Boys Don't Cry

  DOUBLEDAY

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  By Malorie Blackman

  Praise for Malorie Blackman:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  About the Author

  Questions for Readers

  Further Information

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  Version 1.0

  Epub ISBN 9781407078366

  www.randomhouse.co.uk

  BOYS DON’T CRY

  A DOUBLEDAY BOOK 978 0 385 60479 6

  TRADE PAPERBACK 978 0 385 61930 1

  Published in Great Britain by Doubleday, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books A Random House Group Company

  This edition published 2010

  1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

  Copyright © Oneta Malorie Blackman, 2010

  The right of Malorie Blackman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  The Random House Group Limited supports the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organization. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace-approved FSC-certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment.

  Set in 12.5/15 pt Bembo by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd.

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  THE RANDOM HOUSE GROUP

  Limited Reg. No. 954009

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Printed and bound in the UK by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

  For Neil and Lizzy,

  with love – as always

  By Malorie Blackman and

  published by Doubleday/Corgi Books:

  The Noughts & Crosses sequence

  Noughts & Crosses

  Knife Edge

  Checkmate

  Double Cross

  A.N.T.I.D.O.T.E.

  Dangerous Reality

  Dead Gorgeous

  Hacker

  Pig-Heart Boy

  The Deadly Dare Mysteries

  The Stuff of Nightmares

  Thief!

  Unheard Voices

  (An anthology of short stories and poems,

  collected by Malorie Blackman)

  For junior readers, published by Corgi Yearling Books:

  Cloud Busting

  Operation Gadgetman!

  Whizziwig and Whizziwig Returns

  For beginner readers, published

  by Corgi Pups/ Young Corgi Books:

  Jack Sweettooth

  Snow Dog

  Space Race

  The Monster Crisp-Guzzler

  Audio editions available on CDs

  Noughts & Crosses

  Knife Edge

  Checkmate

  Double Cross

  www.malorieblackman.co.uk

  Praise for Malorie Blackman:

  Noughts & Crosses

  ‘A book which will linger in the mind long after it has been read and which will challenge children to think again and again about the clichés and stereotypes with which they are presented’ Observer

  Knife Edge

  ‘A powerful story of race and prejudice’ Sunday Times

  Checkmate

  ‘Another emotional hard-hitter . . . bluntly told and ingeniously constructed’ Sunday Times

  Double Cross

  ‘Blackman “gets” people . . . she “gets” humanity as a whole, too. Most of all, she writes a stonking good story’ Guardian

  Pig-Heart Boy

  ‘A powerful story about friendship, loyalty and family’ Guardian

  Hacker

  ‘Refreshingly new . . . Malorie Blackman writes with such winsome vitality’ Telegraph

  A.N.T.I.D.O.T.E.

  ‘Strong characterisation and pacy dialogue make this a real winner’ Independent

  Thief!

  ‘. . . impossible to put down’ Sunday Telegraph

  Dangerous Reality

  ‘A whodunnit, a cyber-thriller and a family drama: readers of nine or over won’t be able to resist the suspense’ Sunday Times

  Unheard Voices

  ‘This excellent collection of stories, poems and first-hand accounts is published to commemorate the 200th anniversary of the abolition of the Slave Trade Act’ Carousel

  1

  Dante

  Good luck today. Hope you get what you want and need.

  Phone in hand, I smiled at the text my girl Collette had sent me. My smile didn’t last long though. I was too wound up. Thursday. A level results day! I must admit, I didn’t expect to be quite so nervous. I knew for certain I’d done well. What I mean is, I almost knew for certain. But it was the almost that was the killer. Between having my exam papers collected and having them marked, there was a world of possibilities. The person doing the marking might’ve pranged their car or had a fight with their partner – anything might’ve happened to put the test marker in a really bad mood which they would then take out on my exam papers. Hell! A cosmic ray could’ve hit my exam papers and changed all the answers – and not for the better – for all I knew.

  ‘Don’t be a plank – you’ve passed,’ I told myself.

  It was simple. I had to pass. There was no other choice.

  Four good A level grades, that was what I needed. Then it was off to university. Up, up and out of here. And a year earlier than all my friends.

  You’ve passed . . .

