Out of the Woods - 2. "God, you're rude."

There was something about that voice, something undefinable. It just made me angry.

He looked down at me as I lay sprawled on the floor, Tom’s weight on my thighs. He looked good. God, I hated that. Chris was a ginger, and I usually don’t go for gingers, but there had always been something incredibly sexy about him.

Chris was Tom’s old best friend. We’d all been friends, sort of, before GCSEs—after, he and most of our social group had moved to different schools. I had always quite liked him, from his thin, ironic smile to the way in which, of all of us, he was the one with the different girlfriend every week. He was a complete prick but he was, generally speaking, charming about it.

The best thing about him though was that he had always known I’d liked guys.

It wasn’t something we’d ever discussed—I’d never once done anything to allow him to reach such a conclusion. When I was young and pale and scrawny, with a far greater proportion of my person made up of eyes than most other kids my age, Chris had somehow just known I liked guys. He had just known. It became, in a twisted way, our little secret: he’d flirt with me constantly and outrageously under everyone’s noses just to see if we could get away with it. It was fun. He was just one of those guys who, in the absence of girls, was more than happy to hit on anything that moved: it didn’t really matter what equipment the thing had, so long as it stood still long enough.

And now it seemed he was back.

Of course, this time around it was different. This time around I hated him. I had no real reason for doing so except that a curious quirk in my nature means I hate people surprisingly easily; it was, I think, the way in which he looked down at me as I lay on the floor, that sly, knowing smile on his face. But it was there only because my own position—with Tom’s arse on my thighs and his arms pinning mine to my sides—was compromising. Other than that, Chris seemed to have no idea who I was.

I found that pretty insulting.

Tom jumped off me and pulled him into a backslapping hug. Chris turned and gave me a pointed look.

‘Who’s your friend?’

Tom laughed. ‘You don’t remember Laurence? He’s grown a bit, sure, but he’s just as weird as ever. Right, Laurence?’

Laurence is my surname. In a private, English, all-boys school, for some strange reason everyone calls each other by their last name. They think it makes them sound more manly, I suppose—and they’re probably right, but I never bothered. As manly as they all sounded there was something pretty laughable about it.

God, how I hate the name Laurence. Not even Tom could make it sexy. It’s fine if you leave it as a surname—it sounds good as one, in fact. But the next person to refer to me as ‘Laurence’ in public I shall impale on a sharp wooden stake.

Or something like that.

Tom wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me in to rustle my locks. Chris observed me with an ironic air. He nodded, eyes narrowed.

‘Elijah. I remember you. You were… Smaller, or something, back then. More awkward?’

I looked at him for a long while, frowning. I shook my head.

‘Nah, I don’t think I remember you.’ I shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

Chris began to blush. ‘You don’t remember me?’

‘Nope. Were you fat or something?’

Tom laughed. ‘You were fat. You had such loveable love-handles.’

‘I was not fat.’ A pause. ‘I have never been fat.’ He turned to me, a sly smile now hiding somewhere behind his eyes. ‘You do remember me.’

It wasn’t a question.

I shrugged.

One by one, our grins began to fade.

Tom glanced between us, suddenly worried. ‘So, ah, what’s going on with you, Chris? I haven’t seen you in ages.’

The three of us talked for a while on the bed, laughing and joking. Tom went on and on about the rugby. It was a hobby of his and Mr Harding’s, watching rugby; sometimes I watched with them and was bored out of my mind. I don’t get rugby—I’ve never gotten it. It’s not for lack of trying. I watched Chris nodding along and realised he was equally as uninterested as I was; his gaze slid across and lilac blue eyes held mine, for a fraction of a second. The briefest of smiles tugged at his lips.

I reached under my T-shirt and twisted my nipple, watching Chris’ smile widen. I know, he said without saying a word. I remember.

And suddenly Tom wanted to talk about Sophie.

‘My god,’ he was saying, his eyes closing at the very thought, ‘Chris, you’ve got to see her. She’s so fit. She’s incredible.’

I could lie my way out of pretty much anything given the chance, but pretending I had a great time on that date was difficult when the very thought of it filled me with unease. I stayed at Tom’s only long enough to give the impression that I wasn’t leaving because of Chris; when I did leave I closed the door carefully behind me and lingered by the entrance. They were silent for only a moment before Chris started talking again.

‘That is not the same guy I used to know two years ago.’

Tom only laughed.

Okay…

What the fuck does that mean?

