Elephant shoe, p.18
Elephant Shoe, page 18
“Yeah? Where at?”
“Citreena’s Bistro.” Clearing tables. Pot washing. Floor mopping. Twelve hours a week. But those details are none of his business. “Earning money for my time. Beats YCS.”
“Huh,” he says after a long moment of unsettling study. His jaw ticks. “Well, good for you.” He stands. “Best of luck.”
Really?! That’s it? I yank the towel from my head and throw it to the floor by his feet. “You’ve got me so messed up! What the hell’s the point to this? Why are you here?”
“I don’t want you to drop out of school, Mikey. Not over this. Nothing’s really changed. Nothing has to change. But I can’t…”
“EVERYTHING’s changed!” I explode over him, throwing my arms wide to encompass the whole wide world. “How can you say that? Jeezus! My life has changed so much, so damn fast, I’m about three hundred miles behind with no chance of ever catching up. And I don’t even want to catch up, cos I freaking hate the direction it’s taken. Nothing’s how it should be. Nothing’s right.”
“O. Kay.” Settling back on the edge of the bed as I slam my hands down into the duvet to either side of me, he sighs and shakes his head. “Think, perhaps, you’re… blowing this out of all proportion?” Well, that response infuriates me. “So you’re gay. So what. People know. So what. It’s no big deal. You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Mikey.”
Right, yeah, no biggy. And my newly-realised and publicly declared ‘thing’ for you, Tate, that’s so inconsequential it doesn’t even rate a mention, eh? I bite into my bottom lip until I feel close to breaking skin. “You are such a hypocrite!”
“W– uh, what?”
“On my case for hiding, for skipping out on school. You hide from everyone! You’re AWOL from school almost as often as you’re there. But, hey, I’m sure my issues don’t even compare to yours, right? I’m just being neurotic and dramatic – typical Mikey!”
He’s on his feet again, hands clenched at his sides, eyes boring into my face. “Like I said, I don’t want… don’t want you dropping out. You – no matter how much I pushed, you didn’t give up on me. And, fuck, I’m glad. I’m fucking glad you didn’t, okay? Now it’s my turn. You’re my friend, you mean a lot to me, and I’m here for you.” He leaves no pause for a response before storming from my room and slamming my door hard enough to make things rattle.
Fortunate. I’ve no response to give.
Wednesday, I’m trudging my way toward YCS.
It’s like my first day all over again: The nerves, the reluctance, the absolute certainty of impending unpleasantness. Except, today’s worse. Far worse. And, also, today I have Tate at my side.
He called for me alone this morning. Waited at the door until I came down. I noted distinct surprise on his face when I appeared dressed and ready to go. Won me an approving nod and a dashing grin. That reaction, alongside Adele’s absence, gave me a short, sharp shot of cheer to propel me on my way.
Now, though, he has his eyes fixed dead ahead, headphones in place over his ears, and we’re walking in silence.
He seems content in it, glancing across every so often to flash me a quick smile.
But I’m not.
We pass by the corner shop that claimed all our pocket monies, where Tate had cheekily endeared himself to the owner, Mrs Branswith, to score us both a free lolly from her every time we called in. The old loon still runs the place, I spy her behind the counter, but Tate doesn’t so much as peek inside today. On we go down the steep bank Tate would skate with such effortless skill, I’d been fooled into believing it an easy feat only to skid most ungracefully and painfully after him on my backside. He catches me in rubbing at my spine but shows no sign he’s registered the significance.
I’m in major need of conversation; small talk – light chit chat – anything to distract me from the hell I’m heading into here, to calm my nerves, to reassure me things really can be okay between the two of us. I continue to have difficulty looking at him, I need for him to give me something to build on.
Along by the leisure centre, our old cub scout base, and past the play park, we turn on to colourful Hutchings Avenue. Somerton Primary comes into view at the row’s far end. His steady step doesn’t falter.
So much history tying the two of us, all around, and it hurts like alcohol to an open wound that he’s blanking all of it.
Friends.
