Last Bus to Everland, page 17
What’s going on here?
Behind the buildings, the pulse of Everland keeps beating: I can hear a song that I think might be Esther’s, but it’s too far away to tell. Something inside is urging me to get away from here and go and join them, but I ignore it and keep following Nico. Eventually the streets widen, and we end up in what I can only describe as a wasteland. It’s vast and empty, with only a few bare, withered trees breaking the panorama.
‘What is this place?’ I ask, though I don’t think Nico knows either.
He stares around, his face blank. He takes a few heavy steps, his boots kicking up clouds of dust, then stops.
‘I got an email yesterday,’ he says. ‘I didn’t get into art school.’
I stare at him. ‘Which one?’
‘Barcelona. Last week it was Berlin. I didn’t even get interviews for London and Paris.’ He turns to look at me, and his face crumples. ‘I didn’t get into any of them, Brody. Not a single one.’
For a long moment, I just stare at him. I have no clue what to say. I never thought this would happen. His costumes are incredible. There is so much time and effort and love in every one of them. So much of him. How could they say no to that?
‘My dad and Jenny are being so smug about it.’ He kicks at a stone. ‘They’re acting all sympathetic, but you can tell they’re dying to scream I told you so. My dad practically whipped out the champagne when I got my last rejection.’
‘You can try again next year . . .’ I start to say, but Nico’s already walking away. I run after him. ‘Hey, come on. It’s no like it’s—’
‘Stop trying to make me feel better, Brody,’ he snaps. ‘You can’t make me feel better about this. This is all I wanted. This is all I am.’
He swallows, but he’s not going to cry: all I see is anger. I get it. Dani left. His mum left. His dad doesn’t want him, or at least that’s what he thinks. Everland might be lost to us soon, and now this has been taken away from him, too. But he still has so much. He still has his talent, and his friends – and me. I start to tell him that, but Nico holds up a hand.
‘I just want to be alone, Brody, OK? I’ll talk to you later.’
He walks off without saying goodbye. I watch him go until he disappears past the trees, into the haze of beige on the horizon, and out of sight completely.
A weird rattling noise from the living room wakes me up on Saturday. At first, I think our decade-old PC is breaking down again, but when I get up to investigate, I realize it’s Jake. I’ve hardly seen him all week: Mam had to cancel our internet last Friday, so he’s been spending more time at school, the library or his friends’ houses. It doesn’t look like he’s been to bed yet. He’s sitting on the floor in his school uniform, breathing rough and fast, the way Dad does when he has an attack.
‘I can’t do this,’ he says in a voice all high-pitched and panicked. ‘I can’t. I can’t do it – I’m going to fail.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I say. ‘Of course you’re no gonnae fail.’
He tries to answer, but his breathing is coming too fast. I run to the kitchen, pour a glass of water, run back and push it into Jake’s hand. It’s been a while since I’ve seen Dad have one of these, so I’m a bit rusty on what to do, but it comes back to me. I get a flannel from the bathroom, soak it in cold water, and press it gently to his head.
‘Just breathe,’ I tell him. ‘Count to ten.’
I’ve never seen him like this before. And honestly, the first words that come to mind are, This is ridiculous. He’s not going to fail. I’m the one who actually has failed, so bad I’m not even allowed to sit the stupid exams. I shouldn’t have to prop Jake up, tell him how smart and brilliant he is. He’s got a room full of trophies and certificates to prove that.
But maybe it’s like Dad’s agoraphobia. Logically he knows that the chances of anything bad happening are small, but he’s still scared to step outside the flat. Just because Jake’s success is obvious to everyone else, it doesn’t mean he can see it.
So I don’t tell him he’s imagining things or that there’s nothing to worry about. You wouldn’t say that to someone with a broken arm or a bleeding leg – the feeling’s just as real. Instead I tell him to keep breathing, keep counting, until finally the heaving movements of his chest slow down. He wipes his face with the flannel and drinks the rest of his water.
‘Thanks,’ he says, his voice shaking. ‘I just . . . I dunno – I’m just stressed.’