On my way out of the house I ran into Mr Harding.

Obviously either half of the duo responsible for bringing Tom Harding into the world will always be fine by me; and, upon meeting Mr Harding, it becomes immediately apparent where Tom got his Y-chromosomes from. If he hadn’t been the most terrifying human being in existence I would have considered Mr Harding fairly hot, for an older guy—but unfortunately it was impossible to even consider Mr Harding in a sexual way because his presence just didn’t allow for it. The man was terrifying, and it wasn’t just me that was terrified by him. There was only Tom who wasn’t.

He was a policeman. Everything about him was stern and masculine—whenever he referred to either me or Tom he referred to us as ‘lads’, in that way that only the Yorkshire born-and-bred can do. He was the straightest guy I’d ever met. He was a great guy, in fact, and a great father, and I knew that if ever I were to come out to him he wouldn’t have a problem with it. He’d go out of his way to protect me because he thought, in his impossibly manly way, that the sexual deviant is somehow less than a man and needs a man’s protection. Despite not being effeminate, he’d probably consider me the daughter he never had.

And I’m nobody’s daughter.

He engulfed my hand in a firm handshake. He swallowed my hand whole; it disappeared up to my wrist. I was seriously concerned when he let go I’d discover, to my immense irritation, that there’d be no hand to speak of.

It was there, of course, just slightly squashed. ‘Elijah.’ He slapped an arm on my shoulder. ‘How’s school, lad?’

‘It’s good thanks, Mr Harding. I’m doing well.’

‘Of course you are, boy. You’ve never not done well.’

And yet, that wasn’t what he meant to say. It was true, of course, but I had the impression of a however lingering in the air, as if he had really wanted to discuss something else. It had been going on for a while now: the badly hidden glances between him and his wife, the increasing number of enquiries into my wellbeing, the subtle references to my family, my mother, my school, my social life.

Mr and Mrs Harding believed I was heading for some sort of breakdown.

He hoped I was well and wished me goodnight, and with a heavy heart I made my way out of the house and back to my car, stopping only to say goodbye to Mrs Harding in the kitchen. I drove through the darkened suburbs, the lifeless glow of orange streetlights tugging at my chest. I wanted to park up somewhere, anywhere, and head for the woods beyond the stone walls lining the roads; I wanted to get lost in the wide rolling fields behind the suburbs, to wander forever in an endless, wallless labyrinth. To walk for miles into the woods, in the cold and the dark, with no noises but the sounds of my own footfalls and the rustle of hidden creatures in the undergrowth… That sounded wonderful.

I didn’t want to go home.

I parked the car in my driveway and headed away from the house. Around the corner was an old golf course that I’d often walk at night. You weren’t allowed to, of course; but my grandfather was a member, and I’d never been caught yet. It wasn’t the same as nature, wild and unruly, but it would do. I didn’t walk for long—just long enough to clear my head, and to be sure by the time I got back my parents would be asleep.

Eventually I turned back. I went through the garage, entering the house as quietly as I could, finding to my dismay the kitchen light on.

I tried to slip past unnoticed.

A voice issued from the kitchen, calling my name. I stopped.

Should I pretend I hadn’t heard?

In an agony of indecision I stalled at the stairs, my fingers curled around the banister. I realised, vaguely, that stalling was a mistake—she would hear it and she would know. She already knew I was there; maybe, she had even been waiting for me.

I made my way into the kitchen to meet my mother.

‘You don’t even say hello now?’ she said, her eyes on her laptop.

‘Hello,’ I said.

And then, ‘I’m going to bed.’

‘God, you’re rude,’ she said.

She was fishing—but she wasn’t fishing for fish. The sound of her fingers tapping the table was too harsh; there was an angry beat to it. She was fishing for an argument. I could feel it in her tone: she’d had a terrible day, and perhaps she’d stubbed her toe earlier, and now she wished for meat.

The bait dangled there, right in front of me. I had a temper, and she knew it. I wanted it: it was such a delicious, juicy, wriggling bit of worm on the hook. I’m not rude—I’m not rude. Not today, anyway.

I should correct her.

‘Okay,’ I said.

Her eyes left the computer screen. She looked up from whatever it was that she was doing and her gaze came to rest on me. I watched as it travelled, inevitably, over my clothes, over my face, upwards to my hair, dispassionately; and she said—

‘Your hair looks ridiculous, Elijah. It needs a good cut.’