He said, yesterday, that he’s glad for my persistence with him, said he’s here for me.
Part of me refuses to buy that there’s anything more than pity behind his words – I’m well aware of just how damned pitiful I am, and pity is not a long enough standing foundation on which for me to lay down a whole lot of hope.
Even if, however, genuine sentiment does power his reach out, there’s a fear that the ground beneath us has become too fragile to hold.
We’d barely found legs on reforming our friendship when only his stubborn attitude problem obstructed our way. A problem that remains very much in play. Now, though, added in: I know how much more I want from him, and he knows it too. I’ve put it out there into the world, as impossible to ignore as it is to retract.
This – whatever it is he’s offering – is better than nothing at all with him, perhaps, but further down the line…?
We’re not ever going to reach that place I want us to, that’s one thing he’s made very clear. Maybe – just maybe, I’m being foolish and weak (again) in hanging from this thin thread he’s thrown out to me, and the smart move would truly be to let go.
I’ve overthought this to death all night and my head’s still none-the-clearer on it. It has me exhausted. But it’s unrelenting.
Friends.
Do we have any real chance of working on over this and forwards, no matter his good intentions and my desperate hopefulness, when I’m feeling so tormented with anxiety and insecurity in his company?
How am I supposed to act now around him?
Hell, how am I supposed to act now full stop?
The tension I’m carrying is making each step that bit harder than the last.
I’ve had my phone off until this morning. When I turned it back on, aside from two texts from Tate warning of his impending early calls, Steph’s the only other who’s tried to contact me these past few days, pleading for all the juicy details of my ‘Grand Romantic Confessional’. She’s gonna be on my case today, probing, but she also may very well be the only one I’m guaranteed any kind of support from. Gary was one very noticeable absentee of Steph’s big party and, for this, I’m abundantly thankful; I daren’t even imagine the horror if he had been there. I performed for a significant audience that night, though, and word will of course have reached him by now. There’ll be no slithering by him unscathed. Still, he’s far from my biggest concern. It’s facing Alex that terrifies me most. And Lyndsay. Crap. “It’s not that I don’t like you… I’ve come to suspect I may be somewhat extremely, terribly gay.” The more I’ve pictured her face in that moment, the more I feel like a despicably cruel douche. There’s no excusing the callous way I treated her. ‘Sorry’, I’m certain, just ain’t gonna cut it.
Reaching the bottom stone step of the narrow flight cutting Hutchings Avenue in half, I pull to a blunt stop. Can’t will myself to move further. These steps used to unnerve me – too steep, too tight and gloomy a space. These steps also sliced up Tate’s body and landed him in hospital. These steps feel like the last barrier I have separating me from YCS. I’ve no trouble backing the hell off away from them.
Tate reaches the top before he turns and frowns at me.
“This is a mistake,” I grit out, “I’m making a huge mistake.”
His brow lifts, lips pressing tight. Without a single word, he picks his careful way back down and grabs hold of my hand.
He leads; I follow.
22
Can’t Work With Neon
“She is not eating with us!” Adele bolts up from the bench as soon as she catches sight of Steph trailing me across the quad.
Tate’s head whips up. He glances first to Adele, then beyond her to me. The beginnings of a smile tick one corner of his mouth until his gaze travels on to Steph, and it vanishes beneath a frown. Not reassuring.
“’Scuse me?” Steph strikes back, sounding amused. “Rude much?”
“Alston, no.”
“Shut up, Saunders. You’re okay with Steph, right, Tate?” I think I see him shrug before he drops his head back down to the half-eaten sandwich in his hand.
His attempt at subtlety is unsuccessful as he slides that damned notebook of his off the table, into his lap. My steps slow. This isn’t going quite so well as I’d tried deluding myself it might when Steph invited herself along. She’s leapt to my aid with Gary twice this morning, though. Unasked for, but still…I figure I do kinda owe her, and having lunch with us, it’s a small thing. Or so I thought.
