I usually like to hang out in the library to avoid them, but it’s only open at lunchtime, so I have to come to the common room. Not many people from my year hang out there, and none of the boys come in the IT room or library, of course (the boys say: ‘work = gay’). Max Walker doesn’t come into the library either.
I think of Max Walker at this point because he is standing in the frame of the common room doors. The sun is shining on him. Doesn’t it always.
Max moves out of the halo ray of sun in the doorway and moves slowly up to a group of the popular people. Carl turns around and notices him. He reaches out with his arms.
‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KID!’
‘Hi!’ Max grins, and then Carl runs round him and jumps on his back and Max yelps and wriggles out. Max mumbles something, and looks half-pained and half-happy.
‘I was just saying happy birthday.’ Carl holds up his hands in mock reproach.
Max smiles at him. Max talks considerably quieter than Carl so I can’t really hear what he’s saying.
I don’t know why I’m listening to the exchange. I’m so bored. B-o-r-e-d. I’m trying to zone out by watching YouTube videos of Ash Sarkar and Kate Tempest on my iPhone. They’re badass performance poets, and they are just a few years older than me. I wish I still lived in London. If you come of age there, you’re at the epicentre of the performance poetry scene already. But I notice, after a few minutes of listening to Max talk, that I have let the YouTube video play out and stop. Instead of searching for another one, I pretend I’m still listening to my iPhone, so no one talks to me, but I take one earphone out and try to listen to him instead.
He doesn’t look as nervous as yesterday. I kind of want to go over and ask him if he was OK. He probably hasn’t told anyone. He is the Walker offspring, after all. Must keep up appearances.
‘Heyyy!’ Marc Paulsson yells, running past me, over to Max. ‘Happy sweet sixteen, mate!’
They high five and then they all sit down on the comfy chairs and talk more quietly, so I can’t hear them. Maria and a few girls walk over in tiny pleated skirts and give Max hugs and wish him a happy birthday. He has a conversation with Suzanne and Nikki, which I give him a plus point for, because Suzanne and Nikki are cool. They are kind of bookish. Outside of school, they wear very fifties gear. Some of the other girls call them the Pink Ladies, after the girls in Grease . It’s supposed to be an insult, but if I acted like Rizzo or looked like Sandy, I wouldn’t complain.
I watch Max laughing with them, and waving to other people who wish him happy birthday, but he looks a little . . . subdued, or reserved, like he’s trying to be excited but isn’t, or doesn’t have the energy. He smiles at everyone, like he is a sweet little eleven-year-old, who hasn’t a clue how bitchy people can be at secondary school. I guess Max Walker wouldn’t know how bitchy people can be. All the girls love him. But he seems so young to me. Weird, I know. But he seems young.
Watching him now, he looks the kind of happy where you’re sad, but you’re doing your best to be upbeat, and I wonder if any of his friends notice that. It always seems strange to me how little people notice about each other’s lives. One good thing about being a loner is that I notice a lot, because I’m outside everything, with nothing to do but watch and write it down in poetry. It’s clear to me that Max is miserable, but his friends don’t seem to see. He shrugs at something Maria says, and laughs. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek and he blushes, looks at his lap, and smiles.
I frown and look away. I don’t know why I frown. It’s fine if he likes Maria. She’s OK. A bit blah, but still OK. She is the type of blonde, swishy-haired girl who would be a golden boy’s girlfriend. They are both normal, predictable and kind of boring: the golden people of school, and who knows in the life after
I think of Max Walker at this point because he is standing in the frame of the common room doors. The sun is shining on him. Doesn’t it always.
Max moves out of the halo ray of sun in the doorway and moves slowly up to a group of the popular people. Carl turns around and notices him. He reaches out with his arms.
‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KID!’
‘Hi!’ Max grins, and then Carl runs round him and jumps on his back and Max yelps and wriggles out. Max mumbles something, and looks half-pained and half-happy.
‘I was just saying happy birthday.’ Carl holds up his hands in mock reproach.
Max smiles at him. Max talks considerably quieter than Carl so I can’t really hear what he’s saying.
I don’t know why I’m listening to the exchange. I’m so bored. B-o-r-e-d. I’m trying to zone out by watching YouTube videos of Ash Sarkar and Kate Tempest on my iPhone. They’re badass performance poets, and they are just a few years older than me. I wish I still lived in London. If you come of age there, you’re at the epicentre of the performance poetry scene already. But I notice, after a few minutes of listening to Max talk, that I have let the YouTube video play out and stop. Instead of searching for another one, I pretend I’m still listening to my iPhone, so no one talks to me, but I take one earphone out and try to listen to him instead.
He doesn’t look as nervous as yesterday. I kind of want to go over and ask him if he was OK. He probably hasn’t told anyone. He is the Walker offspring, after all. Must keep up appearances.
‘Heyyy!’ Marc Paulsson yells, running past me, over to Max. ‘Happy sweet sixteen, mate!’
They high five and then they all sit down on the comfy chairs and talk more quietly, so I can’t hear them. Maria and a few girls walk over in tiny pleated skirts and give Max hugs and wish him a happy birthday. He has a conversation with Suzanne and Nikki, which I give him a plus point for, because Suzanne and Nikki are cool. They are kind of bookish. Outside of school, they wear very fifties gear. Some of the other girls call them the Pink Ladies, after the girls in Grease . It’s supposed to be an insult, but if I acted like Rizzo or looked like Sandy, I wouldn’t complain.
I watch Max laughing with them, and waving to other people who wish him happy birthday, but he looks a little . . . subdued, or reserved, like he’s trying to be excited but isn’t, or doesn’t have the energy. He smiles at everyone, like he is a sweet little eleven-year-old, who hasn’t a clue how bitchy people can be at secondary school. I guess Max Walker wouldn’t know how bitchy people can be. All the girls love him. But he seems so young to me. Weird, I know. But he seems young.
Watching him now, he looks the kind of happy where you’re sad, but you’re doing your best to be upbeat, and I wonder if any of his friends notice that. It always seems strange to me how little people notice about each other’s lives. One good thing about being a loner is that I notice a lot, because I’m outside everything, with nothing to do but watch and write it down in poetry. It’s clear to me that Max is miserable, but his friends don’t seem to see. He shrugs at something Maria says, and laughs. She leans over and kisses him on the cheek and he blushes, looks at his lap, and smiles.
I frown and look away. I don’t know why I frown. It’s fine if he likes Maria. She’s OK. A bit blah, but still OK. She is the type of blonde, swishy-haired girl who would be a golden boy’s girlfriend. They are both normal, predictable and kind of boring: the golden people of school, and who knows in the life after
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