‘Seems like you’re overdoing it a bit.’ There are books and notes spread across the floor, on the kitchen table, on the desk. I lean back on the arm of the sofa, putting some distance between us again. ‘Maybe you’re just needing a break.’
‘I can’t.’ He pushes himself to his feet and wipes his sweaty palms on his trousers. ‘I’ve still got to finish my Latin dissertation, and I haven’t even started my English essay, and I’ve got volunteering for Duke of Ed this afternoon—’
I hold up my hands. ‘Jake! Christ, you can take ten minutes.’ I glance at the clock on the computer screen: ten to ten. I’m running late. ‘Look, I’ve got work just now. You can chum me to the shop, get some fresh air.’
Though he looks horrified at the idea of leaving his revision, he nods and puts his jacket on while I quickly get ready. The lift’s broken again, so we have to take the stairs down to the courtyard. There’s a match on at Easter Road, and Great Junction Street is packed full of cars. Not exactly the zen atmosphere Jake needs, but at least I got him away from his books for a while.
‘So . . .’ I try to think of a subject that’s not related to school, and fail. To be fair, Jake doesn’t give us much to work with. ‘What’s your Latin dissertation about?’
‘Uh, it’s on the characterization of Nisus and Euryalus in Virgil’s Aeneid.’
He might as well have said that in Latin for all I understand. ‘Right. Sounds . . . fun.’
‘It’s really not.’
He forces a laugh. An awkward silence follows us to the end of the block.
‘So, uh, how are you liking working in the shop?’ he asks eventually.
‘Aye, it’s grand. It’s pretty quiet, so we mostly just listen to records all day.’
‘Nice.’
God. If there was such a thing as Advanced Higher Small Talk, my brother would get an F. It wasn’t always like this. When we were younger, we used to talk all the time. We argued and fought and took the piss out of each other – he made me cry at least once a week – but at least we spoke. He was all right, sometimes.
I wonder what he’d make of Everland. I can’t really imagine him there. Jake’s so serious, so tied to the world and all its realities. So ambitious, too – he wants to be First Minister of Scotland, for crying out loud. I bet his brain just wouldn’t let him believe what he was seeing. He’d find some rational explanation, the way I tried to the first day I was there.
By the time we arrive at the shop, he’s calmed down a bit. He looks embarrassed now, and annoyed with himself. Dad gets like that, too, though there’s no need for it. It’s not like they can control it.
‘Will you be all right getting back?’
‘Aye, I’m fine. Thanks, though. I feel better now.’ He turns to go, then pauses. His eyes scan the door of Rusty Records.
‘I know you probably think I’m not pulling my weight not getting a job,’ he says. ‘It’s just until my exams are over. Obviously I’ll get one for the summer. You know what Mam’s like, though . . . She’d kill me if I went behind her back.’
‘I hadnae really thought about it.’
I really hadn’t. If Jake spent all his time out with his friends or watching TV, I’d probably have moaned, but he’s always studying. Too much, judging by today’s episode. Asking him to add a job on top of that would push him over the edge.
‘Stop worrying.’ I give him a push on the arm. ‘You’re gonnae do fine. You always do.’
* * *
It feels good to be in Rusty Records this morning. All I’ve thought about since Thursday is Nico and about everything that’s going on in Everland. I like having something to keep me busy, even if it is just alphabetizing the boxes of dusty records Mark dumped on the counter earlier.
Around lunchtime, I’m sitting on the floor, sorting out a stack of seven-inch vinyls from the 90s, when I hear a voice above me.
‘Excuse me. Have you got “Sorry Seems to Be the Hardest Word”?’
I twist around. Nico is standing above me. He’s wearing a faded grey jumper and jeans, his face is pale, and there are bags under his eyes.
‘Eh, probably.’ I stand up, brushing the dust off my hands. ‘What are you sorry for?’
He shrugs and digs his hands into his pockets. ‘For being a dick. For being selfish. I shouldn’t have just walked off like that.’
I bite back a smile. ‘Bit of a clichéd choice, d’you no think? I’d go for . . . “I’m So Sorry” by Imagine Dragons.’