Steph strides right on past me. “I’ll sit myself here,” she says, sliding onto the bench at the next table along from ours. “Alone. Not eating with you. How’s that for problem solving, huh?” Smirking, she swings her bag from her shoulder to the table and unzips it.
I slide into my spot beside Adele. She skooches away from me, as she makes a point of doing every time.
Head remaining lowered, Tate lifts his eyes to me. His look says a lot more than I’m able to read but, loud and clear, I get that he’s not happy. He flicks to Adele then turns to Steph, “Stephanie.”
“Mac.” She inclines her head. Eyes darting my way, she corrects herself, “Tate.”
“Way to ruin lunch hour,” Adele grumbles, slumping back down on the bench. “Dickface.”
“So, Tate,” Steph starts as she pulls a bottle of water from her bag. Something in the curve of her lips gives me a bad, bad feeling. She unscrews the lid and takes a sip continuing, “you blew our Mikey off, huh? And not in the fun way.”
Yep. This was definitely a mistake. “Steph,” I warn, shaking my head.
A sound of disgust erupts from Adele’s throat.
“Gotta say, I’m disappointed,” she pushes on. “Had such high hopes for you two.”
“Steph!” I try again with more conviction (read: Desperation).
“No chance for him at all, no?” Side-eyeing me, she drives the blade home with an eyebrow waggle and I wish her dead: “Cos, you know, you guys actually look pretty darn cute together.” Think I much preferred when she barely registered me.
Tate considers her for a long and painful moment, her head almost consumed by her bag as she delves in to rummage. He waits for her to resurface before he responds. “Not talking about it.”
“Getting no juice from you either then?” She sighs, shrugs, then stretches her leg out to tap her boot off my shin, “Ah, well, not all’s bad come of it, Mikey, babes. Other fine fish in the sea, yeah? And you’re my party VIP now. Number one on my guest list. Though, sadly, next one might not be for a while. Mum’s grounded me for, like, a month!” Retrieving a Tupperware box, she zips up her bag and swipes it to the ground. “It’s my seventeenth two weeks tomorrow and she’s not even giving me a pass for that. I mean, too harsh, right? Way too harsh. How am I even…?”
“Oh, for the love of all that is good!” Adele interrupts, throwing her hands skywards. “Do you ever take a breath?”
Steph stares at her, blinks, and then she cracks into laughter. “Wowzers, that stick must really be rammed right up there, huh?” Prising the lid off her pack lunch box, she cocks her head, “I’m making conversation, sweetie. Or is that something not done at this table?”
“Conversation tends to involve two or more participants. No one else is getting a word in.”
“Should pull that stick out, Adele,” I decide to chime in. “It’s rotted through.” So what if I agree with her on this? Not a chance am I admitting it.
Adele transfers her scowl to me. “Ooh, ow, the burn. My, how it stings!” She rolls her eyes. “The party was lame; Alston made a gigantic tit of himself – nothing new or entertaining there; and he’s blubbered about it none stop since. Your voice,” her finger points to Steph, “makes me wanna hit something almost as much as his face,” the finger swings toward me, “does. So, now, can we please take a break from Steph’s world for a…forever? That would be super.”
“Bitch,” I mutter out the side of my mouth.
Tate groans. “Adele, stop.”
“What?” Her narrowed eyes whip across to him.
“I’m making an effort here,” Steph says with deliberate condescension, stabbing a fork repeatedly into her leafy-green salad lunch. She looks as turned off by it as I am. “Least you can do is the same. For Mikey’s sake.”
“I do nothing for Mikey’s sake,” Adele snarls. She starts collecting up her things from the table and shoving them into her patchwork bag. Tapping Tate on the hand, she stands up, “coming?”
His eyes dart from her to me and back again, then he shakes his head. My heart skips a beat.
“Sure?”
“I’m good.”
She hesitates, seeming about ready to drop back to the bench in defeat.
Tate’s lip ticks up. “Go.”
Tension seeps from my muscles and a relieved sigh escapes me. I flash Adele a snarky grin.
“Suit yourself,” she huffs.
