Sitting Down Star Jumps, Page 2

  “Look. It’s New Year’s Day tomorrow, and I was making sure he didn’t get drunk ’cause of our parents and all. Because he’s not meant to be here.”

  “Oh riiight,” said Jordy, as if I was just some bloke. “’E’s not getting drunk, he’s scared.”

  “Yeah, I keep sayin’ if he had a few sips he might grow a pair and talk to Malice,” snorted Andy. “A few sips. My dad’d kill me for having more as well!”

  “Well, don’t,” I muttered, realising I hadn’t eaten since lunch and that my butterflies could be hunger pains.

  “I have a pair!” huffed Charlie, thrusting his can at Andy and heading in the direction of a doorward bound Malice. “I’m off!”

  “Off his ’e’d,” sniggered Jordy, downing the rest of his beer. “Stupid girly Charlie…”

  Neither me nor Andy wanted to deny it, and a gap between tracks let us hear the drunken caterwauling of that Black Parade song from out of the open door to the street, and yells of “Whreyy! EMOS!”

  In the first instalment of the nicer me, I rushed off after my twin in case the drunkards who’d just met forces with Mal’s friends decided to attack.

  No sooner had I made it out the door and collided with the smokers did I hear the screech of car tyres and a gigantic thud.

  “Omigod!” I gasped, breath falling short in my tightened throat. “Charlie!”

  #4 Charlie Drowns In The Nile

  “Yyyyeah… w-what?” he wobbled. Charlie sounded tiny a couple of drunkards away from me.

  “What’s going on?! Can you see?!” I panicked, on one hand reassured that it hadn’t been him in the collision, but on the other too kind and concerned for whoever it had been to properly appreciate it.

  “Uhhhhh…” he said, weakly, pushing past the wall of people between us and looking in that moment about five years old. His eyes were wide with electric shockedness, lips parted in awe, legs unstable as if he might collapse.

  “Twinnie…” I whispered, leaning closer and holding him up. “What did you see?”

  I heard a quiver rise first from his throat, and then the word, “M-Malice…”

  * * *

  We walked home quietly, all that paranoia of Eileen’s out of the window when I knew that my brother needed to be safe at home with his caffeine shakes and unstoppable tears.

  Sirens sounded as an ambulance made its way to the high street, and I squeezed his clammy hand. I didn’t trust myself to string a sentence together about things being OK, when I hadn’t seen and didn’t even know if they would be.

  We stumbled up the path together and as I put my key in the lock I released my grip on him. “What’re we going to do with you?” I said, unmeaningfully. It was just the kind of rhetorical babble Mum or Auntie Sharon would come out with for lack of a “right” thing to say. I tried again, rattling the front door open and dragging him inside by the sleeve of his hoodie: “What do you think we should do?”

  If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the years, it’s that anyone else throwing their own unwanted ideas at us Hartleys doesn’t do a thing. If we wanted suggestions, we’d ask. And I have a suspicion I’m the only one that ever asks. I would have loved to ask my mates what to do that night, but with a glance at the kitchen clock I knew they’d be unavailable due to it being midnight kissy time. The only mate there to ask was my oldest, wibbliest friend Charlie who I’d been with since conception.

  He bit his lip and managed to pull off his hoodie. “Need a wee, need my bed,” he said decisively. I wasn’t about to argue – at least he seemed to have his priorities in the right order, whether or not sleep was good for shock or even possible with that much energy drink gushing through his system.

  “Alright,” I said. “Goodnight, Twinnie. I think I’ll hit the pillow too.”

  * * *

  New Year’s Day was reassuringly uneventful.

  Zak was home by midday, but Charlie and I had been up at eight, hoping to get our story straight before Mum and Harry emerged from their lie-in. I hadn’t been convinced Charlie had slept until I spotted him struggling up the hallway with his bedsheets and supposed that he must have done. I didn’t say anything because even considering, now we’re thirteen I knew I’d have a hard time making what I would have said sound non-giggly and remotely helpful.

  I gave him a wide berth until after breakfast, puzzling to myself about what on earth happened the night before, and less urgently how huge the spot on my chin looked reflected in a spoon, and by the time I managed to ease us into any kind of conversation Mum and Harry had made it downstairs to see if we had any packet roasts left for lunch.

