No one returned home unexpectedly during the afternoon. Mum’s Zumba routine usually involves a pretty phenomenal lunch afterwards, then she and Chris will catch a movie in the afternoon. And so by three o’clock I’d caught up on some sleep, taken a long scalding shower, changed into my old uniform and was heading back to Ferrivale High.
My biggest fear as I enter the school is bumping into a random teacher. Other kids I can fool –Oh yeah, just back for the day, checking out how it feels– but teachers know the score. Even if I wanted to come back, there would need to be a discussion about that assembly in which I called a police officer “Shit-for-Brains” in front of a bunch of Year Sevens. I suppose Chief Dementor Harper would be the nightmare scenario, but I sort of dread encountering Mr Morris even more. That look he gave me when I told him I was quitting, a bit like a sad-eyed beagle that’s just been informed his favourite pup has pissed all over the kitchen floor. I can’t pretend it didn’t tug a heartstring.
But it isn’t Harper or Morris I collide with. It’s your old art teacher, El, the adorable Denman. We run into each other outside the boys’ changing rooms. Mr Denman apologizes, though it was me who crashed into him, and starts picking up the brushes and sticks of charcoal he was carrying. I don’t think he’s actually realized who I am, and I could step over him and be on my way. But then I see how he’s holding his right arm, all stiff and claw-like. That car accident really did a number on him.
Suddenly a thought occurs: what if it wasn’t some huge thing that derailed you at Christmas, what if it was a gradual accumulation of stuff? Maybe you were telling the truth about missing your sister. Then there was all the stress of those last few games where the team kind of sucked, and then this guy, your mentor, smashes himself up a month before your major project was due to be assessed. That kind of drip-drip-drip of stress could have been too much.
Except, if that was the case, why wouldn’t you just have told me?
I scoot down beside Denman and help him collect up the charcoal into its packet.
“Dylan?” He’s crouched awkwardly in front of me, his hand held out for the charcoal. “I’m sorry, I didn’t… Look, are you supposed to be here?”
He glances over his shoulder, back down the corridor towards the staff room. I remember teasing you about how you crushed on this guy, and he is still pretty cute, especially for a teacher. Blond flyaway hair and these clear blue eyes. Okay, so he’s a little bit “catalogue model”, with the distant stares and those so-ancient-they’re-cool cardigans, but I get the attraction.
“Jesus.” He staggers to his feet. “I’m sorry. Did that feel like an interrogation? Who gives a toss why you’re here, right? You do whatever you need to do.” He shoves the packet of charcoal under his arm and pats my shoulder. “This is so bloody awful for you, Dylan. I just want you to know that you shouldn’t listen to any of the crap my colleagues might be giving you. It’s important that you take whatever time you need. And look, if you ever want to talk to anybody, my door’s always open, yeah? We could even grab a coffee. I’m always here after school, pottering around in the studios. Just know, you don’t have to be alone in all this.”
So yeah, he’s sort of cool, and at least he isn’t threatening to bar me forever from these hallowed halls of learning. I nod my thanks.
Suddenly Mike appears from behind Denman, takes me by the elbow and drags me away. Denman does this double-take, which I’ve only ever really seen in cartoons, and the next second Mike and I are through the changing-room doors.
“Dude,” I breathe, “what the hell?”
Mike shrugs. “We don’t have much time. Ollie’s out on the field but practice finishes in about ten minutes. I’m heading over there now. When Mr Highfield calls it a day, I’ll keep him talking, but you need to be out of here before the lads come back.”
He guides me round to Ollie’s locker and starts spinning the wheels on the padlock.
“How do you know his combination?” I ask.
“Because Ollie has no imagination. It’s bound to be his date of birth.”
The padlock clicks, proving Mike’s a genius and Ollie is not. Mike slams open the locker and gives me the nod. “Ten minutes.”
I watch him head out. There’s something going on with my best friend. Even when he told me his diagnosis, even when I’ve sat with him in the hospital chemo suite, desperately inventing funny stories to keep his mind off the inevitable upcoming vom sessions, he’s always chilled. Hell, he was chilled last night when I was provoking the crap out of him. But right now his jaw is twitching and I don’t like the look in his eyes. Is he really that angry with Ollie? It’s possible. Ollie washisfriend and, if I’m honest, I only put up with him for Mike’s sake. With all his football stats and rambling jokes that go nowhere, Reynolds can be about as entertaining as watching the Berringtons’ dog lick its balls. Scratch that. In comparison, Becks licking his balls is like an Avengers movie marathon. So yeah, Mike might well be taking some of the guilt of Ollie’s betrayal on his own shoulders. Which is ridiculous.
Anyway, much as I’m concerned about Mike, I don’t have time to think about it right now. I plunge my hands into Ollie’s locker, grimacing as I throw aside crusty socks and sweat-stained boxers. It takes me a minute to find what I’m looking for, and at first I miss it completely because security-conscious Ollie has stuffed it into the toe-end of an old Nike. Finally, I pull out the phone and swipe the screen.
It’s password-protected. Three failed attempts and I’ll be locked out.
I try to remember everything I know about Ollie Reynolds, and even though I hate him right now, I’m ashamed to say there isn’t much. It’s a bit shocking when I think about it. I’ve hung with Mike’s footie crowd ever since Year Seven, and yet I know practically nothing about them. Maybe they don’t know anything about me either, but that’s not really the point.
Why is it that, when we get to secondary school, we stop being interested in each other? I mean,reallyinterested. I remember back in little school when we all delighted in everyone’s tiny triumphs and tragedies, as well as all the boring stuff too, and it suddenly occurs to me that if I’d known I was gay at nine or ten I wouldn’t have worried one bit about coming out, probably because my classmates would already have known. It’s only when we hit puberty that we close down like this and become mysteries, even to ourselves.
Okay, El, I can almost hear you whispering in my ear:Very impressive philosophizing, Frecks, but the phone’s still locked, so get your arse in gear.
I hop awkwardly across the changing benches and climb up to the slit windows high in the wall. Far across the pitch, Mr Highfield is checking his watch, a whistle poking out of his beard. Faces keep twitching from him to the ball and back again. Crap. I jump down, plonk onto a bench, and put Ollie’s phone on the slats next to me. I guess I could just take it with me and try to crack the password at my leisure, but even if I’m right about what I’m going to find on it, that’s still theft. Theft, the ransacking of a locker, trespass on school property and illegal use of a uniform. More ammunition for my parents, if they really are planning to evict me.
Drips from the leaky shower in the stalls drum like a countdown – ten, nine, eight, seven – and…
An idea.
Ollie’s a simple soul, Mike said, and if he was obsessed for some reason, then… I type E L L I S, and the phone screen flips to the menu page.
Somewhere far off I hear a whistle blow. Minutes now. Maybe seconds. I head straight to his gallery and the videos section. My hands are trembling; the end-of-school bell almost shocks the phone out of my grasp. Feet thunder in the halls, teachers bellow, echoing the thunder and bellowing inside my chest. I scroll through half a dozen clips of Ollie practising keepy-uppies, a snippet of his mum’s birthday, a fragment from some concert…
I find it.
The thirty-second slice of film that changed my life forever.
