, just once?
“Hey! What about the Bullshit Bonfire tonight?” I shout after him.
“See you there, Sweet Cheeks!”
He blows me a kiss, which I catch one-handed.
Back at home I can hear my brother slaughtering zombies in his room. This is Chris’s daily routine: breakfast around noon, followed by an hour in the tub, followed by an undead apocalypse. He’s twenty-one, doesn’t study, doesn’t work. My dad’s vaguely irritated but Mum likes having him around as her own personal chimp butler. He drives her to the shops, carries bags, compliments her latest night-class creations. She’s lonely, I guess.
I dump my stuff on my bed and lock the door. I donotfancy Mike, but that stupid air-kiss? I don’t know. I scoot onto my beanbag, flip open my laptop and bring up a couple of my favourite porn comics. I’m not really into “proper” porn; I can’t see how anyone is. Two impossibly built dudes humping away? It makes me feel both pervy and inadequate. But comic-book-style ridiculousness? Now, that’s my world. And so, as Deadpool and the Joker and Mister Fantastic look down at me from my wall, I beat one off to this really well-drawn pirate porn comic. Despite the horrible historical inaccuracies (I’m pretty sure hot pants werenotall the rage on the high seas in the seventeenth century), the story of Captain Colossus and his lusty crew does the job.
When I’m done I delete my browser history and use a wet wipe to mop up any spillage. TMI? Sorry. My mum’s a snoop and my dad sometimes borrows my computer without asking. I’m just pulling up my trousers when the lady herself shoulder-barges the door. I know it’s locked but still my penis shrivels immediately.
“What’s going on?” she calls.
“Door’s locked!”
“Why?”
