‘Leo is an extremely able and intelligent student, as the grades he achieves in some subjects demonstrate. He is a pleasant and popular boy, but there is an overriding feeling that he will be doing himself a great disservice in the forthcoming exams if he fails to apply even a modicum of effort. Well done on all you’ve achieved so far, Leo. But I can’t underline this enough: it’s now time for some serious application.’
I sit back and look at the windscreen, with one question running through my mind.
What would Philippa Perry say?
How do you deal with a boy who clearly might be capable of gaining a PhD one day if only he had the slightest care about any of it? I shake the thought from my head. Give him a break! There’s so much to be optimistic about here.
He’s got As! That’s what these ‘9’ grades are in old money, isn’t it? So he must have trieda bit. And even if he didn’t, how could I be anything other than delighted that he’s such amassive clever clogs?
I drive home feeling uplifted, which is quite something given my pounding headache and the tangy, ammoniac whiff drifting in from the boot. I rehearse all the words of encouragement I’m going to say when I get home. That I’m so, so proud of him. That I love him. That I’m going to pick him up from school tomorrow and treat the three of us to a trip to Wagamama’s. Not to celebrate exactly – we don’t want to tempt fate before the realexams – but certainly to underline how proud he should be of himself.
As I turn down our street, I wonder if I should take him shopping at the weekend to buy him some new clothes. I could push the boat out and get one of those ludicrously priced coats he loves, the ones that all the yobs wear while hanging around outside off-licences. I pull into the driveway, let Jacob and myself in, and abandon the sock bag by the front door.
‘Leo!’ I call up.
There’s no immediate response from his room because he’s playing an online game with his friends. I know this because I can hear them all yelling the usual terms of encouragement and endearment to each other, such as, ‘Why are you doing that, you knobhead?’
I skip up the stairs.
‘Leo!’
I knock on his door and hear him say something, but I’m not sure whether it’s ‘Coming, Mother, just one moment!’ or ‘Take cover, you melt!’, so I open up.
In the immediate moments before I fully comprehend the scene, I am still beaming like Julie Andrews about to burst into song, full of intentions to be the kind, encouraging parent I always thought I’d be. All I can see is a boy wearing headphones, exchanging a jolly stream of abuse with his mates in an averagely disgusting teenage bedroom, the floor so untidy that finding anything is like one of thoseWhere’s Wally?games.
The first thing that wipes the smile off my face is the vape pen, hanging out of Leo’s mouth and filling the room with a sickly-sweet smell. The next is the bottle beside him, a Sauvignon Blanc that I bought from Waitrose because it was awarded a gold star in the Vintners awards. It’s sitting next to his ‘Dunder Mifflin’ mug, about a third gone.
Finally, I register Leo’s eyes. The pure electric panic behind them.
‘GET OUT!’
He leaps to his feet and squares up to me at the threshold, making me gasp.
‘Don’t shout at me like that!’ I say because, even though the shock nearly knocked the breath out of me, nobody is going to tell me what to do in my own house.
‘WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?’ he yells, his face reddening. ‘CAN’T I HAVE ANY PRIVACY?’
Disbelief starts knocking in my chest and I feel a rush of blind outrage.
‘Do . . . NOT talk to me like that, young man,’ I reply, through gritted teeth. ‘WhoDOyou think you are? And would you care to explain to me EXACTLY what you think you’re doing with a bottle of wine?Have you lost your mind?’
This speech does nothing to make him see reason.
‘Get. Out,’ he snarls, opening the door wide to invite me to go downstairs. ‘I’m asking you nicely.’
The slur in his words gives me a sudden surge of clarity. Only one of us has the capacity to de-escalate this situation. And it isn’t him.
I need to stay calm.
‘Leo. You are fifteen years old,’ I say, trying not to sound exasperated. ‘It is a Tuesday night. And you are drunk!’
‘NO, I’M NOT! DON’T BE RIDICULOUS.’
He’s now blocking the view to his gaming desk.
‘You are!’I splutter, a vein throbbing somewhere in my neck. ‘You’ve got a bottle of wine in there!’
He crosses his arms. ‘No I haven’t.’