‘“El Perdón”,’ Jett chimes in. ‘Nicky Jam and Enrique Iglesias. It’s a tune, man.’
She’s watching us from behind the counter, a wide grin on her face. There’s nobody else in the shop – Gavin the Brian Eno fan came in at around ten, but otherwise it’s been dead all morning.
‘You can take your lunch early if you want, Brody,’ Jett tells me. ‘It’s not like we’re gonna be swamped this afternoon. Not in this weather.’
It’s a sunny day, which means everyone in Edinburgh has gone outside. Nico and I walk down to Leith Links and sit under some trees by the side of the path near a group of girls having a kickabout and an old man lying in the sun with his shirt off. I take a squashed ham sandwich out of my pocket; Nico extracts a pack of cigarettes from his. He takes a draw and collapses on to the grass, one hand over his eyes.
‘You hungover?’ I remember that look Dad used to get, from the days when he still went to the pub with his mates – like everything in the world was a little too sharp the next day. Nico looks just the same.
‘A bit. OK, a lot.’ He gives me a wry smile. ‘I threw up all over Jenny’s geraniums. She’s gonna kill me when she notices.’
He flicks his lighter on and off. For once, there’s no paint on his hands. Not even a line around the fingernails. ‘I really am sorry about Thursday, Brody. It was just a shock. Going to art school . . . it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do with my life. It didn’t really occur to me it might not happen. Pretty arrogant, I know.’
‘They’re idiots,’ I say. ‘They must be. Your costumes are amazing.’
‘Clearly they’re not.’
‘It must be well competitive, then. They probably get thousands of applications.’ I shift towards him. ‘It doesnae mean yours are bad.’
He doesn’t reply. Obviously there’s no talking him out of this.
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, I failed half my prelims,’ I tell him. ‘I mean, I wasnae planning on going to uni, anyway. But now there’s no way it’s an option.’
Nico looks at me. ‘You can still turn it around. You have time. Come on, pop quiz.’ He sits up, drumming his free hand on his knee. ‘Uh . . . when did the Byzantine Empire end?’
I laugh. ‘How the hell am I supposed to know? We’re doing the Wars of Independence and Nazi Germany.’
He doesn’t know much about either of those, and he’s worse at maths than I am. He makes me go over the dialogue for my Spanish speaking exam until it’s almost perfect, though, and he’s surprisingly well versed in Othello and Hamlet. But though we take our time, there’s an undercurrent running through the conversation. Another, more important topic pushing at the surface.
‘So –’ Nico runs his fingers through the long grass – ‘I was thinking about what Kasia said. About how the doors are disappearing. About how ours is going to close soon.’
‘What about it?’
He flits his finger through the flame of his lighter, quickly, so it doesn’t burn. ‘I think . . . I think I might stay. Like Esther and the others. I think I might stay in Everland.’
Everything around me slows down.
‘What are you on about?’ I stammer. ‘What about your family?’
Nico scoffs. ‘They’ll barely even notice. My mum’s too busy with her new kids – she doesn’t care. And I’ll never be good enough for my dad.’
His words are dripping with anger. You can almost see the stain it’s left on him. To be honest, though, I find it hard to believe either of his parents could feel that about him. Even if sometimes I feel exactly the same way.
‘Look, I know things suck at the moment.’ I shift across the grass towards him and squeeze his shoulder. ‘But it’ll pass, Nico. It’s no gonnae be like this forever.’
‘What if it is, though?’ he says. ‘What if I never find anything like Everland again? What if this is it for me? Feeling out of place wherever I go.’
If you’d told me, back in September, when Nico stormed out of that flat and ordered Leanne and Michelle to piss off . . . if you’d told me that he felt like this too, I never would have believed you. Nico can walk down the street dressed as a fairy or a phoenix or in a coat of golden roses and not bat an eyelid. I thought sniggers and weird looks and insults slid right off him. I thought he was confidence personified. But maybe the costumes are a way of hiding something.
Suddenly, he lets out a laugh.