  The most worrying thing was that I couldn’t tell whether Charlie was in denial, or just playing it safe with Mum and Harry. “Charlie, look,” I managed frantically as I heard Zak clatter through the front door, “I need you to tell me – do you remember last night? You shouldn’t be in denial and all.”

  “Obviously he’s not in the Nile!” cackled Zak, too close for serious conversation already.

  “Zak!” I motioned cutting my throat. “Bad pun. No. Shut up.”

  Zak towed us out into the garden. “I heard you really. In denial of what?”

  “I’m not talking about it,” Charlie said, emptily.

  “Aw. Honest, I won’t tell anyone.” Zak gestured pulling on his “sweet little kid” face, but it became apparent that he was outgrowing it.

  “Charlie was with us at the party last night,” I began.

  “And? Y’only need to deny that to the olds.”

  “Well that’s not all. He saw Malice get hit by a car. We might as well be straight with you about that.”

  “Oh man, I’m really sorry,” said Zak, sheepishly. “How to pull that one though? If you hadn’t of been there you wouldn’t of known.”

  “You’re right, and I’d’ve been far indoors and probably not known about it either,” I groaned. “I don’t talk to that lot. What’re we gonna do?”

  “Could pretend to go out and see the newspapers!” grinned Zak, momentarily too amazed at his own stroke of genius to act sensitive. “C’mon Chazza.” He yelled indoors – “Muuuuum! Me an’ Charlie are going to the shop!”

  #5 Christian God Free

  “You shouldn’t go to school, y’know. I mean, to start with you can’t talk properly, and you keep looking all wibbly and like you need another day of preschool TV and soup.”

  “Yes, I’m going t’ sck-ool,” crackled Charlie, pawing indecisively at the buttons of his school T-shirt in the hall. Indecisively as in “how much breathing room do I require?”, not as in “should I stay or should I go?”

  I couldn’t quite place why Charlie wanted to go to school in the first place, but a dose of normality would probably do him good. It was now Friday and the first day back, four days after New Year’s Day. Halfway through the newspaper hoax I’d remembered texting existed, and halfway through Zak’s birthday Charlie had lost his voice completely with a combination of worry and a bout of Fern’s bug (that I’d probably given him).

  Myself, I wasn’t about to take a soup day. I empathised with him in wanting to get back to the grind of harsh teachers and catty friends; put all this drama behind us because Malice was alive.

  I walked to school with Kay, and Charlie and Andy trailed behind with an earphone each blasting deafening pulses of Kaiser Chiefs. If Andy was about to disrespect his doctor dad’s advice so far as not making his eardrums cower, he was going to do it with his kind of music.

  Once she’d got past the sticky looks and acting like she wanted to abduct Charlie to a safe and fluffy world for lots of hugs and recuperation, Kay switched back to Self Absorbed Mode.

  “Y’know what bothers me? Really bothers me?” she grumbled, flicking one of my plaits.

  “Wh-?”

  “Not having a middle name. It’s STILL bugging me. I want to be Devon Magenta, but I don’t know if Devon Magenta needs a middle name or a last name because she’s still only got two names. Harley, help me!”r />
  “Devon Magenta sounds like a film star,” I shrugged, not feeling bitchy enough to add that I was thinking of the not-very-clothed type of film, and that it was not a happy thought.

  “She does,” gushed Kay. “But Devon Magenta what? Or Devon what Magenta?!”

  “Nobody cares what your middle name is. And I think you’re stuck with Kaylean Cox. What if you just told people you had a middle name, all mysterious, and then never ever revealed it?”

  “What a brilliant idea!” she beamed. “Apart from the Kaylean Cox bit. Just… no. Oh Harley, what’s yours? I promise I won’t steal it!”

  Erm. If I did have a middle name knocking about somewhere, it’d be pretty hard for her to claim copyright seeing as it’d be on my birth certificate and not hers. That and how you can’t copyright names… I think.

  “I haven’t got one either.”

  “Really??”

  “Yeah. I guess that’s why it’s not a big deal for me. And before you start, Charlie, Zak and Kitty haven’t got any either.”

  “That’s just… not right.”