>   Positive thinking. I tried to dredge up confidence from somewhere deep inside. Then I felt like even more of a plank and stopped trying. But it was like Dad constantly said: ‘Temptation leans on the doorbell, but opportunity knocks only once.’ And I knew only too well that my A levels were my best opportunity to not just hit the ground running but to take off and fly. Dad was full of fortune cookie quotes like that. His ‘life lessons’ as he called them were all tedious homilies that my brother Adam and I had heard at least a thousand times before. But every time we tried to tell that to Dad, he replied, ‘I wasted all the chances that life threw my way. I’m damned if I’m going to let my sons do the same.’ In other words, Tough!

  Dante, stop worrying. You’ve passed . . .

  University was just a means to an end. I mean, yes, I was looking forward to college; meeting new people, learning new things, being somewhere different and being totally independent. But I was looking way beyond that. Once I had a decent job, things would be different – or at least they would when I’d paid off my student loan. But the point was, my family wouldn’t have to scratch for every penny. I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d had a holiday abroad.

  Three impatient strides took me to the sitting-room window. Pushing aside the grimy-grey doily-effect net curtains, I stared up and down the road. The August morning was already bright and sunny. Maybe that was a good omen – if anyone believed in such things. Out loud, I didn’t.

  Where the hell was the postman?

  Didn’t he know he held my whole future in his satchel? Funny how one sheet of paper was going to change the rest of my life.

  I need to pass my exams . . . I really need to pass . . .

  The words played through my mind like a recurring phrase from a really irritating song. I’d never, ever wanted anything so badly in my life. Maybe because my A level exam results were my life. My whole future rested on a slip of paper and a few letters at the beginning of the alphabet – the closer to the top of the alphabet the better.

  I let the net curtain fall back into place, wiping my dusty hands on my jeans. What was it about the dust on grubby net curtains that made them seem almost sticky? I eyed the curtains critically. When was the last time they’d seen detergent and water? When was the first time, come to that? They’d been hanging there since I’d helped Mum put them up. When was that? About nine years ago, or thereabouts? Whenever it was my turn to vacuum, I’d suck the curtains down the vacuum cleaner hose, hoping to get rid of some of the dust that way. But the nets had become too fragile to withstand that sort of treatment any more. Dad kept promising to take them down and wash them or to buy some new ones, but somehow he never got round to either. Looking around the room, I wondered what I could do to pass the time? Something to occupy my mind . . . something to take my thoughts off—

  The doorbell rang – as if on cue. I was at the door in a heartbeat, throwing it open with eager trepidation.

  It wasn’t the postman.

  It was Melanie.

  I stared at her. It took a couple of seconds to register the fact that she wasn’t alone. I stared down at the contents of the buggy beside her.

  ‘Hello, Dante.’

  I didn’t say a word. The baby in the buggy had all of my attention.

  ‘C-can I come in?’

  ‘Er . . . yeah. Of course.’ I stepped to one side. Melanie wheeled the buggy past me. I closed the door behind her, frowning. She stood in the hallway, biting the corner of her bottom lip. She watched me expectantly, like an actress waiting for her cue. But she knew where the sitting room was, she’d been here before.

  ‘Go through.’ I indicated the open door.

  Following her, my thoughts flitted like dancing bees. What was she doing here? I hadn’t seen her in . . . it had to be well over a year and a half. What did she want?

  ‘Are you babysitting?’ I pointed to the bundle in the buggy.

  ‘Yeah, you could say that,’ Melanie said, looking at the many family photos Dad had placed on the windowsill, on either side of Mum’s favourite lead-crystal vase, and around the room. Some were of me; more were of Adam; most were of my mum. But there were none of her during that last year before she died. I remember that Dad had wanted to take some – he was always taking photos – but Mum wouldn’t let him. And after she died, Dad hadn’t picked up the camera again. Mel flitted from photo to photo, studying each intently before moving on. To be honest, I didn’t see what was so fascinating.

  Whilst Melanie was looking at the photos, I used the opportunity to eye her. She looked the same as ever, maybe a little slimmer but that was all. She was dressed in black jeans and a dark blue jacket over a light blue T-shirt. Her dark brown hair was shorter than the last time I’d seen her, shorter and spikier. But she was still stunning, with the biggest brown eyes I’d ever seen framed by the longest, darkest lashes. I glanced down at the bundle in the buggy which was staring up in fascination at the light-fitting in the middle of the ceiling.

  ‘What’s its name?’

  ‘Her name is Emma.’ Pause. ‘D’you want to hold her?’

  ‘No. I mean, er . . . no, thank you.’ The words came out in a panicked rush. Was Melanie barking mad or what? No way did I want to hold a baby. And she still hadn’t said what she was doing here. Not that I wasn’t pleased to see her. It’d just been a long time, that was all. Melanie had dropped out of school over a year and a half ago and I hadn’t seen or heard from her since. As far as I knew, no one had.