And then I was stumbling and I was reeling, and I wandered out of the kitchen and up the stairs, to sit by my bedroom with my head in my hands, trying to lower my pulse to a more acceptable level.

I’d never really liked having my hair cut. What child does? They have a photograph of me, and I can’t be more than two, and I’m sat on a very high stool and wrestling with this rather shocked woman who made the mistake of showing me the scissors before she just did it.

But the panic attacks started when I turned eleven, and my mother began to insist I had it shaved every time. I was practically bald until the age of seventeen.

I made my way to Victoria’s room, shutting the door behind me.

My sister is three years younger than me. She was still up and at her desk, pretending to do homework, messing around on Facebook. She turned around to look at me, hair wet from the shower and perfectly shaped eyebrows raised.

‘Mum’s angry at you.’

Victoria was undoubtedly my parents’ favourite. She was this incredibly bubbly, outgoing kid, the sort that had no troubles and made friends everywhere she went. My parents used to comment all the time on how funny she was, how happy she was, and how loud she was; and, by extension, how quiet, pale and miserable I was as a child. I was shy, and terrified of almost everything; I was too scared to tell jokes. I was this small, fragile thing, made mostly of eyes, adorable but just too delicate for the ideal.

Things were going great for Victoria until one day when, around the age of ten, this older girl said something mean to her at lunch. I don’t remember the story all that well, but it went something like:

a) Victoria was sat at lunch with her friends, and mentioned that she didn’t like one particular teacher because the said teacher shouted.

b) This older girl turn round and told Victoria that she was going to tell the said teacher what Victoria had said.

c) Victoria went home and told my parents.

d) My Parents stuck Victoria into therapy for three years.

Victoria was fine, even after the therapy. Certainly not because of the therapy, but she’s over it. I think it was more the knowledge that she could no longer trust or confide in her parents that changed her: she’s a closed book now. She’s inherited numerous of our familial quirks without seeming aware of them. She doesn’t even realise. She can’t even look at a pot of cream without feeling the need for a compensatory throw-up, but it never occurs to her that she is turning into our mother.

I looked at her and shrugged.

‘I know, I saw her downstairs.’

Victoria shrugged back. ‘Who were you out with?’

‘I went out with Sophie, and then I went over to Tom’s.’

‘Was it a date?’

‘Sure was.’

Victoria knew I liked Tom. She’s clever. She was purposely vague about which part of the evening was, for me, the real date, and she knew I understood this because Victoria is like me—she loves the game of it. She’s manipulative and analytical with everyone except herself.

‘Grandpa’s coming round later in the week. We’re inviting him to dinner.’

‘Huh.’

‘Yup.’

‘So she’s not really angry at me, then. She’s just angry generally.’

Victoria shrugged.

We got talking about her school, and how she was doing with it. I watched as she made her way over to the mirror to arrange her hair before bed. She had this strange routine I always found disgusting: she’d wash her hair before bed, lather it with anti-frizz products, and then sleep on it, for it to dry overnight. I cannot sincerely get my head around it—it is the strangest, most horrible thing in the world. The thought of putting anything in my hair alone makes me feel faint with horror, but sleeping in it—to rub it, inevitably, all over your pillow, and by extension, your face—is almost too vile a thought to contemplate. I couldn’t help but shake my head at her as she took out the mousse and sprayed.

I’m fiercely protective of her, although we never talk about anything important. We’re not good with emotions. I don’t really argue with my parents anymore—I don’t care enough to—but if Victoria has a problem with them I will, every time, fight her corner to the bitter end. She knows without a doubt I’m there for her whenever she needs it.

 ***

‘So, that was weird with Chris last night, wasn’t it?

We were sitting in maths, front row again. Right under the teacher’s nose. Thankfully, we could generally say whatever the hell we wanted because Mr Wilton was young and new and had absolutely no idea how to control his class. Tom and I always did our best to ignore him and, honestly, he was always grateful for it. He had other students to worry about in our class.

I’ve always been fascinated by the way in which some teachers are impossible to mess around, while others are impossible to take seriously. No one in my maths class I would consider a troublemaker but Mr Wilton’s subtle lack of presence meant even the mildest of us simply paid him no attention; the lesson was spent mostly doing our own thing, or listening to the louder kids mess around. I’d always enjoyed it.

But today, for some reason, Tom wanted to talk about Chris.

‘So,’ I sighed. ‘Spill it.’

He looked confused. ‘Spill what?’