“Oh, honestly!” Steph giggles.
Shouldering her bag, Adele stalks away.
Perhaps she’s the issue, I muse, turning to glare after her. Perhaps it’s her sour influence that’s to blame for Tate’s drastic attitude shift. She has something on him I don’t, that much is obvious. Could she really have secured enough control over him to chip him away to ruin? I despise that there’s a definite possibility she has, no matter how on board I am with blaming her. But, whatever. She’s left, and he’s stayed – with me. I watch her pass through the doors into school. “Good riddance.”
“Absolutely!” Steph says, drawing my attention back to the table.
Tate’s screwing up the tinfoil wrap from his sandwich. I smile at him and he returns it.
The doors have barely snicked shut behind Adele, however, when I hear them flung wide again. “Well, isn’t this cosy?” Lyndsay’s voice jolts me. I tense.
“Poop.” Shovelling a forkful of leaves into her mouth, Steph clips the lid back on the box before standing. “Let’s not, Lynds, please?”
Tate’s expression’s darkened, looking beyond my rigid shoulder. He glances off toward the alleyway before dropping his head.
“I can’t believe you! He made a fool out of me and here you are…”
“You made a fool of yourself,” Steph cuts her short, tone sharp. I track her around her table. She plants herself in front of Lyndsay, facing off western-showdown style, and folds her arms. “Anyone with eyes could see he wasn’t really into you; he just didn’t have the balls to set you straight.” Amusement quirks her mouth on the word straight.
Lyndsay sets her jaw hard, lips pursing to the side. Her eyes start a rapid blink. My gaze snaps away.
I fix on Callum, who’s hovering at Lyndsay’s back. I flash a tight, so-this-is-awkward tester smile, but he refuses to meet my eye.
“Some friend you are.”
“I’m sorry,” Steph softens, “I’m not trying to hurt you. Seriously. I love you to pieces, girl.” Dropping her arms to her sides, she takes a step forward. “You’ve got such lousy taste in guys, though, sweetie. And you can be so dense sometimes, it’s unreal. Take Callum.” She flicks a hand toward him. He pales, eyes widening, but his silent plea goes unheeded. “This guy worships the very ground you walk on. But he doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”
Callum combusts into flames. Neither girl appears to notice.
Steph continues, “‘cos you’re off wasting your attentions on absolute hopeless cases.” Her hand flicks in my direction. Ouch! “No offense,” she tacks on.
“Right.”
My voice breaks Lyndsay’s resolve to blank out my existence. She narrows in on me, her face disconcertingly flush. I swallow. “If you weren’t interested, it’d have been kinder of you to just SAY!”
I hear Tate shift on his bench, and then he’s sliding in beside me. Automatically, I dart a glance his way.
“You’re a jerk. And a joke,” Lyndsay chokes out. “You and him deserve each other.” Swirling on her heel, she storms back into the building.
“I’m sorry,” I manage too late.
Steph’s quick to grab up her bag, box and bottle from the table and follow after. “Come on, Lynds! The boy’s not worth us fighting over! Don’t be like this.”
Callum lingers. His embarrassment blazing just as fiercely as my guilt, he stares at his feet.
“Hey, Callum?” I can think of nothing else to say.
The guy still refuses to look at me. “Whatever.” Pushing his glasses up his nose, he shakes his head, turns and skulks inside.
Tipping my head back, I smack both hands over my face and scrub. A light drizzle starts. Perfect.
“She’ll come around, Mikey,” Tate says over my savage blitz of expletives. He takes a hold of my arms and drags them down.
I find I can’t take his touch right now, nor his concerned probing study of my face. They’re fuelling my self-reproach. I free myself of them, lurching to my feet. “Don’t see why she should.”
I almost pull off a full day of avoiding Alex. Almost.
Calling in to the library before last period, I stupidly figured that taking the work station in the far back corner, tucked in snug behind the shelves of Business and Economy books, would work to my benefit, keep me hidden. But, no. In actual fact, all that I’ve done is enable Alex to trap me.