  And now she was in my house.

  As if reading my mind, Melanie said, ‘I went away to live with my aunt. I’m back for the day visiting a friend and, as I was just passing by, I thought I’d pop in and say hi. I hope you don’t mind.’

  I shook my head and dredged up a smile, feeling unexpectedly awkward.

  ‘I’m going away today actually,’ Melanie continued.

  ‘Back to your aunt’s,’ I assumed.

  ‘No. Up north. I’ll be staying with friends for a while.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  Silence.

  ‘Can I get you something? A drink?’ I said at last.

  ‘Er . . . some water? Some water would be good.’

  I headed for the kitchen and filled a tumbler from the tap. ‘There you are.’ I handed it to her once I got back to the sitting room.

  The glass shook slightly on its way to her lips. Melanie took two or three sips then put it down on the windowsill. She retrieved a box from her jacket pocket and took out a cigarette, pushing it between her lips. ‘D’you mind if I smoke?’ she asked, the flame from her lighter already approaching the cigarette end.

  ‘Er . . . I don’t, but my dad and Adam will. Especially Adam. He’s an anti-cigarette fascist and they’ll both be back soon.’

  ‘How soon?’ Melanie asked sharply.

  I shrugged. ‘Thirty minutes or so.’

  Why the urgent tone to her voice? For a second there she’d looked almost . . . panicky.

  ‘Oh, OK. Well, the smell will be gone by then,’ said Mel, lighting up anyway.

  Damn it. To tell the truth, I wasn’t keen on cigarettes either. Melanie drew on the cigarette like she was trying to suck all the tobacco in it down her throat. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then a rush of swirling grey vapour shot out of her nostrils. Minging. And the smell was already filling the room. I sighed inwardly. Adam was going to do his nut. Melanie opened her eyes to look at me, but she didn’t say a word. She inhaled from her cigarette again like it was an oxygen tube and her only source of air.

  ‘I didn’t know you smoked,’ I said.

  ‘I started almost a year ago. It’s one of the few pleasures I have left,’ said Melanie.

  We regarded each other. The silence stretched between us like taut elastic. Oh God. What was I supposed to say now?

  ‘So . . . how are you? What’ve you been up to?’ It wasn’t much but it was all I could find to ask.

  ‘I’ve been looking after Emma,’ Melanie replied.

/>   ‘I mean, apart from that?’ I persisted a little desperately.

  A slight smile curved one corner of Melanie’s mouth. She shrugged but didn’t reply. She turned her head to carry on looking around the room.

  Silence.

  The baby started gurgling.

  Some noise to break the scratchy quiet. Thank goodness for that.

  ‘What about you?’ Melanie asked, removing the baby from the buggy and holding it on the left side of her body as she moved the cigarette to the right side of her lips. ‘What’ve you been up to?’ Her eyes weren’t on me though. She was looking into the face of the thing in her arms. The thing gurgled louder, trying to wriggle closer into her. ‘What are your plans now you’ve done your A levels, Dante?’

  For the first time since she’d arrived, she looked directly at me and didn’t immediately turn her gaze away. And the look in her eyes was startling. Her face hadn’t changed that much since the last time I’d seen her, but her eyes had. They seemed . . . older somehow. And sadder. I shook my head. There went my imagination, running off in all directions again. Melanie had aged by exactly the same amount of time that I had.

  ‘I’m waiting for my exam results,’ I said. ‘They’re supposed to arrive today.’

  ‘How do you think you’ve done?’

  Crossing my fingers, I held them up. ‘I worked my butt off, but if you tell anyone, I’ll hunt you down!’

  ‘God forbid that anyone should find out you actually . . . revised. Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me,’ smiled Melanie.

  ‘If I’ve passed, I’m off to university to do history.’

  ‘And after that?’

  ‘Journalism. I want to be a reporter. I want to write stuff that everyone wants to read.’

  ‘You want to work for one of those gossip magazines?’ queried Melanie.

  ‘Hell, no! Not a celebrity reporter. How boring would that be, interviewing talentless airheads who are famous for absolutely nothing except being famous? No, thank you,’ I said, warming to my theme. ‘I want to cover proper news. Wars and politics and stuff like that.’

  ‘Ah, that sounds more like the Dante I know,’ said Melanie. ‘Why?’

  The question took me by surprise. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Why does reporting on that kind of stuff appeal to you so much?’