‘God, I’m so pathetic. There are people in Everland escaping violence and abuse and persecution. Transphobia, racism, all sorts of discrimination. People who have been diagnosed with terminal diseases looking for more time.’ He looks down at his hands, picking at the skin around his thumb. ‘I haven’t gone through anything like that. Nothing even close. So I got bullied a bit. So my parents split up. So I didn’t get into art school. Talk about tiny violins. I feel like a fraud.’
‘You’re not,’ I say. ‘Those things still matter. Besides, it doesnae work like that. You cannae measure everything in your life by somebody else’s.’
‘No, but you should be grateful for what you do have. I know I’ve been so lucky in life, in a lot of ways. In most ways. But that doesn’t change how I feel about myself.’
He glides his finger through the flame again. This time, he’s too slow; it burns the skin. He winces and drops the lighter, shaking off the pain. I pick it up and press it into his hand, then keep my fingers locked over his. He looks up at me, his eyes blurry and bloodshot but warm. I could swear that if I kissed him now, he’d kiss me back – but it seems wrong, to make a move when he’s upset like this. So soon after Dani’s left, as well.
After a second, Nico looks away. The moment’s gone.
‘Sorry, Brody. I’m not normally this mopey. It’s just hard sometimes. It’d be even harder without that place.’ He presses his palms to his eyes for a moment and then looks up with his normal bright smile.
‘Anyway. I’m gonna make sure you crush these exams. Um . . . how do you calculate the volume of a pyramid? I have absolutely no idea what the answer is, so I’ll give you a point either way . . .’
He keeps talking, but what he’s said hangs above us like a thundercloud. He didn’t really mean it, though. He wouldn’t actually swap the real world for Everland. He wouldn’t just leave like that.
Would he?
All week, Nico seems far away: my messages go unanswered, and he doesn’t pick up when I try to call. Eventually he sends me a message promising he’ll see me on Thursday, but it still leaves me nervous. Like he’s going to vanish at any moment. It’s a relief to get back to Calton Hill and see him sitting on the steps to the monument, waiting for me with Kasia.
‘Hey, Brodes.’ He holds his arms out to give me a hug. ‘Sorry for disappearing on you. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.’
I’m just relieved he’s OK. He’s hungover again – there are bags under his eyes, and his hair’s a mess – but his mood isn’t as dark as it was last week. He seems good. Calm.
All of Everland feels calm tonight, really. The sky is low and filled with the most amazing display of Northern Lights: ribbons of pink and green float above us, fading into a deep velvet blue above the mountains. Kasia heads to the library, and Nico to the market (he needs some fabric for a costume he’s working on for Beltane, the first he’s started since he got his rejection letters), so I find Esther and the band setting up in one of the squares. Arnau is sitting on the stage tuning his bass. I wave, surprised but happy to see him after a few weeks.
‘Thought you weren’t coming back?’
He pulls a face. ‘I tried, but . . . this place, it is hard to leave.’
I glance at my drum kit. Its curves glisten in the light of the lamp posts. ‘I know what you mean.’
When I get off the stage after our set, I wander down to the lake and find Nico skimming stones with Miyumi and Kasia. They’re quiet – the only noise, the sound of pebbles hopping across the water, and the throb of music somewhere in the distance.
Kasia turns to me, her hands on her hips.
‘So.’ Her voice is cold. ‘Has Nico told you about his plans?’
‘He has.’ I eye him nervously. ‘Are you still serious about that?’
He nods. ‘Yep. I am.’
Kasia bends down to pick up another stone. ‘You realize it’s not like moving to France or something, right? You can’t get a Ryanair flight back home whenever you feel like it. You’d be stuck in here forever.’
‘Yes, I’d worked that out, thanks.’ Nico smiles. ‘I still think you should consider doing the same, Kash. Think about how many books you’d get to read.’
‘What, and put up with you pissing me off for all eternity? I’ll pass.’ She turns to him, her arms crossed. The steely look in her eye melts. ‘I love you, Nico, but this is such a bad idea.’
‘It’s what I want,’ he says simply. ‘It’s what’s best.’
He throws another stone at the water. It bounces five times before it disappears. Kasia just stares at him, her mouth twisted up with all the words he won’t listen to. Then Miyumi takes a step back, her arms folded.