  “What’s not?” I said, dumbly, turning round to check that the boys were still with us because I could no longer hear “Oh My God” blasting.

  They were. They’d just given up on the music.

  “Not having a middle name! That is a GIFT to your child. I didn’t think your mum was as nuts as mine!”

  “Oh calm down,” I sighed.

  “No, no! Everyone should have a middle name! End of.” Kay was having hysterics. And it wasn’t even the end. “Annndyyy! What’s your middle name?”

  “Christian,” he sniggered. “It’s great because I’m an atheist.”

  “Annndyyy Christian Godfreyyy!” she squealed. “That’s brilliant!”

  “Thank my dad, not me,” he laughed.

  “Omigod! Harley. What do you really, really hate?”

  The temptation rose to say “you”, but I could already see where she was coming from and didn’t want to wind up being Harley Devon Magenta Hartley to our extended social circle. “Ask again later,” I mumbled. “Charlie could do with some cheering up,” I added, evilly.

  “Charlie! What do you hate?”

  “Blood. I really, really do!”

  “Charlie Blood Hartley. Brilliant!”

  “Noooo…” he said, sickly.

  “Yes!” she gushed, excitably. “Don’t worry, you get a new one every day. Middle names for everyone!”

  And that, that was when I concluded that Kay was utterly insane…

  #6 I Think This Is A Bit More Than “I Guess”

  Everything was nearly normal.

  Aside from the fact that over lunch and to get Kay to stop talking at me for ten whole minutes in exchange for it I’d been christened “Harley Anchovy Hartley”, my friends were back to banter and my brother was nowhere to be seen (i.e. not moping).

  Keisha and Chantalle were keeping off my carrot patch and restricted their bitching to boys from the party who I didn’t know, Kay was enjoyably sworn to silence for the last five minutes of break and all the way to PE, and my resolutions were off to a reasonable start because the girls agreed that my feet looked nice once we were in the changing rooms and they could cop a good look.

  Well, when I say it was almost normal, I mean until we dragged our sweaty selves to English with Mr Wordsworth. Mr Wordsworth’s the sort of guy who likes to discuss current affairs between audiovisual and occasionally kinaesthetic sips of Of Mice And Men. This usually means school fundraisers, charity events and who won the football – he’s the Mock The Week of that school messageboard none of us read. It hadn’t crossed my mind that he’d want to chat about memory loss with us, and non-jokily at that.

  “I’m sure everyone’s been reading the local newspapers…” he said, gently, sitting down on the edge of his desk like this was going to be a big deal.

  People murmured their various “Yeah”s and “Course not”s. I glanced back at Charlie, who was leant across the table in his usual bored, grungy fashion, staring hard at my bra-strap without blinking. (No, that’s not what it looks like. Remember the bra-strap bracelet he made after Andy “gifted” him my poor hostage A-cup for Crimby? The one he lovingly sewed “Malice In Blunderland” onto in obscure band fandom.)

  I whispered to Kay, “I don’t like where this is going.”

  “Neither do I…” she sighed. “But what can we do?”

  “Er… does anyone have anything to contribute?” said Mr Wordsworth coolly. “No? Well, this is about one of our Year 10 students. Marilyn Bennett was knocked down by a car outside the smoothie bar in town on New Year’s Eve, and is currently recovering from head trauma. It’s my job as a guidance worker here to make sure everyone’s straight on the facts so that we can all move forward from this, stop making jokes and know where to go if we need to talk.”

  “You should tell Charlie where to go,” smirked Asta. I found it unbelievable how she could even start at a time like this. “The rate he’s been going he’ll flood the classroom.”

  “Asta!”

  “He’s distracting us from our learning, Sir.”

  Mr Wordsworth looked as if he could have throttled the girl, but remained calm. “Charlie, would you like to come outside with me for a minute?”

  Charlie probably assumed that this meant “For God’s sake do as I say boy, or else!” because he hasn’t exactly had good male role models. Unbelievably, I hadn’t thought to turn and look, but I did now, just in time to see him rise from his seat with a drippy face and trembling torso, and head out of the door with Mr W.

  “Aww…” squeed Kay. “He must be so embarrassed right now!”