‘What’s his deal? What’s his opinion? What’s his problem?’

‘About what?’

‘I don’t know. You tell me.’

‘What?’

‘You brought him up because something’s bothering you. What is it?’

He laughed. ‘You’re so annoying, you know that?’ He shook his head. ‘He’s been shit at keeping in touch these past few years… Like, really shit. I was pretty pissed off at him, actually. But his family moved back here like a week ago and he just rang me a couple of days ago and then… He just showed up.’

‘And that’s good, right?’

He shrugged. ‘I guess. We’re not really that great friends anymore. We’re gonna have to work on it.’

I almost let it go, but there was something about the way he said we. I frowned. ‘Wait, you mean me?’

He was grinning. ‘Of course.’

‘Why would I want to be friends with him?’

‘You don’t like him?’

I hated him. ‘I don’t have an opinion on him.’

‘Yes, you do. You don’t like him.’

Once, long ago, I treated Tom as I did everyone else: I lied to him, constantly. Sometimes to see if he’d figure it out, sometimes to see if I could get away with it, sometimes because I was scared. Obviously there was one thing I wouldn’t tell him, as long as I could help it. I valued his friendship too much to fuck it over with a crush.

I always imagined I’d tell him just before university and then run away: stood on the train platform, saying goodbye to him, watching as he grabbed for his bags and was about to step on—I would just shout it out and then run in the opposite direction because, whenever emotions are involved, I’m a coward. He would call me, of course, because he had my number, and I would probably answer. But I doubted I would stop running.

One day I just stopped lying to him so much. I don’t know why. I lied to everybody else. I wasn’t a compulsive liar—I never felt like I had to do it—it was just that it was fun. It was interesting. It livened things up a little and, more importantly, it kept people exactly where I wanted them to be—away from me.

Mull that over however you will, and draw your own conclusions.

‘Yeah, it pisses me off. What did he mean, anyway, when he said that I wasn’t the same guy he knew two years ago?’

Tom frowned. ‘You heard that?’

‘Of course I heard that.’

‘Huh.’ He shook his head. ‘He just meant… You seem different. You are different.’

‘How?’

‘You’re meaner.’ He grinned. ‘No, I just mean, you were this quiet little kid before. You’re not now—now, you’re an arrogant little shit. So, why don’t you like him?’

I shrugged. ‘The same reason you don’t like him.’

‘I don’t like him?’

‘You like him, but you don’t like his cocky expression.’

He smiled. ‘You mean the one where he saw you rolling in shit earlier and he’s laughing at you for it, but you don’t know that he knows? So you’re just sat there, confused, and he’s laughing at you quietly?’

I laughed. ‘Exactly. Makes you want to slap him, no?’

‘Yup.’

‘Maybe you should. Maybe he’d like it.’

And then he looked at me strangely, a quiet, pensive sort of look. ‘I reckon he would like it,’ he said, as if we weren’t really talking about slapping at all.

I knew what he was talking about.

We spent the rest of the lesson talking plans. Tom chattered away about which universities offered the most prestigious medicine courses, his cheeks flushed and his whole face happily animated; I regarded him with amusement and a certain amount of wistfulness. He’d make a great doctor one day because everything he did he threw himself into with all the excitement and enthusiasm of a child—he couldn’t hide his joy for it. He didn’t even know how.

I’ve never been like that.

I have, since the moment I discovered I could get full marks in my spellings tests without revising a single word, approached life with a certain lackadaisical arrogance, as if enthusiasm was somehow uncool. I intended to take English and Classics at university despite that neither of them interested me in the least.

There was only one thing really I felt strongly about, and he was sitting beside me.

It made the conversation rather uncomfortable because I never wanted him to move away and moving was exactly what he wished to talk about; I listened to him and while I did so I couldn’t pretend Tom would always be there, seated right next to me, close enough for me to simply reach over and press my lips against his if I should ever decide to. I couldn’t pretend the option would always be there, even though I doubted I’d take it even if it was.

One day we might see each other, never realising that that one day might be our last together. We weren’t going to be best friends forever, I knew, because after university I intended to move as far away from all this as I could.

Was that what I was scared of—was it the thought of not being with him, not seeing him every day? Or was it more than that? Because, in a way, Tom represented my life in the present. Once he was gone I’d suddenly realise everything would be different, that things weren’t as permanent as I’d thought, and time marches inexorably forward whether or not I ask it to stop.

And I didn’t want it to happen.