  “I don’t think ‘embarrassed’ is the word,” I grumbled. “He probably won’t realise this is mortifying for a good few weeks; all he can think about is poor Malice.”

  Various nosey people had inched towards the door to catch any snippet of the stock “Is everything OK at home?” questions and whimpered answers that were probably taking place outside. I got a distinct feeling that our peers were as tacky as can be, and I still haven’t shaken it off.

  “But I feel so sorry for him!” hissed Kay. “I just wanna wrap him up in a big squishy duvet and hold him until he’s all better!”

  I groaned. “Look, he chose to come in today. I prescribed a soup day and CBeebies; it’s his problem.”

  “But this could be seriously bad,” she continued. “If thirteen year old boys spontaneously cry in class, you can’t deny that something is strangely, gravely wrong!”

  “That wasn’t spontaneous, Kay! He just didn’t expect Sir to want a debate about Malice.”

  “And how’s he going to explain that to Mr Wordsworth? Y’don’t just tell teachers who you fancy like that, and it’d hardly seem relevant without that bit of information.”

  “Kay, I don’t know, but what I do know is that seeing is believing and once he sees that she’s recovering and pretty much nearly just fine, this will all blow over.”

  Asta started roaring something in Andy’s direction this time, and Kay blew her top approximately two seconds before mine would’ve gone. “How can you be so stupid?! Somebody nearly died and you reality TV lowlife sick little cows are laughing at my friend for being upset? I could tear your minging hair out!”

  I knew my input was weak, but couldn’t stop myself adding, “I can’t believe you lot either!”

  “Yeah, but Harley, your brother’s a sad, emo little schizo, and it’s not like this is the first time ’e’s interrupted our class. I dunno how ’e made ’is way out of Year R!”

  “For Jack White’s sake!” seethed Andy. “That was MY practical joke, and the joke is over. Jog on back to your horse shit nail bar and don’t get involved with us again!”

  Mr Wordsworth burst back in on the phrase “horse shit”, which probably didn’t do our side any favours. “What, may I ask, is going on in here?”

  “’Arley and Kay w’ totally bitchin’ at us!”

  �
�I think we’ll have you two outside too,” he muttered, leading me and Kay out into the corridor.

  “But Sir, we didn’t do anything…” protested Kay.

  Once we were in the hall, Mr Wordsworth said, “I know. I don’t believe anything Asta says for a second. I thought you might be able to help, ’cause, I do the pastoral and it’s my job to find out what on earth is happening with Charlie.”

  “Oh.”

  “I understand that he’s pretty upset about what happened to Malice?”

  I was so mad that I almost (sarcastically) said “Oh well done, would you like a medal?” but again, had to be patient since he at least thought he was helping, so I said, “Yeah, I guess.”

  “I think this is a bit more than ‘I guess’, Harley. Charlie doesn’t strike me as one to take these things well. I know how he used to be picked on in his old class.”

  “I think he’ll be fine,” I argued. “Their relationship was dead months ago.”

  “Relationship? Oh dear.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Where is he?”

  Just as I said it, my twin emerged from the boys’ toilets with a face like a little lost puppy.

  “Charlie, d’you want a hug?” Kay asked.

  What the hell?

  “I’ll er, just return to class then. You’re welcome back if you like, but none of you have to come.”

  Charlie plodded towards Kay with a slight soppy smile on his face, and sort of fell into her arms. He lay his head on her shoulder.

  Why did this make me feel uneasy? For a moment, I wondered if they’d be a good couple, but I decided to throw that idea away since the last thing I wanted was the Chantalle situation again, with my friends coming over to see him, and not me.

  Omigod. How selfish could I get??

  “Yes, you’re very insecure, aren’t you?” Kay cooed at him, like he was her dog, Bilbo, or maybe a toddler. How could he stand being patronised so fiercely?!

  “Um… maybe I should go…” I mumbled, making for the classroom door.

  “No, stay,” Kay pressured me. “We’re not, like doing anything. I’m giving my good friend Charlie a hug, and he’s letting me.”

  He let go, and went to sit on the windowsill to admire the view (i.e. the burgundy sheets covering the assembly hall skylight, the Japanese-style staffroom garden with the water features and marbleish floor that they blew the budget on, the distant PE and MFL blocks, and the allotments across the road).